by Michelle Puzo
On a Saturday morning in November of 1989, Dad and I were on our way to meet his old hunting buddy, Roger Morain. He had invited us to join him for a day of one-on-one wild boar hunting in South Georgia, and we jumped at the opportunity. This also proved a wonderful chance for me to hunt once again with the man who taught me how--my dad.
I was fourteen years old and all decked out in a baggy camouflage outfit, a pair of oversized old boots, a bright orange safety vest, and a brown hat with the inscription, "Joe's Hunting Supply and Discount Barn." My long blond hair was in a loose ponytail that hung from the back of my hat. Dad wore the same type of attire, but his clothes fit better than mine. Our arsenal for the trip was a mixed bag, with Dad opting for his favorite Winchester .12 gauge semi-automatic shotgun and me trying my Remington .20 gauge pump shotgun for the first time.
By 5:30 a.m., we had arrived at our destination, the Tuskahannee Hunting Club in Burke County, Georgia. The entrance of the camp included a heavy gate, which was constructed of an arrangement of old lumber, barbed wire, and metal bars. Beyond the gate, sat the camp, nestled under a patch of giant cyprus trees. The hunting camp itself wasn't the sophisticated, somewhat modern layout that I had thought it would be. It included a collection of old school buses, campers, and trucks which served the purpose of "cabins" for the hunters, who were steady occupants of the camp during the entire hunting season. Old junk cars and rows of tires lined the outskirts of this so- called camp. In the middle area, meat freezers, water hoses, and a coal pit represented some sort of outdoor kitchen area. Bordering the heavy swamp were old rusty dog cages and a pit for the disposal of the innards and carcasses of hunted game.
"Dad, are you sure this is the club that we are supposed to be at? Maybe we made some sort of wrong turn," I inquired.
"Michelle, this is it. Come on; Let's go say `Hi' to Roger," Dad said.
As we walked over to Roger, I noticed that the hunters were not at all what I had expected. They were dreadful sights. They wore clothes that were soiled with dried blood, swamp mud, and coffee stains. They were unshaven and ill-mannered. Many didn't bathe during hunting season for fear they would scare off the animals. No bathing for almost three months on account of boar hunting--were they completely insane? If Mom only knew, she would have never let me come, and now, I kind of wished she hadn't.
Some of the men made little remarks about having a female hunting with them. "What a bunch of rude, male chauvinistic pigs," I thought. There weren't any other girls there. Why not? Were they sissies? Well, I wasn't. I wasn't going to sit at home and rot away in front of the T.V. and play with some stupid plastic doll. To hell with Ken and Barbie!
By this time, everyone began to crowd around what was called the "main cabin." It seemed that an older, overweight, baldheaded man was the camp leader. He was referred to by the other members as "Ol' Bubba." He quickly skimmed over the basic safety standards and stringent policies. He finished up by saying, "Ya'll watch out fer those dawgs. Make sure not ta shot at 'em, and ya'll boys bring back some meat fer the camp, ya'll hear. Now go get'em."
Daylight was less than fifteen minutes away and we needed to scramble if we wanted to be in our spots before dawn. All hurried to their trucks and headed into the swamp. Dad and I rode with Roger to our assigned lots: D-17, D-19. As we were traveling down an old log road to our destinations, Roger began to caution us about the boars.
"Ya'll just make sure ya shoot'em before they stick at ya. Ya'll shoulda seen the mess that them there boars made out of po' Bob Waller. Done gored him o'er a dozen or so times in his belly. Yep, them boars dun cut loose on him."
That was it. I was ready to tuck my tail between my legs, swallow my pride, and go home. "No," I thought, "I have to go on this hunt. I have to make Dad proud of his daughter."
"Lot D-17--Michelle this here is yer spot. Now ya make sure ya shoot the hell out of them boars," Roger warned.
"Dad, you aren't going to be too far away, are you?" I asked nervously.
Dad whispered, "I'll only be about a mile up the road. Now you stay close to the edge of the swamp and don't wander too far. Good luck, honey."
I mumbled a humble "good-bye," as Dad returned to the truck.
I turned around and looked at my surroundings. The sounds of the swamp were many and varied, from the distant howling of wild dogs to the shooting rhythm of the Savannah River. Bamboo and swamp grass covered the swamp floor. Oaks were turning from green to a dull yellow against a backdrop of weeping willows and cyprus. A repulsive stench arose from the thick swamp mud.
