SMS Throckmorton

August 1957

It was less than a month before I would leave for my freshman year in college, and my good friend, Andy Swenson, invited me to an over-night fishing trip with him at the SMS Ranch at Throckmorton. I was no stranger to the ranch; I had worked there with Andy during the terrible drought of the summer of 1955. The drought had been broken by torrential rains during the spring months of 1957, and this would be my first trip back to the ranch in two years. He told me that the rain had filled all the reservoirs; the native grasses had returned to the pastures; and ranching operations had returned to normal. It was practically a desert in 1955. I was anxious to see the recovery of some of the familiar places where we had worked during the terrible drought, and I was also looking forward to fishing in one of the best private lakes in the Texas. It couldn’t get better than this.

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Shortly after lunch on Saturday afternoon we left home for the fifty mile drive to the ranch. As we drove east on our way out of Haskell, Texas, we drove across railroad tracks that crossed the highway. This was the place where two years ago we spent the better part of a week unloading prairie hay in 105 degree weather from steel boxcars to feed the starving cattle at the ranch. The heat had been so intense inside the boxcars that the sap from the hay was oozing from their stems, creating a sickening, sweet smell. The intense heat, the smell, and ten-hour days had made it a very unpleasant place to work, but we knew it was one of many jobs that had to be done. I noticed that the tracks were unkept, and the siding was empty, as we continued down US Highway 380 toward the ranch.

There was a familiar sign inside the corner of the pasture about five miles down the highway that read, “ SMS Throckmorton Ranch – Swenson Land and Cattle Co”. This was the southwest corner of 106,000 acres; it was still one of the largest ranches in Texas. It would take a mounted rider the better part of a day to ride across the 20 square miles that were enclosed by well-maintained, barbed-wire fence. As far as I could see in any direction there were gentle, rolling hills that were completely barren of trees; there were windmills and watering facilities; and there were scattered groups of Hereford cattle that were grazing on a new crop of native grasses that had emerged since the spring rains. It was a beautiful sight. When I worked here two years ago during the drought, there was very little grass in the pastures. Almost all feeding was supplemental: it had to be hauled to the animals in the pastures. What a beautiful sight to see nature moving back in balance.

We turned off of the main highway onto the narrow paved FM 222. It was the only other paved road on the ranch, and we drove about two miles to reach the headquarters, which was situated very near to the center of the ranch. As we approached I could see the barn and the main corral, the bunk house, and the cook house. The foreman’s home was about 100 yards on the opposite side of the road, and our first stop was at his house. The foreman, “Poss” Murray, knew in advance that we were coming. Even though he knew both of us, it was western protocol to announce our arrival. All ranch employees were naturally suspicious of strangers. Although it is not common, cattle-rustling still occurs on ranches of this size. Less that a hundred years ago, cowboys with saddle guns would ride the fence lines to protect the ranch from intruders and rustlers. This was truly a country that was rich in pioneer lore and western heritage.

We were planning to stay the night at the “party cabin” which was located on a large lake that was a short distance from headquarters, but first we decided to look at some of the familiar places that we knew when we worked there. We drove back across the road to the headquarters area. The barn with its large hay loft behind the main corral was unchanged, as was the cook shack, where we used to eat the best food in Texas three times a day. I would bet money that the food served there was still the best, and the manners of the cowboys were unchanged. I noticed that the bunk house where we lived in the summer of 1955 had been renovated: the southern screen porch had been enclosed, and there were refrigerated air conditioners that were mounted in the windows. There was a tall aluminum pole outside the bunk house with a television antenna attached. This place had everything! When I lived there the only air conditioner was a gentle southern breeze through the porch screen that cooled the bunk house around 3:00 AM – just before the cow bells rang in the darkness at 4:30 to welcome me to a new work day. Television was something that I watched at home for two hours on Sunday nights when there wasn’t anything else to do. Today the ranch hands had all the comforts of home. I liked it the old way.

The lake and the party cabin were three miles west of ranch headquarters, and we drove past the foreman’s house down a familiar dirt road, stopping only to open two gates and to let a small herd of cows cross the road in front of us. We approached the lake from the north, and we could see the limestone boulders of the dam before we could see the cabin. When I worked at the ranch I had driven within 100 yards of the cabin, but I had only seen it from a distance. I discovered that the “cabin” was something more that a fishing shack when Andy and I drove up beside it in the car: it was awesome. It was a beautiful stone house atop the west hill that was overlooking an impoundment of 5 acres of dark blue water. I knew that it had been well stocked with fish many years ago, and this small lake had never gone dry, even during the drought: it was a fisherman’s dream. The cabin was twice the size of my house, and it had every convenience of home except a telephone. The luxuries included a large stone fireplace, a porch that overlooked the lake, and all the fishing equipment imaginable. Shelter, food, and a great place to fish! What more could two young, sporting teenagers need? I saw the liquor cabinet out of the corner of my eye. Yes, it was loaded. I had to remind myself that we came here to fish.

