Just returned from my most recent trip to see Gato and try to knock a hog or two down.

Gato was kind enough to allow my grown son to accompany me. He never took to hunting, but once every fifteen years he either offers, or agrees to come along to keep me company. Someone else will have to tell me what I did wrong. I suspect when he was young I showed him how hard and miserable a tough hunt can be.

I remember a dove hunt back in the late 70s when he was about seven. He almost passed-out due to the heat.

In 2012 I coerced him into going pheasant hunting with me in Kansas. It was just “OK” for him, and he would probably not go back.

I was surprised a few months ago when he said if I went hog hunting again he would try to take a day off and go with me if he could.

I tried the concept out on Gato, and explained that he wouldn’t be hunting, just spending some quality time with me. Gato agreed.

In preparation for the hunt, we watched the weather as fronts moved every which way. Seven days of solid rain and thunderstorms showed through the time period we had selected. As we got close I laid-out gear and found what I could for my son to borrow. (We both wear size 10 boots.) To my amazement he said he hadn’t given all the hunting gear I gave him in 2012 to the Salvation Army.

I planned for a two day hunt in temperatures between 30 and 70˚, and heavy rain, or maybe not. In other words I packed the SUV to the gills.

I stayed with my Browning A-Bolt 300WSM and had a handful of Winchester 150gr Ballistic Silvertips, plus a box of Federal 180gr MRX rounds leftover from an Alaskan moose hunt.

We planned to bailout early on a Friday, but my son’s boss called an unscheduled meeting, so I twiddled my thumbs for a few hours. We finally got off in the early afternoon and made it up to the Gato Hilton with a beautiful view of Lake Gato, after slip-sliding in the mud across Gato Dam.

We were in time to unload gear and get to our planned ambush at a ground stand overlooking a feeder set at 66 yards. We had a football-sized porker under the feeder as we approached. He wandered off and we slipped into the blind. We suspect that little pig was not all there mentally. He made four trips from the trees to the feeder waiting for the thing to go off. Four others about the same size finally joined him. Then at around 4:00pm the biggies moved in from the left; four adults and a bunch of little ones. I let a big sow (200lbs?) clear the field and showered-down on her. She dropped at the shot and the rest exited stage left. All in all a good afternoon, but we stayed in position and kept waiting. The feeder finally fired, and the original five little piggies came back and scrambled for the corn. Exactly an hour after the first kill we saw movement from behind the feeder. A single black sow, smaller than the first worked its way slowly around to the right and then cleared the trees; Mistake #1. Then it turned broadside, Mistake #2. Her worries were over when I sent 150 grains her direction.

We had a look, took some photos, and started walking out. My son seemed pretty happy with the action. We were relieved to see Gato and his friend Randy driving our way…..Let me put that another way. I was relieved to see Randy and the fact that Gato was with him was OK too. Randy is the world record holder in the skin & butcher of a hanging hog from both a standing position, and also from a low crouch. I’m talking REALLY low crouch, as in New-Delhi-street-urchin-taking-a-dump low crouch. Offer to raise the hog a little and you get snapped at. Offer him a new knife while he’s skinning, and you’ll understand why Gato asked YOU to offer Randy a new knife…..because you’re going to get snapped at. Best advice is to stay in the truck, or hold a leg, or a light, but for the most part, keep your mouth shut.

We finished the night off with steaks and wine at Gato’s house after guacamole dip, topped-off by some killer Blue Bell Chocolate Chip ice cream over apple cobbler, courtesy of Gato’s wife, Jen.

All this under the watchful eye of Sandy, a hound that Gato said wouldn’t take my finger off; but who immediately after Gato’s statement gave me a look like, “make my day”.

My son and I moseyed back to the Gato Hilton and bedded in for the night. I decided not to bother telling him about the 5 mile hike awaiting us the next morning. No use finding he had slipped out during the night and driven home without me.

