Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire Big Bend stories

I kinda hosed up hanco's thread about "who's from Texas" and I didn't mean to mess it up. Hope I didn't piss anyone off too badly.

The subject of the Big Bend is one that I really like. Anyone who has spent any time there would know why. There is just something about that area that can't be adequately described---only experienced. There's something about it that brings out things in a person you might never have known was there. I was lucky enough to spend four years of my life in that area. This is one of my stories from those days...here goes:

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During my time at Sul Ross State University beginning in 1985 I met many people and made some good friends. One of those friends, who I'll refer to only as "Gibby," won a raffle for a new four-inch S&W Model 19.

Gibby has family in the area, and one of his cousins owned a ranch outside of Valentine. Some time after winning the Model 19, he cooked up a javelina hunting expedition on the ranch. There was a core group of about five of us, and an additional character or three who went on this trip. We camped on the ranch where there was a spring-fed pool, which we took advantage of during the heat of the day. At that time I owned only two firearms, a snubby .22 revolver and a Ruger Mark II. Gibby had asked me if I wanted to carry his new Model 10 and of course I accepted the offer. When it came time to hunt I strapped it on and we set off walking the hills in search of javelina.

As we walked through the hills I'd reach down and touch the grip of the revolver occasionally. After an hour or so, I reached down one more time and the SOB wasn't there. All of us walked around the area for a while and it was never found...supposedly. I suspect one of the outsiders may have found it and said nothing, but I'll never know for sure. Needless to say, I felt terrible and promised Gibby I'd make good on it someday. My resources were awfully thin in those days and this happened only a few months before my departure to Ely, Nevada to take a position with the Bureau of Land Management.

So the years went by. After a family tragedy I found myself living in El Paso again. One day I wandered into a gunshop there, and spied a very nice looking and probably unfired New Model Blackhawk in .41 Mag. The price tag said $205. I tried to not show any eagerness and asked the guy behind the counter if they could do any better on the price, and the look on his face expressed shock that I would even ask (not a totally unexpected reaction). Before he answered I said "I'll take it." It went home with me.

Being a NM, the trigger pull was horrendous as they usually are. I had learned that a little work with a file and stones would usually improve them, but you had to be careful...of course. So I got to work, reassembled, and put it away. After consuming a few beers while watching the tube, I decided to see if I could improve it. I did, it was good and I put it away again. Then I had several more beers...and then I decided I could improve it still more and that's when it all went to hell. I had removed so much metal the bastard wouldn't even stay cocked.

At that point I was pissed off at myself. I was definitely feeling no pain, but I knew I had exercised no judgement at all. I was going to have to acquire a new hammer, and this was in the days before the internet and it would be a PITA. I decided I'd just file a notch in the hammer so I could at least just shoot it until I got a new hammer, and that's what I did---and with little care or caution. I just picked a place and filed the crap out of it a few strokes. When I reassembled it and tried it out I was astounded. It was absolutely perfect, or at least as close to it as you can get with a NM Blackhawk, and the cylinder timing and lockup was fully functional. I couldn't (and would not even try to) do that again.

So, a couple of days later I thought about the javelina hunt and the lost (or at least gone) Model 19 and my friend Gibby. I knew his sister was living in El Paso so I looked her up in the phone book and called her. She said Gibby just happened to be in El Paso and gave me a phone number. I called him and told him he should drop by because I had something for him. He showed up and I put the .41 in his hands. The value of the Blackhawk certainly didn't match the Model 19, but he never expected to be repaid so he was pretty tickled. He said he would pass it on to his son when he got a little older.

About six or seven years ago I got to speak with Gibby. I asked him if his son had that Blackhawk. I could tell Gibby was reluctant to tell me, but that .41 had been swapped or something. I count that as another gun LOST, but don't know what to do about it. Maybe someday I'll meet Gibby's son. If I do, something tells me there will be something appropriate as a gift for the occasion..

Excellent story! Thanks for posting!

Good story!

I spent lots of time in the Big Bend, beginning when I was just a young boy. Kinda grew up in that country.

Being an arrowhead collector and hunter, I'd never miss a chance to do so, and even went to the trouble to seek out new places to do so.

