Mystery Dung on the Mountain Time Forgot Pt. 1

[Mustangs Rule]

The gateway between America’s SW Deserts and our High Mountain West is the Virgin River Gorge. It connects Mesquite, Nevada, with St. George Utah



In just over a half an hour of driving on Interstate 15, you pass though 500 million years of geological time and one of the best possible places to view desert bighorn sheep. Binoculars and better yet a spotting scope are a must, as well as ear plugs. Needed to deaden the noise from the semi- trucks bouncing off the canyon walls.



I-15 has parking pull-outs in the canyon and does not always follow the Virgin River. You can leave the highway, and hike the Virgin river to explore the bends and spurs off the main canyon.



Do that and you enter absolute ancientness.



Native American Rock art is abundant, silence is golden and the surprise pools of quicksand can drop you deep in a second. Do not try to run out. You’ll just sink deeper. Quicksand does not suck. It is just underground springs coming to the surface through sand often right in the river where you are hiking. Train yourself to fall flat immediately when you feel your feet disappear. Get over getting wet, and then swim out. So easy!



Some years ago a semi-truck hauling pigs rolled over in the gorge and they escaped into the Arizona Strip, which is all of that state north of the Grand Canyon and the Colorado River. It is the largest piece of dry wilderness in North America.



Further down the Virgin River, there was a canned hunt operation for imported genetically pure Big Black Russian Boar. The target clients were tourists in Las Vegas, which is an hour and a half away. A flash flood came through and freed the boar. They invaded The Arizona Strip with their domestic pig cousins, which soon died out. Only the toughest can survive “The Strip” but could it survive yet another environmental beating?



It was seriously overgrazed by sheep and cattle ranchers. Then Teddy Roosevelt, who I normally admire, decided to turn The Strip into a mule deer paradise and authorized the killing of every predator; 600 Mt. Lions, the last of the wolves and 7,000 coyotes. Without predators, the deer population went from 4,000 in 1905 to a very skinny100,000 in 1925. Then the land was devastated and 60,000 deer died. Many parts of the land there still have not recoverd!



Read any book about deer populations and range management and this classic tragedy of removing predators from The Strip, will be lesson #1 about what not to do. The Strip, and especially the higher elevation part of it, The Kaibab Plateau, was once the premier place in the west to hunt the most magnificent mule deer, who did just fine with all the predators. The herds were trim, healthy and in balance with their environment. Human meddling ruined it, over and over.



With great effort over almost a century, field biologists were finally getting The Strip kind of right, then the pigs and boar came in. The damage they were doing was epic. They fouled precious waterholes with their excrement, driving out mule deer, desert bighorns and all other wildlife. They gobbled up wild turkey eggs and the pigs/boars rooting became a mega erosion problem.



The Arizona F and G Department allowed hunters from anywhere, to come anytime and hunt those super destructive boar/pigs, with no tags needed, no bag limits, no closed seasons nor any license required. Eventually it would be cowboys coming down from Utah with their horses and hounds who cleaned them out. I made two hunting trips there, one before the cowboy clean up and one after it.



On both these adventures, and many more elsewhere, one of my closest friends and best ever hunting partner would drive or fly from super cold Wyoming to meet me.



Depending on where we were entering The Strip, from, west or north, we would meet either in Mesquite, Nevada or St. George, Utah. We would check in at the BLM office, get info, then buy any last items before going the 40, even 50 miles one way into this vast dry wilderness. Leaving from Utah in early March on our first trip was not a win. We had to cross too much snowy higher country.



The daytime melted snow and mud mix was 4-6 inches deep in the ruts. It was like driving through cold, wet, thick concrete. Don, my friend was going first, going fast, breaking trail in his heavy full sized 4X4 pickup. I followed him more slowly in my smaller Toyota Land Cruiser.



