Looking for an easy to build attractor/feeder to bring deer to your hunting spot? Well here is an idea we received from Eddie Williamson covering that very subject. Build one soon and get it out to your spot. Remember to check the game laws where you live before building this gizmo. You don't want to waste your time if such a thing as this is illegal.

  Materials Needed:

  ~ coffee can with lid, 3 lb. can preferred as it holds more
  ~ camouflage tape
  ~ wire clothes hanger
  ~ peanut butter
  ~ molasses
  ~ duct tape

  Assembly Instructions:

  * Wash coffee can out with baking soda and water. Rinse well and let dry.

  * Cover the outside with camouflage tape. If you don't have any camo tape, paint the outside with black, brown, grey, etc. colored paints. Paint it a solid color or make your own camo pattern. Just remember, no bright colors. You may want to wash the can out again if you paint it.

  * Drill a hole in the center of the bottom of the can just big enough for the hanger wire to go through.

  * Straighten out the hanger. Make a loop in one end a little smaller then the diameter of the can being used. Bend it in a way that the long end comes back to the center of your loop (similar to a lowercase "e") and then upward in a 90 degree angle. Stick the loose end of the wire through the can from the inside out. Adjust the loop and wire as necessary so that the can hangs straight on the wire.

  * Bend the exposed end of the wire into a loop or hook so you can hang the can securely.

  * Now take the lid and drill several 1/8 to 3/16 holes in it. Not too many!

  * Mix together some peanut butter and molasses. How much depends upon the size of the can you use plus how often you want to refill it. You will have to experiment a little to get the consistency that you want. You don't want it too runny or too thick. Eddie says to mix it to the consistency that you would have if you were mixing together peanut butter and honey for a sandwich.

  * Put the peanut butter mixture into the can. Attach lid and use duct tape to secure it to the can.

  * Hang the can in a shooting lane near your stand location, preferably in a sunny spot, about 4 to 5 feet off the ground. As the sun warms the peanut butter mixture it will drip through the holes in the plastic lid attracting deer. Don't forget to mask your scent while in the woods hanging your gizmo.

  * Check and refill as needed. Place well before season so the deer get conditioned to using it.

  There you have it, an easy to make deer attractor/feeder. Our thanks once again to Eddie Williamson for sharing this with us. Good luck this season and we look forward to all of the new stories and pictures that you will be sending us.

  NOTE: Check your local game regulations before using this gizmo. Some states require that all salt, feed, mineral blocks, etc. must be removed from an area two weeks prior to hunting that area. Also the spread of Chronic Wasting Disease in some states has made it illegal to feed wild deer at any time so make sure to check your game laws where you live.

   To begin this chapter we must go back to March of this year when the last chapter of My Series of Unfortunate Hunts appeared in The Bullet. The previous month I was suckered, I mean invited along on a wild hog hunt down in south Texas. To summarize briefly, the trip was a bust. We spent our time walking around a fenced-in 300 acre "ranch" searching for hogs that weren’t there until the final night of our stay when the operators "imported" a trailer load of hogs trapped else and off loaded onto the "ranch". We only found out about the importation of the hogs because some in our group had to go to town for ice and caught them red-handed unloading the new arrivals at the front gate. I did manage to bring home some buffalo meat, meat from a fallow deer and most of a wild hog without firing a shot. You can read the entire tale by going to www.backwoodsbound.com/zznewv07i03.html.

  We received many comments about the article all agreeing that the trip wasn‘t up to par. One person who sent in their opinion was Charlie Provost. Charlie has been a subscriber for a few years now and just happens to own and operate Provost Adventures in Kerrville, Texas. Being in the hunting and fishing guide business for many years, he wasn’t surprised to hear of my hunting woes. He has seen many places come and go and knew exactly what I had been through. He even hinted that he probably knew exactly who it was that operated the "ranch" we were at.

