HOG HUNTING FOREVER
My Connection with the Wild Boar
EDITOR'S
NOTE: The Chickasawhay River swamp in Greene County,
Mississippi, may have one of the oldest populations
of feral pigs in the nation. The area has no record
of a time when this river-bottom swamp hasn't homed
hogs. Fences and property lines never have bound the
free spirits of these feral hogs like the wild boars
of old. They roam at will, foraging for food, hiding
out in the big cane thickets and briar patches along
the edges of the river bank and wreaking havoc on croplands
by night. Hunters with packs of hounds and live traps
and sportsmen with rifles and bows never have eliminated
these free-roaming pigs. They have become as much a
part of the land as the earth itself.
When I made the decision to bag the young black hog,
I pulled my bow to full draw without making a conscious
effort. I locked into my shooting position. I saw the
hog turn broadside as I looked through the peep sight.
At that instant, an eerie, ghostlike feeling overcame
me. My body, mind and spirit seemed transported to another
time and place. I didn't realize at what moment I touched
the trigger on my release. My bow felt so much a part
of my body that taking the shot seemed more natural
than breathing. In less than a heartbeat, I launched
my arrow. For the first time in my life, I could see
a shaft moving in slow motion. Even though I was shooting
a speed bow, my arrow seemed to travel at the same speed
as an arrow shot from a longbow. I felt as though an
eternity had passed between the time of the arrow's
release and the 120-grain broadhead's impact. I never
had seen an arrow fly a straighter path or a hit a target
more perfectly.
The
hog took the arrow. Half the shaft with its green fletchings
remained outside the hog's shoulder. I knew I had made
a good hit when the pig lurched sideways. As I watched
the hog run across the grassless bottom and into the
woodlot on the other side of the old slough bed, I had
an out-of-body sensation. Ancient eyes seemed to replace
mine. I became keenly aware of the kinship I now had
with the archers of old, the Europeans who built bows
of yew and other traditional woods and whose very existence
depended not only on their hunting prowess but also
their skills with longbows and swift shafts.
I realized that in centuries past the hog I just had
arrowed represented food for a family of four for two
weeks or longer. In the act of bagging the hog, I relived
the execution of the survival skills so essential to
my forefathers in Wales when they too hunted hogs. As
the buckskinners of today feel a kinship with the mountain
men of old when they don their hairless hides, I too
experienced that same sense of history and heritage
in this split second of time. I heard the hog stir in
the leaves and then only silence. With a mystical mood
in the air, I stood motionless with my bow in my hand,
oblivious of time, space and the event that had occurred.
Yet, I felt strangely comforted and more in touch with
my identity than at any other time in my life. But I
finally realized if I didn't come out of the tree soon,
I wouldn't have enough light left to recover the hog.
After I lowered my bow out of the water oak tree, I
slowly and methodically worked the tree stand to the
base of the tree. I turned on my flashlight. Instead
of looking for blood, I walked straight to the spot
where I expected to locate the hog. But in the darkness,
I failed to find the pig. I had searched for about five
minutes when Taylor drove up on his 4-wheele and inquired,
"Did you get him, John?"
"Yeah,
I'm sure I did," I answered. "I made a solid
hit, and I heard the pig fall. But I just can't find
him." "Let's go back to the place you took
the shot," Lee suggested as he turned on his flashlight.
We walked back to the small dip in the ground where
the hog had stood when I released the arrow. When I
reached the spot, I saw the blood trail. The trail led
us across the bottom to the edge of the hardwoods on
the other side. About 10 yards into the wood-line, the
blood trail went beside a fallen tree and stopped there.
The hog could have turned and run under the tree, gone
straight or moved to the open woods on the right.
"You stay here, John, and let me circle,"
Taylor said. Taylor walked 10 yards to the end of the
fallen tree before circling to the left and announcing,
"here's your pig, John. You made a good hit."
The arrow had penetrated the hog's shoulder, gone straight
through his heart and exited out his chest. The black
pig weighed 72 pounds, making it a fine meat hog. As
I grabbed the leg of the porker to help Taylor drag
it back to the 4-wheeler, I once more experienced a
supernatural sensation of another time and place. Then
I snapped back into the present. I loaded my pig on
the 4-wheeler atop the nice hog Lee had taken earlier
in the afternoon.
Riding
out of the woods, I asked Taylor, "how long have
hogs lived here?" "They've been in this vicinity
longer than anyone can remember," Taylor explained.
"I guess they came over with the early settlers
to this part of the country, and they allowed the pigs
to roam free. Even when the fence laws were enacted
in the early 1900s, farmers never could round up all
the hogs. I imagine the bloodlines of these pigs can
be traced all the way back to hogs in Europe."
TOMORROW: MY HOG DISCOVERY
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