Like an army of Tolkien goblins crashing through the forest, I could hear the wild boar rumbling down hill. Evil high pitched squeals of tortured agony and rage along with the guttural grunts and snorts caused a rapid rise in my heart rate. Not squirrels or birds hopping in the dry leaves giving rise to false hopes. Limbs cracked, hooves thudded and briers snapped as the rambling procession edged closer. No, these were animals of considerable size. I moved my rifle into position silently, and peered through the scope to assure a clear line of fire.
My range finder told me in alarm-clock-red letters it was 123 yards to the large birch near the trail I figured the pigs would use to enter the pasture. Confidently hidden, I was perched in a tripod stand on the back side of our ranch. I wore no magic ring, just my black SmartWool merino base layers and camouflage neoprene waders–I was nearly invisible nonetheless in the shade and leaves of a pecan grove. Middle Lilly Creek was full, making the neoprene waders a necessity, though I was fighting my natural sweating proclivities despite temperatures in the 20s. But a risen creek was a good thing because it meant decreased hunting pressure.
Soon the anticipation was over and into the field burst a pair of black razorbacks nose to the ground pushing the sandy loam aside like bulldozers. I aligned my cross-hairs on the fur covered shoulder of the boar as it moved hurriedly back and forth at the edge of the mirkwoods. The light was soft and through my scope darkness and latent muscular energy emanated from the beast. Slowly, my finger steadily increased pressure until the sight picture was suddenly obscured as the second boar swung his torso violently into the first sending them both onto their backs. I stopped my squeeze.
As the swine scrambled to their feet I found my mark again and shot. I didn’t feel the shock from the synthetic stock of my Tika T3 .3006 because I was distracted by screaming eerily reminiscent of ring-wraiths. I lost sight of my target through the scope and the pigs sprinted towards me, one stopping 50 yards to the right. I sent another 180 grains racing into the swine only to see him run the 70 yards behind me out of sight.
Distraught, I climbed from my hiding spot in the tree leaves, and started my search for blood. I found none. I cursed myself for missing at such close range. Then elation.
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Soon I will be making some bacon like Texas Dragon
