Double-Tap

After years of talking about it but never actually committing, all it took was a friend's recent divorce to get myself and two other friends, Teddy (divorcee), and David (happily married), to find ourselves in West Texas, on the hunt for three free-range, trophy Aoudad. Considering Teddy’s ex was the reason he never came on any trips with us, what better way to stick it to the woman you’re about to lose your house to.

Skipping past a 12 hour drive in an old, rusted out Dodge 1500, a few Whataburger stops, one ticket for expired tags, and many Marlboros straight to the lungs, we arrived at our lodge and met with our guide.

Actually, lodge is too nice of a word. Thirty minutes from the nearest gas station sat two trailers, both owned by our guide, Peter. A smaller statured immigrant from Juarez, who greeted us in an old Columbia fishing shirt, denim shorts and cowboy boots. I’ll let you picture him. He had a whimsical nature about him, but he took hunting seriously. Perhaps too seriously.

Before we could even introduce ourselves, upon stepping out of his trailer: “You three are the only thing I’ve been thinking about these past few days. I’m getting you on some rams, boys!”

“Nice to meet you too, Peter.”

Getting us on rams he did. By day three, Teddy and I had already punched our tags, and David had a few close calls on some giant rams. On the fourth night, we all gathered by the fire and discussed the plans for our last day. David still had a tag in his pocket, and Teddy and I were more than happy to stay at the lodge, exhausted from three days of hunting and butchering, and let David go solo with the guide to up his chances.

“If you guys want, there is a farm about an hour away loaded with Javelinas. I can drop you off there tomorrow while we go after some Rams.” Mumbled Peter, as he spit tobacco into a tupperware container, a product I had never seen used in that way before.

“Works for us.”

The next morning, by the time the sun had come up, Teddy and I spotted a nice squadron of Javelinas working the edge of some mesquite trees. Teddy motioned me to make the first shot. I drew my bow back, and tucked my arrow just forward of center on the peccary. Clean shot, quick recovery. Teddy’s turn.

Javelina’s are known for their poor eyesight, which we were able to use to our advantage as we cut off another group just down a trail that parted thick groves of cactus. Teddy went ahead by about 20 yards and got into position to take the shot on one of the skunk pigs that had separated himself from the rest of the group. I watched as he drew back, released, and turned towards me, hands in the air in celebration.

“Ted! Get another arrow out, something doesn’t look right.”

“He’s dead. He just dove into that thicket. Maybe 10 yards.”

Blood looked good. The absence of a dead Javelina looked not so good. We followed for another 20 yards before we noticed what appeared to be an old drainage pipe protruding from a small hill in the landscape. Following the direction of the pipe, about 100 feet later led to a cement guard blocking the other end.

“I think your Javelina crawled through that drainage pipe.” I said laughing, interrupted by the sound of snarling and snorting coming from that direction. “Now I’m positive your javelina crawled through that drainage pipe.

Teddy crouched down to see if he could determine how far it went in, hopeful it would be a quick recovery. He was wrong.

“I can’t see very far, but he's gotta be at least 30 feet deep.”

“Take my .45” I said, as I pulled my 1911 from its holster. “Use the flashlight on your phone, finish him off and then just drag him out.”

“Fuck no. That thing is pissed. There’s gotta be another way.”

I pondered for a second. Going through different scenarios in my head, weighing out what the most strategic plan would be…

“$50 and I’ll do it.” Churchill-level strategy.

Arms extended forward, I crawled into the pipe, one hand holding my phone with its flashlight function on, the other hand gripping my Colt, finger slowly creeping inside the trigger guard, ready to fire if this pig's fight or flight gets triggered and it wants to charge.

Two shots ring out, the acoustics from the metal tube hit me like a heavyweight boxer. Disoriented, I gather myself, grab the peccary by its ears, and slowly back myself out, getting a strong waft from its scent gland with every move, which creates almost a greenhouse effect in the confines of the tunnel. Finally, I’m out.

“Why did you shoot twice?” asked Teddy, as I cleaned myself off.

“Because you only shot once, and look what happened. Now give me my $50”