I’ve loved hunting since I was about four and sat in the back seat of my dad’s 1950 Studebaker between him and his friend while they shot jackrabbits out the windows in Artesia, New Mexico.

When I got big enough to hunt mule deer, I hunted hard, harder than most, and prided myself in the fact that the annual success rate in New Mexico for mule deer hunters was 25%, and mine was 75%. My brother-in-law’s father always referred to me as “deerslayer”. I thought that was cool. I wasn’t a great shot. I just hunted harder.

Now that, fifty-five years later, I only hunt hogs, I still like to hunt hard, walk a lot. But hogs are different than mule deer. I could think like a mule deer, look at a mountain and know where they would be. I can’t think like a hog. They are where they want to be. They go where they want to go. My only strategy is, keep moving (head on a swivel) and watch the wind when it counts.

I was privileged last week to hunt hogs on Gato’s place again. He told me where he had been seeing pigs, and how I should position myself. Gato knows his hogs. I don’t.

When I rolled through the gate at about 4:00pm, I stopped, geared-up, loaded my 300 WSM and began a slow-roll down the road, across the dam, past New Camp, and the Hay Barn. Gato had told me the wind would be at my back, and it was. Right about then, I made my first mistake. I kept rolling towards the collapsed barn. Gato had said the hogs would probably be in the small tree line, off my passenger’s-side. Sure enough when I came around the bend, two large brown hogs were on the move in the tree line. Before I could stop, get out, and get a bead on them, they were gone. Why hadn’t I stopped at the hay barn and stalked to the tree line? I’ve got great hindsight, that’s why.

I rolled on and dropped off the hill. I got out and eased back up the hill on foot towards a ground blind. A small piglet ran across the road. I got on-point, but nothing else moved in the tall grass. I slipped into the blind, watched and waited. An hour or so later a small pig ran across the road from tall grass to tall grass. I’m talking crotch high grass. The rest of the afternoon was hog-less.

I watched Gato drive by and learned later I was in the “wrong blind”. I can’t seem to get his ranch figured-out. That night over grilled steaks, wine, and addictive blackberry magic-stuff conjured up by Gato’s wife, we solved the world’s problems.

I made my bed in the back of my Ford and got ready for prime-time next morning. I love hunting early morning.

At first light I eased down the road on foot to the hay barn, and saw movement off to the right in some small hay piles in the tall grass. A brown sow and piglets bailed out in a hurry, while a black sow moved about 80 yards off and stopped in the tall grass. I could see her ears and aimed a few inches below where the “v” from her ears met the tall grass. She disappeared at the shot. When I got to her, she had a third eye I had given her in the back of her head. With a lot of effort I drug her to the side of the road and continued hunting west.

I kept hunting towards the Northwest Corner until mud turned to 3” of water, to 6” of water, to 18” of water, and it seemed I was approaching the deep end of the pool. I turned back, and stopped at one point to try my recently bought Flextone Vengeance Model FLX50 game call. Pig Baby Distress. NOTHING. Pig Adult Distress. NOTHING. Javelina Baby Distress. NOTHING. No hogs, no coyotes, no nothing came out to investigate. I’m not saying the call doesn’t work, I’m just saying it didn’t work for me in that situation. I decided not to try my recently purchased mouth-blown hog call, and headed back toward a waiting ham & cheese sandwich, and a bottle of Gatorade.

The walking was sloppy and hard on the feet. Gato says he does a lot of shredding, but to me he is just trying to create as many punji sticks as possible for me to stumble or trip over. Hunting Gato’s place is a lot like that TV show Survivor. You might survive, and then again you might not.

Gato arrived after I got back. We retrieved and hung the black sow, and I watched how he skinned and quartered a hog. I never get tired of watching that. (I intentionally dull my knives before hunting with him so that I can dick around and look stupid.)

In the afternoon Gato mentioned an unexpected storm was moving in with probable hail, and that I should park my Ford and take cover in the hay barn. I parked the Ford and went off in search of hogs. Thunder and dark clouds turned me back towards the barn as the rain started.

