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| Fake News is Deadly | April 2022 | ||
| Gerhard Schroeder | |||
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Nature is not always predictable. When our javelina hunt drew near, the water
releases out of Horseshoe dam made a Verde River crossing into too much of an
adventure. On the other ‘side’, the lake level was high enough that our camp
site from the year before, in fact all sites were several feet under water.
Meaning that crossing by boat would involve more effort; either transport it
each morning and evening, or leave it unattended overnight.
So we opted to try the area southwest of Rye on opening day. Last year I had
seen no pigs there, but sign where they had rooted. Not so this time. By the
end of Friday neither of us had seen any sign of javelina, no tracks, no torn
cacti, no rooted ground, no droppings of any age. We left for home. However,
with the plan that on Saturday Ron would ready his boat, so that Sunday we
would visit the eastern shore of Horseshoe Lake for the day.
Indeed, by first light the 2-Horse was purring, though with an all-to-frequent
sputter. Ron thought he would fix that by attending to the spark plug wire.
Before sunup we were hunting! What a difference! Immediately there were tracks,
chewed cacti, droppings. All we needed was tracks with a pig still in them.
For Ron that happened around 9AM. He had slowly moved along, and suddenly a
pig showed at decent handgun range. His S&W 357Mag roared, and the sow was
down, but needed a second hit. Of course the herd fled, many in panic mode.
Our agreement was to make first radio contact at 10AM. After telling me what
had happened, I met up with him a few minutes later. His pig was hanging in
a small Paloverde tree, by one of its front legs. I made note of that. Once
he showed me where most of the herd had fled to, I walked in a large loop to
get the wind in my favor, then advanced back towards where Ron had first
encountered them. Very slowly of course. That is much easier to do when the
probability of pigs actually being in the area is rather high. By then the
sun demanded that I should shed one of my shirts. Temps hovered around 20F
when we had first climbed into Ron’s old aluminum V-bottom. In the middle
of dressing down I heard what sounded like a pig growling, maybe seventy
steps straight ahead, up a slight hill, very lush with all types of
vegetation. No javelina was visible in the few open spots. Now with utmost
care I put my jacket, binos and backpack back on. Then with gun in my left
and tied-up tripod serving as walking stick in my right hand I very slowly
advanced towards the sound.
With every careful quiet step I of course hoped to see a pig. Not so. Maybe
15 minutes later I was almost at the top of the small rise, past where I
thought the growling had come from. Vegetation thinned such that visibility
increased. Still no pig. What to do? The answer came quickly – spread fake
news! So I leaned the tripod against a bush, fished a varmint call from my
jacket, switched the Contender to my right hand, cocked the hammer. Holding
the mouth call in my left, I squealed in loud short bursts for about ten
seconds. When I then also checked over my left should there indeed had
appeared a pig, quite close, standing still. Was it waiting for more sound
to locate the source of distress? Without repositioning my feet I aimed
almost as with a rifle, game call still in hand, now wedged against the TC
forend. That left my arms way short of extended enough to get a full field
of view through the 2X Leupold pistol scope. No matter, when the crosshairs
were on the pig I squeezed immediately. Not a second too soon, since that
javelina had begun to turn.
The gun and suppressor combo hissed, the pig reared all the way up and fell
over backwards. Then thrashed around a bit, as I reloaded my 30 Herrett.
Shot distance had been fifteen steps at best. I found the sow dead, part
way under a bush.
My joy was great indeed, and I thanked God for that javelina. It was
11 AM. First came a transmission to Ron that I also had a beast down. We
made the plan to meet at the boat when all was done. There was plenty of
time to reposition the porker in the sun for a few more pictures, then
take care of the animal.
By noon she was undressed. Time to enjoy my sandwich and granola bar.
The wind has increased all morning. A fresh one it was, just what is
needed to cool the meat. Within an hour I had deboned the neck, back
and ribs, and cut off the legs, with the one she hung by last. The hit
shoulder was all but lost due to bullet destruction. All meat, by then
nicely cooled down already, easily fit into my pack along with the other
stuff. I had done that last year for the first time, and again the
transport was way easier than carrying the whole gutted pig
suitcase-style. Trip back to the boat took half an hour. Ron was
waiting there with his pig.
One more small adventure lay ahead – crossing back to his truck, now
where the wind had whipped up whitecaps. His boat surely swayed with
the waves. But this time his outboard ran noticeably better, brought
us back to Ron’s pickup.
I guess there again is no reason to choose a different hunt unit as
our first choice next year.
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