March 2016
These companeros de crimen have been hitting both of my primary hunting spots on the San Marcos property for a few weeks – usually coming out late at night. They show up on the cameras about three or four times a week, usually as a group, occasionally alone.
(Though its's kind of hard to tell as they're all about the same size and don't have any differentiating markings. Each male, all of them black).
For some undefined reason, they irritate me.
Even though I'm shooting photos, not video, they still seem to have a swagger about them. (And not the cool Snake Pleskin kinda swagger. More like spoiled drunk fifteen year olds).
As I am ONLY able to hunt once a week, and they don't appear to have an established pattern, this may take a while.
March 17
I'm hunting the marsh when I get the ping from the Covert Black Ops phone cam - the boyz are in the hood. Waterhole, actually.
Three minute trot to the truck, three minute drive, park, another three minute slow approach and I'm there.
But there's just one left - a straggler snorking in and out of the brush - maybe sixty five yards.
Visible with thermal, occasionally with the Photon XT with its builtin illuminator. I tap the Evolva IR to boost the candlepower and wait.
He actually backs out of the brush, offering the classic corazon de Tejas, but the freezer is low and I don't want to lose him in the machete scrub.
He finally quarters away. I figure that's the best I'm going to get and slide a Nosler Partition in behind the shoulder. He staggers as I rack another round, but flumps, kicks a few times and follows grandma into the light.
I'm fairly sure that he is part of the crew, and confirm it a coupla days later.
March 29
It gets a little more interesting with compadre el dos...
I get to the property about midnight, so to cut down on response time I park the truck up the road aways from the waterhole.
In fact, I stop extra far back on the dirt road (about a quarter-mile) because I don't want them spotting the vehicle and spooking.
After a couple hours of knocking around and not seeing anything, I decide a little snooze is in order.
I figure that if the phone camera alert doesn't awaken me, I'll walk down to the waterhole to have a looksee.
Climb into the cab and start sawing logs.
About 3am, I suddenly awaken with an odd feeling. Check phone - nada.
Can't peep outside with thermal because of the windows, so I pop the NV monocular up to the drivers window.
And damned if those three bastids aren't rooting around right next to me, close enough to piss on.
So much for stealth and concealment. Apparently they don't know what a truck is, or don't care. (I suspect the latter).
I'm stuck.
Got a .357 with cannonballs right next to me in the front seat, but with the windows up I have a better chance smackin' one with the door.
Nothing to do but wait.
A few minutes later they amble off behind me and disappear into the brush.
I force myself to count a slow 100, ease open the door (when I come on the property, I pull the fuse to kill the dinging and automatic cab lights), and slide out.
It's pretty humid, but the PS24 works pretty well within 100 yards at 90%. I tiptoe through the scrub checking the small pockets of open area – within a couple of minutes I pick one up.
(Got video of this one because mounted on that .270 was the ATN X-Sight - long since sold, and for mighty good reason).
Coupla notes about the footage: The video date is wrong. And he's actually pretty close – about 40 yards, wind toward him. I spot him on the thermal and am in a hurry to get the rifle up - I'm a little jerky, never really settling into the tripod.
You'll see a decent aiming point come off his shoulder as I squeeze the trigger, but with the safety still on. I recover and take a quick shot before he winds or sees me. (Luck is involved).
And...
Halfway there. Now it's a damn quest.
May 4
For the last month, I've been busy hunting another property up to Burnet. Averaged a hog on each of my three outings there - landowner is happy, and so am I. But I've got unfinished business at the rock factory.
Next chance I get, I point the truck south down 35, hit the gate at sundown.
Check the waterhole on the way in - vacant. Spend a few hours roaming the property but don't get too far from the truck in case I get the ping.
A few deer and coons trigger the sensor and rattle my cage, but no hogs around– even the coyotes are quiet tonight.
It's about 3am (again) and I'm bleary-eyed. The Covert is silent, but I decide to make one more trek up to the waterhole, then grab a few hours sleep in the truck before coffee, breakfast tacos, and morning traffic back into Austin.
You can make every effort to be stealthy, but you never really notice how much noise you generate until the volume is turned up on the audio earmuffs in the dead of night. Then every twig, holster squeak and rock rolling underneath my boot booms in the ears.