The next morning both his front tires were half flat. Driving through that mix of snow and mud so fast, forced a sandy thick wet grit into the tire beads and caused slow leaks. Lucky he brought a 12 volt tire pump. He had to use it twice every day. We lost a day and a half driving these higher elevation sloppy roads. We came away feeling lucky to get out!



Later in St. George, when going back, Don had his tires taken off the rims, then cleaned off the fine sandy grit. The fellow at the garage said this happens regularly in The Strip during the late winter and early spring. Tow/vehicle service deep into the Arizona Strip can start at $1,500.



Once over the high country, we began seeing boar and sign. They were huge and looked like a line of black Volkswagens with legs, following each other on invisible trails on high grassy slopes. The next morning we hiked up.



For their size, pigs/wild boar have small feet. I have hunted tons of them on huge barley ranches. The large size of the tracks here, plus how deep in the ground they were, shocked me. These boar were really heavy and huge, dense bundles of meanness. They co-evolved with Tigers, an even match.



While exploring the dry, grassy slopes they came down from, we encountered the first of two range bulls that refused to be rounded up when the cattle were removed. When he saw us he tossed his head, pawed the ground and stood there in his cloud of dust staring boldly at us. On the way up we saw his giant tracks. “Mbogo”! In my mid-teens I was chased up a tree by our neighboring farmers breeding bull. I had deep respect for their overload of testosterone.



My rifle, a Winchester model 70 chambered in the 6.5x55 Swede felt like a pea-shooter. Don felt the same way about his .270.



It took us two days to find these boar again. They had dropped down into a lower more moist washes and were feeding in the tall jungle like tangles of prickly pear cactus. Again the tracks were jaw dropping.



As we were about to stalk into the tangle after them, Don asked me to once again tell him the two stories I heard first hand from the people who actually had real life experiences with large Russian boar.



Sue and her husband owned a 3,000 acre barley ranch where pigs/wild boar were always a problem.

When a sow boar was killed by a hunter, Sue adopted male piglet and named him Gordo, the fat one. This boar lost it’s house privileges hopping up on her bed one morning when it weighed 100 pounds. Eventually Gordo hit the 400 pound mark, grew huge sharp tusks. The neighbors would see Gordo, Sue and the little beagle that acted as Gordo’s mom when he was a piglet, all walking happily to the mailbox together.



The other story I heard first hand from a rancher who rode his horse into a chaparral thicket with the intention to shooting a big boar with his 44 mag revolver. The boar charged, came in low and with his long sharp tusks, “unzipped” his horses belly and it’s intestines just dropped out while the rancher was still in the saddle.



Don and I used an incoming storm as an excuse to leave and go west to Mesquite, Nevada. We played some golf, sat in the Moapa Hot Springs and the next day visited the Valley of Fire State Park. It has amazing rock art.



The following year Don and I met in Fairbanks, Alaska for our annual hunting/outdoor adventure together.



It was two years before we returned to The Strip, making sure we each “had enough gun” for either boar or bull.



By then the Cowboys with hounds did a great pig/boar cleanup. We saw little sign in the large valley where tracks were abundant two years ago. We again became curious about a flat top mountain. It looked impossible to climb with sheer volcanic basalt cliffs on all sides.



One day when glassing it, we saw a big black Russian boar over half way up. We grabbed our rifles and were working our way up through a high Juniper woodland, when we picked up wild boar tracks, lots of them, most small, one big set. A sow and her huge litter.



Hmm, kill the sow and the young would all die! Good for the land and native wildlife but that would be death for so many young ones. The environmental damage from these boar was still obvious everywhere. What to do? Our answer came soon.



We found the most incredible example ever of a hoofed animal mother caring for her young. This Russian boar sow, had stripped soft bark off juniper trees and created the most perfect nursery nest. It was a meticulously woven of soft bark and was a work of art. How could any animal make something so complex without hands? Boar/pigs are smart, but this nest was beyond imagination. It was about 6 feet around and a foot high with no dung in it.



