Post by spence on Mar 30, 2020 6:33:23 GMT -7
The hunting forum gets little traffic, even during the hunting seasons. A very large part of all my BP activities revolve around hunting, so I’m disappointed that’s true. Locked down and bored, I decided I’d reach back into antiquity and dredge up an old hunt of mine, one of my favorites. Excuse the length.
*************
Most of my hunting has been in my own locale, for squirrels, cottontails, turkey and whitetail deer. Since I essentially gave up hunting with smokeless guns about 40 years ago, that has been especially true. Back in the early 1990s, though, I had some real adventures in the western states, I had the great good fortune to make a friend, “Skip”, who lived first in Las Vegas and then in Patagonia, Arizona, 80 miles south of Tucson and about twenty miles from the Mexican border. Skip invited me to share his deer hunting camp in the high mountains of northeastern Nevada in 1989, and I did that, collected a nice mule deer buck with the only long gun I ever built, a .54 caliber Hawken. That was a trip, and a hunt, I’ll never forget. While there, Skip invited me to hunt javelina, collared peccaries, with him in February of 1990 in southern Arizona, and I couldn’t refuse such a chance.
I wanted to use my .40 caliber flintlock rifle for such small big game, but couldn’t find a legal-for-flying case long enough for it, so I took the old reliable Hawken.
I flew into Tucson and Skip picked me up. We drove ninety miles south to an area about eight miles southeast of Patagonia, in the Patagonia Mountains, and set up a tent camp for the week. The area is close enough to being a desert, but with a lot of plants around, all of which are sharp. Skips hunting method was simple and straightforward. Every early morning we would hike about a mile to the top of a mountain behind camp, settle down with binoculars at the ready and glass the huge expanse of desert landscape below for javelina. They travel in small herds, sounders, and slowly graze their way around. The are small, gray and hard to spot from up there.
We worked hard at it for the next six days without spotting a single pig, but I enjoyed watching several coyotes and coues deer, a very small subspecies of the whitetail, both new to me. Finally, on the next to last day before I had to leave, we had some action. Skip had left me glassing in our spot and started on a circuit of the hill, just in case they were hiding back there, when, lo and behold, a group of about a dozen javelina materialized seventy-five yards down the steep slope. I grabbed my rifle and took a quick sitting position, calculated the trajectory, thought about the steep angle, picked a pig and took the shot. Smoke blotted out everything, but I thought I saw the pig whirl in a circle before that. When it cleared, I saw no pig down, but several running off in all directions. Long story short, I went down to collect my pig, but it wasn’t there. It never was, and I found no sign of it. Skip had not been far away, he came hustling back, sat down, spotted a pig to one side in the brush and killed it at 65 yards.
Skip field dressed his javelina while I held its front feet to keep it from sliding down the steep slope.
After the adrenalin rush was over, I decided to do the circuit Skip had started, and when I got back Skip had spotted another sounder, eight of them, in the brush about a half-mile mile away on the eastern end of the valley. We talked strategy, and decided that Skip would stay on the mountain and direct me to the pigs with hand signals if I got disoriented. I gathered up my gun, haversack, shot pouch, canteen and binoculars and took off down the mountain.
As I descended the steep slope, doing a series of switch-backs, the view changed constantly, and I had to repeatedly search for the pigs, which appeared very small at that distance. Holding a track generally to the left, downwind of the group, I made my way as fast as possible down into the flatter area. Down in the brush, I found the terrain to be very much rougher than was apparent from the mountain, with much cat's claw and a million places for javelina to hide. When I thought I was abreast of the pigs I cut west, up wind, for 200 yards and crept over a ridge, expecting to see them. No pigs.