Plus, I'm weary. And when I'm tired, I tend to shuffle. So my approach is not exactly "Run silent, run deep" during the last quarter mile slog to the waterhole.
I trudge the last few uphill steps so I can see over the berm. Lift the thermal mono - forgot to turn it on. Boot it up, the blinding glare of the intro screen blasts my retina into a pinpoint.
As my eye adjusts, I see two white blobs - far side of the water, nowhere near the feeder or camera.
Amazing how the mind clears; fog is replaced with checklists and tactical algorithms.
This .270 is topped with the mighty Photon XT this time; the built-in illuminator suffices nicely. They're about ten feet apart, and it's time for one potato - two potato. (I'm shooting bolt and the thicket is about three leaps away for the lucky unchosen).
No round in the chamber yet, and reaching up to rack the Nosler Partition, I realize two things: They are moving closer together, and I have another ballistic option.
I've been pretty happy with the Noslers; they had recently torn hell outta the heart of a 210 brute who did not like the act of dying. But those three shards of copper (recovered, but unfortunately, not photographed) each ripping a separate jagged hole through his pump station persuaded him to slip the surly bonds of earth.
But as the two boars, now facing each other, slowly closed the distance, I reached into my pocket for the bad boy I had been keeping for such an unlikely occasion.
The Winchester Super-X 130 grain would not separate, but drive through while mushrooming.
And optimally "overpenetrate". (Whatever the hell that means).
My trembling fingers of my left hand do the guitar fret fandango needed to hold the Noslers down in the magazine while feeding in the 130 grain lead nose.
Patience. Some semblance of breath control. And, as always, hope for a little bit of luck.
Nose to nose, they stand still, rooting. Then one takes a single step forward.
Don't actually remember squeezing off the the round, but I don't even bother to reload - just yank up the thermal mono to see the result.
No white blobs bolting into the brush - just a single large one with a lotta kicking legs.
As I stand over the last of the Amigos, a coupla conflicting emotions run through me...
Accomplishment in taking out the group, but also a sense of sadness that the mission had ended.
So this is how Yoko felt.
These companeros de crimen have been hitting both of my primary hunting spots on the San Marcos property for a few weeks – usually coming out late at night. They show up on the cameras about three or four times a week, usually as a group, occasionally alone.
(Though its's kind of hard to tell as they're all about the same size and don't have any differentiating markings. Each male, all of them black).
For some undefined reason, they irritate me.
Even though I'm shooting photos, not video, they still seem to have a swagger about them. (And not the cool Snake Pleskin kinda swagger. More like spoiled drunk fifteen year olds).
As I am ONLY able to hunt once a week, and they don't appear to have an established pattern, this may take a while.
March 17
I'm hunting the marsh when I get the ping from the Covert Black Ops phone cam - the boyz are in the hood. Waterhole, actually.
Three minute trot to the truck, three minute drive, park, another three minute slow approach and I'm there.
But there's just one left - a straggler snorking in and out of the brush - maybe sixty five yards.
Visible with thermal, occasionally with the Photon XT with its builtin illuminator. I tap the Evolva IR to boost the candlepower and wait.
He actually backs out of the brush, offering the classic corazon de Tejas, but the freezer is low and I don't want to lose him in the machete scrub.
He finally quarters away. I figure that's the best I'm going to get and slide a Nosler Partition in behind the shoulder. He staggers as I rack another round, but flumps, kicks a few times and follows grandma into the light.
I'm fairly sure that he is part of the crew, and confirm it a coupla days later.
March 29
It gets a little more interesting with compadre el dos...
I get to the property about midnight, so to cut down on response time I park the truck up the road aways from the waterhole.
In fact, I stop extra far back on the dirt road (about a quarter-mile) because I don't want them spotting the vehicle and spooking.
After a couple hours of knocking around and not seeing anything, I decide a little snooze is in order.
I figure that if the phone camera alert doesn't awaken me, I'll walk down to the waterhole to have a looksee.
Climb into the cab and start sawing logs.
About 3am, I suddenly awaken with an odd feeling. Check phone - nada.
Can't peep outside with thermal because of the windows, so I pop the NV monocular up to the drivers window.