Once while hunting for rock shelters that may harbor artifacts, I found a cave in a rock outcropping in a canyon near Valentine. The cave was deep enough that I had to use a flashlight. Hardly any light reached the back portion of the cave where it narrowed down too tight for a man to crawl through.

To see if a certain cave or shelter had housed the ancient ones that left artifacts, you look for smoke on the ceiling, and burnt rock and ground on the floor. There was some charring on the floor as I got to the rear, but not much... I scratched around to no avail, and was pawing against the back wall when my hands hit some fabric of some sort... It appeared to be canvas. It was pretty rotted and deteriorated, but I found a couple of buckles that makes me think it was a pack like used on donkeys or mules when you would pack them up with stuff. There were corn cobs strewn around that area, and some old glass jars. Scratching deeper under the pack, I found another piece of cloth. This one was thicker, and rolled up. I dug around it, and it had something rolled up inside.

Carefully, I removed what looked to be an old, rotted saddle blanket, and what was rolled up inside it was a fully loaded Winchester 1892 44WCF!

That was all that was in that little cave. The old rotted pack, and the wool saddle blanket that was falling apart with the Winchester inside it.

I tried to keep the saddle blanket together, but it was a lost cause. I was only able to salvage pieces of it. I kept it and the rifle together. The Winchester was harder to do anything with. It was covered in rust. Not corroded beyond salvation but enough that it would never have value as an antique Winchester. Had to take it all apart, and got the ammo in the magazine out, as a couple of shells had leaked and corroded some. Put a new magazine spring and follower and new mainspring on it, and oiled up the stock as the wood was dry, and some was lost due to surface corrosion.

Kept it all for a couple of years, and even shot that '92 some, but the barrel was bad, and it wouldn't shoot well.

An old west collector called me and wanted to see the '92. He came out to the ranch and liked it so much that he made me an offer I couldn't refuse on it, the saddle blanket remnants, and the canvas pack buckles.

I always wondered who put that stuff in the cave. An Apache? An outlaw? An old rancher stashing for an emergency? More likely a Mexican that broke into a ranch house and stole the stuff, and never returned for the loot.

If only that rifle could talk..


I have more Big Bend stories... But, I need to think about which ones can be shared and which ones are best left in memories.

Great story, rockinbbar. Give us more!

I hope others will contribute, too.

Not sure how many people here at the Fire have frequented that Big Bend area..

Not many, judging from everyone believing that a border wall can be built along the river there.

When working at the Chisos Remuda a bunch of us went to Lajitas for a dance.

Well, cowboys being cowboys, the beer and tequila were flowing pretty freely the entire night.

The boss man and his crowd were making bloody Mary's and swilling them pretty good as well.

When we all got back to the bunkhouse in the wee hours we just kinda fell on our beds and things were pretty quiet.... Until the boss man started screaming that he needed help, and was dying!

Only a couple of us went to see what the commotion was about. We found him hugging the commode and sobbing that he was dying... I asked why he thought he was dying? He said he was bleeding to death!

I looked in the commode, and sure enough, it was red! I asked him if he thought that may have anything to do with all those Bloody Mary drinks he'd been drinking all night?

He thought about that awhile, and said, that was probably it. We all went back to bed after that.

He lived.

My grandfather was in charge of getting the Ore road built in early 1900's. Had the gondolas installed with miles of cable to haul the ore out of the Mexico mine into Tex. Mine flooded soon after all was completed and the San Antonio investors gave up on that project.

Great story's!

I found a .44 Henry Cartridge that was Un-fired and several emptys from a 50-70 ? along with some very nice arrow heads buried In a midden underneath a campfire smoked overhang cliff on a creek in Bandera County. A midden is a campfire used & reused by Indians, for many decades, or even hundreds of years.
I've also as a kid, in HS, camped along the Pecos River where it joins the Rio Grand river in the Del Rio area that's well known for pictographs, and are now fenced off to keep vandals from defacing them. It was cool laying in their at night, thinking about how many Indiana camped there many century's before me.

I was there for a week in 1981, it is the most desolate, dry, brown life less area I have ever seen, the number of graves both marked and unmarked surprised me, and then one day an afternoon storm came through with a downpour of rain, the next day, that country turned into the most beautiful, sea of colors I have ever seen, the flowering cactuses were everywhere, it was spectacular.

