It was supposed to be one more hog hunt at Gato’s invitation before the summer heat flips them nocturnal. I talked to my friends and asked who wanted to share in the meat. Eleven (11) people responded affirmatively. That’s three hogs in the cooler. Next I start laying out my gear, and deciding how much food and liquids to carry.

I bought a new 50 qt. ice chest, on sale for $20. Every ice chest for $20 holds ice for about 18 hours. It also doesn’t have a drain. It’s also worth about $10. Gato uses chopped block ice. I use the 7-11 crushed ice. Gato’s way is better.

I picked the weekend of Memorial Day specifically because there was no rain in the weather forecast. It rains every time I try to hunt Gato’s piece of heaven, and his red clay turns to owl shit at the first drop, which means my SUV won’t stay on his roads. (On the sidewalls of the tires on my Ford Edge it says in fine print “not to be driven on owl shit”.) I always end-up hunting on foot in Mucks or waders. Well this was going to be different. I keep the Mucks in, but decide to leave my rain gear. An umbrella is just in the way. (I’m not Mary Poppins.)

My second reason for picking that specific weekend to hide, I mean hunt, was because our daughter and her husband announced that they were going to a wedding in Paris (the one not in Texas), and we were going to have the privilege of watching their 3 ½ year old wild one, and her 1 ½ year old brother (otherwise known as “The Devil”).

Anyway, I drove away from the house Friday with high hopes, and the sound of screaming grandkids slowly fading in the distance. I was under clear skies with predictions of low 90s.

It’s always an adventure going to Gato’s. I just never know what exactly is going to go wrong. By the time I’m approaching Bonham I’m driving into black clouds that look like a tornado spawning bed. Light rain only, but as I get to Paris (Texas), the bottom falls out and the temperature drops into the 60s. I buy my ice in Paris so I’m soaking wet by the time I’m back on the road. I’m OK only because I have a half rack of pork ribs, Mexican corn, and coleslaw in me from Scholl Bros. BBQ, and a pound of sliced brisket ready for Saturday lunch…..if Gato’s rats don’t get it first.

The rain is coming down so hard I’m driving 15 miles under the speed limit as I go through Reno. Next is Detroit. (Getting to Gato’s is like a world tour without ever leaving Texas.) I zip through Detroit like shit through a goose, and the rain stops. I’m under bright sunny skies the rest of the way. Right up until I stop to get out to open the main gate to Gato’s ranch. It’s pouring down now. I can get out and get soaked again, or wait an hour or so until Gato gets there, and then he could get out an open his own damn gate and get soaked. I decide he would probably wait me out, so I drag my ass out, open and close the gate, and before I can get to the Gato Hilton, I find another closed gate. I’m thinking having cows on his place was a real bad idea as I drag myself out into the downpour to open and close one more gate.

As soon as I get all my gear inside the “Hilton” under cover, the rain stops. (That’s about right.)

Gato arrives and we drive around a little, talked strategy, but saw nothing. We get back to the “Hilton” and shortly Randy arrives. We discuss strategy some more…..like who’s going to drink the Bud Light Orange beer that’s in the cooler. I’m damn sure not. Gato’s comment falls under the Not-Just-No-But-Hell-No column. Randy, I’m beginning to think, might drink motor oil. He tackles the BLO with gusto.

We also discuss stands to ensure we’re on the same page. With the conversation running out of steam, I walk to my stand. It’s called:

1. Gato’s Younger Daughter’s Stand
2. The Stand Behind The Barn (I thought)
3. The Stand Behind The Hay Barn
4. The Stand On The Hill

At 7:15pm the feeder goes off. Three whitetail are under it like a cat on a rat. The raccoon in charge saunters up. (Every feeder on Gato’s place has a resident raccoon.)

No additional action. Then I hear the sound of a vehicle coming. It’s way too early to get picked-up, still an hour or so of hunting light, but before I have time to sort-out what’s happening, Gato is parked between me and the feeder. I’ve still got a shot to the feeder, but it would have to be through the passenger side window of that truck and out the driver’s side window. A little dicey.

Something must have gone wrong, I assume. So I climb down and get in the cab. Gato says I abandoned my post way too early. I figure since he’s parked in the middle of my post; Game Over. We settle into a philosophical discussion of whether or not we ought to blast that damn raccoon. We decide he’ll die soon enough without our help.

Later over steak & fixins’, on the front porch of the Hilton with Gato’s wife, we worked-out what went wrong with the evening’s hunt. It took two bottles of wine, but we determined that I was in the wrong stand. I was supposed to be, according to Gato and Randy, in the behind-the-barn-stand, not the behind-the-barn-stand……………. Trust me, after two bottles of wine, that makes perfect sense.

I thought it was agreed I would be in the Behind the (hay) Barn stand. Randy and Gato wanted me in the Behind the (fallen down) Barn stand. (I’ve got to work on those names.)

Personally, I was relieved, because when we were sitting in the cab of that truck, I was pretty sure Gato had lost his mind, and he was pretty sure I had Alzheimer’s. After those two bottles of wine, it was nice to know we were normal; not sure about Randy and Jen, but by God, we were normal. We talked about tackling another bottle of wine……or just pissing on the fire and calling the dogs. Luckily, we made the right decision, and that third bottle of wine will live another day.

-

Long before shooting light the next morning, I’m easing down the ranch road, heading for a double ground stand, off the hill, and just past the corrals. I heard a hog in the distance grunt to my left as I dropped off the hill. Way too early to shoot with cows on the place, but I checked the safety on my A-Bolt, confirmed the scope was on its lowest setting, and slowed my pace………. Nothing.