And damned if those three bastids aren't rooting around right next to me, close enough to piss on.
So much for stealth and concealment. Apparently they don't know what a truck is, or don't care. (I suspect the latter).
I'm stuck.
Got a .357 with cannonballs right next to me in the front seat, but with the windows up I have a better chance smackin' one with the door.
Nothing to do but wait.
A few minutes later they amble off behind me and disappear into the brush.
I force myself to count a slow 100, ease open the door (when I come on the property, I pull the fuse to kill the dinging and automatic cab lights), and slide out.
It's pretty humid, but the PS24 works pretty well within 100 yards at 90%. I tiptoe through the scrub checking the small pockets of open area – within a couple of minutes I pick one up.
(Got video of this one because mounted on that .270 was the ATN X-Sight - long since sold, and for mighty good reason).
Coupla notes about the footage: The video date is wrong. And he's actually pretty close – about 40 yards, wind toward him. I spot him on the thermal and am in a hurry to get the rifle up - I'm a little jerky, never really settling into the tripod.
You'll see a decent aiming point come off his shoulder as I squeeze the trigger, but with the safety still on. I recover and take a quick shot before he winds or sees me. (Luck is involved).
And...
Halfway there. Now it's a damn quest.
May 4
For the last month, I've been busy hunting another property up to Burnet. Averaged a hog on each of my three outings there - landowner is happy, and so am I. But I've got unfinished business at the rock factory.
Next chance I get, I point the truck south down 35, hit the gate at sundown.
Check the waterhole on the way in - vacant. Spend a few hours roaming the property but don't get too far from the truck in case I get the ping.
A few deer and coons trigger the sensor and rattle my cage, but no hogs around– even the coyotes are quiet tonight.
It's about 3am (again) and I'm bleary-eyed. The Covert is silent, but I decide to make one more trek up to the waterhole, then grab a few hours sleep in the truck before coffee, breakfast tacos, and morning traffic back into Austin.
You can make every effort to be stealthy, but you never really notice how much noise you generate until the volume is turned up on the audio earmuffs in the dead of night. Then every twig, holster squeak and rock rolling underneath my boot booms in the ears.
Plus, I'm weary. And when I'm tired, I tend to shuffle. So my approach is not exactly "Run silent, run deep" during the last quarter mile slog to the waterhole.
I trudge the last few uphill steps so I can see over the berm. Lift the thermal mono - forgot to turn it on. Boot it up, the blinding glare of the intro screen blasts my retina into a pinpoint.
As my eye adjusts, I see two white blobs - far side of the water, nowhere near the feeder or camera.
Amazing how the mind clears; fog is replaced with checklists and tactical algorithms.
This .270 is topped with the mighty Photon XT this time; the built-in illuminator suffices nicely. They're about ten feet apart, and it's time for one potato - two potato. (I'm shooting bolt and the thicket is about three leaps away for the lucky unchosen).
No round in the chamber yet, and reaching up to rack the Nosler Partition, I realize two things: They are moving closer together, and I have another ballistic option.
I've been pretty happy with the Noslers; they had recently torn hell outta the heart of a 210 brute who did not like the act of dying. But those three shards of copper (recovered, but unfortunately, not photographed) each ripping a separate jagged hole through his pump station persuaded him to slip the surly bonds of earth.
But as the two boars, now facing each other, slowly closed the distance, I reached into my pocket for the bad boy I had been keeping for such an unlikely occasion.
The Winchester Super-X 130 grain would not separate, but drive through while mushrooming.
And optimally "overpenetrate". (Whatever the hell that means).
My trembling fingers of my left hand do the guitar fret fandango needed to hold the Noslers down in the magazine while feeding in the 130 grain lead nose.
Patience. Some semblance of breath control. And, as always, hope for a little bit of luck.
Nose to nose, they stand still, rooting. Then one takes a single step forward.
Don't actually remember squeezing off the the round, but I don't even bother to reload - just yank up the thermal mono to see the result.
No white blobs bolting into the brush - just a single large one with a lotta kicking legs.
As I stand over the last of the Amigos, a coupla conflicting emotions run through me...
Accomplishment in taking out the group, but also a sense of sadness that the mission had ended.
So this is how Yoko felt.
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