The drive down was quick. There were parts of northern California I'd never seen and was taken back by it's natural beauty; much more beautiful and interesting than Hollywood, Disneyland, and the Golden Gate Bridge all put together. While signing my $200 pig license at the local Walmart, I shook my head in laughter at California's environmental politics and how contradictory they are. Check this out, a state that is proud to be in the forefront at turning the world green by catching on to the "environmental movement", is the same state government that manages and protects feral, invasive pigs as game animals.
Let me explain a little more, pigs are anything but friendly to the environment; however California is the only state on the continent that manages the exotic hog as a game animal and through the purchase of a license and tag, which isn't cheap. These exotic oinkers have not only displaced native species by competing for the same resources, they are extremely destructive to native flora and fauna. The state of California should be providing people with incentives to remove these invasive species, not tax the holy crap out of a hunter that is willing to drive to California to kill one. Most states consider feral hogs a predatory animal, which are typically open to hunting year-round and without a tag to help eliminate agricultural and environmental damage. You think I'm griping now, you shoulda' seen the poor kid behind the Wal-Mart sporting goods counter.
Grandma's property was nestled in large rolling hills covered by oak, ponderosa, and manzanita. The green hills looked like pictures I've seen of Ireland. As we made the last turn down a dirt road and pulled into our camp spot, I finally understood why California quail are named as such, they're everywhere. Although sleep was minimal the night before, I felt so awake...so alive...and was already absorbing everything new that this place had to offer; I came to hunt and I couldn't have been more ready.
Hunter watching for pigs in a California sunset
The first morning was unbelievable although no pigs were sighted. Hunter, Justin (Trapper's childhood buddy), and I chose to sit along the lakeside to watch a grass meadow surrounded by thick greasewood and manzanita. The plan was for the hogs to leave the safety of the brush and feed in the lush grass where we waited in ambush. Birds were all around and extremely busy claiming territories and building nests. I don't recall ever hearing so many bird calls at one time. Their calls seemed peaceful to the ear; however, a male western bluebird confirmed that their calls weren't a call of serenity but a call of entitlement; a call to show his power, pass his seed, and destroy any other male that gets in his way. A blue streak flashed in front of me as he struck another male bluebird who submissively hunkered in the grass. The aggressive bird relentlessly dived and pecked at the younger bird's throat until the younger bird was mortally wounded. It was sad to see the bluebird permanently crippled in such a fight, such is the natural world and I'm content to be a part of it. Suddenly all of the bird sounds weren't such a cheerful song; A bluebird taught me to interpret these songs another way that morning.
While waiting for pigs, Justin whispered story after story from his last trip when he had come down and hunted the property with Trapper. His voice grew louder as he described his close encounters with rhino-sized hogs. His enthusiasm was contagious and I was quickly catching hog fever. By 9:00 AM, nobody in the entire world ever wanted to see a pig as bad as I did right then, right there...but it never showed up.
Hunter crawling through a pig tunnel
I was amazed at the extensive sign and damage caused by the pigs. Armies of pigs roam the grassy hills and dig up the soil "rooting" around; a roto-tiller couldn't do a better job. Once the soil is churned, they roll in the mud making huge craters of mud and pig crap. Then they head to the nearest tree, dig around it's roots, and then rub their big muddy bodies on the base of the tree scratching their itches. Many of the trees can't take the weakened roots and weight against the bases and tip over.
The pigs really like to rub their sides on the trees leaving caked mud everywhere
I caught this pig rolling in a dried up mud bath the first morning
By afternoon it had warmed to near 80 degrees. We had found a heavy patch of greasewood with fresh pig sign around about. Trapper, Justin, and myself (with Hunter by my side) worked the edges of this heavy patch hoping to push pigs to one another. I carried a 7 mm rem mag that has tagged along with me on many prior hunts. I could feel it in the air; there were pigs nearby and someone was going to run into them soon. Hunter and I stood post in a small opening in the thick vegetation where, if the stars aligned, we could possibly get a shot off if a pig happened to run through. Suddenly, the brush snapped in front of us! With heavy breaths, a black flash darted through the cover moving ground quickly. In one swift motion, I raised the rifle and naturally followed through as if I was pursuing cottontail in thick sage with my 12 gauge. The report of the rifle was swallowed up by the surrounding brush and dense air. "That was huge, Dad!", Hunter paced looking into the brush nervously.
Did I hit it? The shot was at 50 yards but the hog was in full throttle. We grouped up and Trapper mentioned he caught sight of a nice pig running but he couldn't get a shot off. We figured it was the same pig I had shot at so we headed to where he had last seen it. With a smile, Trapper pointed out blood in the dry dirt. The trail headed into the thickest cover in California.
The decision was made that we would follow the blood trail with Hunter protected between Justin and Trapper, like a young elephant surrounded by it's family structure; I would take the lead into the greasewood on our bellies. The vegetation was thick and the pigs had made trails just tall enough you had to enter on your belly like an inchworm. The maze of dusty pig tunnels, the scorching heat, and the pungent smell of pig shit made for an interesting experience.
Bellycrawling through the pig tunnels to find my pig
It took several hours to finally catch up with the hog although it had only traveled a hundred yards or so. I first spied him from 15 ft. and much to my surprise was still alive. He stood from his bed and my jaw dropped to the dirt when I saw my shot barely missed the heart and this monster was still alive; what a tough creature. When you are on your belly 15 ft. away from a standing wounded boar, they look more like a cape buffalo...or a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I anchored him before he could make up his mind to fight or flee deeper into the brush. I was impressed with the size of this old male. We estimated his weight to be 250-275 pounds.
It was a great hunt and a lot of fun to have Hunter along my sideto experience this hunt. That night we put a little bit of pork on the grill along with elk steaks. The pork was excellent. I brought home the loins for grilling and will sausage out the quarters. Between the fossilized marine life, shed antlers, and turkeys on the property, Hunter was able to bag a few treasures of his own but I'll save those stories for another night...
Our first California blacktail shed