I’ve got to open and close a metal gate which sounded like I had kicked over a metal trash can (damn those cows), and five minutes later I’m in the stand.

Just me and nature…..and my favorite time of the day. The curtain of light around me rises slowly, and I’m surrounded by…….a big bunch of nuthin’. Shooting openings in all directions, great tree lines everywhere, brushy fence lines. What more could a hunter ask for. The perfect spot for a stand. To the south I even lasered a series of trees; 252, 203, 148, 99. You couldn’t plant them any more perfect. Deer start moving to the west of me. A turkey walks out of the trees and parks himself for the next hour at 126; but no hogs, not now, not ever apparently. Thick fog rolls through, and I’m bored as hell.

I finally throw in the towel and start a trek, hoping to spook hogs. An hour later I’m nothing but worn out and the temperature is headed for the 90s, with the humidity along with it. Nothing to do but hunt back towards camp. There’s a pound of sliced brisket back there, with BBQ sauce, if the rats haven’t already reduced it to rat turds.

I take one more long stalk through heavy brush below the dam hoping to jump something. I did…..about thirty head of cattle. IGTFU! and head for camp, brisket, and as much liquid as I can get in me. Thirty minutes later Gato arrives and we’re back to strategizing. We decide maybe a long walk through timber. They’ve got to be somewhere. He dropped me off at the head, and then swung around to the other end. Must have been a mile or more. Nice hike, just no hogs. The only thing sweating like a pig was me.

Time for an early dinner with Gato’s friends; fried catfish & hush puppies ala Randy, and Jen’s blackberry cobbler. That cobbler was unique in that it was two desserts in one. That crust could have stood alone. It was that good. The catfish fillets were perfectly fried. Not near perfect…..perfect. Kudos to Randy.

The party breaks-up and the last thing Randy says is, “if you get one, call me. I’m not going to sit around here for two hours in the heat”. The only part I heard was, “call me”.

Well fed, and hungry for hogs I walked to the correct feeder/stand this time; behind the (fallen down) barn. The feeder went off at about the same time as the previous evening; and again……….nothing. The resident coon finally shows up. But, then something in the trees to the left caught my eye. A small 65lbs.+ looking white pig is gliding towards the feeder. By the time it clears the trees a black pig of about the same size is following him in. I ease the 300 WSM forward into the stand window and wait. The black appears slightly larger. He finally clears and I punch him out with 180gr. of Federal. The white pig panics toward me, but by the time another cartridge slams into position he’s into the trees.

No light left. I walk to the feeder to find a small sow shot end-to-end with that 180gr. ammo; too much for her, but I’m still trying to shoot up my inventory. A quick look, confirms she’s bigger than I thought, and I have to get to where I have cell coverage co I can ruin Randy’s night.

He arrives right before I decide he might have just stood me up. We load-up in Gato’s truck and head for scene of the crime. Randy’s first comment is, “nice little boar, about one and a quarter”. Glad to hear he was nearly double what I thought; not too proud to hear I can’t tell a sow from a boar. I might have argued with Randy, standing there in the dark, but the evidence was there…, barely.

We got him to the skinning pole, and then Randy made my day. He asked if I wanted him to use my knives. Gato never would have said that. I don’t let him get near my knives. I’m concerned they might end-up in the bottom of a stock pond at best.

Randy did his thing; “ZIP! ZOP! ZOWIE!” and he’s done. He never asked for a second knife. The first one stayed sharp. “THANK YOU, JESUS!” I know of course what that demonstration proved. It’s not the arrow it’s the Indian, and I’m not a very good Indian with a knife.

Got up the next morning determined to nail a hog at the corrals before packing and heading for home. An hour after I settled into the ground stand, I thought I saw my chance. There was movement beyond the tree line towards the corrals. I could see legs moving slowly below the brush. They were quartering away from me, and obviously not going to get any nearer. I slipped out of the stand and moved quickly toward a possible ambush. Got set, waiting for something to clear the trees. When it did, it was big and black, with a yellow tag in her ear; No. 7318. Damn those cows to hell!

I decided to stalk north along the fence line. Perfect hog country; thick, muddy, with isolated wallows. Only one thing missing; HOGS. An hour later I was back at the stand, with nothing for company except a hen turkey pecking around 125 yards out. I hate to give up, but hog hunting ain’t no fun without hogs.

I walked back to camp, packed my gear; straightened up camp a little, set my GPS for home and headed out. I’m not sure why I set my GPS; must be because I like hearing a woman’s voice once in a while. The GPS had become heat affected I think as it tried to turn me off in the wrong direction the first eight times I came to a crossroad.

Disappointing to come back with only one hog in the cooler. That meant seven (7) friends were not going to get hog meat, but them’s the breaks. That's why it's called "hunting".

I wondered if my wife survived the 3 ½ year old grand-daughter and the 1 ½ year old grand-son. A few hours later I saw that the house was still standing. My wife looked a little worn-out, and it took a while to talk her down off the roof, but overall I would say it was a near perfect weekend………for me………. Saw two hogs and killed one. I’ll take those odds most hunts.

Any way you slice it, a successful hunt. Nice work.

Sounds like you had a Hell of a good time.

quote:

My wife looked a little worn-out, and it took a while to talk her down off the roof,

Dear God, I love your posts, Kensco.

Great read.