Up at 5:45am, we geared-up. It was raining, but no thunder and lightning. I gave my son my Mucks and I put on my duck hunting waders. (Five miles in waders?….WTF!) We topped everything off with rain gear and started the death march to the Northwest Corner. I always do that walk on the first morning. I always tell myself not to do it, but it’s my thing, a tradition.

It is reminiscent of a mule deer camp, near Van Horn, Texas, I hunted out of for ten years in the 70s and 80s. There was a rule that you were not allowed to look over the rim on the north edge of the property, for two reasons. One, because there were very large mule deer way down there; and two, because you would never be able to recover a mule deer from there without everyone in the party dying probably. It was a very strong rule. If you hunted in that camp and shot five mule deer in consecutive years, you were awarded a “Letterman” ball cap and deer skin jacket; and were allowed, as a “Letterman”, to piss from the doorway of your cabin into the “street”. If you killed a mule deer off the North Rim you lost cap, jacket, five years of kills, and pissing rights. Gato is considering such a rule for the Northwest Corner.

My son and I eased along and saw nothing, but then started jumping Whitetail, first one, then small groups, then a herd of nine. We saw one nice buck.

My son mentioned that he didn’t see why I was wearing waders and he was wearing Muck boots. Thirty minutes later he was regretting that hasty remark. We plowed through mud puddles and “rice paddies” threatening the tops of his Mucks and pushed on. Finally we reached our goal, the end of the road at what I call a double ground stand with feeders off two directions. We had seen zero hogs.

There is a long, wide, shredded shooting lane to the left of that stand. While we were talking about how we had come through the Pit of Misery (Dilly, Dilly), and were resting our feet, I watched something white at the end of the shooting lane that appeared to move. We put glasses on it and couldn’t decide; just too far away, and too much in the way. Then the black equivalent stepped out of the trees to its left.

We rapidly discussed a plan, and since Gato had offered to provide my son a rifle and let him hunt, I asked my son if he would like to do the deed. He was keen to get it on. (Maybe there is still a hunting spark there somewhere.)

We crowded the tree line on the left of the shooting lane and moved slowly their way. We had covered half the distance when the hogs disappeared into the trees on our side of the lane. We moved another fifty yards and I decided with no target we needed to hold position and wait for their mistake. My son picked-up movement in the edge of the trees and we started easing forward again. A good sized gray hog stopped us as it stepped out in the clearing followed by two black hogs. I whispered to my son to slip the safety off. The two blacks immediately thought better of their plan and turned back into the trees. The gray sensed something wasn’t quite right and turned around also. I whispered to my son to not let her reach the trees. He took the offhand shot from about fifty yards. The hog dropped and the two others scattered along with more hogs that we had suspected were lurking nearby; including the original white hog. With no shooting opportunities, our focus went back to the grass in front of us. My son thought he had missed, but the gray hog corrected that presumption, when she started the dog-with-an-itch kick signaling she was toast.

After a few photos we decided we would start the return death march. While finishing off a snack I caught a text from Gato asking if we were having any luck. I stated that we had, and then felt obligated to text the words “northwest corner”. I just imagined the roof blowing off the cab of his pickup.

The two of us started the trek back with the hope that Gato had not abandoned us. A fair ways back we started to hear the engine of his truck. We left my son and the three of us returned through the Pit of Misery (Dilly, Dilly) to recover the gray hog.

Gato apparently considers mud not so much a challenge, as an opponent, and he intends to pound it into submission. Randy and I held onto everything we could hold onto as shit flew off the dash and mud flew everywhere. I was personally clutching the seat with the sphincter of my puckered ass. I don’t know what Randy was doing; probably the same. It was bull riding where the eight-second horn never blew. It was a hell of a ride. Change I had in my right front pocket suddenly jumped to my left front pocket. I have no explanation for that miracle. It was a David Copperfield magic trick if I ever saw one. Thank God, we finally got back to the gray and Randy and I jumped out to load her.

