Birthplace: City, State, USADate of Birth: 04/09/05
HARRY FRANKLIN "DUKE" WRIGHT (1905 - 1994)
Big Bill's favorite uncle. Rudolph Estrada's favorite brother-in-law. In 1912, at the age of 7, Harry came west from Indiana with his father and mother and two sisters - Elizabeth (who later married Rudolph) and Harriet - by way of Tulsa, Oklahoma, which was only a tent city at that time, and Shandon, California, to Santa Margarita, following the oil strikes. They lived in Santa Margarita for 5 years, where Harry befriended the numerous members of the Estrada family and learned to drive a buckboard, shoot a rifle and a shotgun, eat chile beans and tortillas, smoke cigars and sell magazines and fried almonds on the passenger train stops.
In 1917, the family moved to San Luis Obispo. Within a few years, Harry's father, Franklin, was ready to move on to Texas, to work the next big oil frontier. But his mother Jesse said, "This is as far as I'm going." And that's where the four of them stayed throughout the rest of their lives. His father moved on and Harry only saw him once or twice again. Over the next few years, Harry finished school at the 8th grade, was the only non-Catholic alter boy in the Mission's history (free wine at every service proved to be too strong an attraction to let religious affiliation stand in the way), worked as a bellhop in the old Andrews Hotel and went into the roofing business - his first big job was the new Motel Inn in 1927.
When the Great Depression came along, Harry's skills as a hunter were called upon to help feed the many families he was associated with - the Wrights, Blairs, Zanolis and Estradas. This period of time firmly established both his hunting philosophy and reputation. He soon realized that hunting out of season had its advantages - not a lot of other hunters to be concerned with and no need to worry about the number of points on a set of antlers. No need to worry about horns, period! In later years, he would just shake his head when I would tell him it was deer season and I was going hunting. "Too dangerous," he would say. "Too many hunters running around." Another of his favorite expressions was, "You can't eat the horns." He said that he had tried boiling them and cutting them up for stew and they just weren't any damn good. This upbringing probably played a large part in creating my disdain for 'trophy hunters' and my subsequent interest in hunting the elusive 'suitcase buck'. I mean, I've never shot a doe, but some of the bucks (always legal) have come pretty close.
Any list of his legendary, unsanctioned "hunts" would have to include: The Front Porch Pluck - shot out of the front yard of the old Bell Ranch from Pozo Road while the inhabitants stood on the front porch. (I believe Rudy, duly shocked, was with him at the time) What Roadblock? - He and Bill Williams coming back down Lopez Canyon, with a couple of pre-season kills in the trunk, drive up on the embankment and around the checkpoint of game warden "Jacksnipe" Dana, who vowed to get Harry one day. (Which pissed the old man off so much, he killed a deer a few days later and nailed the hide to Dana's front door.) Two at the Inn - Duke came out of the Motel Inn bar one afternoon about dusk, saw two bucks coming off the hill behind the parking lot, drove home to get his City Limit .22 Special, came back and shot both of them and promptly deposited them at his personal skinner's shop (Grandma Blair's garage) for processing. Walk Me to the Car - Coming down the old grade, Harry and Roy Vincent spotted a big buck on the hill above them, near the railroad tracks. Vincent took a shot and down the deer went. He went up the hill and, as he grabbed the deer's horns to move him around, the deer stood up, apparently groggy from being just grazed by the bullet. Vincent then led the deer down to the car in this condition and shot him when they got there and threw him in the trunk. I know this sounds like, well… bullshit, but, get this, he said the same thing happened again on a hunt with Bill Williams! Margarita Spike - Duke and Roy Vincent, after a long day of no hunting success and substantial thirst-quenching, pick off a young Margarita Ranch steer with the deer rifle, throw him in the trunk and head home. This one ended up at Rudy and Elizabeth's, I believe, who were none too happy. Of course, the most amazing thing to me about these stories is that every animal in them had horns - including the steer!
When it came to the Estrada Ranch though, Duke did everything by the book. His respect for Rudolph and for this special place ensured that there would be no extra-curricular or freestyle activities during his times at the ranch. I remember once when Pop and I were heading home after dark from the cabin - I was probably 7 or 8 years old - and he caught a glimpse of some horns in the headlights. It was out in the field by the old corrals. He stopped and swung the Chrysler around and turned on the spotlight. The buck froze, hypnotized. I put my fingers in my ears and waited, knowing there would be a shot. But the old man wasn't reaching for the 30 Remington by his side. "Shoot him, shoot him," I urged. But he just said, calmly, "No, it's illegal. We don't do that here." He never shot a deer at the Estrada Ranch. But he did shoot some birds.
In the words of Joe Scuri, "Harry was an artist with a shotgun." He would invariably shoot 11-12 doves for every 10 shells. He didn't aim. He didn't miss. He didn't pick. If Grandma Blair was his designated deer skinner, I think young Bill Estrada was his designated bird picker. In those days we picked the little bastards like a turkey and he picked plenty. He would try to hide when he heard Harry was coming out for a bird shoot, but they always found him. In his later years, after Harry stopped hunting, he still enjoyed coming to the Ranch occasionally and watching the festivities, playing a little poker and choosing off the biggest guy at the table.
Duke loved to cook and he was a good one. He loved his nephew Bill, who he bottle-fed home brew, starting around 8 months. He loved to hunt, fish, eat, drink and tell his stories. He took care of himself until he died at the age of 89. He was a good man, kind and honest, a good father, uncle and brother-in-law, a hell of a hunter, and one of the founders of our way of life.
Salud, Papa
Donnie - August, 2003