The boar piglets stayed in the nursing nest till they could jump out and forage with her. My friend and I looked at the complexity, quality and the cleanliness of this nursery and decided we just could not shoot such an exemplary mother.





We gave up our hunt, hiked a bit higher on a difficult trail that might take us to the top. We were deciding whether to keep scouting new steep territory. Then we looked down!



We saw something that should have never been there in this extreme desert. We had just entered the wildlife Twilight Zone. Both of us had enough outdoor and hunting experience to know what were looking at.



My friend said it first; “Holy Shit”!



I looked down again in disbelief and said; “Yeah, that really is Holy Shit”!

 

[Mustangs Rule]

Part 2 of 2

On our Alaskan adventure the previous year, Don and I were dropped off by bush plane deep into the interior. We landed on a grass airstrip, first doing a low fly by to chase the bears away. There was a pea vine growing on this sunny, open land the bears found delicious.



Near the airstrip were state owned log cabins to stay in for free. They were all clawed up by grizzlies. We both bought the $20 non-resident small game license. We had shotguns, bear spray and were excited about hunting for a variety of grouse, all so abundant.



We knew damn well what grouse dung looked like, and that was what we were now seeing on the side of that flat top desert mountain.



Arizona has no sage grouse. Dusky Grouse were always on the Kaibab Plateau, but were so few and so far away, over so much desert that was lethal to grouse.



Grouse in Arizona are found at 8,500’ and above. This flat top mountain was maybe 6,500 feet. For grouse to be there, we had to be dead wrong about what we thought the top was like.



Ordered by one single 1 ½ “ dry piece of grouse shit, we started following a steep, rocky chute, hopefully to the top of this now mysterious dry desert mountain.



When adventure calls, you either listen or plug your ears! With a smile we both chose to listen, slung our rifles over our shoulders and began the rugged climb.



The rifle I had chosen to bring with me this second hunting trip, with boar or bull in mind, I have now owned for 55 years. I bought it used in 1970 for a whopping $180. I had to make $30/month payments for six months.



It is a Belgium made Browning Safari grade 30-06. The stock is beautifully figured French walnut. The thin barrel is stepped down twice, with a great wood to metal fit. The action is pure Mauser. I can put the first three shots in a Sub-MOA group at 100 yards before the thin barrel heats up. It came with a 3X fixed Weaver scope, and still has it on it. This rifle fits me perfectly and I never miss with it, close, far away, standing game or running at reasonable range. You could scrape the pistol grip and it would test positive for my DNA.



I had it loaded with heavy, long, fat round nosed Lapua Naturalus bullets. Looking at them, they seemed they were offering a “middle finger gesture of defiance”! In case I had to deal with an oncoming range bull I would follow Earnest Hemingway’s suggestion for a charging Cape Buffalo; shoot them right up their nerve filled nostrils. Such a shot, he said, would stop a charge.



Twice, I have shot large incoming Pig/Russian Boar right in their open mouths, coming up a steep grade, breathing hard, putting a heavy round nosed bullet down their throat and into their lungs. It is a spectacular kill. They roll over sending a spout of bright red blood high in the air, like a dying whale.



Normally, climbing up a mountain, I can see parts of it rising above me. There were no hints of anything here. Just the rocks in front of us and sky, until we crested the rim.



Imagine a baked muffin, it has a big high round top. But sometimes, something goes wrong in the baking, it does not rise and instead the top falls in.



What we saw here was once some kind of lava muffin that had the top just collapse and sunk into itself. The top was almost level, all pocked up, covered with natural bowls and deep cisterns. Most of summer monsoon rain water or melted winter snow that fell on this flat topped mountain did not run off the sides, but was collected in these natural containers. We threw rocks into one cistern and the big splash was like a well. With a rope on a container we would have water all year.



Birds could fly in, sit on rocks, drink, then fly out. The water in these deep, large natural basalt cisterns had enough thermal mass so it did not freeze. A light water vapor kept ghosting out and condensed in the cold air to water or ice.