  Charlie must have felt sorry for me or he wanted to show everyone that not every outfitter in Texas was like the one I had encountered with the “wild hog hunt”, (I think it was the later) and invited me to join him this fall for a white-wing dove hunt in Mexico over Labor Day weekend. How could I say no!

  Charlie called me two days before I was scheduled to leave to get the details of my travel plans. I told him my flight arrived in Harlingen, Texas around 5:00pm Thursday afternoon. He pointed out that some other hunters were arriving sometime after 7:00 that evening and that his partner John Martinez was picking them up and chauffeuring them to a hotel in Brownsville and he would pick me up too. Charlie told me after claiming my luggage to park myself in the bar/restaurant, which is right by the front entrance, have a beer and some supper and wait for John as they would find me. Good plan.

  I didn’t think too much about it when at the airport I was politely told I couldn’t check in at curbside and had to go to the ticket counter inside. I figured it was because of the cooler I was dragging with me.

  Since I had purchased my tickets on-line I proceeded to the express check-in hoping to save some time. Wrong! I was able to get only so far with the process when the machine prompted me to summon help. The airline employee was quite helpful and I completed checking-in with his help.

  At the final security check point before entering the metal detector/ bag search the security officer told me that my name and variations there-of were on the do not fly list. Oh great! No wonder I had problems checking in. Would this haunt me later? I hoped it wouldn’t.

  I arrived in Harlingen with plenty of time to spare. After getting my luggage I made my way into the bar where I picked a corner table in front where I could see and be seen from the main entrance of the airport. With my suitcase sitting on top of my cooler, I had the stickers and luggage tags Charlie had sent me so I could be easily identified from the crowd sticking out front and center so they could be seen. Time now, 6:00pm. Next order of business, "Oh miss, a BBQ sandwich and a Bud Light."

  When 7:40 rolled around and I was still there, I decided to try and call somebody. I knew Charlie had already gone into Mexico the previous day with a group of hunters and that calling him wouldn’t do me any good even if I could get a hold of him. Searching the copies of our e-mails I brought along, I found John’s cell phone number at the bottom of one of them. What luck!

  John answered the phone on the third ring. I explained to him who I was and where I was. He informed me that he had left the airport not 10 minutes beforehand with the other two hunters who had arrived as planned, a little after seven. Crap! After a few minutes of conversing with one another we came to the conclusion that Charlie had misinformed him about my plans. How he missed seeing me we’ll never know. So much for the luggage tags and fancy stickers.

  John said he was ten minutes away and would turn around and come get me. I said I’d meet him out front. After twenty five minutes I came to the conclusion that he had been closer to Brownsville than he thought and had went ahead and dropped the other guys off at the hotel and then would return for me.

  Ten minutes later I spotted Charlie’s Chevy Suburban, you can’t miss it with the zebra stripes and lettering all over it, coming down the road toward me.

  John apologized for being late and explained that they had got caught up in some road construction and then stopped by a train or was it the other way around. It didn’t matter, my ride was here. Off we went.

  As promised John picked us up at 8:00am sharp the next morning and we headed back to the airport to pick up more hunters that arrived early that morning. With people and equipment packed we made a run for the border. (sounds like a Taco Bell commercial)

  We crossed with a friendly nod and wave from the border guards and found a spot in the parking lot. John and his buddy Abel headed for the office to pick up the traveling visas and hunting permits for the group. While they were inside we all milled around the vehicles talking and introducing ourselves to each other.

  While standing at the back of John’s truck I noticed a case of beer setting on the back and so had Keith. I didn’t think anything of it when Keith grabbed the beer and headed over to the van and proceeded to put it in the cooler. While he was doing this I turned around and noticed one of the border guards heading toward the truck. Not knowing any Spanish I hoped he knew English if we needed to converse. He said something and proceeded to look around the back of the truck. I moved out of his way as he looked around. I thought he was satisfied as he mumbled something and headed back to the office.

  By that time Keith had finished packing the beer in the van and walked over and shoved the empty box into the back of the truck so it wouldn’t fly out.

