“Cold Dawn, Big Bucks, Hunnicutt Ranch : A Texas Rifle Hunt”
- AussieJohn
- Nov 4
- 3 min read
Updated: Nov 4
The alarm went off at 4 a.m. Bags packed. Car loaded. My wife and I drove across Brisbane to the international terminal. Firearm in hand. Border Force checked paperwork and serial numbers. One officer escorted us to the counter. My rifle case went on the conveyor. Hug. Kiss. Gone.
We cleared security and boarded. Dallas-bound. Touchdown at 8:30 a.m. Customs cleared. Mrs. Hunnicutt was waiting. The drive to the ranch was long. Familiar. Empty highways, the sun low, cold light spilling over the fields. Bruce was there. Warm welcome. I unpacked my gear, checked rifles, dialled in the Browning 6.5 PRC and my Ravin XNB crossbow. All set. I’ve hunted this ranch ten years. I had waited months for this.
The first morning of rifle season was cold. Frost on the grass. My breath came in clouds. I layered up in Sitka, loaded my pack, and climbed onto the Kubota ATV. Another hunter, Jordan from Washington State, was dropped off first. I rode silently to my stand. Shooting light at 7:07. I climbed the ladder, settled in, and watched. The plot was empty. Acorns rattled down. The trees whispered in the wind. Nothing moved.
Fifty minutes passed. Then movement. Does and young bucks. Chasing. Testing. Rut in action. New deer entered. Others slipped away. Out of the shadows on my left, he appeared. Wide outside his ears. Ten points. Perfect. I raised binoculars. His coat was deep brown, flecked with frost. He melted behind a tree island. Vanished. I waited. He reappeared where I expected.
I lifted the Browning. The neighbours’ property line was close. A clean shot. I aimed. Exhaled. Squeezed the gold trigger. Boom. Thump. Down he went.
I reloaded. Held the crosshairs. All quiet. Five minutes passed. I texted Bruce: “Big buck down.” Ten points. Everything intact. Walking over, I kept the scope low. He wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing broken.
The grin spread. Months of waiting came to this. Adrenaline. Gratitude. God. Nature. The hunt. The buck was mine. Mine to eat. Mine to remember.
Bruce arrived in the Cam-Am buggy. Wayne followed. Congratulations. Tag on the antlers. Photos taken. Gear packed. Off to check Jordan’s stand. He stayed longer. By the time we returned to the ranch house, Jordan called Bruce, all excitement—he had his buck on the ground too. A busy morning. East Texas at its finest.
The buck weighed 178 pounds. Caped, gutted, cleaned, wrapped, labelled, frozen. Lunch at the diner. Admired Jordan’s buck. Nap. Six hours deep sleep. Woke. Ate. Returned to the ranch.
The land stretched around me. Pines and hardwoods. Rolling fields. The wind whispered through the oaks. Acorns still fell. Deer tracks marked the soft earth. The cold pressed on my hands and face, but the sun lifted higher. Every glance reminded me why I hunt here. Patience. Observation. Quiet. Timing. And then, reward.
Three more weeks in Texas. Sightseeing. Planning. Sandhill Crane hunt in West Texas in December. There would be miles of road, new ground, cold mornings, long waits. But for now, the frost. The rut. That ten-point buck. Months of waiting, rewarded. A day to remember.
Sitting on the porch that night, the wind low and the sky dark, I thought of the hunt. Not the kill alone. But the quiet. The anticipation. The way a deer moves through the light. The crunch of leaves. The snap of twigs. The smell of pine and earth. The camaraderie of old friends and new ones on this trip. The knowledge that patience pays.
The rifle leaned against the wall. The crossbow beside it. The freezer held the buck. All was still. All was right. East Texas at its finest, on Hunnicutt Ranch.
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