Around the rim of each cistern there were lush green plants, constantly browsed on and always wet with water vapor. After a cold night these hardy plants were covered either with water or ice, which melted during the day. Free drinking water puddles for animals.



Many of the shallow bedrock bowls had water in them too, ice at night, water during the day. I had a drinking straw water purifier. I drank and drank, did not have to go back thirsty.



The flat top mountain had a slight slope and we could see water flow trails all over the bedrock.



I have hiked Volcano National Park in Hawaii. Heat and sun erode new lava, so does wind. All this makes “first dirt”, which collects in cracks. Then a seed falls in and “first life” begins. Operating here was the same creative process that formed all the land on earth. It is so old it makes ancient seem like yesterday.



A bit lower on this flat top mountain was a mini-forest. First, New Dirt flowed down into large cracks grain by grain and wind brought seeds in to form New Life. Plants like mountain mahogany grew there, great forage for wild sheep and deer. Birds pooped out pinyon pine nuts. Some of these trees here were 800 to a 1000 years old, Legacy Trees safe from fires, growing in the big well watered cracks in the basalt rocks. They produce such abundant nutritious pinyon pine nuts, for deer and birds to eat, like grouse.



Next, there were many mule deer shed antlers, new, old, big, small, great ones!



Going down near the mini forest we saw a herd of mule deer. It was early March, the time old antlers have dropped and new ones had not started growing. Some of these antler-less deer had huge bodies and big round chests and butts. Bucks of course. They looked at us for so long, then casually walked down a chute we had never seen before. All the while they were looking back at us out of curiosity not fear. The route they took down was invisible from anywhere below. It led to a small fertile valley irrigated by run-off from extreme summer cloudbursts sending frothy water down the chute. All this was perfect wildlife habitat. The jigsaw puzzle was complete.



If it was deer season, and if I had a tag, I would never hunt a buck here. This was a tiny gene pool of incredible survivors. It was a sacred, pre-us, equation of Field Natural History, complete with Native American Rock Art.



I would not do anything to draw the attention of other hunters to this mountain that time forgot. The sound of a gunshot carries forever. Leave this mountain and it’s wildlife alone! May all their tribes increase.



We saw no sign of wild boar, so glad of that. They would really mess this place up. We decided if we had had a chance, we would kill that great mother sow, to protect this treasure.



So, were there grouse on that flat-topped mountain? We did not see any, but we barely scratched it’s vast surface.



If they were here, how did they get here? Between 11,000 and 8,000 years ago Northern Arizona was green and wet. Grouse were probably all over here then. As it dried up, the ones who found this version of Noah’s Ark could have survived.



The Kaibab Plateau on the eastern Arizona strip was the absolute southern range of grouse. They were always there, but their numbers crashed with habitat loss and land abuse. Some captured grouse were re-stocked in the 1970’s and 1980’s, but those new grouse came from kinder ecosystems and they did not have a trickle of the genetic hardiness and tested survive-ability of the original grouse who had lived there for millions of years.



There were lion track in pockets of dust, all from one Big Tom. That is good. One dominant Big Tom, will drive off or kill any sub-adult males 24/7. Deer herds cannot get a better deal. If we kill off that big Tom, we create a power vacuum that sucks in lots of the young sub-adult males, and the deer herd gets hit much harder.



If we shot the Boar Sow, her piglets would be eaten in short order. But Mt. Lions versus a mature boar? Sorry, not a fair fight. True Boar are tiger tough.



At the highest point on this flat topped mountain there was a survey marker set in stone. Attached to it was a sealed can, a note was in it, from 20 years ago. I copied the info, wrote that person . Never heard back. We left our names and info in the can too. That was16 years ago. No word from anyone yet.



While writing this I called Don. We talked and reviewed details, one in particular.



