FROM BACKROADS TO WALL STREET by Mike Huston

Rattlin Randy, Tyler Huston, and myself with the first hog taken.

The sound of hooves crunching on gravel combine with the soft grunts and vocal crescendo of pigs feeding toward my concealed position. The wind is in my favor and a thick stand of wild plum and prickly pear hides me well as the herd of pigs approach from my left. I have been on many hunts for many species with strong wood bending at the final moment when feathered death meets with muscle and bone, hide and sinew. Today is a little different. Behind me is Justin; he is a reporter with the Wall Street Journal and is doing a story on primitive archery. Justin is not a hunter, and I am determined to make his first experience in the field with primitive equipment a positive and memorable one. Joining us on the hunt is my wife Stacey, our eldest son Tyler, and Rattlin Randy Riffenburg, the foreman of the Newell ranch here in north western Texas.

The Newell ranch is owned by KC Jones and his father and is in my opinion one of the premier whitetail and wild hog destinations for the primitive hunter or traditional minded person. Years of conservation efforts and proper game management have produced strong wild herds of deer and the thick brush and unforgiving terrain has allowed the feral hog population to thrive even with efforts to eradicate them through liberal hunting harvests. Randy put it into perspective when he informed me that a wild sow will have on average ten babies per litter, and eleven will survive. If you take into account that each sow will have three litters of piglets per year, and each of those new piglets will reach breeding age before the year is half gone, it soon becomes apparent that they are a real problem. They are destructive, tough, hearty, and almost impossible to kill off once they are established in an area. With multiple litters per year and few predators, wild hogs are reproducing at a rapid rate across North America; even with extreme measures like trapping, spotlighting, poisoning, and hunting, the populations are expanding to new areas every year.

A chance encounter with this diamond back produced some excellent bow backing.

Wild hogs are great table fare but are quite possibly the toughest creatures I have ever encountered. I witnessed a boar hog weighing about one hundred and fifty pounds take five deep penetrating arrows in the kill zone, run five hundred yards, and then turn to charge me through deep snow with the ferocity of a grizzly when I cornered him. Only dumb luck and a full quiver saved the day.

Feeding pigs are noisy, they grunt and talk to one another constantly, I am on edge and quite determined to make a clean kill as they feed directly in front of me. I draw the sinew-backed Osage bow built by Randy’s son Jason and feel the raw power of well seasoned wood as I concentrate on the black hide ten yards in front of me. Funny how the world seems to slow to a stop as I draw, pick my spot, and release. No matter how many times I find myself at this moment, everything seems to pause as it all comes together for that one instant. But once that arrow begins its flight, oh how the world suddenly comes alive! I see the arrow impact dark hide and hear the slice of muscle and bone meeting steel and wood. Hogs scatter, crashing brush; I hear the squeal of pain or surprise from the stricken hog and heavy breathing from the reporter directly behind me. Randy and Tyler emerge from the mesquite and wild plum thicket like warriors from the past. Shadows merge with buckskin, bows, and bristling quivers as our hunting party watches the retreat of the wounded hog. All eyes follow the black figure as it merges with the late evening shadows and disappears from sight behind a stand of prickly pear cactus and other pokey plants whose names I am not familiar with.

Honor, ethics, and integrity fuel the hunt. Strong wood launched the arrows. Brothers of the bow make meat.

Randy and I discuss the shot and conclude that it was lung shot but a bit high. Randy knows every inch of this twenty-thousand-acre ranch and believes he knows where the hog is attempting to retreat to. We track the boar for about a hundred yards before spotting him bedded under a dry creek bank. Using a quick bout of hand signals and gestures, we settle on a surround using the wind in our favor and the tall grasses and mesquite trees for cover. At ten yards the hog suddenly bursts from cover and makes a retreat west of our location. Randy takes a running shot, burying a stone point deep in the neck of the boar and slowing it down. Tyler also buries an arrow in the hog’s side, and Randy sends a second shaft home.

Finally the boar goes down and when he tries to rise again, I am able to get another stone point into the spinal cord and end the hunt with a quick thrust of my knife to the heart. Adrenaline still pumping, I offer tobacco to the fallen warrior and say my prayers to The Creator, thankful for a successful harvest. I realize at this point that Justin has been standing over the fallen boar and I hope that the last few moments of the hog’s life, being pursued by arrowslinging buckskin and camo-clad hunters wasn’t enough to send him back to California with stories of carnage and bloody shafts littering the woods. He smiles and, to his credit, says, “That was awesome! Primitive bows really DO get it done.”

