It was a great plan. We were to spend the weekend in the heart of Webb County, Texas, at a rustic old spot called La Viña, located on the famous Shipp Ranch. I’d been to the place before and figured it would be perfect for a few days of hunting, fishing, and just hanging out with my dad. The Shipp was owned by Col. Evan Quiros, who’d graciously given us permission to set up camp at La Viña, which was just an old adobe line shack turned into a deer camp. To me, an outdoor-loving eight-year-old kid, it might as well have been a palace.

Friday after school, I had my gear packed. Dad had come home a little early and put together our needed accoutrement, which consisted of biscuit makings, some venison, and other odds and ends for a pot of stew; his Ruger Flattop .44 Magnum and ammo; and my old Winchester Model 62A and a brick of .22 ammo. Lastly, he threw in a couple of yellow legal pads. I stared at the pads a minute, then looked at him questioningly.

“Yep, I’m planning on getting a little writing done at La Viña,” he said. “At least there’ll be plenty of peace and quiet there. I’ve got a short deadline on a story for Shooting Times.”

One thing was for sure, when the old man was writing, he demanded peace and quiet. Around the house when his deadlines neared, it was required that my presence be limited to quiet excursions to the kitchen for a drink or snack followed by an immediate exit. TV was out of the question. At least I’d be able to get out and shoot and fish at La Viña.

We arrived at the remote little camp well after dark. Dad made a cursory check of the place to clear out any loitering rattlers, tarantulas, or vinegaroons, which were generally in abundance. We stowed our gear, had a bite to eat, and set in for a little reading before bed. I had a hard time sleeping, thinking of the small-game hunting and bass fishing in Col. Quiros’s well-stocked tanks the coming two days would bring about.

I woke up to the sound of a crackling fire that Dad had just stoked up. He was scraping up fixings for an omelet, which he was planning to make in a cast iron skillet over the fire. La Viña’s fireplace was about all there was for a kitchen. Along with the aromatic smell of the burning mesquite, there was another odor about. I lay in my bunk a moment before recognizing the smell of rain and the sound of the steady pour on the old tin roof. I jumped out of the bunk and ran to the door to look outside, hoping to see just a passing rain cloud. That wasn’t the case.

“Yep, pretty well socked in, I’m afraid,” Dad said without looking up from the omelet makings. “Looks like we’ll be stuck inside a while.”

Rain in South Texas is a precious commodity, and I’m sure Col. Quiros was ecstatic about having a good soaker, but my own mood was far from delightful. After breakfast I wandered out into the downpour for a moment. The caliche entrance to La Viña had turned into a slippery goo about 3 inches deep. There wouldn’t be much hunting. Even if I’d elected to give it a go, the old man likely wouldn’t let me get my nice Winchester soaked. Part of the problem of course was the fact that Dad wasn’t going to like being cooped up in the adobe shack trying to write with me hanging around with nothing to do. I left my mud-caked boots at the door and went on in to dry off. He was sitting next to the fireplace, concentrating on his legal pad. I quietly grabbed a magazine and went to my bunk.