Every year as summer fades relentless thoughts wander to deer and big land. Driving for a living. Lusting after open pastures dissected by cypress heads and riddled with oak hammocks. I work on the road. My truck is my office. Working in citrus I have made acquaintance with a few weary growers that have graciously allowed me to hunt in their groves.

Each year I grow more interested in public land opportunities but have yet to fully commit. Working hard for deer becomes four hour round trips departing at 3:30am and navigating private land politics. Not quite as glamorous as navigating hairy public swamps.

This year I have gained occasional hunting access to a grove that sits between ranch land and a state park. Free reign of the place on weekends that the owner’s son is not home form college. That's fine with me. Deer seem to like groves. Lots of visibility and cover I suppose. My first thought is that there is nothing for them here, why wouldn't they spend all of their on the ranch or in the park?

So far I have made a handful of trips to other groves and a few half-ass attempts on public land. I have yet to squeeze the trigger on anything this season. New permission is exciting but leads to feeling lost. The first time I came here I hunted the early morning. Perched on a modest levy, I watched the sunrise illuminate the cloudy and unattainable pasture. A few hours of glassing and slinking around in cold rain resulted in a lack of faith that any mammals exist here. The second trip out here was more of the same. Shitty weather and a disbelief in ungulates altogether.

Today is another early morning hunt. The first day of doe weekend. In my mind, the greatest chance for venison. One of only a few days when deer of either sex can be killed with rifle. I watch the sunrise over a likely fence line. The weather is pleasant and rifle rounds echo as if talking to each other. I decide to stalk the perimeter of the grove once again. Systematically peering down each row. In hopes to catch deer seeking refuge from war-waging neighbors.

After scouring every row of every block, I set up to glass the ranch. Searching for any Intel or hope. To the south I watch two coyotes creep through fog and unamused heifers. I Slowly scan to the east, taking time to dismiss each cow as non-game. I glass up 12 black blobs gliding across the horizon. Too quick and smooth to be bovine. A dozen hogs are trotting north down a fence line. They reached the vertex of barbed wire and change course to due west. Towards me. I run the binoculars down the fence. It terminates at a swale leading into the grove 70 yards in front of me. Its 9:45am. I can’t resist. I slouch down and wedge my rifle into the crotch of the Brazilian pepper limb I carry. Take a deep breath and dial the scope back to 3x.

The swine make no effort to veer off course. I watch them dip into the swale that separates forbidden land from attainable. The first pig crosses, snout to the ground. A .270 Winchester meets her ear. The rest of the pack panics and balls up around her. I eject the shell and regain a sight line through the scope. As soon as its clear a round strikes a gray sow in the shoulder.

The third and final round in my clip enters the chamber and the safety is engaged. I walk briskly to a 150lb sow kicking her last kick in the tree row. With rifle shouldered I reach the game trail the hogs were following. The gray sow made it another 10 yards down the trail. I stare over her at the rest of the pack briefly through my glass eye. That's enough pork for now. I save the lonesome round and drag mammals into shade.

Another jaunt around the property to double check for a lost deer. Nothing. I make my way back the hogs with truck and tools. I find myself Triple checking to make sure no one is around before the inevitable struggle to heave gutless sows onto the tailgate. I Grab a few bags of ice and beers to fill various cavities and begin the two hour drive home.

Wild hog is Certainly not venison. They are not the most astute animals, and I don't enjoy the meat as much. Although certain preparations have their merit. Many declare large hogs inedible and Leave them for buzzards. Yet, I cannot shake the feeling of success.