She was lucky. She was dead. Randy and I weren’t, at least not yet, and we had to ride back through the Pit of Misery (Dilly, Dilly) with Gato at the helm. It was like Ghost Riders in the Sky. “…Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred, their shirts all soaked with sweat…”. Damned straight…and about to load our pants!

We finally got back to my son, who I suspect had given us up for dead, and had started walking out.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Randy unzipped the gray hog faster than we could say, “Where’s my knife?”.

Randy already had hog on the smoker and we had time to take a nap, and sit around the fire and visit. Randy smokes meat like a normal human being, but his camp fires leave a lot to be desired. The fire pit was about six feet across, and Randy’s “logs” are about fifteen feet long. Gato’s recommendation was to STFU unless you want to get snapped at. We followed that recommendation.

Gato surprised me with a gift of a knife sharpening system; a Spyderco. I had watched him use it on the previous hunt and you can’t argue with what he can do to a knife. I wouldn’t pick up one of Gato’s knives even from the stubby end for fear of cutting myself. He showed me the system came with a CD instruction, but then questioned, to no one in particular, that he doubted I could follow instructions. I certainly can. Ask my wife.

About 3:30pm my son and I rode with Gato back towards the stand we had been at the day before. The mentally deranged little “football” was doing his back and forth still. Nothing shootable came to the feeder. It was just as well. Randy had loaded all my coolers with fresh meat and I had no doubt he would stuff another leg in the glove compartment of my SUV if I decked another porker. Gato texted, and we headed out to meet Jen and eat some of Randy’s smoked pork.

As long as I see Jen, I know we are going to be fed proper. If I only see Randy and Gato, .....not so much.

This time the star was the sweet potatoes. They could have been dessert. They were that good. The hog was cooked as near perfect as possible without a digital temperature probe. I agreed with Randy that it was amazing how smoking with pecan, and without wrapping the meat, the meat does not develop an overpowering smoky flavor. Afterwards Jen wrapped up two hams for my son and I to-go.

We commiserated around the fire some more then said our goodbyes and Gato’s truck lights headed out across the dam followed by Jens. They had warned me that when I tried to pull away from the “Hilton” Sunday morning to not let off the gas until I reached the road for fear of becoming stuck in-between. I told Randy that Jen was making it look easy as we watched her leave. Then he told me she had all-wheel-drive. I thought I saw him take a sideways glance at my Ford Edge and turn up his nose like that tan hound had Friday night.

After everyone left, my son and I sat around the fire pit and talked about the hunt and life in general. We decided we would stay up until all of Randy’s firewood was inside the fire pit. I gave up at 11:00pm.

By midnight, as I ran through thoughts in my head as to steps we needed to accomplish before leaving the “Hilton”, I began to wonder where my wallet was. I hadn’t seen it all day. I remembered putting it in my pants, or backpack, or somewhere before we started our death march. I began to wonder if it had fallen out in the mud somewhere. I decided I was being crazy, that it was somewhere easy to find come morning. I didn’t sleep much; kept worrying about it.

In the morning my son and I tore our gear apart…..twice…..trying to find it. We both went through the Edge twice. We went through each other’s gear. We back-tracked our steps around camp. I checked inside the bottom of my waders even.

No wallet.

I started thinking about the double-stand at the end of the Pit of Misery when we had stopped and I had searched my backpack for my binos to look at the pigs in the distance. Did I remove the wallet without thinking to put it back? Was I going to have to text Gato and ask for a ride back through the Pit of Misery? (That was a nightmare scenario.) Was I going to have to text my wife with the same news? She would accept the news about like Gato would.

We decided to go back to the hanging pole where the hogs are skinned, and walk that area in case it flipped out of my pocket.

We loaded all our gear in the SUV, backed down the hill, kept light power to it, and climbed the opposite side onto the road.

