Sunshine State Hogs

I heard the 357 bullet slap into the hog from 100 yards away, then watched the boar spin in three circles before darting into insanely thick underbrush. I chambered another round in my Rossi R95 and went headlong down the hill towards where I had hit him. It didn’t occur to me until I was crawling through impossibly thick brush that might contain a wounded and angry boar that maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.

“How did I get myself into this mess,” I muttered as I tried to extract myself from the California scrub brush. Well, it had all started when I answered a phone call from my friend Ron Dan, who also happens to be the President of Field Ethos.

I was walking the dog when the phone rang. The month of May had been insane, starting with a trip to Utah, then Missouri, then New Orleans. I was looking forward to spending some much deserved time in my actual house.

Of course I answered, because it was Ron. Ron’s cool, so I take his calls. “Hey, do you think Rossi would be down to sponsor a hunt in California?” I knew I needed to clear it with my boss first, so I said tentatively yes and texted our CEO, who greenlit the spend. It didn’t occur to me to ask when the hunt was.

Next week. In California. Welp, so much for staying at home. I packed my bags and a couple of days later was on a plane for San Luis Obispo, in the heart of Central California.

At this point I can’t help but think of a line from Return of the Jedi. Right before the fight at the sarlacc pit, Han says to Luke that he thinks his eyes are getting better, because instead of a big dark blur, he sees a big bright blur. Luke responds by saying “there’s nothing to see. I grew up here, you know.” Han then cheekily replies by saying that they’re going to die there.

But for some reason, whenever I go back to California I think of that line. I grew up there, you see, in a little town called Lake Los Angeles. There’s no lake and it’s a 2 hour drive from Los Angeles, so don’t ask about the name. But most importantly, every year we’d take family vacations to the central coast region of California: San Luis Obispo, Cayucos, Pismo Beach, etc. It’s a central part of my childhood memories, and I have a deep love for that part of the country.

I moved away when I was 17, and in the 30 years since then I have gone back exactly five times: for my brother’s wedding, my grandmother’s funeral, the 2011 Steel Challenge, my grandfather’s 95th birthday, and my grandfather’s funeral. My grandfather’s funeral was the last time I went back, and that was almost 15 years ago. Something about that trip did a number to me, and I had no desire to go back to California after that.

Until I was on a plane going to hog hunt, of all things. “It’s just a work trip,” I told myself on the flight. “That’s all.”

As we were driving out to the ranch, Ron dropped the other shoe on me. We were going to be riding horses. Now mind you, the last time I rode a horse was when I was 8, so I’m not exactly an accomplished equestrian. I’m not afraid of horses, but I prefer my transportation to not have a mind of its own and opinions about what direction we should go.

So there I was, sitting on a horse named Cruz as I rode out into 70,000 acres of pristine California ranch land. The land owners are a corporation that runs the largest free range cattle operation in California. If you’ve ever bought grass fed beef in California, that cow probably came from one of their corporation’s ranches. And they have a pig problem. The pigs eat the cow’s food, tear up the soil, and are generally a nuisance. To control that population, they kill around 200-300 pigs annually, and to make it worthwhile, they license that hunting out to Kika Outfitters, our guides for this adventure.

The plan is simple: ride out on horseback and hunt our way to the primitive cowboy camp, stay there, ride around on side-by-sides the next day, then ride back on horses on day 3. Oh did I mention that my horse didn’t like me?

That’s harsh. Saying he didn’t like me is maybe a little strong. He was just an asshole, was the problem. We had an ongoing disagreement about the speed he wanted to walk at, how to get up hills, how to go down hills, and at one point on the ride back, whether or not we should fall down a 50 foot canyon.

But I guess as horses go he was okay, since I’m sitting here typing this and not at the bottom of the canyon.

Fast forward a couple of hours later, and Pete had already shot the first hog of the day. We’d dismounted and hiked up the side of a hill to get within 200 yards of the first hog, and lit him up good. It turns out that Pete and I, who had never met before, developed a pretty good talent for double-tapping hogs. Shooters shoot, I guess.

But it was the next hog I shot that caused me heartburn, and so let’s get back to me crawling through the bushes trying to find this hog I shot. I’m on my hands and knees and can’t really access my rifle since I’m using my hands to crawl. Not optimal. I hear something rustling in the bushes and have one of those “oh shit moments” as I was trying to get my rifle to my shoulder…only for a jackrabbit to sprint out in front of me.

Yeesh.

After that I resolved to not chase wounded hogs into the bush, and sadly left that one to expire from a 357 Magnum through the chest somewhere in a ditch.
We rode the rest of the way into camp fairly uneventfully and got settled in for the night. Well, everyone else got settled in. I sat out in a chair under the stars, swirling a glass of whisky and looking up. And just…remembering.

I’m 9 years old, standing on the sand at Morro Rock beach, absolutely mesmerized by the ocean lapping against the shore, watching the small waves roll in and out. I’m sunburnt, tired, and having one of the best days of my life.

I’m 12, shouting and chasing my brothers through the state park’s frisbee golf course as we play speed frisbee golf. In my memory I win.

I’m 14, sitting around a campfire reading a Star Wars novel for the 14th time, ostensibly “watching” my younger brothers while my parents have a much deserved date night.

I’m in my 20s, eating fish tacos in Cayucos with my family as we celebrate my grandfather’s 95th.

One year later I’m in a church pew as hundreds of people gather for his funeral.