  Suddenly the border guard reappeared and started looking in the truck again. Not sure what to do, I just stood there trying to look non-threatening and innocent as a new born baby. He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. He said something I didn’t understand, I shrugged. He wasn’t looking to happy and a big scowl came across his face when he found the empty beer case. Uh-oh! He mumbled again and off he went.

  A few minutes later John and Abel returned with the guard in tow. John asked where the beer was and we politely explained that Keith (every man for himself) had put it in the cooler. It seems that the case of beer was actually a "gratuity" for the guards. John quickly explained the mistake and offered to get the beer out of the cooler and place it back in the case. Judging by the tone of the conversation and the guard’s gestures all was well and he headed back to the office. John told us that a bunch of the guys had been up most of the night drinking and bar-b-cueing and were a little hung over and was looking forward to some relief. I told him he’d have to bring two cases next time to make up for the mix up.

  The ride to the lodge was pretty uneventful except a stop at a roadside vendor to buy some hats, a stop at the Federal checkpoint where the soldiers carried automatic weapons and then a pit stop for a bathroom break and get gas.

  We arrived at the Sante Fe Lodge roughly 4 hours after crossing the border. I couldn’t tell you what the name of the nearest little town is but the nearest big city, about 20 miles away is Victoria. Also the lodge is located on Lake Guerrero which is known for its great bass fishing. All of this is located in the Tamaulipas province in Eastern Mexico.

  We were greeted at the lodge by Charlie, the owner of the lodge Fernando Andre and a waiter holding a tray full of margaritas and another waiter with a tray of appetizers. Now that’s service! After a quick safety review and more drinks, lunch was served, rooms were assigned and off we went to unpack and have a siesta.

  The ride out to the dove fields that afternoon was a long one. Not because of the distance but because of the roads, if you can call them that, we had to travel once leaving the paved road. We went through cattle gates, over creeks, up and down gullies and across fields dodging the cattle. I made the comment at some point about "traveling on cow paths that were smoother" than the road we were on. As if on cue, I glanced out the side window where I saw a cow path running parallel to the road that was smooth as glass where the cows were walking. I think if I could have gotten out of the van, I might have joined them.

  We finally arrived at an area with a pond surrounded by cactus, mesquite trees and numerous other thorny plants I didn’t recognize interspersed with open areas. Here we were met by the “bird boys”. The “bird boys” ranged in age from teenagers to a few in their fifties. I hooked up with my two, how I rated two I have no idea and off we went to my assigned spot. I had a hard time keeping up with them as I hadn’t got my land legs under me yet. I followed them down a smooth cow path, across the pond levee and through a barb wire fence.

  It took no time before I had dropped my first white-wing dove. I tried my best to keep my "boys" busy fetching my birds. How they managed to find the downed birds in all that thorny, sticky cover I had no idea but they managed to find all but 5 of them. My total after an hour and a half of shooting was eighteen birds not counting the lost ones. Not bad because I’m not that good of a wing shooter. I almost broke my arm patting myself on the back. Little did I know this was going to be my high point. What? Did you forget who’s telling this story?

  The next morning we went to an open field which was only about 30 minutes away from the lodge to hunt. As the crow flies it would have been probably 10 minutes. This was more like the dove hunting most of us had done in the past. I was pumped after my good showing the previous evening and could hardly wait for the birds to fly.

  I dropped a dove on my first shot. Yeah! Then things took a nose dive. I should have just dumped the next two boxes of shells in the ditch as I couldn’t hit a thing. I was into my third box of shells before dropping my next bird. I won’t mention the exact number of doves I got that morning as there’s no need in dragging up bad memories. The only thing I could do was regroup and wait for the evening hunt.