We sat down near the high point. Watched the sunset, we could see forever all around us, as if that flat topped mountain was intended to be raised theater seating for us. That sense of expanse was more than we had ever felt before anywhere, and we both have had so many other “anywheres” in our long outdoor lives.



Many things made being there so totally different but all fit.. Around were animals that had not seen or smelled modern man, had no fear of us, never heard a gunshot. It was uniquely well watered, full of wildlife and wild plants. An exotic paradise that never knew the curse of cattle or angry bulls. There was life out of lava there



Most notable however, our senses were going in two seemingly opposite directions at once and there was no conflict.



We were both feeling lifted, welcomed into the deepest dark night sky filled with infinite brilliant stars, while also being so firmly grounded, so solid in that “First Dirt, First Life” original earth experience.



Describing both these simultaneous commitments, requires words I have not yet discovered. I do suspect however that these words would be found in the language of the native people who did the rock art we had seen there.



We shouldered our rifles, then slowly, carefully, under starlight, without using flashlights, returned to our camp.



The next day we packed up, drove out of The Strip and said goodbye at Interstate 15. I went across our SW Deserts, and Don drove NE through the Virgin River Gorge, gateway to the High Mountain West on his return to Wyoming.



MR

 

[Dave N]

Damn, you tell a good story!

 

[Rack Daniels]

Very well written story. I appreciated the read and I look forward to more from you.
I understand the need to paint a vivid picture in a story that mustn’t have actual photos. To preserve the landscape and the history you were able to witness, it would be best to refrain from identifying photographs. However, I do hope to see some photos of the places you’ve take the time to describe-in the future. There’s nothing more satisfying in a story than reading/ hearing the fiercely descriptive recollection of a place or an event, and then getting to see the old “black and whites” that show actual illustrations of the place or event that you just painted in your mind. Thank you for taking the time to share this with us.

 

[Mustangs Rule]

Damn, you tell a good story!

Thank you for your words of support.



Actually If I let myself get out of the way, the story just “tells itself”. Really a matter of taking myself someplace rich with natural history, then being quiet, and smell, taste, feel and listen to all the stories that are always going on. I take notes, handwritten of course. Always do the research and then forget it all. Then later, like 16 years later as with this one, I feel a story just building up like “wind” inside me. It wants to come out. Writing can be like deep breathing.



Being 77 years old and choosing to never have a TV as an adult really helps. TV just sucks us dry of merit, and fills us with a discontent and a confusion as to who we really are.



I liken this writing process to riding a smart, willing and trustworthy horse. Just “give him his head” let the reins have slack and allow freedom of choice.



Odd as this may sound about an inanimate object, but the same goes for my Browning Safari 30-06. After 55 years, together “we share an intent”. I have read about shooting from the unconscious, and I guess that is what “we” have been doing unconsciously for over half a century. The shots we have made together with that simple scope totally defy logic.



I value the carbon steel, has more life in it, of course the exceptional wood and workmanship. Forged and fitted steel not injection castings.



Holding a rifle in my hands that has been in the hands of multiple master craftsmen, gives it clout and swagger, gives me so much confidence, which means to be with “fidelity” together.



I feel a bit of regret for younger hunters with the rifles they buy and use nowadays. So lifeless, machine molded, not hand fitted, huge scopes, turns hunting/shooting into a TV show. I will stop here.



I have a great friend, early 40’s, such a fine young hunter, he gets my Browning Safari Grade 30-06 rifle when I am gone. New stories, old stories. His son is ten, maybe this rifle’s stories will continue.



Glad you enjoyed this story



MR

 

[Mustangs Rule]

Very well written story. I appreciated the read and I look forward to more from you.
I understand the need to paint a vivid picture in a story that mustn’t have actual photos. To preserve the landscape and the history you were able to witness, it would be best to refrain from identifying photographs. However, I do hope to see some photos of the places you’ve take the time to describe-in the future. There’s nothing more satisfying in a story than reading/ hearing the fiercely descriptive recollection of a place or an event, and then getting to see the old “black and whites” that show actual illustrations of the place or event that you just painted in your mind. Thank you for taking the time to share this with us.

