356
5 year old buck +
The original week of my scheduled first hog hunt was met with a blizzard that shut down I-44 and brought record-low temperatures to Missouri and Oklahoma. We had to postpone the trip for two weeks, but on Wednesday, March 5, 2025, my three colleagues, who I count as close friends, joined me on a trip to Mangum, OK, eager for a new adventure. With promises of sounders of 120 or more hogs, we were full of anticipation as we took to the two shooting houses normally used for deer hunts. The landowner, who was a close friend of one our group, had been baiting the site with corn, and promised we would see hogs around sunset. But as darkness fell, the only sights we encountered were a covey of quail and two skunks. Not quite the excitement we had imagined.
The next morning, we set out at 0500, determined to find the promised sounders that were rumored to be as large as two Army platoons. Instead, we spotted a solitary boar at 400 yards and... another skunk. No quail. No hogs. Just skunks.
Undeterred, we pressed on. At 0800 our hosts were taking us through miles of the vast, rugged terrain of southern Oklahoma. The ground was littered with fresh hog sign. But despite the overwhelming evidence, all we saw were three solitary hogs—each well beyond shooting range. We were thrilled by the sight of whitetail and mule deer, and encountered armadillos, more skunks, and several coyotes. One of our team members even managed to put a few ventilation holes in one of the coyotes, adding some excitement to an otherwise uneventful morning.
We enjoyed lunch with several locals, including the state conservation officer, who suggested we walk the bluffs. Over the next four hours the health app on my phone showed I had walked over 8 ½ miles through the mesquite filled river bluffs. I saw more deer and another skunk, but no hogs. As we regrouped, our hosts couldn’t believe the lack of luck. Where were the sounders? Everyone we spoke to had tales of large groups of hogs, some over 100 strong. The sign we had walked through during the miles we covered along the river basins, supported their stories. Two of our group members, worn out, chose to skip the evening hunt and enjoy a quiet dinner in town. With just over an hour of light left, two of us weren’t ready to give up yet. This was our last chance before heading home.
Despite having little time left before dark, we decided to make the trek back to the original shooting houses. It meant a harrowing 10-mile drive down dirt roads and a 1-mile hike to the blind. We made it to the road’s end in record time, driving fast as the light began to fade. The shooting houses were almost a mile from the road, 400 yards apart, situated on opposite sides of a creek that was currently flowing.
The hike to the blind was brutal. The wind had picked up, sending tumbleweeds rolling through the landscape and a dust storm in its wake. The sky, instead of offering the stunning sunset we had enjoyed the night before, only showed a faint glow to the west.
I arrived at the blind with 38 minutes of shooting light left. Immediately, I noticed the corn we had placed earlier was gone. In its place, fresh hog tracks crisscrossed the area. A sinking feeling hit me. "I’ve missed the show," I thought, and mentally kicked myself for being late. In my rush to get to the blind, I grabbed the .243 deer rifle I had earlier loaned to my friend—the one who was now dining on a steak—and left everything else behind.
Despite my exhaustion from the long day, there was something peaceful about being alone in God's creation for a few minutes after two days of hunting with the group. The sun set at 6:36 pm, and by 6:56 pm, the clouds and dust had turned the landscape into something barely perceptible through my Leopold. As I was about to close the window, I saw something odd—what looked like tumbleweeds rolling into the wind. A minute later, a massive sounder, easily 100 hogs strong, stormed through the feeding plot, a mere 100 yards away.
It was just after 7:00 pm. The hogs, sensing no food left or catching my scent, charged past the site. One large sow slowed for a brief moment. I had just enough contrast through the scope to make a clean shot. I heard a squeal, followed by the rapid, thunderous retreat of the entire sounder, heading north and into the river. A second shot connected with another retreating hog, hitting it in the leg. The animal stumbled off with the rest of the sounder, now bounding on three hooves.
At this point I was wishing I had brought my pistol, which I had carried with me until now. I closed the window and secured the blind, then switched on the headlamp attached to my cap and began the walk toward the downed hog. I was about 30 yards away when she suddenly got up and bolted, running another 30 yards before stopping. It was now too dark to use the optic. As I closed the distance, she raced another 40 yards into a 12-foot ravine that dropped into the muddy creek, where she expired.
