Sunday Creek
03-10-2004, 09:19 AM
Guys, I am back from my trip to Aspermont, Texas which was made difficult only by weather and the vagaries of the airlines. We had a long delay at DFW and got to the hunting camp about five hours late. I spent the first night listening to a group of Texas Baptists snore and wondering how a good Charismatic boy from Montana found his way into this crowd. The next morning they stuck me in a blind to further torture me.
I don't still-hunt. Not for long, anyway, and not very well. That afternoon one of the sons of our hosts took me and my publisher to a new area to scout fields. Just as we were arriving at our preferred destination a sounder of hogs fled from a field. My Guide Gun wasn't loaded but I jumped out, thrust two Garrett 420-grain Hammerheads into it, got a tentative rest on the open door of the pickup and found a big spotted sow in my scope. When I touched off she disappeared so fast it was as if she were never there. The Hammerhead hammered her and she was "DRT" or "Dead Right There." Though spotted, this sow had many European characteristics such as a straight tail, long hair, and thick shoulders.
I then pursued pigs up-river while my publisher and guide went another direction. The pigs split up and I sent one bunch scurrying back to them and my publisher nailed a huge Russian sow with his BLR in 7mm-08. He hit her three times and she ran about 100 yards before dropping. This was a massive old girl. Ugly as worst sin.
Unfortantely, my after-market glove loop lever now failed me and the following morning I borrowed my publisher's BLR and he took his Thompson Center pistol in the same caliber. This taught me a valuable lesson. I had a number of other lever-actions I could have brought as back-ups and I was especially missing my Marlin in .35Rem with the 18 1/2" barrel. It would have been ideal. Anyway, that morning I hiked a long, long way in some rough country. I heard a hog a couple times but never could locate her. On the way back to our scheduled meeting site I was hoofing right along, walking a bit too fast, when I jumped a family group bedded in some Mesquite on a hillslope above a field. One sow paused and I dropped her with a shot through the shoulder. She was "DRT." I had a chance for a second sow that paused on a ridge but just as I was squeezing the trigger she dropped off the other side. The dead sow was spotted, too, and much more domestic looking than my first one.
That afternoon the host loaned me his old Model 94 .30-30 and his youngest son took us to some rough, cedar-lined breaks on the other side of the river. This was my type of country and resembled many of the badlands on our Montana ranch. I chose to head into the rough stuff while my publisher and the second son stayed up on top. I soon spotted a sounder of hogs feeding on a distant hillside and made a long stalk on them. When I'd crawled uphill to within 60 yards it appeared one young boar was getting nervous so I braced the open sighted carbine against a cedar branch and aimed at the largest sow I could see. When I fired she squealed and dropped and the cedars erupted with piglets. They fled over the hill like a noisy school of fish followed by four or five other pigs of mixed ages. The big sow was down but still alive and when I walked near her she tried lunging at me. I leveled the rifle at her and she whirled, got to her feet and staggered downhill. I had to follow her through rocks and ravines, almost to the bottom before finishing her off. This was a big, big old sow with good cutters and whetters. The ammo was 170-grain factory Power Points.
That night we scattered corn near the hunting camp and long after dark we alerted my publisher, who was in the shower, and he stepped outside -- clad only in his skivvies and tee-shirt -- with his Center - Thompson and cleanly dropped a big yellow sow from 60 yards. I had raced around the house with my host's Colt Bisley .45 but two big European sows rushed off before I could get a shot.
All in all it was a great time and the younger pigs were especially good eating. I would love to go again but will make sure to take two rifles next time.
I don't still-hunt. Not for long, anyway, and not very well. That afternoon one of the sons of our hosts took me and my publisher to a new area to scout fields. Just as we were arriving at our preferred destination a sounder of hogs fled from a field. My Guide Gun wasn't loaded but I jumped out, thrust two Garrett 420-grain Hammerheads into it, got a tentative rest on the open door of the pickup and found a big spotted sow in my scope. When I touched off she disappeared so fast it was as if she were never there. The Hammerhead hammered her and she was "DRT" or "Dead Right There." Though spotted, this sow had many European characteristics such as a straight tail, long hair, and thick shoulders.
I then pursued pigs up-river while my publisher and guide went another direction. The pigs split up and I sent one bunch scurrying back to them and my publisher nailed a huge Russian sow with his BLR in 7mm-08. He hit her three times and she ran about 100 yards before dropping. This was a massive old girl. Ugly as worst sin.
Unfortantely, my after-market glove loop lever now failed me and the following morning I borrowed my publisher's BLR and he took his Thompson Center pistol in the same caliber. This taught me a valuable lesson. I had a number of other lever-actions I could have brought as back-ups and I was especially missing my Marlin in .35Rem with the 18 1/2" barrel. It would have been ideal. Anyway, that morning I hiked a long, long way in some rough country. I heard a hog a couple times but never could locate her. On the way back to our scheduled meeting site I was hoofing right along, walking a bit too fast, when I jumped a family group bedded in some Mesquite on a hillslope above a field. One sow paused and I dropped her with a shot through the shoulder. She was "DRT." I had a chance for a second sow that paused on a ridge but just as I was squeezing the trigger she dropped off the other side. The dead sow was spotted, too, and much more domestic looking than my first one.
That afternoon the host loaned me his old Model 94 .30-30 and his youngest son took us to some rough, cedar-lined breaks on the other side of the river. This was my type of country and resembled many of the badlands on our Montana ranch. I chose to head into the rough stuff while my publisher and the second son stayed up on top. I soon spotted a sounder of hogs feeding on a distant hillside and made a long stalk on them. When I'd crawled uphill to within 60 yards it appeared one young boar was getting nervous so I braced the open sighted carbine against a cedar branch and aimed at the largest sow I could see. When I fired she squealed and dropped and the cedars erupted with piglets. They fled over the hill like a noisy school of fish followed by four or five other pigs of mixed ages. The big sow was down but still alive and when I walked near her she tried lunging at me. I leveled the rifle at her and she whirled, got to her feet and staggered downhill. I had to follow her through rocks and ravines, almost to the bottom before finishing her off. This was a big, big old sow with good cutters and whetters. The ammo was 170-grain factory Power Points.
That night we scattered corn near the hunting camp and long after dark we alerted my publisher, who was in the shower, and he stepped outside -- clad only in his skivvies and tee-shirt -- with his Center - Thompson and cleanly dropped a big yellow sow from 60 yards. I had raced around the house with my host's Colt Bisley .45 but two big European sows rushed off before I could get a shot.
All in all it was a great time and the younger pigs were especially good eating. I would love to go again but will make sure to take two rifles next time.