I explain that under most circumstances, I would have left the hog to expire from the first arrow. But with the heat Texas has been having and the luck of encountering the boar so soon after the shot, the best thing to do was to bring the hunt to a conclusion as quickly as possible. I also explain that in ancient times when food was the sole motivation behind the hunt, the hunt may well have been conducted in exactly this manner—the whole group of hunters working in unison toward the ultimate goal of bringing home meat to feed the tribe. Even though grocery stores, gas stations, and fast food chains are now a convenient reality, our modern tribe will still certainly make use of the hog meat, sinew, teeth, and hide. Sustenance for us is still a very real part of the hunt and why we continue to pursue wild creatures. I live for bow hunting and thoroughly enjoy the challenges of hunting with primitive equipment. I truly love the honorable, ethical, and adrenaline charged hunts with the bow, using ancient methods in modern times.

Wild hogs, even young ones, do not have good eyesight but they more than make up for it with an excellent sense of smell.

The town of Albany, Texas, is a town immersed in rich history: from wild west outlaws to famous artists, the town boasts true Texas atmosphere. Pickup trucks and tractors far outnumber sports cars and golf carts, although both can be found if need be. Friendly southern hospitality lives here even for a Yankee with a bear claw necklace and a decidedly Rocky Mountain drawl. Albany is very near the Newell Ranch, and I feel compelled to mention this little piece of heaven should any fellow brothers or sisters of the bow find themselves in the area—check out the historic jail and visitors center.

We filled the few days following the hunt by learning from Randy. We built arrows, knapped stone heads, stalked hogs, and listened to story after story of whitetail and hog adventures. I love it when a fellow archer gets that far away look as they start recounting tales of the hunt. I can almost feel the chill of morning air as he recalls a late December harvest of a giant whitetail with a horsebow, or the sweltering heat of an August stalk through mesquite and briars on a huge four-hundred-pound hog. I can hear the buzz of the rattle tail snake as it coiled next to Randy while tracking a deer. Every adventure comes to life as a veteran bowyer and honorable hunter retells a lifetime of grand adventures. I am reminded of my own vulnerability as he tells of the grizzly in Alaska who raided his camp while he was on a fishing trip. Memories of too many encounters with these warriors of the far and high lands find themselves coming alive as I listen to a fellow hunter recount his tales.

Rattlin Randy Riffenburg surveys the landscape.

I cannot say enough good things about Rattlin Randy Riffenburg and his wife Melinda who fed us so well and opened her home to my family on this hunt. I want to thank KC Jones for the invite to hunt his ranch, which is a true honor, and I feel blessed to have walked the land. Thanks to Justin for his participation in the hunt and to Stacey for once again capturing everything with her camera so we could share the story through her lens with fellow brothers and sisters of the bow. Five hogs fell to our arrows on this hunt, and our jeep was loaded down with meat as we made the long drive north.

I want to leave this story where it began, with the essence of the hunt, the stalk through heavy cover, and shared adventures. I will recount another stalk, an arrow slicing air, a hog, a hunter. Snow silently falls all around the hunter. Biting cold stings the flesh as he quietly stalks the boar feeding along the meadow. Darkness is closing in as he closes the gap between hunter and prey. Fear surely creeps into his mind as the boar gets within range of his bow. He shakes it off like a dog shedding water and continues to advance. At five yards, he draws his selfbow and takes aim behind the shoulder, mindless of the numbing cold and falling snow. The arrow leaves the string and slices through snowflakes and frozen air with ease. A sharp squeal and deep grunt announce a solid hit! He turns and looks back at Randy. A thumbs-up says all he needs to hear. A smile spreads across his face and he looks up at me with frozen features and wet snowy eyelashes. “Dad? Was it a good hit?”

When stalking wild hogs, it pays to be vigilant. Diamond back rattlers inhabit the same terrain.

“Looked good to me,” I say.

Another smile. “It felt good,” he says. “Really good!”

“Not bad for a twelve year old sissy,” I say.

Another smile. I turn around and see Stacey and Randy staring at us with even bigger smiles. Yep. The primitive hunt is still alive and well and should be for at least one more generation … at least one more. But, that is another story for another time.