We were less than an hour into our hunt when we spotted them.
On waking up Saturday morning, my oldest son Bennet and I went
straight to the canyon where we had found success the last two
years. There's a real nice high ridge that we sit and glass
from that overlooks the hot spot. We had been sitting and
glassing for only about 45 minutes when the pigs materialized
on a bench just above the canyon bottom, below us about 125
yards away.
Let's rewind a moment to last year: Ben and I had spotted the pigs feeding
down in the bottom and were stalking down to them. Before we knew it, the
pigs had come up from the bottom, onto the slope right in front of us only
about 10 yards away. I was trying to give Ben hand signals to tell him to
take his shot at Number One, but apparently he didn't get what I was trying
to communicate. Just then, the pigs noticed us, and all of us, Ben, me,
and the pigs, just froze. The opportunity to communicate any further had
passed. I slammed the Russian scout rifle up to my shoulder, found Number
Two in the scope, and punched a nice hole through his vitals. The hillside
exploded with at least a dozen running pigs. I sent Ben down-canyon to try
to find one to shoot at, but it was too late. The rest of the herd had fled
the scene and would not come back over the next couple of days we hunted
there. Ben never got a shot.
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The plan for this year was to give Ben the first shot, if and when we found
them again. I would shoot at any leftovers when he scattered the herd. So
when we spotted three pigs down on the bench below us, we started descending
the steep slope to meet them.
Ben asked where I thought he should go to set up his shooting sticks for the
shot. Taking a look at the situation, a very steep slope, lots of loose
rocks, pigs pretty close; I told him to forget about the sticks. There was
a large rock outcrop half way between us and the pigs. "Head for that rock,
very quietly, and go prone on top of it, using your backpack as a rest for
your rifle."
At that point, I let him go forward to finish the stalk without me. I hung
back and sat down to enjoy the show. I pulled out the camera and started
snapping pictures. In a few minutes he was in position 70 yards directly
above the pigs, waiting for the right opportunity.
A few moments later, >POW< the T/C Contender
carbine barked. As expected, the leftovers started scattering, heading
down canyon, in my direction, but below me, as I was still high on the
slope. I watched a string of pigs cross a low hump in the slope directly
below me. Well, here was my opportunity. I left pack and camera behind
where I sat, and took off down slope with only the rifle and my trusty
shooting sticks.
In anticipation of having to make a longer shot if the script played to
plan, I was hunting today with a modern, highly-scoped bolt action,
rather than with a handgun or with some 60-year-old battlefield relic.
I gingerly made my way down slope to the hump that the pigs had crossed
over moments ago. Looking off in the direction the pigs had traveled, I
soon found at least one, in a hole in a field of green bushes just taller
than javelina-size. I sat down, set up my sticks, and watched that hole
for around five minutes. Apparently the pigs thought they were invisible
because through the glass sight, I saw the skinny head of one looking
directly at me, but unconcerned about running away. Finally, when I got
a perfect broadside presentation, I squeezed the trigger.
Once again, the leftovers fled the scene. Two went to the right, and one
went to the left. Wait a minute! How many pigs were in there? I had
great opportunities at those leaving, but held my fire expecting that
there was one already laying dead in the bushes.
Indeed there was! When I got to the scene about 75 yards away, there was
one very dead, very smelly peccary in the thick brush. I pulled him up to
a clear area where I field dressed him. I figured out a way to use my
sticks as an aid to sling the piggy over my shoulder to transport him up
and out of the deep and steep canyon.
When I caught back up with Ben, he reported that he could not find a dead
javelina where he had pointed his rifle. After depositing my piggy in the
vehicle, we came back down, and I helped him search. Nothing.
We came back to our high ridge overlooking the "pig farm" canyon several
times over the next couple of days, but never saw the piggies again. We
did see scavenging going on at my gut pile, but never saw scavengers on a
dead pig that might have been Ben's. The best that we can figure, is that
he just plain missed.
