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Jesse's Hunting > Hunting Articles > Hunting Articles Archives > Sometimes It Doesn't Work Out
Sometimes It Doesn't Work Out
Phil Loughlin - JHO ProStaff
- Bay Area, CA
April 23, 2006
I pull the truck off onto the embankment, leaving enough room for someone else to squeeze by. The sun is already lightening the pre-dawn sky, and I grab my bow and quiver impatiently as I slip out of the driver’s seat and onto the pine straw covered ground. I should have been here half an hour earlier.
The first shift of morning birds are singing as I begin the half-mile hike down into the bowl-shaped canyon where I’m afraid the hogs are already feeding toward their beds… if they’re not already gone. I begin to mentally curse myself for spending too long on breakfast and coffee, but the curse is cut short as the day lightens into true, blue light. More songbirds join the chorus, and as I reach the bottom of the canyon the gobble of a turkey booms from a roost tree somewhere up on the ridge.
More to it than the kill
Sometimes we have to remember that there's more to a hunt than killing something. The scenery at Chopper's place makes it worth the trip, even if you do leave empty handed. |
I round a bend, and am about to leave the road when I catch movement about fifty yards away. I freeze and crouch down, pulling an arrow from the quiver on my back. Before I nock the arrow, a blacktail doe steps from behind a small oak. This is not what I’m after today, and I relax and enjoy the show as three more deer appear. They browse the plentiful acorns, oblivious to my presence, and I don’t want to send them bounding through my hunting area.
It’s turning into a beautiful day, and as I sit watching the little herd of deer, I remember that hunting is about so much more than just killing game. Two days ago, I was sitting in traffic on the freeway, struggling to make my way home with thousands of other commuters… ants marching through a cacophony of horns, sirens, and rumbling engines. Now I’m here on several thousand acres of prime, central California habitat, stalking through the morning chill where the only man-made sound is the oak leaves crunching under my boots.
I’m hunting again with Chopper’s Wild Hog Adventures in the hills above Hollister, CA. Chopper’s specialty is his weekend, archery-only hog hunt, complete with lodging. His hunts run from October (end of A-zone deer season) through June or July (the beginning of the A-zone season). You’ve read about Chopper’s outfit more than once in the JHO Journal, and he’s developed a faithful group of return hunters from the JHO Forums. The reason for their repeat business is pretty simple… the place is crawling with hogs!
This was my fifth trip to Choppers, and true to every other visit, I was into the hogs from the first evening hunt. The morning described above was my second day of hunting, and shortly after my encounter with the deer, I sat and watched ten or twelve hogs rooting the hillside…unfortunately just across the property line. Later in the day, I had a 150lb boar at 20 yards, but his vitals were blocked by a boulder. By the end of the weekend, I’d had two missed shots, three opportunities that I passed, and finally, my arrow drew blood.
It was Sunday morning, the last day of hunting. During the night, the wind had been increasing along the edge of an approaching frontal system. By morning, the wind was howling around the cabin and the scudding clouds were lowering. Not the best conditions for spot-and-stalk hunting, especially with bow and arrow.
I figured if I was to locate a hog at all, my best bet would be to head down into a hollow in the canyon where I’d seen the hogs on Saturday. The hollow would provide some protection from the rising wind, and there was plenty for them to eat. As long as the rain held off, the morning’s hunt might be salvaged.
When I parked the truck, the wind was blowing up from the mouth of the canyon, which meant I would have to walk all the way to the far end of the canyon and come back upwind to the hollow. This would mean an extra hour or more before I got into position, but if I went in with the wind at my back, the hogs would be long gone anyway. Unlike the previous morning, there was nothing soothing and gentle about the hike today. The wind carried a knife edge, and rain loomed ominous.
As I neared the hollow, I picked up a line of fresh tracks. From the looks of things, I was right behind them. I drew an arrow and slowed my pace. Every five steps, I stopped to glass the hillside ahead and around me. After a hundred yards or so, I caught movement through a thicket of oaks. A large black hog was slowly moving up the hill about 40 yards away. The wind was directly in my face, and steady. The ground was wet and quiet. In all, I couldn’t have asked for better conditions for a stalk.
About halfway to the hog, a mature oak spread its branches in a low-hanging canopy. It would be an excellent blind, if I could get under the branches without spooking the animal. As I was about to start my stalk, another hog joined the first. Then another, a wet sow, followed by a whole string of piglets. I crept toward the oak tree, watching in amazement as a whole herd of pigs materialized on the hillside.
The stalk seemed to take forever, but I was finally able to get under the tree and its cover. Unfortunately, the lead hog had moved too, and was rooting under some chaparral about thirty five yards away… much too far for a shot with my recurve bow. He was feeding away from me, but several of the other pigs were well within my 20-yard maximum range. I just needed one to present a good shot opportunity. I nocked an arrow and waited for my chance.
Finally a red pig separated from the others and began working toward me. This was a good-sized meat pig, and I’d be happy to take it. Another few steps, and it would be mine. I shifted my weight and got ready to make my shot. As I did, something shuffled in the brush to my left. A large boulder blocked my view down the hill, but I could hear something moving there. I tried to stay focused on my target, but out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed something small and black coming over the boulder. In seconds, a small swarm of piglets rounded the rock and began nosing the ground less than ten yards from me. If I was going to make a move, it would have to be soon or the piglets would be all over me.
I raised the bow slowly as the red pig stood less than 20 yards away. Finally, it turned broadside. I drew, picked a spot behind its shoulder, and let fly. As I did, the pig took a step forward and the arrow zipped into the animal just behind mid-body, disappearing into the thick hide. The 140 grain Magnus broadhead performed as advertised, cutting cleanly through the pig and passing almost completely through.
I knew as I watched the yellow fletchings disappear that the shot was bad. Several of the pigs bolted at the movement of my shot, and my target jogged a few steps, unsure of what was going on. Then the whole herd bolted uphill, and my pig ran with them. After a few steps, the arrow caught on a branch and flipped out of the animal through the air. I hoped, beyond reason that the pig would fall soon. But it ran as if it weren’t even injured.
After the herd disappeared up the ridge, I stood to go check my arrow, knowing what I would find. As I stood, three more hogs trotted up the hill and stopped a few yards from me. One black and white boar presented a perfect shot, but with blood on an arrow already, I held back and waited until they ran off in the direction of the others. Then I went and confirmed my worst fears. The arrow was covered in stomach contents and runny blood.
Long way from the city
It's only a couple of hours from the city, but a visit to Chopper's can make you forget about traffic and crowds. |
There was practically no trail to follow. A pinprick of blood showed where the pig had crossed under an old fenceline. I went a bit further, but found no more blood. The trail the herd had taken was pretty easy to follow for a distance, though, so I backed off. I’d come back in a few hours, if the rain held, and try to pick up the trail.
To shorten the tale, despite several hours of tracking I was never able to locate the animal. The blood trail was never more than a tiny droplet every fifty yards or so. After about a quarter of a mile, it began to dwindle even more until it finally disappeared altogether. It looked like the herd had stopped and begun to root again, and the ground was trampled. To top it all off, the rain that had been threatening all day finally broke loose. In a half an hour, the ground was dripping and any sign of blood was gone.
I hate losing an animal, but it’s a reality that every hunter has to face. It made it worse that this is the first animal I’ve actually hit with the bow, a weapon I have yet to gain much confidence in. Hours and hours of practice did not prepare me for this. The knowledge that the shot was certainly fatal did not alleviate my misgivings, but no matter how I played the shot over in my head I couldn’t think of anything I could have done differently. It’s just one of the uncertainties of bowhunting.
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