Great words of support, Thank you. The photos will not happen. Barry Lopez was one of my favorite writers. Before making a full commitment to being a writer, he was a landscape photographer. He noticed what I found to be true. Writing and photography are two very different mediums, that are mutually exclusive. They work differently in the brain.

Used to be I always had a vintage "Olive Series" 35mm Leica Safari camera with me. I just sent it out for hard-to-find service after having it sit in a case unused for 15 years. Taking photos confuses my focus on feelings and word applications. Also, I have come to be reluctant to take photos of dead animals. I find it so demeaning, especially in light of the darkness "hunters" are creating with endless "kill shot" videos posted on the internet. Yucch. What that is doing to the public perception of hunters is beyond repair. Not good for kids either. So, disconnecting.

I like being free of the camera mindset when afield. It opens my non-visual senses. Speaking of that, after not seeing her for 15 years, and both of us now being single, I am in relationship with a woman who was my editor ages ago.

Have you ever heard of the term, "Talking Leaves"? It is what Native Americans called pieces of paper with writing on them

Thank you again.

 

[44hunter45]

That was a fun read. Edward Abbey mixed with Robert Ruark.

We hunted Russian Boar in the California Coast Range. W.R. Hearst brought them in to hunt around Hearst Castle and they escaped. I have seen these wild pig nests you described.
We hunted hogs on public, but also on private. There are pockets of feral hogs all over California, including the Sierras. A lot of this land is under CalWild now and I don't even know if it is huntable. The only things I miss from my California days are hunting and fishing. Sitting here at age 63, I have now been in Idaho more than half my life.

Hogs used to be classed as non-game in California and it was open season. In the 1990's they monetized them as game animals and you had to have a license and a pack of seven tags. If you used all seven, you could buy more.

I often carried a 6.5x55 Swede for hogs. With 160 RN the Swede has that mysterious 6.5mm magic and can punch through their hide shoulder shields. I also hunted them over a friend's dogs with a 44 Magnum and 12 Gauge 000. Sometimes with my 30-06.

Regarding piglets. We found that big boars were for bragging rights, as the dogs wouldn't even eat it ground up. For eating, a sounder of piglets are like little bacon footballs.
Yummy. One of the best things you will ever eat cooked on a spit over a campfire. Self basting and the lard drips into the fire and flares up. The experience is something you don't forget.

Hogs don't just tear up the landscape, they kill and eat anything they can catch. They will drive other predators off kills. I suppose we have all read or heard the stories of murderers who disposed of bodies in a pig sty. I have seen pigs on Blacktail deer carcasses on Fort Hunter Liggett.

I don't know about The Strip, but in California the feral farm hogs didn't die out. They interbred with the Russian stock. You still see throwbacks, however. Once near New Idria I missed a shot at a big sow because I hesitated. She looked like a Gloucestershire Old Spots. For a split second I thought she must have come off a ranch in the nearby Panoche Valley. While I thought about it, she bugged out.

 

[Mustangs Rule]

That was a fun read. Edward Abbey mixed with Robert Ruark.

We hunted Russian Boar in the California Coast Range. W.R. Hearst brought them in to hunt around Hearst Castle and they escaped. I have seen these wild pig nests you described.
We hunted hogs on public, but also on private. There are pockets of feral hogs all over California, including the Sierras. A lot of this land is under CalWild now and I don't even know if it is huntable. The only things I miss from my California days are hunting and fishing. Sitting here at age 63, I have now been in Idaho more than half my life.

Hogs used to be classed as non-game in California and it was open season. In the 1990's they monetized them as game animals and you had to have a license and a pack of seven tags. If you used all seven, you could buy more.