  That evening we hunted an open area along a road bordered by an area of trees/woods that had little or no ground cover. I started in the open and then moved just into the edge of the trees. I was slightly hidden and felt more comfortable here. The birds wouldn’t see me as quick as they could in the open and I could get a better shot at them. My thinking paid off as I dropped 17 birds that evening. I even got a double. One memorable shot was when a bird was coming straight and low at me. It was just in front of me when I shot. Thinking I missed, I shot again when it was directly overhead. The second shot blew the bird in two. The wings and head went one way while the body went another. Now that’s the way to breast one out! I guess hitting him with #7 ½ shot at twenty feet can do that. Unfortunately there wasn’t much of anything good to keep.

  Things were looking up as I still had one day to go.

  When John dropped me off at my assigned spot the next morning I was tempted to kiss the ground after the ride of a lifetime. Seems we had left late from the lodge and had to make up time. It didn’t help much when John missed several turns and we had to back track several times. We were rocking and rolling. At some point the rearview mirror fell off. Man oh man!

  My spot was a bit slow so the powers that be moved me to a new spot. It didn’t help. Must be something about mornings, because once again, I couldn’t hit a thing. Though I was frustrated, I disciplined myself into not taking long or offhanded shots. Still, my shell bill was starting to add up. Crap! Hope they take a post dated check.

  At the evening hunt I was starting to show improvements in my shooting. I got seven birds while shooting just thirty eight shells. Not a bad ratio.

  In between shots I was giving English lessons to my bird boy. I don’t remember his name but he looked to be in his late teens. He’d point to something and ask for the English word. I felt obliged to do the same but can’t remember a thing he tried to teach me. He fared better as he remembered cactus, shell, boot and others. There were several types of cactus around the area and he learned that we call them all cactus. He kept pointing to the different ones and I kept calling them cactus.

  When the hunting came to a close that evening I felt a little sad it was over. The shooting had been great; I just wish my killing had been better. But that’s no one’s fault. You get better the more you do something. I was pretty much the low man after every hunt as there were guys that would get thirty, forty, up to seventy birds. One guy made the comment that he wished he would have broke eighty. I quickly stated I wished I could have broken twenty.

  It was a great time all around. Lots of fun and lots of lies I mean stories told. None of the guys I talked to and there were 21 hunters there, had really any bad words to say. The one grip that most guys had was that some of the trips out to the hunting spots were too long and certainly too rough. But they all understood that you have to go to where the birds are. Sure, we could have walked right outside the lodge, across the road and just stood there in the heat with nothing to shoot at but we all came for the doves.

  The lodging was clean and comfortable. Each morning we were shaken out of bed at 5:30 by a friendly face holding a tray of coffee and orange juice. Arriving back from the evening hunt the beds would be made again from our afternoon naps. And the food was nothing short of great. If you went hungry it was your own fault. Each time we’d arrive back at the lodge from a hunt there were always fresh made appetizers and margaritas waiting for us. There was always plenty of cold beer, water and soda to drink at the lodge, in the van and in the field. Each hunter got their own cooler full of cold drinks that the bird boys were always eager to fetch for you.

  Each of the workers from the bird boys, to the waiters, to the cooks, drivers, everyone was friendly and eager to help you anyway they could. It seemed like they were truly happy that we were there. The bird boys just amazed me with how they could find a downed bird in all that cactus, thorn trees and briars. There are rattlesnakes in the area as a couple of the guys reported that their bird boy came back to report that a big snake had the bird and it was going to keep it. I never saw or heard any though.

  The trip back to the U.S. seemed long. It was a bit crowded in the vans with all the luggage, coolers and passengers. One more vehicle would have made the trip more comfortable. About an hour into the trip, we fellows crammed into the back seat started to feel nature calling. I think it was the bouncing we were receiving from sitting over the axle. About the midway point I finally asked if we were making any pit stops as the gas station we had stopped at on the trip down had faded into the rearview mirror. Charlie leaned forward and talked to the driver. A few minutes later we pulled off the road and stopped by some bushes. Hey, any port in a storm.

  I felt a little weird as only Mike and I from the back seat started climbing out. To play it off made the comment that "I know them old guys in the back van need to go, so I thought we’d better stop for them." "That’s mighty Christian of you" Keith said. Sure enough the second van emptied out and we all jockeyed for a spot around the bushes.

  The line going across the border was long and it took us awhile to get through. The first van went through with no problems but we got flagged and were sent to the inspection area. (My thoughts jumped back to the do-not-fly list) The border guards ushered us out, checked everyone’s identification and importation papers for the doves. I got a little worried when there weren’t any papers with my name on them but then again we had papers for guys that were in the other van. I should have known something was wrong but kept my mouth shut as I just wanted to get back into the country.

  We arrived at the airport and unloaded. Everyone started claiming their bags and coolers and I was no exception. Someone made the comment to check your cooler to make sure you had your birds. I opened mine and found four bags all with different names on them. When I had finished passing them out I was left with an empty, bloody cooler. No bag for me. Well son-of-a bitch!

  Needless to say I was a little hot. But after sitting in the airport for awhile I came to the following conclusions. One, someone else got my bag or two; there never was a bag with my name on it. (Remember no paper work?) Either way I planned to get a hold of Charlie and let him know what had happened. The lesson here is to check your cooler before you ever leave the lodge no matter where you are or who you are hunting/fishing with to make sure you have what you’re supposed to have. I’ll know for the next time.

  After several layovers I made it home around midnight after a quick stop at the local Mickey D’s for a sandwich and some wimpy fries. Why is it that I always seem to get the worse French fries? Seemed like a fitting end to my trip.

  The following morning I e-mailed Charlie to let him know it was a pleasure to meet him and what a great time I had had on my Mexican adventure, and about the missing doves. I was surprised when he called me that evening. He said he calls all of his clients after each trip to get a first hand follow up to their trip. He apologized for the missing birds and said that John would bring some birds out the next weekend and ship them to me at no cost. "Sounds great to me" I told him. I thanked him once again and told him I’d let him know when they got here.

  Even with the missing doves, I’d recommend this trip to anyone. The white-wing season runs thru October and the mourning dove, quail and duck seasons run through February 2007. Visit Provost Adventures at www.provostadventures.com for details on all of their adventures.

  Almost a month later I’m still waiting for the doves. Oh well. It’s not the first time I came home empty handed and it certainly won’t be the last. Like I always say, it was good just to get out. But, you know, some grilled dove breasts sounds awfully good. Until the next time – Jim Bob

  It had been a police action for years on my father-in-law's ranch, a violent, bloody time fraught with booby traps and pitfalls soon to be followed with ambushes and bloodshed. There were many drive-by shootings in those early days with retaliation taking place in the form of vandalism in the yard and flower bed of my father-in-law's well kept yard. Armadillos are built for war; their leathery hides and armor to protect them from the onslaught of all but the most determined unarmed attacker. This hide protects their legs and even shields the side of their soft underbelly. Not unlike a small tank, they quickly, strike with deadly precision and disappear long before the first light of dawn will reveal their presence and allow for a pre-emptive or even retaliatory strike.

  The armadillos had started the war shortly before I integrated myself into the family by marrying the oldest daughter of the ranch owner. In a guerrilla strike intended to disable my father-in-law's attempt at successfully taking his own hay from the long flat topped mountain, known locally as Haklochi, the armadillo clan lay a patchwork of holes through the hay meadow, hidden between knolls and small drains, these holes were devilishly devised to damage tractors, mowers and bailers a like. Each year between one thousand and two thousand dollars was spent repairing the equipment necessary to cut the hay for the cattle that provided the living of my in-laws. The guerrilla warfare was modestly successful and after three years of unanswered attacks we launched our first counterattack in the form of a jeep hunt that eliminated many of the small, yet efficiently clever creatures from the meadow. The ominous silence gave us all a deep foreboding as we wondered how and where the military genius of the armadillo would strike back.