Skip signaled me farther on and to the right, and I spotted a slight movement of gray in some tall grass about 50 yards away. Pig! I froze, and the pig slowly moved deeper into the grass, away from me. I checked my rifle, snugged the cap, got onto my hands and knees and began slowly creeping toward them. When I reached the little ridge where I had seen the pig I slowly raised my head, and fifteen feet from me were two javelinas, lying down. One was facing me, and as I raised my head he bolted. Pigs appeared from all directions, all headed away at panic speed. I cocked and threw my Hawken to my shoulder and followed the sentry pig as he ran straight away and then turned right into the grass and brush, but could not get a good shot. From the left, from who-knows-where, a pig ran into my field of vision following the same track as the others, and I switched to her and pulled the trigger as she turned slightly right. Again the smoke blotted out the scene, but when it cleared this time my pig was down and dead, about 30 feet away. I couldn't believe it! I had shot a running target using my rifle like a shotgun, and with success. I walked over and inspected the sow, and I had hit her exactly in the right spot on the chest, angled into the left shoulder, taking spine and major vessels out in passing. I'll never make a better shot.
I waved the "dead pig" signal to Skip, and heard a loud victory yell in return. I was so tickled, so relieved not to have let Skip down that I started laughing aloud and couldn't stop for several minutes. He had invited me to his camp, educated me about javelina hunting and acted as my guide for a week, and I really wanted that pig as a sort of payback.
Skip left the peak to return to camp to get the truck and pick me up, so I field dressed the pig. I tied her feet together, leaving a suitcase handle, fastened a line behind the tusks in her lower jaw to keep her head up, drank my last water and started out.
I walked about three-forth mile to a major drainage, dry, and waited for Skip to find me. He had to drive 10 miles through some hellish country, but in about 45 minutes he arrived. We were some happy boys! A cold drink surely tasted good. We posed for a lot of hero pictures and headed for camp.
I was startled to hear that the stalk had taken me more than 90 minutes. It seemed like 20. Adrenalin is a wonderful hormone. I had never stalked big game before, and it was really a thrill to plan and execute a successful approach. Shifting winds and moving pigs had me convinced for a while that I had botched it, and on top of the missed shot that would have been a bitter pill to swallow. Happily, not necessary.
We made ourselves a well-deserved celebratory dinner that evening and ate it with a bottle of white wine while watching a gorgeous Arizona sunset.
Mission accomplished.
Spence
*************
Most of my hunting has been in my own locale, for squirrels, cottontails, turkey and whitetail deer. Since I essentially gave up hunting with smokeless guns about 40 years ago, that has been especially true. Back in the early 1990s, though, I had some real adventures in the western states, I had the great good fortune to make a friend, “Skip”, who lived first in Las Vegas and then in Patagonia, Arizona, 80 miles south of Tucson and about twenty miles from the Mexican border. Skip invited me to share his deer hunting camp in the high mountains of northeastern Nevada in 1989, and I did that, collected a nice mule deer buck with the only long gun I ever built, a .54 caliber Hawken. That was a trip, and a hunt, I’ll never forget. While there, Skip invited me to hunt javelina, collared peccaries, with him in February of 1990 in southern Arizona, and I couldn’t refuse such a chance.
I wanted to use my .40 caliber flintlock rifle for such small big game, but couldn’t find a legal-for-flying case long enough for it, so I took the old reliable Hawken.
I flew into Tucson and Skip picked me up. We drove ninety miles south to an area about eight miles southeast of Patagonia, in the Patagonia Mountains, and set up a tent camp for the week. The area is close enough to being a desert, but with a lot of plants around, all of which are sharp. Skips hunting method was simple and straightforward. Every early morning we would hike about a mile to the top of a mountain behind camp, settle down with binoculars at the ready and glass the huge expanse of desert landscape below for javelina. They travel in small herds, sounders, and slowly graze their way around. The are small, gray and hard to spot from up there.
