A Hunt With Pitchforks And A Pulverized Pig
The following appears in the June issue of California Sportsman:
By William “Will” Murray
In June 2000 I had booked three new clients for a day-long – and I mean long – hog hunt. These were meat hunters who didn’t care if they took a sow or boar, and they met me on the road that leads to Parkfield, an unincorporated community in Monterey County.
As always, I checked their hunting licenses and even cut my safety speech a tad short, which was still pretty long; hunting hogs is a lot of fun if everyone comes home safely. These men were all in their 40s and we hit it off right away.
We were going to hunt a ranch located about 20 miles east of Parkfield. This ranch was mostly steep and not-so-fun ground to hunt, but it always held hogs. It was made up of jack pine, oak trees and thick brush intersected by steep little draws that all held waterholes – or more accurately, mud baths; you see, the hogs loved these little ravines where they were tough to find. However, I was lucky most of the time, and if I remember correctly, all of my clients over the years at least saw one or more good hogs and most got a chance to shoot.
THE TIME OF THIS should-be-forgotten, hugely unsuccessful hunt was early summer – a day to die for. We encountered a cloudless sky and temps that never rose above 80! The day started out with some light banter before I led the way up a little, mostly brush-covered trail that led to the only meadow on the ranch that lay on top of a small mesa.
The hunter right behind me had told me about and shown me his new rifle ammunition. He carried a 7mm Remington Magnum, and according to him the plastic-tipped ammo that he’d brought along would do the job on just about anything.
We hadn’t gone more than 200 yards when a dark red hog jumped up from a dust bath in the middle of the trail and ran straight away from us. I stepped to the side and behind my hunter and told him to take that hog. (My stories seem a little tall, but they are absolutely true!)
Up came this man’s rifle, and two things happened: The muzzle blast caused me to lose my hearing, and as for that poor, unlucky four-legged porker that had been running straight away at about 50 yards … when we found the body, it was no longer on the trail. No; it was at least 10 feet out into the brush. I’m not pulling your leg when I tell you that all we could find of him was from the rib cage back. The shoulders and head had literally disappeared, unless you counted the half-inch-sized pieces that were strewn all over the trail. My client was happy with his ammo and not so happy with what hog there was left to take home.
I PUT THE PIG on my meat pack and we continued up that trail until we came to the only meadow on the property. I put the trio of clients on a high point to watch for tuskers and took that half a hog to the truck, where I hung him in the shade.
Before I could return, I heard gunfire coming from where I’d left them – a lot of it! I quickly stepped my way to the meadow and found them to be extremely excited; they had surrounded a brushy area that was smack dab in the middle of the meadow. When they saw me, they all sang out at once. They had shot and wounded a big trophy boar that had run into this brush pile and not come out. I walked the perimeter of what was a clump of brush about 30 feet wide and 10 feet deep with only what looked like rabbit trails crisscrossing it in all directions.
I never found any sign that a pig had either gone in or come out. My hunters were sure that he was in there, so I made plans to crawl in and get them their hog. One of the guys had a little .38-caliber pistol, so I borrowed it and held the butt end in my mouth as I crawled in. It felt a little crazy, but then again I used to ride bulls for a living!
I must have crawled around in that patch full of poke-you-everywhere thorns for 20 minutes before I found that boar’s trail. Now I could see where he was dragging his rear two legs, and I carefully put that gnat-killing .38 in my right hand. I figured if I found him, I’d at least kill a tick or two!
This little story has never been told before, but it must be made public. I crawled around in that now burning- hot and fly-ridden brush pile for at least another 20 minutes before I figured out that I was following my own trail. I’d been dragging my legs and feet around in circles, and all I did was cross my own path. I crawled out of that heap of dead wood but only told my hunters that I wasn’t able to find his tracks. I’d been following a big hog, alright: me!
THE DAY SHOULD HAVE been over, but oh no; not for me. It was now late and a summer shower was heading our way, so we hiked to the truck. I skinned the half pig and put it into my cooler for safekeeping. It was almost dark when we started out on that ranch road that was bordered by the neighboring ranch’s fence on the right and an open meadow on our left.
The rain had just started to pour down when from my left a group of about six big black boars attempted to cross the road and go through the neighbor’s fence from where we couldn’t hunt. I’m still to this day at a complete loss as to why I jumped out of my truck, grabbed a pitchfork out of the back and proceeded to try and herd those big black tuskers back onto the ranch where we had permission to hunt.
I hollered at my hunters to help me, and in a driving, lightning-filled rain I ran myself half to death and almost forked one of those unhappy boys myself! Thinking back on this bit of out-of-hand behavior, I realized that had I sunk my pitchfork into the side of that now frothy-mouthed Spam maker, he’d have dragged me under that fence and to somewhere a man just shouldn’t go!
When we stopped along the highway just down the road, the guys thanked me profusely for a day that normal people just wouldn’t understand. They tipped me just before they walked away. I overheard some talk that included the words “he’s crazy!” CS
Editor’s note: Order William Murray’s book, Worn Out Saddles and Boot Leather, at mcfarlandbooks.com/product/ Worn-Out-Saddles-and-Boot-Leather.