By now, my friend had left his blind. With his help I found a crossing. Exhausted but exhilarated, we took a few pictures and began our walk back to our truck. Our hosts encouraged us to return trip “later in the year” to combine hogs & turkey or hogs & deer. As we drove to town our minds were already turning to the next hunt, with the experience of seeing the "sea of hogs" becoming another cherished hunting memory I will not soon forget.
The next morning, we set out at 0500, determined to find the promised sounders that were rumored to be as large as two Army platoons. Instead, we spotted a solitary boar at 400 yards and... another skunk. No quail. No hogs. Just skunks.
Undeterred, we pressed on. At 0800 our hosts were taking us through miles of the vast, rugged terrain of southern Oklahoma. The ground was littered with fresh hog sign. But despite the overwhelming evidence, all we saw were three solitary hogs—each well beyond shooting range. We were thrilled by the sight of whitetail and mule deer, and encountered armadillos, more skunks, and several coyotes. One of our team members even managed to put a few ventilation holes in one of the coyotes, adding some excitement to an otherwise uneventful morning.
We enjoyed lunch with several locals, including the state conservation officer, who suggested we walk the bluffs. Over the next four hours the health app on my phone showed I had walked over 8 ½ miles through the mesquite filled river bluffs. I saw more deer and another skunk, but no hogs. As we regrouped, our hosts couldn’t believe the lack of luck. Where were the sounders? Everyone we spoke to had tales of large groups of hogs, some over 100 strong. The sign we had walked through during the miles we covered along the river basins, supported their stories. Two of our group members, worn out, chose to skip the evening hunt and enjoy a quiet dinner in town. With just over an hour of light left, two of us weren’t ready to give up yet. This was our last chance before heading home.
Despite having little time left before dark, we decided to make the trek back to the original shooting houses. It meant a harrowing 10-mile drive down dirt roads and a 1-mile hike to the blind. We made it to the road’s end in record time, driving fast as the light began to fade. The shooting houses were almost a mile from the road, 400 yards apart, situated on opposite sides of a creek that was currently flowing.
The hike to the blind was brutal. The wind had picked up, sending tumbleweeds rolling through the landscape and a dust storm in its wake. The sky, instead of offering the stunning sunset we had enjoyed the night before, only showed a faint glow to the west.
I arrived at the blind with 38 minutes of shooting light left. Immediately, I noticed the corn we had placed earlier was gone. In its place, fresh hog tracks crisscrossed the area. A sinking feeling hit me. "I’ve missed the show," I thought, and mentally kicked myself for being late. In my rush to get to the blind, I grabbed the .243 deer rifle I had earlier loaned to my friend—the one who was now dining on a steak—and left everything else behind.
Despite my exhaustion from the long day, there was something peaceful about being alone in God's creation for a few minutes after two days of hunting with the group. The sun set at 6:36 pm, and by 6:56 pm, the clouds and dust had turned the landscape into something barely perceptible through my Leopold. As I was about to close the window, I saw something odd—what looked like tumbleweeds rolling into the wind. A minute later, a massive sounder, easily 100 hogs strong, stormed through the feeding plot, a mere 100 yards away.
It was just after 7:00 pm. The hogs, sensing no food left or catching my scent, charged past the site. One large sow slowed for a brief moment. I had just enough contrast through the scope to make a clean shot. I heard a squeal, followed by the rapid, thunderous retreat of the entire sounder, heading north and into the river. A second shot connected with another retreating hog, hitting it in the leg. The animal stumbled off with the rest of the sounder, now bounding on three hooves.
At this point I was wishing I had brought my pistol, which I had carried with me until now. I closed the window and secured the blind, then switched on the headlamp attached to my cap and began the walk toward the downed hog. I was about 30 yards away when she suddenly got up and bolted, running another 30 yards before stopping. It was now too dark to use the optic. As I closed the distance, she raced another 40 yards into a 12-foot ravine that dropped into the muddy creek, where she expired.
By now, my friend had left his blind. With his help I found a crossing. Exhausted but exhilarated, we took a few pictures and began our walk back to our truck. Our hosts encouraged us to return trip “later in the year” to combine hogs & turkey or hogs & deer. As we drove to town our minds were already turning to the next hunt, with the experience of seeing the "sea of hogs" becoming another cherished hunting memory I will not soon forget.
Last edited:
