Back in my scope light daze, I never would have ruined my night vision by hanging around the flames.
But now, betwixt my NV / thermal monos and thermal scope, I spend most my time walking around with minimal natural night vision. I do try to mitigate it by looking through my monos with my left eye, and using only the red bulb on my headlamp when I need to avoid cactus spines to the groin.
But it's worth it to have some time with the property manager at the fire pit. He's got a good buzz going and I'm a little jealous while I sharpen the blades.
But I've got my personal "jigger to trigger" time rule and it's not even 10:00 yet. Plenty of time for another round.
"I'm saddling up. Where am I headed?"
Without looking up, he jerks his head in the same direction.
"Really? I just fired off a round and drove a truck through there".
He doesn't even look at me as he takes another tug of root beer that was not his father's.
I head northeast, again, passing a few bedded down whitetail on the way. Tick tock, compadres. Tick tock...
Humidity has risen to 93%, so my otherwise stalwart Flir PS24 hangs dark on the neck lanyard. And the Godsent rainfall this year has the undergrowth so high my NV is almost useless.
But my maximum shooting distance in this terrain is 125 yards, and the Apex clears that easily, no matter how damp. So every few yards, I shoulder the rifle to check for heat signatures. (You know, like the pioneers did).
Occasionally using my red LED headlamp to navigate over otherwise invisible ankle-snapping rocks, I enter the edge of the same clearing. It's still two days until Thanksgiving, but I start slicing the pie.
Thick scrub at four. Feeder at two o'clock is dark. Unoccupied coon tree at eleven. And at nine thirty, an elongated white orb that seems to float, about eighty yards away.
Wasn't there before. And it wavers.
Periscope up again, another Barnes in the torpedo tube. Zoom is set at 4.5, showing a sloping back, then confirmation as the hog raises his head. I ease the safety forward. Like a damn remote control switch, he drops his head.
I can follow his sloping contour, and, on another night, I might plot his X and Y and drop my Z on his neck. But he's only a couple of steps from that thicket, and I'm not willing to gamble another family's week of meat on that C minus in high school geometry.
I work on my breathing and wait. He stays down. And stays.
My patience is wearing thin, and I shift my weight slightly. My right foot makes contact with a stick, causing a slight snap. His head comes up, and I release the hounds.
Must have been closer than eighty, because the thud is almost immediate. He disappears from view - no squeal, branch breaking nor thundering hooves.
Now, a rational hunter would wait his twenty or, better yet, climb up into the fifteen foot stand behind me and get an owl's eye view of the situation.
Then there's me.
Now, to be absolutely clear, I would never go after a large wounded boar at night in rough terrain by myself. That would be foolhardy and dangerous.
I dig out the powerful headlamp from my gear pouch, unstrap the 1966 Colt Trooper .357 and all three of us move forward.
He's not hard to find - laying right where I first and last saw him. The thick wet Johnson grass had obscured most of him; neither a scope light nor night vision would picked him up at all.
All hail the glorious sorcery of thermal.
I'm not sure whether he finally lifted his head because of the stick snapping, but he was definitely within earshot.
Half mile trek back for my truck. Now, it may sound like a lot of walking, but it comes out to just a mile per hog, and those of you who've spent much time in the field know that's one helluva deal.
He tapes at 180. By the time the meat and knives are in the fridge and sheaths, it's well after midnight. My buddy is still at the fire; I tell him for a cigar smoking drunk pyromaniac, he's a surprisingly competent guide.
He plans to be up early to bow hunt - I'll get up the same time to go after my first deer.
Yeah, I know. But the stepfather who lived in our house was an indoor dog, and by the time I started hunting in my thirties, it was for coyotes and, later, hoggage.
I wash up and head for the couch. Replace the batteries in the scope, put the thermal mono on the charger, and make sure the headphones are turned off.
Sunrise will be right at seven, but I want a chance at another nighttime hog, so I set my phone for Waylon to wake me up at 0500.
"Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way" seems appropriate.
Feeling the Weight (Part Three) | Lone Star Boars
But now, betwixt my NV / thermal monos and thermal scope, I spend most my time walking around with minimal natural night vision. I do try to mitigate it by looking through my monos with my left eye, and using only the red bulb on my headlamp when I need to avoid cactus spines to the groin.
But it's worth it to have some time with the property manager at the fire pit. He's got a good buzz going and I'm a little jealous while I sharpen the blades.
But I've got my personal "jigger to trigger" time rule and it's not even 10:00 yet. Plenty of time for another round.
"I'm saddling up. Where am I headed?"
Without looking up, he jerks his head in the same direction.
"Really? I just fired off a round and drove a truck through there".
He doesn't even look at me as he takes another tug of root beer that was not his father's.
I head northeast, again, passing a few bedded down whitetail on the way. Tick tock, compadres. Tick tock...
Humidity has risen to 93%, so my otherwise stalwart Flir PS24 hangs dark on the neck lanyard. And the Godsent rainfall this year has the undergrowth so high my NV is almost useless.
But my maximum shooting distance in this terrain is 125 yards, and the Apex clears that easily, no matter how damp. So every few yards, I shoulder the rifle to check for heat signatures. (You know, like the pioneers did).
Occasionally using my red LED headlamp to navigate over otherwise invisible ankle-snapping rocks, I enter the edge of the same clearing. It's still two days until Thanksgiving, but I start slicing the pie.
Thick scrub at four. Feeder at two o'clock is dark. Unoccupied coon tree at eleven. And at nine thirty, an elongated white orb that seems to float, about eighty yards away.
Wasn't there before. And it wavers.
Periscope up again, another Barnes in the torpedo tube. Zoom is set at 4.5, showing a sloping back, then confirmation as the hog raises his head. I ease the safety forward. Like a damn remote control switch, he drops his head.
I can follow his sloping contour, and, on another night, I might plot his X and Y and drop my Z on his neck. But he's only a couple of steps from that thicket, and I'm not willing to gamble another family's week of meat on that C minus in high school geometry.
I work on my breathing and wait. He stays down. And stays.
My patience is wearing thin, and I shift my weight slightly. My right foot makes contact with a stick, causing a slight snap. His head comes up, and I release the hounds.
Must have been closer than eighty, because the thud is almost immediate. He disappears from view - no squeal, branch breaking nor thundering hooves.
Now, a rational hunter would wait his twenty or, better yet, climb up into the fifteen foot stand behind me and get an owl's eye view of the situation.
Then there's me.
Now, to be absolutely clear, I would never go after a large wounded boar at night in rough terrain by myself. That would be foolhardy and dangerous.
I dig out the powerful headlamp from my gear pouch, unstrap the 1966 Colt Trooper .357 and all three of us move forward.
He's not hard to find - laying right where I first and last saw him. The thick wet Johnson grass had obscured most of him; neither a scope light nor night vision would picked him up at all.
All hail the glorious sorcery of thermal.
I'm not sure whether he finally lifted his head because of the stick snapping, but he was definitely within earshot.
Half mile trek back for my truck. Now, it may sound like a lot of walking, but it comes out to just a mile per hog, and those of you who've spent much time in the field know that's one helluva deal.
He tapes at 180. By the time the meat and knives are in the fridge and sheaths, it's well after midnight. My buddy is still at the fire; I tell him for a cigar smoking drunk pyromaniac, he's a surprisingly competent guide.
He plans to be up early to bow hunt - I'll get up the same time to go after my first deer.
Yeah, I know. But the stepfather who lived in our house was an indoor dog, and by the time I started hunting in my thirties, it was for coyotes and, later, hoggage.
I wash up and head for the couch. Replace the batteries in the scope, put the thermal mono on the charger, and make sure the headphones are turned off.
Sunrise will be right at seven, but I want a chance at another nighttime hog, so I set my phone for Waylon to wake me up at 0500.
"Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way" seems appropriate.
Feeling the Weight (Part Three) | Lone Star Boars
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