Sitting in the barn during the storm, feeling the temperature drop, I got to reflect on how I didn’t pack a jacket, or any long-sleeved shirt for that matter. Only the top half of some long johns had sleeves. The forecast before I left home was mid-50s at night to low 70s during the day. What the hell was that forecast based on? The temperature was now headed for the 40s.

While waiting for the rain to stop, I would peek out the front of the barn both ways to see if any hogs were moving across the ranch road during the rain. NOTHING.

About three hours into this stalemate, and as the rain let up a little, I saw movement on a hillside. I put the scope on it, and saw a brown hog backline and ears moving through the tall grass. I found a plastic chair, dialed the scope from 6X to 18X, and took a rest on the metal gate. When she hesitated, I put the crosshairs where her shoulder should be and squeezed. At the shot, she disappeared. I put my fanny pack on, jacked another 150 gr. bullet into the chamber, caught the hull, and stepped out into the rain. I had a pretty good line on the hog, but still had to take about five minutes extra walking around to find her in the wet grass. Shot through the shoulder, no exit wound. She must have weighed 150+. I stood beside her and triggered my laser range finder back to the chair I had shot her from; 234 yards.

The afternoon was getting long. I left a message on Gato’s phone, picked-up my rain gear and moved to the stand I was supposed to have been in earlier.

Uneventful, other than my feet and back were killing me, clothes and boots were soaking wet, and no hogs showed at the feeder. A single turkey hen milled around. A raccoon scaled one leg of the feeder, hung on by one hand and pilfered corn from the feeder with the other, then crawled down, ate what had dropped, and went back to her aerial act. She repeated that process about six times. A wren had built a nest on the stand’s shelf and she wasn’t too happy she couldn’t come in out of the rain, because of me. Tough shit’s all I can say. I wasn’t leaving. Four whitetail came to the feeder and tried to make me believe that hogs were bound to be next.

Finally though, after it got about too dark to find my way out, I gave it up, climbed out of the stand and walked out to meet Gato. We cruised for a while watching hogs moving in the dark. We then retrieved my second hog before the buzzards did more damage. We skinned and quartered the hog in the rain and dark using the truck headlights and my Petzl headlamp … until the batteries gave out. I was ready to call it a night.

Morning came with ground fog and 43˚. I slipped back into cold, wet clothes and boots. I hung the rest of my wet clothes over the hood and rear view mirrors of my Ford. When the ground fog began to lift I started moving. Got in close on a lot of deer, but only heard hogs in the distance.

I was returning to the hay barn when Gato drove up and allowed as how Jed Clampett and family had apparently moved into his hay barn. Something about my wet clothes hanging all over my vehicle seemed to offend his sense of propriety.

Having survived a Gato hog hunt one more time, he offered a reward of oak and pecan wood to smoke my hog meat on after I got home. The offer was much appreciated, but I’m beginning to feel that hunting hogs, the hard way, may soon be a little too hard for this old man. I’ve apparently donated my two big toenails following this hunt, my (left-side) lower back is still bugging me, and a relatively new pair of hunting boots are shot to hell.

I swear to God I will quit this shit when I turn 75…….80 for sure.

Hell man, you don't have a complaint over that bit of rain! Try 9" snow, 20F, and a yard full of branches that took 3 days to clear up. Same "storm" too. Then there's the folks down south that had some spinners! Lucky you.

Good story, enjoyed your hunt, thanks for sharing.

George

Sounds like an article from "True Confessions" to me.

You would think that anyone but a city boy would know that hogs ain't gonna be feeding in a lake.......

However, a good time was had by all and Ken is welcome anytime.......I can see why he was in management, he don't listen worth a damn......

Now, if he would only learn the true believers way to eat a steak, I might be able to stay around him some more. Watching him attack the ruins of what used to be a good steak before it was abandoned on the grill for an hour or two, it flat ruins my appetite, which is mighty puny these days, I can barely finish one small steak. a few potatoes, and some blackberry cobbler, oh, and more than my share of a couple of bottles of Australian rot gut wine (which was damn good, probably the best part of Ken's visit ) ......