We worked hard at it for the next six days without spotting a single pig, but I enjoyed watching several coyotes and coues deer, a very small subspecies of the whitetail, both new to me. Finally, on the next to last day before I had to leave, we had some action. Skip had left me glassing in our spot and started on a circuit of the hill, just in case they were hiding back there, when, lo and behold, a group of about a dozen javelina materialized seventy-five yards down the steep slope. I grabbed my rifle and took a quick sitting position, calculated the trajectory, thought about the steep angle, picked a pig and took the shot. Smoke blotted out everything, but I thought I saw the pig whirl in a circle before that. When it cleared, I saw no pig down, but several running off in all directions. Long story short, I went down to collect my pig, but it wasn’t there. It never was, and I found no sign of it. Skip had not been far away, he came hustling back, sat down, spotted a pig to one side in the brush and killed it at 65 yards.
Skip field dressed his javelina while I held its front feet to keep it from sliding down the steep slope.
After the adrenalin rush was over, I decided to do the circuit Skip had started, and when I got back Skip had spotted another sounder, eight of them, in the brush about a half-mile mile away on the eastern end of the valley. We talked strategy, and decided that Skip would stay on the mountain and direct me to the pigs with hand signals if I got disoriented. I gathered up my gun, haversack, shot pouch, canteen and binoculars and took off down the mountain.
As I descended the steep slope, doing a series of switch-backs, the view changed constantly, and I had to repeatedly search for the pigs, which appeared very small at that distance. Holding a track generally to the left, downwind of the group, I made my way as fast as possible down into the flatter area. Down in the brush, I found the terrain to be very much rougher than was apparent from the mountain, with much cat's claw and a million places for javelina to hide. When I thought I was abreast of the pigs I cut west, up wind, for 200 yards and crept over a ridge, expecting to see them. No pigs.
Skip signaled me farther on and to the right, and I spotted a slight movement of gray in some tall grass about 50 yards away. Pig! I froze, and the pig slowly moved deeper into the grass, away from me. I checked my rifle, snugged the cap, got onto my hands and knees and began slowly creeping toward them. When I reached the little ridge where I had seen the pig I slowly raised my head, and fifteen feet from me were two javelinas, lying down. One was facing me, and as I raised my head he bolted. Pigs appeared from all directions, all headed away at panic speed. I cocked and threw my Hawken to my shoulder and followed the sentry pig as he ran straight away and then turned right into the grass and brush, but could not get a good shot. From the left, from who-knows-where, a pig ran into my field of vision following the same track as the others, and I switched to her and pulled the trigger as she turned slightly right. Again the smoke blotted out the scene, but when it cleared this time my pig was down and dead, about 30 feet away. I couldn't believe it! I had shot a running target using my rifle like a shotgun, and with success. I walked over and inspected the sow, and I had hit her exactly in the right spot on the chest, angled into the left shoulder, taking spine and major vessels out in passing. I'll never make a better shot.
I waved the "dead pig" signal to Skip, and heard a loud victory yell in return. I was so tickled, so relieved not to have let Skip down that I started laughing aloud and couldn't stop for several minutes. He had invited me to his camp, educated me about javelina hunting and acted as my guide for a week, and I really wanted that pig as a sort of payback.
Skip left the peak to return to camp to get the truck and pick me up, so I field dressed the pig. I tied her feet together, leaving a suitcase handle, fastened a line behind the tusks in her lower jaw to keep her head up, drank my last water and started out.
I walked about three-forth mile to a major drainage, dry, and waited for Skip to find me. He had to drive 10 miles through some hellish country, but in about 45 minutes he arrived. We were some happy boys! A cold drink surely tasted good. We posed for a lot of hero pictures and headed for camp.
I was startled to hear that the stalk had taken me more than 90 minutes. It seemed like 20. Adrenalin is a wonderful hormone. I had never stalked big game before, and it was really a thrill to plan and execute a successful approach. Shifting winds and moving pigs had me convinced for a while that I had botched it, and on top of the missed shot that would have been a bitter pill to swallow. Happily, not necessary.
We made ourselves a well-deserved celebratory dinner that evening and ate it with a bottle of white wine while watching a gorgeous Arizona sunset.
Mission accomplished.
Spence
