7mm-08 mounts boar hog

Well, it seems as though ole Steve has this hog stalking and killing down to a science. Lets start at the beginning…Steve got his hall pass for thursnight, so I shagged out of work and pointed the truck north. After about a 10-15 min deluge of golf ball and larger sporting spheres hail, a bout with Houston traffic, and a horrific urge to just pee in my truck (one nice thing about the Blazer), I met up with Steve.

We hit the pig hole, parked the truck and took to foot. We walked along the creek to the area where the .270 last barked, I asked Steve if he wanted to lead the way through the cane, his response: “Hell, I just shot a pig the other day”. Seemed like my cue to step up. I pushed through, and our “team hunt” just automatically clicked in to drive. I guess when you hunt together enough, you begin to understand each others strategies and capabilities, and come to expect a specific reaction in response to a certain action. This is the mind set that flitted into place as I pushed through the cane curtain. Steve loitered at a crossing for any critters that may spook out from my approach. I got about 60 yds in the thick stuff, creeping along, sometimes walking sometimes on the hands and knees, all the while keeping to the well used trail.

Uurp, uurp, wheee, wheee!!

Brain: That was about 70yds directly in front of me, Steve had to hear that. How can I get there fast? Are they moving? How many? Slow down, think…think, all that other stuff doesn’t matter; it will answer itself in time if the following questions are addressed: what is the WIND doing and how can I get there quietly?

Wind was easy to address, no wind. The quietly was tricky as they were on the other side of the creek which looked DEEP and steep, not a good cross for wading. On down a bit I came across a downed tree, crossed it, crossed back. I was within about 15-20 ft of them by the sound, but it was super thick, had I found a shot to take through the underbrush, there would be no second opportunity. I pushed on down, and finally caught the sound I had been waiting to hear: Steve. I kept one ear on Steve and one on the pork. I managed to push around to the opening and paused to check my hearing again as the opening provided more clarity to locating the source of the sound. Still good. Steve was, to some extent, following my trail now. Excellent. I pushed on around in a large sweeping circle, occasionally pushing up to the edge of the brush line. It seemed the sound is coming closer. At this point I reached and reached again for the pistol that was carelessly left in the truck…damn. I could see an opening in the brush but couldn’t see into it. I gained an elevation change in the crook of a skinny tree and peered beyond the tree line. They were moving. They were squealing and fighting, but moving. Steve was moving too. I leapt from my perch and set out on a hard run to a clearing some 90yds away, my proposed ambush point. I reached the clearing just as the pigs did, a paused, it sounded as though Steve had stalled. The grass was high and I realized my shot would have to be off hand and unsupported, my least favorite. The hogs were stirred up and came boiling out of the underbrush on a hard trot, barely a half a gear below a run. Maybe a dozen of them came into view and scattered to the winds as they hit the clearing, one chose to run directly away and stayed in my scope longer than the others. I found my only opportunity to be a “Texas heart shot”. I paused longer than I should have, weighing the options of not shooting and continue the stalk. Then the memory of the hogs crossing the road an hour earlier and getting nothing more than a groan from the pair of us kicked the trigger finger into high gear. I took the shot and scanned the brush for another helping of pork chops. I picked one up just as it plowed through the brush. I contemplated charging headlong in after them just as the report of the .270 froze me in my tracks. Then again. Now as the silence has been broken, we began the calling out game.

In my greed to pick up a twofer I did not watch the hog I’d shot. Tromping through the brush and shouting with Steve I did not notice the wounded hog till he rushed me and brushed my leg, I shot again. We found the hog still wiggling some 25 or so yards inside the cane curtain. Steve gave it the coop-de-grace on the side of the creek.

I will now stand down to allow Steve to tell his side of the events that transpired while we were separate and the tale of his heroics in toting that dude out of the cane.