In Texas, It's Always Boar Season

by Ryan D. Gorsche

When the telephone rang, I had been enjoying an undisturbed pleasant afternoon of boredom and lazy relaxation. I tossed my book aside, sipped my iced tea, and answered the phone somewhat irritated. I recognized the voice over the wire.

"Gorsche?"

"Bice, how are you?"

"Let’s go boar hunting tonight."

I sipped my iced tea and nodded as if Bice, an old friend from high school, was standing beside me. Crunching some ice, I answered, "Alright. I have a dinner engagement this evening; I’ll pick you up afterwards. Around eleven, probably later."

Hanging up the receiver, my afternoon was changed. Knowing that I was headed for an all-night hunt I debated a nap, but when a hunting trip is imminent there is nothing to do except go about your business, otherwise anticipation will get the best of you. I picked up my book and finished the chapter. After glancing at the clock, I drained the remainder of my iced tea, and went to my room to prepare for my evening affairs.

Standing in my closet, rifling through my shirts, I spotted my .270 Winchester leaning against the wall. I picked it up. It is hefty and satisfying, a finely crafted firearm. Opening the bolt I heard the familiar click, noting the chamber, as always, was empty. I aimed the crosshairs at a stuffed tuna hanging on my wall.

"Bang."

Wild boar, or feral hogs as they are often called, probably got off the boat with the Conquistadors. Since then they’ve forced their way hungrily into nearly every place in the continental states. About 75% of wild boars taken in the U.S. are killed in either Florida or Texas. My dear Lone Star State has anywhere from 1.5 to 2 million of these snarling beasties bulldozing their way within the state’s borders. Since boar are non-native and do horrific crop damage, the Texas Department of Parks and Wildlfe has designated no closed season and no limit to a hunter’s bag. Not to mention that you can hunt them by any means possible any time of day. Boar are 200+ lbs. rats with tusks and a surly disposition, but they are tasty and a thrill to hunt.

My first run-in with wild boar took place on my family’s ranch in Junction, TX. A friend and I were on a late summer dove hunt, and five piglets exploded through the chest high grass. Knowing the mother would be nearby, we backed off, figuring our 20 gauge shotguns with dove shot would not be much persuasion to a 250 lbs. scimitar-tusked, razor-backed missile hell-bent on eviscerating us. Boar are dangerous game, and I have heard stories disturbing enough to make the most devout sportsmen lose his zeal for the hunt. Since that day the boar population has skyrocketed in the Texas Hill Country area near Junction, leaving behind a path of destruction.

Previous boar hunts at the "Little g" had something of a party atmosphere. Large groups of friends gathered to hunt those last hours of dusk before heading to the ranch house around midnight for a case of icy drinks and a BBQ dinner. Past hunts met with little success. Boar are not foolish. Lately, however, our ranch hands have been spotting boar early in the morning, and my own observations during this year’s dove season confirmed it. Arriving at 5AM at the ranch on opening day, I had been greeted by fresh boar tracks in the pecan orchard. That day I shot my limit of dove and a box of shells, but I knew that before the end of summer I would put away my shotgun, grab a rifle, and turn my interest and efforts to boar.

I admit now I was not much of a dinner guest that night. The summer evenings had cooled by early September, so dinner was on my host’s porch. I spent the evening nursing my drink, nodding at someone’s story or acknowledging someone’s presence, but mostly dreaming of future adventures. Minutes later I was heading to Bice’s house, the radio cooking out a Willie Nelson tune.

Bice and I finally arrived at my house around midnight and headed to gather supplies. I snatched my .270 Winchester and a box of Remington Express Core-LOKT soft tip cartridges, tossing them into my steel gun case. Knowing what we would be against, I slipped on my shoulder holster and my Ruger 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Backup. Call me yellow, but I like to know that when a Russian boar with six inch razor sharp tusks and a disposition to match decides I’m dead, I have a ten shot magazine with which to negotiate. Everything was packed tight in the ranch truck, and Bice and I argued the merits of catching a few hours sleep. I checked my watch, 1:30AM. "Forget it, let’s roll."

