Didn't go to market, and certainly didn't have roast beef. Met up with old friend and legendary hog guide Tom Willoughby at 4:50am at the intersection of Highways 101 and 198 and proceeded to follow him down windy 198 in the dark for about ten miles, then turned into the ranch we were going to hunt. After not seeing each other for two years we said our hellos, had a cup of coffee, then I grabbed my Weatherby and we took off in his truck in search of that perfect sow. The ranch terrain was steep barren hills with not a single tree on the property, Tom said he hadn't hunted that ranch in maybe 35 years. What it did have was a barley field and a mud dam, the hogs would hole-up in the draws of the steep hills during the day and feed and water themselves at night. He said he didn't normally take clients to that ranch because the lack of cover meant any shot was going to be a long one, our past experiences gave him confidence in me. After driving the ranch road for about 20 minutes we finally came to the grain field as there was just enough light to make out the shape of a couple of hogs in the distance. We parked and walked about 300 yards as the hogs were working their way to the fence line right in front of us. Tom said to wait because there was another large group of pigs following these two about 60 yards behind and they'd all be crossing the fence line at the same spot, 245 yards from where we were standing, we couldn't get any closer. Finally a group of 25-30 hogs appeared at the crossing point, wet sows with piglets, a number of medium sized boars, and one off-color fat dry sow. I was set up standing with the shooting stix, dialed my scope up to eight power, and focused on that sow as the herd was quartering away from us and beginning to trot up the steep hill, more a mountain actually. I squeezed the trigger and the pig squealed and fell over, 260 yards, the rest of the herd off at a full gallop at the report, pounding up the mountain and over the top. Suddenly my hog was up and trotting after her pals, I fired three more rounds at the running pig and missed, we watched it make the top of the hill some 500 yards away and disappear. We scurried back to Tom's truck as fast as two 61 year-olds could, which ain't that fast, and took off in a mad dash to intercept the wounded hog on the other side of the mountain. We were surprised to see it had not only come all the way down but was now climbing a huge steep hill. Tom said the top of that hill was the ranch boundry as he slammed on the brakes, we hopped out of the truck and I got set on the shooting sticks, all the time my perfect little sow getting further and further away. Tom was on the range-finder and said "320 yards, and it'll be gone in ten seconds". I squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet right thru the hogs left rear leg, dammit, and it stopped and laid still there for about five seconds. When it tried to get back up it did a little back flip and started rolling end over end down the mountain side towards us, a good hundred yards, we were laughing with glee, until it hit fairly flat ground. We were able to drive the truck right over to it, throw it in the back, and drive a couple miles to the nearest tree to get on with the gutting and skinning. It takes me about a hour to skin a wild hog, Tom had it undressed in the time it took me to walk 40 yards to get the camera, the guy is incredible. Official market weight came in at 74.5 lbs, not my biggest, not my smallest, but a real nice sow. I was blushing with pride when Tom started complimenting my marksmanship tho I must admit, that was some dammed fine shootin'.
Nice white fat!
Cooling down fast

“Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.”