We did an exhaustive search of the skinning area and found…

…nothing.

We then decided to walk back from the point Gato had let us out the previous evening when we walked to our stand. I had had to bend low to step through the barbed wire fence. Maybe it had fallen out there.

No luck.

We went ahead and walked towards the stand, searching the muddy ground. The last thought was to stop by Gato’s old house and check the seat and floor board of his blue truck to see if it dropped-out there during the rodeo ride. After that it was going to be, call Gato and head for the Pit of Misery with his help.

By then we got to the ground stand and there on the seat inside was my wallet, dutifully waiting for me to come back and shoot hogs.

I did my happy-dance all the way back to the car. When we got loaded I felt so lucky I decided to double-down. I told my son we would drive away from the dam and look off the hill toward The Corrals just in case there were hogs in the bottoms.

There wasn’t, but there was a problem. Now I had to back-up all the way to the Hay Barn. A few missteps and we were nearly mired-in as we slid all over the place. When we got back to the turn-around, we did just that, said piss on the hogs, and moved slowly and cautiously across the dam, through the gate, down the 2.25 miles of owl shit to good old pavement where I bailed out and kissed the ground.

I wonder if any of this explains why my son never became a hunter.

Great story!!

Sounds like a heck of an experience.

I have done one or two of those! Strangely, those are the ones your remember! Great story!

Great story! Thanks for sharing it...

Great hunt and I am glad you moved on from camping to staying in proper housing.

Mike

Great write up Ken and funny. My only regret is you didn't feed a finger to my dog. She was so hopeful.

I can believe I didn't see your wallet laying in my truck seat.....I don't know how much was in it, but it MIGHT have been enough to pay for picking up your "pit of misery" hog, dilly, dilly. That is a very tough spot to get to when it's wet. Truthfully, I can't believe some damn fool in wader's no less, would walk back there, much less be dumb enough to shoot a hog and expect to be hauled out with it. Your son Bryan was very quiet the whole time, I don't think he is used to E Texas redneck style YET. It was a pleasure to meet him, more than I can say for his padre. If I didn't make it clear while you were here, let me be crystal in here, make me make another WET trip back to the NW corner, dilly, dilly, and you will have killed your last Gato 6T hog. But y'all come back, ya hear until then, dilly, dilly.

Sounds like an excellent trip. Pictures would be most welcome...

It's good to hear your son enjoyed the trip.

I think Gato is kidding about the Northwest-Corner-Wet-Rule. He was the only one smiling on that wild ride. Of course it was kind of a demented Chucky-type smile.

Why he would try to hide hogs from me way back there beats me. (That gray sow WAS wearing lipstick and earrings so maybe I got into some private stock.) If I had a hog call that played "A-M-A-N-D-A", I think I would have had my proof.

Seriously, I have a predator call that plays Adult Pig In Distress and Young Pig In Distress. I played both from the double stand before we noticed the hogs in the distance. They certainly weren't coming to the sound, but they weren't running away from it either. I know some people believe in hog calls, but I'm not sure I do yet.

For those who can't follow Mr. Kensco's arcane references, he missed a hog several trips back and named her "Amanda", he apparently thought she was in love with him and he wanted to get down in the mud with her. On this trip, he found the mud, but Amanda refused his calls for amour. He was crestfallen, but he still has hopes. I note he was in discomfort while handling the hogs he killed, I think his waders were putting him in a bind. I'll leave the details to the sicker minds in here.

The end of the story...for these hogs anyway. Ten (10) happy friends after smoking two (2) hams and two (2) shoulders, and splitting 20 lbs. of Bratwurst, 18 lbs of Summer Sausage (Salami), 9 lbs of Jalapeno/Cheese Salami, 15 lbs. of Chipotle/Monterrey Jack Smoked Links, and 10 lbs. of Breakfast Links.

My wife will cook the backstrap (loin) for a small group next month.

The end to a near perfect hunt.