It was mid-afternoon by the time we got our fishing gear collected and walked down the wooded stairs to the floating dock that was on the shoreline. We carried an outboard motor from the cabin, and attached it to an aluminum boat that was tied to the dock. After a few mighty pulls on the starter cord, the motor sputtered and came alive. We steered the boat to a group of submerged tree tops that were sticking out of the water near a ledge of rocks on the far side of the lake. We fished with lures near the shore line until almost sunset and only caught a few small bass that we threw back in the lake. The sky was clear; the wind was almost calm; and the temperature was in the middle 90’s. It was a typical August afternoon, and we were getting hungry, as well as dehydrated. The sun was hidden behind the cabin as we tied the boat to the dock and walked up the wooden stairs to the cabin. The cold, refrigerated air from the cabin met me at the door, and I walked inside and let my body melt into the soft cushions of one of the sectional sofas in the den. I heard Andy rattling glasses in the kitchen area; he walked over and filled my hand with an ice-cold, Lone Star, long-neck bottle of beer. What better way could we plot our next fishing strategy? I could never think clearly, when I was thirsty. During the next half hour we indulged in a couple more “mind rejuvenators”, and we plotted our fishing strategy for the next day.

As we were approaching the cabin earlier in the day, I noticed an abundance of jumbo grasshoppers on the dirt road. These would make good fish bait, so we found a large glad jar, punched air holes in the lid, and used it as a live bait container. The grasshoppers were plentiful around the cabin area (as were rattlesnakes), and we were careful where we put our hands as we caught our live bait. We soon had had jarful of bait for our trip on the lake the next morning. I took the jar down to the dock, set it in the boat, and returned to the cabin. It was getting dark, and I didn’t want to encounter a rattlesnake without a flashlight.

We sat outside on the porch and watched the moon slowly rise over the lake, and we talked about all the many good times that we had when we worked together at the ranch. It was easier living and working here since the rains came: forage for the livestock was plentiful; the reservoirs were full; and wildlife had made a quick recovery in the area. We could hear the splash of fish that were feeding on insects on the surface of the lake, the occasional bark from a pack of coyotes that were roaming the hills, and the relaxing chorus of ever-present crickets that serenaded the night. We planned to get an early start on the lake in the morning, so we went inside and rolled out our sleeping bags on the cabin floor. We could have just as easily slept on the soft couches that were in the den, but we had spent several years camping out and sleeping on the ground at the river. I guess that old habits are hard to break.

A booming clap of thunder woke us shortly after six in the morning; a violent thunderstorm had moved formed over night. The wind was causing white-capped waves to crash into the rocks on the lake dam, and by the lightning flashes we could see marble-sized hailstones that were bouncing in the yard within the heavy downpour. The storm was over as suddenly as it began. The sun began to rise behind the rapidly moving storm, producing a silver lining atop the fringe of cumulous clouds, and a wide rainbow formed to the north. Water was still dripping from the roof of the cabin, and the wind became calm, causing the surface of the lake to look like a mirror. It was beautiful. We selected fly rods from the cabin fishing gear, loaded the rest of our equipment in the boat, and started back across the lake toward the area that we fished the day before.

We tied the bow of the boat to the top of a submerged tree and began preparing our fishing lines. We both baited our ten–foot fly rods with the live grasshoppers. I noticed that that storm had knocked insects down into the water, and fish were feeding on the surface of the water. We were fishing from opposite side of the boat, and almost immediately we both had strikes on our lines. They were undoubtedly good sized fish: they were bending the fly rods double, as we fought them to the side of the boat. We both pull in large channel catfish that weighed from three to five pounds each. We were in a school of catfish that were in a feeding frenzy: as soon as we caught a fish and put our lines back in the water, we would have an immediate strike. It seemed that we had a boatful of fish; then they stopped biting as suddenly as they had started – almost the same way the storm had done that morning. We pulled our lines and started back to the cabin. On the way back I admired some of the smaller things of nature that many people miss: a great blue heron, walking on its stilt-like legs in the shallows near the shore, a belted king fisher sitting in a dead treetop, waiting to dive on an unsuspecting minnow – they were all around us and too numerous to count.

We loaded the car with our gear and a trunk load of catfish for the return trip home. As we drove down the road toward the highway gate, I tried to enjoy the scenery, but I felt a small feeling of sadness, knowing that I would likely never have the opportunity to return here. A person doesn’t come to a place this remote by chance. As we left the ranch and I opened the gate at the highway intersection, a large covey of quail took flight from their cover under a nearby lotebush. It was just another assurance to me that the terrible drought had passed, and living things had retaken the land. I might never return to this place, but it would always be a part of me: I had seen it in bad times and in good, as did our pioneer ancestors many years ago, and they were people great vision; theirs was much greater than mine. It is something that an outsider would not understand: this is the Texas that I love.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

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