I spent many nights in those rock shelters overlooking the Devil's river that the High Bridge!

There's pictographs on the walls of those rock shelters as well.

Good fishin' there too!

One afternoon, one of the core group I mentioned and myself decided to go down to BBNP to party. He knew a lot of the park personnel because he had worked there a summer or two as a volunteer.

So, it was Saturday night after a long evening of partying with some folks and we had nowhere to stay but we were exhausted. We were counting on using one of the campgrounds---either Rio Grande Village at the east end or Castalon at the west end. Rio Grande Village was full, so we drove all the way across the park to Casalon and it was full too. That particular area is not so easy to hide in, so we drove all the way back to Rio Grande Village. Understand that the park rangers will ticket you for camping in a nondesignated campsite.

So, here we were exhausted and had made two drives across BBNP, which is no short jaunt. Near the designated campground was a grove of tall trees, maybe cottonwood, but I don't recall and it does not matter. In the grass at the base of the trees was a sign that said "No Camping." We decided we'd just throw our sleeping bags on the ground under those trees and take a nap, and hopefully be gone before the park rangers made their rounds. As we settled in and began to unwind, we kept hearing movement in the leaves of the trees above. The sound was frequent, and seemingly all around.

"Hear that?"

"Yeah...wonder what it is."

"Maybe squirrels or something..."

"Yeah."

And then sleep came.

At first light one of us awoke the other because we had to disappear. We crawled out of our sleeping bags, and in the dim light could see that we were covered with something and it took only a moment to further comprehend that it was buzzard schit. I had slept completely covered, but my friend had not. He had it in his hair and forehead and was none too pleased. We crammed our sleeping bags in the trunk of his car and departed. Back in Alpine, we burned them.

As we drove away we realized that the "No Camping" sign was probably there for a good reason.

Yep. The fishing was great. Never had any trouble with illegals back then, and didn't even think about it. Of course even as HS kids, we were all armed. Nowadays, I think I'd have to pass with all the illegals crossing & the drug cartel.

No great stories here, but a couple of relevant pics....

Rio Grande looking upstream, Mexico and the left, USA on the right, Boquillas out of sight to the right on the Mexican side.




Same place, looking downstream; Boquillas Canyon, Mexican rocks on the right, American rocks on the left. No fence required

Great story RR, but it would really be interesting to know what part of the country you were raised up in and at least an approximate location as to the area you are in now.

Mostly grew up in El Paso, jag. Spent a lot of time in the small town of Fabens---that's where I'm really from originally---just down the river from El Paso a little ways where my grandaddy was the John Deere dealer. I was in the El Paso area for almost my whole life until I joined up with the USN. These days I hang my hat in a very humble house about twenty-five miles north and a little west of Fort Worth.

Yes, and with rain, the purple sage can bloom almost overnight. Seems like only man made schittholes.

Just up the river from Big Bend and outside the park was a place on the river we called Grassy Banks. We'd camp there frequently and go just as wild as we pleased. This is my uncle, who was five years older and more like a brother to me, and myself one morning on the Grassy Banks. He took a liking to coming down from El Paso to hang with us and see what kind of trouble we could get into. The guy in the river is my friend from Temple who was a reserve police officer for Alpine back in those days. He could drink as much beer as I could. That's his dog Woolly Bear who was murdered in Alpine.






ETA: damn...I just realized I still have that ice chest! It's my camp dry box now. The photo is from about 1987 or 88.

Ha. That reminds me of the time i climed up a big live oak on a dry branch of the Devils River south of Sonora, Texas years ago before daylight and with my bow in deer season.

I thought i kept hear crap for the 20 min before daylight. As dawn descended i found i was situated under a flock of turkey hens. Of course the gobblers were in the trees across the draw in a dead tree at about 60 yards. There were several normal gobblers but the one at the top was about twice as big as those below and had a 12 or so inch beard. His noodle hung about 3-4 inches below his beak. Dayom. Limbs prevented me from losing an arrow. I wanted that monster. Just now wondered why i didnt post for him across the draw the next morning.

My wife and young son sat in the area a week later and she got a huge gobbler with my Win 63.

Good times back then.