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The story of the first evening's hunt, or:
"Breaking the Hex"

The first morning's hunt was nothing to talk about for me, although several pigs were brought in that morning, I saw snout nor bristle.

It was bad enough that I started bitching to Rockchucker about the hex I was sure a waitress had cast on Bob and me as we stood outside an artsy fartsy eating establishment in San Antonio. I was sure at the time, and remain so convicted, that I did nothing to the hag, but happened to look her in the eye as she walked up behind Bob and dumped an ashtray in an outdoor garbage can, with complete indifference to fire safety.

You see, Bob has his back to her and I was facing the direction we had come from. Bobby saw her too, but apparently since he saw pigs on the first morning's hunt, I could only surmise that I got some over spray on that hex because I looked her in the eye as she approached.

The evening started innocently enough, we were having a lovely visit to the Mission City, and hoped to take in the evening meal at a dining establishment located at the old Pearl Brewery complex. The Hippies in San Antonio have renovated that buildings there, turning them into various and sundry shops, coffee houses and eateries. We actually had a reservation at the joint, and when we showed up, they acted like it might be a minute before we could be seated, even though the place was hardly what I would call busy.

Some of the crew were outside smoking a cigarette, one or two were making a head call and that left Bobby and me to wait for the table. The hostess finally came to seat us before any of the rest of the party came in, so we took up a seat at the end of the table. The hag came over immediately and laid out menus, while asking what Bobby and I would like to drink. We sent for a water apiece, and waited for the crew. By the time they showed up and were seated, the look on the hag's face had changed from simply sour, to the look a teacher gets when a student hits her in the a$$ with a sour green apple.

We placed orders for drinks, and appetizers, and while we were at it, we ordered the entree and more drinks. You have to understand that this was not Whataburger. Had it been, the service would have been much more friendly. That said, if the tab at Whataburger came back the same as a brand new 4th Generation Glock 17, we could have fed everyone on the first two floors of the Pearl Brewery.

Anyway, the night progressed and the more we joked and laughed, the meaner Hagatha looked. Now, before I go further, I will say the next sentence is absolutely the truth. I had 2 Lone Star beers and one drink of bourbon. This, along with a brontosaurus ribeye, and samples of about 5 different appetizers had me on the level. I was as sober as a judge, so to speak.

At any rate, I saw no one at that table who appeared to be remotely inebriated, but the wicked witch of the west had had enough. She sent the manager over to tell us that our server did not feel comfortable serving us any more.

To be honest, I was flabbergasted, I'd never been invited to leave a dining establishment before.

Well apparently, we were all flabbergasted, because our host begrudgingly left a 20 dollar tip for the poor necromancer, and we made our exit.

Now, to be fair, it was tough love that made him do that. He doesn't have a spiteful or mean bone in his body. But he had to do it, to teach her a lesson about friendly service making better gratuity.

Well, when I saw her stalking out of the restaurant headed in our direction, I checked her hands, then her eyes to see if she was coming to stab us with a broken wine bottle. She cast the stink eye, but simply turned and dumped the ash tray into a garbage can and returned from whence she came.

So, after the way the first morning's hunt went, I was concerned I might have to go back up to San Antonio and borrow a dish towel from that restaurant to break her spell. That, or sacrifice some chicken from the chow hall...

I tell you all of that to let you know the frame of mind I was in, for the evening's hunt. I felt a little bit underwhelmed when we pulled up to the stand in the low fence area of the ranch. Standard deal, the feeder was about 75 yards or so from the blind, but a dandy 5 strand barbed wire fence was right beside the feeder and we could see into the next field from there.

It was hot that evening, but luckily, Bobby had dispatched Sandcritter to pack a cooler full of barley pops for the evening's sit. Imagine our surprise when we learned that Sandcritters from NC and even those who transplant to Montana, don't bother to put ice on beverages they put into "Coolers". I can only guess that it is due to them having a cursed snowbank to stick a beer in, to keep it from getting hot?

Thankfully, in addition to the hot beer, we had a couple hot waters and a nasty pear. Rockchucker made sweet love to that pear (Or so it sounded) until he threw the core out the window and we continued our wait.

Wait we did. Sweat we did. Owing to dehydration, I began to get punchy. I popped off with: "Mr and Mrs Pig Piggerson, please come to the dining area, your table is ready." I didn't know if pigs speak English or not, but I thought I would take the chance.

Graciously, Bobby invited me to take the first shot that evening, since he had shot a sickly pig during the morning's hunt. He was given a pass on that pig, since it was no good, and still had all three pigs to go.

The first black boar showed himself not all that long after the feeder went off. He came from the other field, but hung up without crossing. I decided to go ahead and shoot him, but the shot broke before I was good and nailed down on where I wanted to hole to show up. He spun and ran, but a large spot of blood was already visible high and tight behind his right foreleg.

I was surprised when he ran, but we gathered ourselves and followed up. Again, credit where it is due, Rockchucker is also part bloodhound. We found the fat bastid in 50 yards or so. He ended up just under 150 pounds but it felt like I was dragging a 450 John Deere.

I forgot to take my phone with me, so I couldn't take a picture of my boar. We returned to the blind and I got it, while Bobby stayed to hunt. I got back, snapped a couple of pictures and then drug Mr. Piggerson back out through the field, under the fence and into the road behind the blind. After that, I began slipping back up to the blind to take my place with Rockchucker.

Nice fella that he is, he waited until I was about 6 steps from the back of that shed before he barked off "the blue vein throbber" which is the new name for his rifle. It comes from the heinous blue McSwirly stock that he has it bolted into. I swear to Robert Ruark, that is the loudest 6.5 Swede I have ever been around. Obnoxiously loud, but it is a killer. No doubt about that. Ol' Bobby had dropped another lone black boar about 15 pounds heavier than the one I just killed. We whooped, we hollered and we took pictures. We started to drag it through the fence when Bobby said, "Do you hear that?" He keeps asking me that, even though he knows I am going to say "No."

"Back to the blind, more pigs are coming" so we scurry back to the hideout and make ready. This time three adults come in, along with about 9 or 10 piglets. We devise a plan for a countdown. I call out my target. Bobby calls his target and the countdown begins.... "3,2,1,BAM!" My 270 spoke and sent 150 grains of round nosed core lokt into the face of the old spotted sow I was targeting. Smoked her like a pack of Kools, I did. Pigs start to run and I turn to ask Bobby if he had shot. Just as I am facing in his direction, he finally gets the safety off, on the throbber and looses a salvo at the fleeing pork. We discovered that shot was a miss, after much searching, but still, what an evening!

Turns out, our entire group had smashed pork that night. Sandcritter took a couple, in spite of packing a beer cooler with no ice. 7mmMato took a nice one, and RangerGreen took his third and final pig of the trip.

We piled so much pork on the bumper of the guide's truck, it snapped through the welds and fell off the frame. We had to load all seven of those pigs up in the back of the truck before we could come in.

And so it was, that the San Antonio hex was broken. For me, anyway. Bob still hasn't shot this year's first pig. Go ask to borrow a dish towel from the Boiler Room, Bob. If they won't give you one, grab something and run out the door. It will break the hex she put on you.