I often carried a 6.5x55 Swede for hogs. With 160 RN the Swede has that mysterious 6.5mm magic and can punch through their hide shoulder shields. I also hunted them over a friend's dogs with a 44 Magnum and 12 Gauge 000. Sometimes with my 30-06.

Regarding piglets. We found that big boars were for bragging rights, as the dogs wouldn't even eat it ground up. For eating, a sounder of piglets are like little bacon footballs.
Yummy. One of the best things you will ever eat cooked on a spit over a campfire. Self basting and the lard drips into the fire and flares up. The experience is something you don't forget.

Hogs don't just tear up the landscape, they kill and eat anything they can catch. They will drive other predators off kills. I suppose we have all read or heard the stories of murderers who disposed of bodies in a pig sty. I have seen pigs on Blacktail deer carcasses on Fort Hunter Liggett.

I don't know about The Strip, but in California the feral farm hogs didn't die out. They interbred with the Russian stock. You still see throwbacks, however. Once near New Idria I missed a shot at a big sow because I hesitated. She looked like a Gloucestershire Old Spots. For a split second I thought she must have come off a ranch in the nearby Panoche Valley. While I thought about it, she bugged out.

Thank you for such a full response. I had shot many a California hog/boar mix with my Swede and the heavy RN bullets, first Lapua lead core 154 gr. Megas then the Naturalis all copper. They worked well. As I mentioned in my post seeing them with my spotting scope come down a grassy slope, looking like line of black Volkswagens was a wakeup call.

The real Russians are beasts. Yes. Robert Ruark, use enough gun, especially in the tangles close up.

You mentioned Fort Hunter Liggett, such a great experience. I drove there this spring and met the woman I referred to earlier, my former editor. We stayed at the vintage Hotel and enjoyed all the grounds then drove over to the Big Sur Coast. Have you ever done that? I hunted the super-hot A zone for blacktails a few times That area had the greatest populations of rattlers' i ever encountered!

 

[gwhunter]

I will also say that was an amazing story to read. Very well written and I enjoyed it tremendously. I can't wait to hear another.

 

[Mustangs Rule]

That was a fun read. Edward Abbey mixed with Robert Ruark.

We hunted Russian Boar in the California Coast Range. W.R. Hearst brought them in to hunt around Hearst Castle and they escaped. I have seen these wild pig nests you described.
We hunted hogs on public, but also on private. There are pockets of feral hogs all over California, including the Sierras. A lot of this land is under CalWild now and I don't even know if it is huntable. The only things I miss from my California days are hunting and fishing. Sitting here at age 63, I have now been in Idaho more than half my life.

Hogs used to be classed as non-game in California and it was open season. In the 1990's they monetized them as game animals and you had to have a license and a pack of seven tags. If you used all seven, you could buy more.

I often carried a 6.5x55 Swede for hogs. With 160 RN the Swede has that mysterious 6.5mm magic and can punch through their hide shoulder shields. I also hunted them over a friend's dogs with a 44 Magnum and 12 Gauge 000. Sometimes with my 30-06.

Regarding piglets. We found that big boars were for bragging rights, as the dogs wouldn't even eat it ground up. For eating, a sounder of piglets are like little bacon footballs.
Yummy. One of the best things you will ever eat cooked on a spit over a campfire. Self basting and the lard drips into the fire and flares up. The experience is something you don't forget.

Hogs don't just tear up the landscape, they kill and eat anything they can catch. They will drive other predators off kills. I suppose we have all read or heard the stories of murderers who disposed of bodies in a pig sty. I have seen pigs on Blacktail deer carcasses on Fort Hunter Liggett.

I don't know about The Strip, but in California the feral farm hogs didn't die out. They interbred with the Russian stock. You still see throwbacks, however. Once near New Idria I missed a shot at a big sow because I hesitated. She looked like a Gloucestershire Old Spots. For a split second I thought she must have come off a ranch in the nearby Panoche Valley. While I thought about it, she bugged out.