  The armadillos countered with a move to the yard and home turf of my father-in-law, destroying freshly planted flowers, shrubbery and garden plants late at night while my father-in-law slept soundly in bed. My father-in-law took a single enemy one night and within a week it seemed as if the whole yard was being infiltrated and destroyed by a concentrated effort of enemy armadillo. My father-in-law urged the assistance of all family members prompting my wife to take his .45 LC revolver from its holster one evening as an enemy scout worked frantically to burrow an observation post in the raised shrubbery beside my father-in-law's water garden. The water from a re-circulating pump created a small idyllic waterfall flowing serenely between two lifelike ceramic raccoons that created the backdrop to scene of soon to be violence, the armadillo oblivious to the witness of his actions or the stalk of the hunter.

  My wife raised the .45 LC and fired as the armadillo dug hurriedly. With the sound of the shot, the waterfall abruptly stopped flowing and the enemy scout made his get-away. My wife's errant shot had severed the underground cable to the re-circulating pump and allowed the armadillo to make his escape unscathed.

  That night multiple excursions through the yard destroyed three flowerbeds in the back yard and mussed another that would be repairable in the front yard. At supper we discussed the actions we would need to take that night. My father-in-law and I circled the home and barns near the house looking for the round hump bobbing along that gave away the position of our enemy. We found nothing, even after a second trip around the barns at midnight.

  We had discussed getting up around 3 AM and trying it again, a discussion I intended to forget as soon as my head hit the pillow and sleep overtook me.

  At 3:20 AM my father-in-law awoke, his eyes growing accustomed to the full moon glow illuminating his room. He felt as though something had waked him but he was unsure as to what it might be. Standing beside his bed, in the light of the full moon he could see the culprit behind his backyard vandalism "balled up and digging like mad" not 40 feet from his sliding bedroom door. Carefully, not taking his eyes from the armadillo, my father-in-law removed his 20-gauge shotgun from the gun rack. The box of number 4 shot on his dresser was more than adequate for the armor plating of his enemy outside. He opened the breech of the single shot 20, dropping a round in the chamber and closing it with a resounding click. Taking a second shell, he slid the end between the fingers of his left hand.

  Chuckling to himself as he thought about waking my wife and me, as the shotgun blast would resound down the hallway; he woke my mother-in-law who asked, "What are you doing?"

  My father-in-law replied, "Got one all balled up out here and digging like hell. I am going to shoot him and you watch how fast the light comes on in Sis's room. (My wife and I were asleep in "sis's room".)"

  Easing the sliding glass door open a fraction, he said, "I can hear him digging." And he raised the gun, sending the whole load of shot into the balled up form in front of him. He quickly snapped the gun open, letting the ejector toss the hull as he fed another shell into it, blasted it a 2nd and final time, smiling happily as it expired in a heap half way across the yard in the moonlit shadow of the basketball goal.

  He glanced at the hallway. Neither my wife nor I had budged from our sound sleep. My mother-in-law asked, "Did you get it?"

  "Yeah I did," he replied proudly. "It ran but I got off a second shot quick enough that it only made it to the kid's basketball goal."

  My mother-in-law said, "Be sure and get it picked up first thing in the morning. The other grandkids will be here and the middle one does not like to see dead animals."

  "I will get it first thing in the morning," my father-in-law replied.

  The late night excitement took its toll and we had all slept in. My father-in-law had just finished telling us of his success at eliminating one of the enemy horde in the middle of the night when my sister-in-law's truck rolled across the cattle guard. My mother-in-law and father-in-law looked at each other as they seen the kids race out of the truck.

  "Did you get it?" my mother-in-law asked with an icy stare as my father-in-law sheepishly shook his head that he had not. With a sigh, my mother-in-law said, "You can explain to her why there is a dead animal in the yard then."

?   I could see my father-in-law was prepared as my two nieces walked in, their expressions strangely puzzled on their faces.

  "Talk to your granddad," my mother-in-law said.

  The oldest looked at my father-in-law and asked, "Granddad, who shot our basketball full of holes?"

Source: Leonard Lee Rue III’s Whitetails copyright 1991 by Leonard Lee Rue III.