At 2:20 we hit Kerrville. Our conversations rambled through hunting stories and frat parties. It was these kinds of trips that convinced me to forget any resume padding internship and head home to spend my summer as a ranch hand. I couldn’t miss late night hog hunts, opening day dove season, or Cooper’s gallon sized "Texas Tea Bucket" and that smoky jalapeno sausage.

The long stretch of Interstate 10 wound on and we finally reached our destination, Junction, a stopping point for people on those 533 miles from San Antonio to El Paso. Gas stations lit the sky and we stopped off for some ice and a pair of rubber gloves. Finally, we eagerly turned the truck down farm road 1674 towards the "Little g."

Five miles later we pulled the truck through the first of my ranch’s three bumper gates. The night was warm. In the distance the shuffling steps and deep breaths of animal-life were audible. We were no longer after our BBQ dinner; we were after boar.

As we coasted our way slowly down the dirt road, the warm wind breathed in through the open windows, and my high beams pierced through the darkness, searching for our prey. This is the time of doubt. The excitement of the hunt pounds through your veins, but that tingle in your brain asks you just what the hell you think you are doing a hundred miles from the nearest map dot at 3:30 AM. I could die out here, and no one would know but the vultures. I could be asleep right now. Instead, I drove two hours in the darkness to hunt boar. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

We pulled off to the side of my road to formulate a strategy. We had hunted the river bottoms before. Lots of sign, but few sightings, and it was so late that most animals already had drank their fill from the water. The pasture is filled with sweet grass right now, and the pecan orchard is bloated with nuts. Either would be a productive hunting spot; we decided to drive to the nearest fence in the orchard and to move by foot from there. In the past, I have noticed sign in the orchard indicating that the hogs feed early in the morning on the ripe pecans that are starting to fall off the trees. We jumped back in the truck and drove down our path, our eyes peeled for the slightest movement. The doubt had left our system, replaced by hope.

The truck’s lights gleamed through the orchard, as we gazed among the massive parallel rows and columns comprised of some fifteen hundred trees, their branches sagging under the weight of nuts to be harvested. And there, some fifty yards down the middle row is what we had come for, an entire herd of wild boar grazing. There was no time to grab the million candlepower spotlight, the headlights had to suffice. I jumped to the bed of the truck and grabbed my rifle and a handful of shells. I jammed them into the magazine and jacked one gleaming brass cartridge into the chamber. I took a seat, using my knee as a rifle rest. By now the piglets and yearling hogs were running, frightened by this sudden commotion. The leaders of the pack held their ground, as I scanned for the largest in the crowd. I picked out a target, a big sow easily topping 200 lbs. Her fight or flight instincts had taken over, and in only a moment she would make her decision. If she ran, I’d lose my shot, if she charged, my hunting days would be cut short. She made a step in my direction and gave a little snort, she had made her decision and she was going down fighting. I edged my cross-hairs behind her shoulder and belted 150 grains of soft point lead right through her armor-like hide and into her vital organs just as she exploded into a charge. She covered five yards before she dropped. The blast still echoed throughout the nearby hills. My heart was in my throat as I gazed at 200 lbs. of pork. It had all been worth it. We had our wild boar.

We waited an hour before field dressing our trophy. Few hunters will ever kill a boar. The reward was indescribable.

The sun began to rise as we put the finishing touches on gutting the boar. The foreman of the ranch showed up with his crew, and everyone gathered around the magnificent beast. There were congratulations to be had, slaps on the back, and jokes about bringing home the bacon. Bice and I drove home that morning, tired and grinning, dreaming of the smoked ribs and pork chops we’d have later that week.

Boar can be hunted in nearly all states, including New Hampshire, though your best bet is in the South. If you do not own your own property, most ranchers and farmers will let you hunt boar for very little money since boar are such a nuisance. Boar hunting is an excellent way to keep your deer hunting skills rust-free in the off season, and the excitement of the hunt is unparalleled.

Next time The Dartmouth Review goes black bear hunting.