Augie’s Successful Hog Hunt
Flood waters slapped the front bumper. We had driven 4oo miles to South Carolina for a hog hunt, only to get denied reaching our riverside camp due to flooded roads. I smiled to Larry. The adventure had begun.
Before making the trip to South Carolina for this hog hunt, I had discussed the details with the friendly folks at South Carolina Department of Natural Resources. The flooded roads and camping areas were expected.
This was where we had planned to camp, little hard to set the tent up in 3 feet of water.
The good news was the water was predicted to keep falling. Jake with SCDNR mentioned we could camp at another Wildlife Management Area (WMA) named Marsh WMA if the one we planned to hunt, Woodbury WMA, was too flooded to camp. “If you can’t camp at Woodbury, Marsh WMA is higher and you could camp there.” is the only details we had to go on.
With my new DeLorme South Carolina map book, I went on the search, Larry followed behind each and every miss turn and U-turn until we found the signs leading us to our destination. Many of the WMAs in South Carolina come with free primitive camping, a nice little detail I think other states should consider.
Before nightfall camp was set and we were joined by a group of hunters from New York. While Larry and I set up our luxury tents complete with cots and night stands, the New Yorkers parked their RV close by.
The first day of our three-day hunt began with me slowly stalking a semi flooded trail between two swamps. The day was peaceful as only a full day in the woods can. I sat and watched deer feed, wood ducks swim and read Robert Ruark in the afternoon sun, which was followed by a short nap. As the afternoon sun set in the western sky on the first day, I slowly walked along the edge of a controlled burn and flooded timber. I had seen plenty of hog sign but no hogs on the first day. Little did it seem to matter, I was enjoying being there.
Much of the area we tried to hunt was under water
Back at camp around the camp fire, I listened and questioned an old timer from Charleston South Carolina. “If I had a kayak, I would paddle across the slough at the first gate on the right and hunt the high ground on the other side. Nobody else can get over there because of the high water and I bet there are a bunch of hogs over there.” He said. I knew where I was headed in the morning.
The night was cold and required a small propane heater to keep the tent warm. Bacon and eggs cooked on the camp stove washed down with hot tea was the perfect start to the day. I had that feeling. The feeling from deep inside that it was going to be a special day.
I found the gate the old man talked of and by the light of my headlamp looked over the slough, too deep to walk across yet only a short 50 yards to paddle across. The rushing water pulled at the kayak as I crossed the current to the other side. Reaching the other side, I tied the kayak fast, loaded my rifle and began the hunt.
The hunt was what I had come to South Carolina to experience. Slowly I still hunted along the flooded fire road. Hog tracks littered the mud in all directions.
An hour or so into the hog hunt, I heard the grunting of hogs in a thicket. I went on the stalk. The thorns pulled on my jacket and drew blood from my hands. Like a rabbit hunt, the two hogs broke on a run out of the thicket and I swung the rifle and fired; a clean miss. I listened to the splashing water as they ran off into the swamp.
In the afternoon I took on a different approach. The old man from the night before, explained how as the water levels fall, the hogs will be rooting along the water’s edge feeding on things like worms and grubs. I thought, “why not hunt them from the water?” I tossed my pack into the kayak and slowly began to paddle up the slough. The beauty of a flooded timber has always struck a deep cord in my soul. I find a special kind of peace in the swamp quietly floating through the trees, listening to the turtle’s splash off their resting log, watching the wood ducks in flight maneuver through the trees and watching the snakes glide atop the water.
I heard them before I saw them. The loud splashing could only be one thing. Hogs! Through the binoculars I scanned the swamp edge 150 yards away. The sun in the western sky gleamed off the binocular lenses. Through the blinding haze, I could still make out the movement of two hogs. The stalk was on.
The long kayak paddle did not fit between the trees. I tried to quietly separate the two pieces, set one half down in the boat and paddle with half a paddle. With one hand I maneuvered the kayak closer. The other hand tightly grasped my rifle. Four or five times I tried to take aim, but the thick brush hid the hogs or the sun gleamed off the scope’s glass.
I circled around trying to get in front of the feeding hogs. The sun was finally not in direct line of my line of sight and a hog stepped clear of the thick brush, offering me a clean shot. I raised my rifle and took aim. The roar echoed through the swamp.
The hog was loaded in the kayak. As I tried to text my hunting partner, Larry, my hands shook making it difficult to find the small phone keyboard. With the text sent, I relaxed and let the boat drift in the slow current of the swamp. Then it hit me.
The property I was hunting was once part of my father’s old hunting club when he lived in South Carolina. The rifle was once my grandfather’s rifle. I had just successfully taken a hog on my father’s old hunting club while using my grandfather’s rifle, both of whom are no longer with us. Well, maybe in body. But I know in my heart that both men, my heroes and the biggest influences on my life, were there on that afternoon in the swamps of South Carolina.
