Got the opportunity a couple of days before Thanksgiving to head down to San Marcos for a hunt.
I've been hunting the 660 acre property for about five years now, but typically leave it alone for a few months around deer season.
It has steady hogs, but also a lot of deer. And the boys running the place bow hunt whitetail and understandably prefer to keep it quiet until they get their fill.
And having managed the deer population for decades, they were pretty specific about what was taken anyway.
I'd been offered the opportunity to take a whitetail over the last couple seasons, but really didn't have a chance in my schedule – which barely let me hunt hogs at night.
But when I called the property manager to check in, he told me that the property will most likely be sold by next season and management rules no longer apply. I was free to roam the property at will.
Also told me that he was sitting around the fire pit and his only request was a couple of cigars and a six pack of alcoholic root beer. Done and done.
Already dark when I get there at 8:00. Gear up and saunter out to the fire pit at the 100 year old cabin to ask for his sage advice.
He takes a long puff, exhaled and gestures to the northeast side of the property.
"You sure?" I've been off of the property for a while, but don't recall much hog sign in that area.
"Yup".
He'd been working this property for over 35 years, so I nod and hit the cactus.
It's important to note here that I had a particular purpose for this hunt. I am typically grateful just to get out in the wild - moonlight, breeze on my face, coyotes howling.
But a friend of mine with six kids (a couple of them adopted) was having a rough go with medical expenses and needed some meat in the freezer.
I occasionally drop by a meeting of the Turkey Buzzard Preservation Society, as I've been very fortunate to have never been forced to hunt at the subsistence level.
But now someone else's family depended on my ability (and luck) and I felt it.
Walked more softly. Looked more carefully. Turned up the volume in my earphones. (You know, like the pioneers did).
About a half mile in, I came across a single hog near a feeder. He's three steps from a machete thicket, and I need him DRT.
Up goes the Mossberg .270 goes up on the Trigger Stick tripod, Barnes TSX ballistic tip chambered.
Of course, he's grunging around right next to the feeder tripod pole, obstructing a solid neuro shot.
I scan around to make sure I'm not missing a better target. Spot a family of raccoons in a small tree and wonder how they're going to react when I touch the powder off.
Back on the boar, showing beautifully on the Apex thermal at about 80 yards. He finally lifts his head and quarters away, taking two short but fateful steps away from the pole.
Click. Boom. Flump. Kick.
I rack in a $2 insurance policy, but it's not necessary.
Scan back to the tree. Still there. Not a peep. Smart coons.
I drag him out of the mud and head back to the house for my warhorse. Still looking as I go. Nothing.
I make eye contact with the property manager and nod. He smiles. He remembers a time where there wasn't a damn hog in the county.
Drive back and slipknot a chain around the small tusks on his jaw. By the time I roll up, he's got the lights on, gate open and gambrel ready in the cleaning area under the old water tower.
(My first sweat equity task on the property was laying vinyl paint inside the concrete innards of that sumbitch. In August. No breeze. Two coats).
When it comes to butchering Hill Country rhinos, two knives and a pulley beat the hell out of alone and grounded.
We make short work of the 138 pounder and actually recover the round. It had entered the neck, lodging inside the opposite shoulder.
(A friend of mine recommended the Barnes TSX; his being on the Olympic skeet shooting team back in the day provided the street cred and I followed his recommendation).
I remind my friend of us slogging it out painting the water tower.
"Yup. It was rough. But you know, I really enjoyed sitting up on the edge with a cold beer and watching you lay down that second coat.
And I figured if you actually set foot out here again after that, it might be worth having you around."
Feeling the Weight (Part Two) | Lone Star Boars
I've been hunting the 660 acre property for about five years now, but typically leave it alone for a few months around deer season.
It has steady hogs, but also a lot of deer. And the boys running the place bow hunt whitetail and understandably prefer to keep it quiet until they get their fill.
And having managed the deer population for decades, they were pretty specific about what was taken anyway.
I'd been offered the opportunity to take a whitetail over the last couple seasons, but really didn't have a chance in my schedule – which barely let me hunt hogs at night.
But when I called the property manager to check in, he told me that the property will most likely be sold by next season and management rules no longer apply. I was free to roam the property at will.
Also told me that he was sitting around the fire pit and his only request was a couple of cigars and a six pack of alcoholic root beer. Done and done.
Already dark when I get there at 8:00. Gear up and saunter out to the fire pit at the 100 year old cabin to ask for his sage advice.
He takes a long puff, exhaled and gestures to the northeast side of the property.
"You sure?" I've been off of the property for a while, but don't recall much hog sign in that area.
"Yup".
He'd been working this property for over 35 years, so I nod and hit the cactus.
It's important to note here that I had a particular purpose for this hunt. I am typically grateful just to get out in the wild - moonlight, breeze on my face, coyotes howling.
But a friend of mine with six kids (a couple of them adopted) was having a rough go with medical expenses and needed some meat in the freezer.
I occasionally drop by a meeting of the Turkey Buzzard Preservation Society, as I've been very fortunate to have never been forced to hunt at the subsistence level.
But now someone else's family depended on my ability (and luck) and I felt it.
Walked more softly. Looked more carefully. Turned up the volume in my earphones. (You know, like the pioneers did).
About a half mile in, I came across a single hog near a feeder. He's three steps from a machete thicket, and I need him DRT.
Up goes the Mossberg .270 goes up on the Trigger Stick tripod, Barnes TSX ballistic tip chambered.
Of course, he's grunging around right next to the feeder tripod pole, obstructing a solid neuro shot.
I scan around to make sure I'm not missing a better target. Spot a family of raccoons in a small tree and wonder how they're going to react when I touch the powder off.
Back on the boar, showing beautifully on the Apex thermal at about 80 yards. He finally lifts his head and quarters away, taking two short but fateful steps away from the pole.
Click. Boom. Flump. Kick.
I rack in a $2 insurance policy, but it's not necessary.
Scan back to the tree. Still there. Not a peep. Smart coons.
I drag him out of the mud and head back to the house for my warhorse. Still looking as I go. Nothing.
I make eye contact with the property manager and nod. He smiles. He remembers a time where there wasn't a damn hog in the county.
Drive back and slipknot a chain around the small tusks on his jaw. By the time I roll up, he's got the lights on, gate open and gambrel ready in the cleaning area under the old water tower.
(My first sweat equity task on the property was laying vinyl paint inside the concrete innards of that sumbitch. In August. No breeze. Two coats).
When it comes to butchering Hill Country rhinos, two knives and a pulley beat the hell out of alone and grounded.
We make short work of the 138 pounder and actually recover the round. It had entered the neck, lodging inside the opposite shoulder.
(A friend of mine recommended the Barnes TSX; his being on the Olympic skeet shooting team back in the day provided the street cred and I followed his recommendation).
I remind my friend of us slogging it out painting the water tower.
"Yup. It was rough. But you know, I really enjoyed sitting up on the edge with a cold beer and watching you lay down that second coat.
And I figured if you actually set foot out here again after that, it might be worth having you around."
Feeling the Weight (Part Two) | Lone Star Boars
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