I’m 44, staring up at a night sky I’ve stared at so many times, and finally, for the first time in ages, feel a connection to a place I’d loved my whole life.

It’s very dusty and my eyes feel funny, so I finish my drink and go to bed. There’s hunting to be done.

The night before, as we rode into camp, I had said to Ron “if 8 year old me could see the sick shit I get to do now, he’d lose his fucking mind.” I was right, but what I didn’t know was how much more awesome shit we were going to do.

Day 2 was spent roaming around in side by sides. It started with another double tap from Pete and me, nailing a hog 120 yards up a hill. Then rip around on the side by sides, blast hogs, rip around some more, blast more hogs, repeat. I could write 10,000 words about each individual encounter we had, from the hog we spotted eating a dead cow, the hog we chased up and down a hill like an episode of Cops, to missing a running hog with my very last round while going 35 in the side by side. But instead I’ll tell the story of my favorite shot of the whole trip, and once again it’s co-starring Pete.

“Holy shit that’s a big pig,” our guide Sean said as he lowered his binoculars. We were about 400 yards out, and she was laying 3/4ths of the way up a steep slope. We were out in the open, but if we worked our way up and around the hill we could stay out of her line of sight and close the distance. My R95 in 357 had an Aimpoint T2 micro on it, and Pete’s Rossi in 44 Mag was sporting an Eotech. We weren’t set up for long range, so Sean started walking us in.

I’d been really happy with the R95 in 357 as a hog gun. With the exception of the hog that ran off, everything I’d hit with it since then had decided it didn’t want to be alive any more on the spot. I was using my favorite bullet, the Barnes Expander. In 357, this is pushing a 140 grain solid copper bullet at nearly 1700 feet per second out of a rifle. The problem was that I only had 3 rounds left, and after that all I had were some copper solids I had been able to scrounge up a local gunshop. Hindsight being 20/20, I should have switched to the spare 44. We had loads of ammo for that.

We side-hilled for about a half a mile on treacherous footing. A bad step and you’re rolling down the hill for about 200 feet. It wasn’t steep enough to kill you, but it wouldn’t have felt good either. I was in the middle of a love-hate relationship with my shoes too. I’d abandoned the cowboy boots of the previous day in favor of my Salomon Speed Cross 6 trail running shoes. Traction was 10/10, but one thing I’d forgotten about this part of California is how many little stickers are on the grass. My ankles were getting murdered.

More side-hilling. It’s crazy how exhausting the act of walking with a gun on a hill can be. It’s one of those things that makes you question your physical fitness, but I run all the time and still I was feeling it. Sean stopped us. The pig was 150 yards away, still laying down. Pete and I crept closer, and kneeled in the brush with about 15 yards separating us. We didn’t need to talk. He fired first, then I fired a split second after. The pig folded up, dead on the spot. It had taken us an hour from when we first spotted her to getting into position for the kill shot.

And while that wasn’t our last kill of the day by far, for me it was the most memorable. It was a hunt that we worked for, a shot we had to fight to get into position to make, and then a complex bit of marksmanship at the end. That’s hunting to me.

Our final day we rode out on horseback again. The guys told us that they were going to take us on a route they didn’t normally take hunters on, because there were some really narrow trails with steep drop offs, and a couple “dicey spots.”

Remember how I said I haven’t rode a horse since I was 8?

Truthfully, it was uneventful. The only spot that raised my heart rate was on one of the aforementioned dicey spots, where we stepped over a small stream. On your right was a sheer rock wall, and on your left, a 100 foot straight drop to rocks. Best case if you went over those rocks is a broken leg. Worst case is you get to find out which religion is right about the afterlife. It was at this point where Cruz decided he really wanted to eat some of the thistles that were growing out of the side of the canyon, and tried to stick his big dumb head over the edge to accomplish that. I felt his weight and mine shift towards the canyon’s edge, and I applied a firm but calm correction with the reins. I also might have called him every curse word I know in English and Spanish.

But really, the memory of the ride is similar to my memories from childhood. Instead of playing hide and seek in the state park with my brothers, I’m riding through these beautiful hills with my friends. It took me back to a place of peace and happiness, and reminded me of a much simpler time in my life.

A lot of people who grew up in California and left have complicated relationships with our home state. For the longest time, I didn’t even tell people I was from there. When you work in the firearms industry, you get tired of hearing people say “ewww, California,” as they judge an entire state’s population by the gun laws forced down our throats by LA and Sacramento. Or they view Californians as some kind of contagion, that spreads from its home base and ruins everything it touches. After a while, you get tired of saying “no but I’m one of the good ones,” and for me, you internalize a little bit of the scorn for the state.

Riding through the hills, laughing and joking with my friends, I remembered the California of my childhood. The California I loved, that I was proud to be from. The California that’s full of good, decent people who love America. From the gun shop owners in San Luis Obispo, to our guides Jake and Sean, and even the United Airlines gate agent that checked me in, I was reminded that I had been guilty of judging an entire state by a sample of its population.

So here at the end, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to Californian gun owners for telling you “just move.” You guys are absolute legends, battling every day against the very infringements and un-Constitutional laws that make your state more difficult to be a gun owner in than it is in South Africa. But you’re there, and you’re fighting the good fight.

Most importantly, I’m sorry to my home state for treating you so poorly in memory for all these years. You are beautiful, and still as full of adventure as you were when I was young.