More thoughts about hunting California hogs/wild boar. Yes, some look like Gloucestershire Old Spots and others like Black beasts' worthy of nightmares. The California climate is kind and farm like pigs can survive even thrive. Not on "The Strip". It is one of the hardest of environments imaginable. So hot to terribly cold, with very limited calories available for thriving. I am glad the Utah Cowboys and hounds really culled them to the point where few remain. The Boar Battles will continue.
Your statements about wild boar as table fair is so true. Anything over 80 lbs is not worth eating. Even the backstraps of big males are smell compromised. Being grain fed on barley ranches made them better, yet still just okay.
In Spain they are better table fare, the Spaniards excel at slow cooking them in sauces.

To me the most incredible 45-minute drive anywhere, is going from Hunter Ligget over Nacimiento Road over to the Big Sur Coast. A 180-degree biome change. Yes, I can relate to the Edward Abbey/Robert Rurak combo. Thank you.

Beyond deep trips in places like The Strip which was pure 4x4 required territory, my go to standard hunting vehicle was a little 4 door Saturn sedan. My specialty was often "Niche hunting" finding productive little sweet spots maybe a few hundred yards off the paved roads.

So, one day I was driving at a good speed, through the oaks at Fort Hunter Ligget mid-morning. I was on the paved road and went around a curve and there in the road was the hugest rattler i ever saw in my life. Fat like a big moving limb from and oak tree. Half as long as the road was wide. No chance to a avoid running it, drove right over it.

The impact of the hit sent a shudder through the entire little car. I felt bad about doing that. Such a grandfather totem animal!

There is your "Edward Abbey"

 

[44hunter45]

Thank you for such a full response. I had shot many a California hog/boar mix with my Swede and the heavy RN bullets, first Lapua lead core 154 gr. Megas then the Naturalis all copper. They worked well. As I mentioned in my post seeing them with my spotting scope come down a grassy slope, looking like line of black Volkswagens was a wakeup call.

The real Russians are beasts. Yes. Robert Ruark, use enough gun, especially in the tangles close up.

You mentioned Fort Hunter Liggett, such a great experience. I drove there this spring and met the woman I referred to earlier, my former editor. We stayed at the vintage Hotel and enjoyed all the grounds then drove over to the Big Sur Coast. Have you ever done that? I hunted the super-hot A zone for blacktails a few times That area had the greatest populations of rattlers' i ever encountered!

I have not stayed there, but I have driven all those roads at leisure. My wife and I have a lot of family on the east side of Hunter Liggett in Paso Robles, Atascadero, Jolon, Nacimiento. The drive from Monterey past the Hog's Breath Inn (owned by Clint Eastwood) is one of my favorites.

There are many rattlers there. This is your thread and I don't want to commander it. I do have a Coastal Rattler story for you. A friend and I were hunting blacktails in The Ventana Wilderness near Soledad. My buddy was a stay in camp and drink kind of guy. I hiked out every day to glass from the high points. I spotted a 4x4 down in a draw west of me in the afternoon and started directly down the steep western face of the peak to get closer. I realized too late that I was committed to a scree field and there was a drop-off at the bottom.

It quickly turned into one of those "I might die here" moments. There were tufts of grass anchoring spots on the scree and I would scramble from one to the next. Each grassy spot gave me chance to rest and plan my next move. As I made the leap from one tuft to the next, a rattler started rattling in the same tuft as me. I was balanced on one foot thinking I was going to get snake bit, then fall to my death. After what seemed like an eternity, a snake about 3' long came out of the grass and crossed the scree back in the direction I had come.

I grew in the little town of Raymond in Madera County. We had 400 acres there. The most glorious snake country in the world. My brother and were young herpetologists. We caught and harassed them regularly. I've always said most kid's mothers say, "be careful" when they head outside. My mother's mantra was, "Watch for snakes!"

I've been collecting these tales in a vanity memoir and I have an editor. I hope to finish it before die. Books are hard and take more discipline than I have.