So there I was in Colorado's
rodentia infested backcountry. At least 6 miles deep, no inReach or nuthin. While climbing to a 12,500 ft mountain pass, I was ambushed by two whistle pigs. The first one charged at me full speed, leaping across scree like a cheetah chasing down a gazelle, its incisors gnashing at air and frothing at the mouth, pining for the sweet taste of human flesh. I stumbled backwards, raising my grandpappy's 22LR, and fired wildly one handed in panic. The furry mound came to a screeching stop not two inches from my toes.
I had nary a second to breathe a sigh of relief when another furious
Marmota flaviventris specimen leapt from my left out of a nearby alpine spruce. Herbivores my ass! These little SOBs were out for one thing and one thing only. Blood. My subsonic 22LR rang out once more, echoing lightly off the surrounding red shale cliffs. Another lifeless fur ball piled up at my feet. Lucky? Maybe. Greatest shot(s) of my life? Definitely.
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