Finally, I am tired of my knives hacking up his hogs, he either needs to learn how to sharpen his, or buy some Ginzu knives that never go dull.........I showed him why you put a hole in the hog ham before you cut it loose.....ask him if he learned why?

There's nothing wrong with hard work, especially when it puts meat in the cooler. Even better if someone else does the skinning and quartering!

Personally, I am lazy and prefer it when the hardest work involves loading the hog and then loading the full cooler, but whatever works.

"Deerslayer" is much more evocative than "Swineslayer", isn't it?

While we are asking questions. What happened to Gato's new "harder than a whore's heart" knife blade?

Yikes, that was supposed to go to my grave with me.

My knives start out super sharp, but they are allergic to hog hide. They go dull and break out in a rash as soon as they see one of Gato's hogs.

I thought hookers had a heart of gold? Gold is pretty soft.

I don't use my good blades on the cuts through the hide. I use a folding utility knife from the hardware store with replaceable hooked blades to make the cuts in the skin. The good knives are used for skinning and cutting meat. I use a saw or pruning shears on the bones.

I estimate Gato has skinned about 1000 or so more hogs than I have though, so whatever system he uses is probably better.

Experimental knife hardened to 68rc and thin, edge chipped out in a couple places. Obviously too thin, but maintained razor sharpness for whole hog. Still usable but will have to be more careful around bones.

But, I will add that it was and is sharp, which is more than SOME people can say about theirs.

Can that chip (edge) be ground out? In India they used to say that those people can fix anything. Break a toothpick, they can fix it. It always seems like in the U.S. it is about as expensive to fix something as to buy new. Not sure whether grinding changes the metallurgy enough to ruin the blade, period.

Really don't need to grind it out. Still cuts fine, just esthectically not pleasing. When you're used to seeing a thing of beauty like me in the mirror, it is sub-standard.

Great thread guys. It is a beautiful thing to live in Texas and have a buddy with a hog ranch.

Kensco.
Just when I thought I was over it you got me to thinking how awful a time I had at Gato's. Aw look at all those hogs I sez. Holy crap, that's a hog! Wow!, there they are again! Damn tree in the way! I propose a new meaning for awful, as in full of awe. That's a good thing.
Thanks for the story pal. The rekindle was just awful.
Git dem hogs!

That chipped knife blade reminded me of one of my best shots ever.

My girlfriend in college was taking me to meet her family at their place outside Sherman. She had a brother that wasn't too bright, but he loved to wander around their place hunting/shooting whatever with his .22. I was wandering around with him one day shooting at frogs, turtles, snakes, etc. At one point he says that he can stick his knife in a log and set two beer bottles on each side of the knife and back a ways, shoot the knife blade, split the bullet and break both bottles. I said he couldn't. I had the only hunting knife with us, so he set things up and commenced shooting at my knife. After about a dozen rounds, I told him to give it up, and let's head for the house. I think he was embarrassed that he couldn't hit the knife, so he insisted that I try. I told him I wasn't interested, but he insisted. I got prone, took the first shot, hit the knife blade and broke both bottles that were about two feet apart. He was suitably impressed. When I picked up my knife I found a small chip missing from the blade.

I also sold my old Mossberg bolt action 12 gauge to this kid on this trip. It had a blob of a choke on the end of the barrel that you dialed to the choke setting you wanted. It was a cheap shotgun that I didn't want any more. I told him he could have it for what it cost me.

About a month after the trip, my girlfriend tells me that her brother is mad at me because I sold him a defective shotgun. Turns out he had messed with the choke, trying to adjust it as wide open as possible, and completely disengaged the choke from the barrel. The next time he fired it, at a turtle, the shot and the choke were launched into the pond. Adios MF.

I did good by getting away from the girlfriend, the brother, and that entire crazy family later.