I decided to sit next to a large cyprus tree that bordered a deep ravine. The ravine was filled with fallen trees, branches, and thick mud, where dozens of boar had wallowed, forming some sort of trail. The dawn found me peering directly in the direction of the rising sun and up onto a small hill. Half-eaten mushrooms and roots hinted at the presence of the hungry beast nearby. Soon afterwards, loud grunting noises abducted the air, and I was startled. I clutched my gun, hoping that its presence would ward off any predators, but the grunts were only becoming louder and deeper. I was on my own and I was scared.
As tears wafted from my eyes, I looked around trying to determine if there were any boars in sight. I noticed something moving about fifty yards on the hill to my right. I sat motionless as it rummaged around on the hilltop. I could tell by its quick movements and short build that it was indeed a boar. The beast was working its way toward the ravine when it caught a glimpse of the shiny barrel of my .20 gauge. The boar abruptly changed its course and began charging down the hillside at what seemed to be a thousand miles an hour towards me.
Oh, God. What a nauseating sight! Long, coarse black hair comprised the beast's body. Its face was wrinkled with thick dried skin, and a snot-covered snout was positioned at the tip of its oversized head. Enlarged tusks that jutted from his jaws shone like spearheads in the glare of the morning light. Thoughts of "being gorged in the belly" in the middle of the swamp by those long pointed tusks didn't seem very inviting.
The boar was grunting in a deep tone, and it was less than thirty yards away. It curled its lips, and over eight inches of trouble showed from his upper and lower jaw. I was horrified. I didn't want it to relieve me of any of my innards. I was very attached to my organs, and I planned on keeping them.
My heart was pounding in my chest like a freight train racing down the track, and my steamy breath was escaping in plumes. Chill bumps, beads of sweat, and numbness ran rampant through me as the boar lunged forward. My body didn't seem like my own. I couldn't gain control of myself and my courage seemed as if it had floated away with the gusty winter winds.
I muttered, "Do what Dad would do." I had to pull myself together quickly. I took a deep breath and tried to focus. The boar was closing in. There was less than twenty yards between us. I had to get to him before he got hold of me. I pulled my gun to my shoulder and took a secure fore-end grip on the stock. Getting mauled or jabbed whizzed in my head as I unlocked the safety. I didn't want to die, and I had three shots to stop this two hundred pound pair of garden shears.
I swung on the boar like a pheasant busting cover. I fired a shot, and he appeared to swerve away from the bullet. With a quick thrust of my left hand, I pumped another bullet into the smoking chamber of my .20 gauge. The boar was still coming at me with his turbo chargers on. The shotgun roared again as I lightly tapped the trigger. The bullet rocketed toward the boar; however, it only grazed his coat. The only thing that I had successfully done was completely piss him off. He was within thirty feet. It seemed that every time a bullet would zigg, the boar would zagg. I had only one chance left, and it meant everything. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the echoes of my heartbeat rang in my ears. I noticed a lump in my throat as well as cold tears gliding down my cheeks. I put my bead sight on the front shoulder of his moving body, said a quick prayer, and set off an explosion. Silence followed, and smoke drifted across the field.
Blood-bright, holly-red gouts and crimson slashes in the black coat indicated that my shot was a good one. The boar had dropped like a sac of rocks within fifteen feet of where I had stood. Blood was everywhere. The boar's mangled body jolted and shook for minutes. Overturned leaves and mud lay under the convoluting animal as it gasped for air in a slow heavy manner and its last breath escaped through its bloody snout with a loud sighing noise. The beast was dead. I examined him with much curiosity. The Winchester Super Slug .20 gauge bullet had done its job well, leaving a golf ball-sized wound. It had passed completely through the bones of the right shoulder, destroying the heart and lungs before exiting.
Relief overcame me as I hovered over the forty-eight inch monster, the horrendous bulk that makes a wild boar. Fear had been blown away. My mind was no longer racing with thoughts of getting the gun into the right position and killing the charging beast. Those actions were complete, and my mind was left free to fill with thoughts of victory as well as solace. Like so many other hunters had done before in the excitement and thrill of the kill, I let out a war whoop that shattered the stillness of the woods. I informed the world around me that I had made my mark in this gruesome swamp environment.