I was on route to South Africa’s Northern province to hunt with nothing but a 454 Casull revolver and a knife strapped to my belt...

There would be no rifles and no back-ups, just the unarmed professional hunter (Claude), my director (Rebecca), and the camera crew.  I studied the list of trophy fees for the various animals I could encounter.  Besides the large plains game, I wanted to get a variety of the smaller less expensive trophies.  When I rated the animals pound for dollar, the bush pig stood out as a good candidate.  From what little information I had, I knew bush pigs could grow to 300 pounds and looked the cross between a Russian boar and a warthog.  That alone was reason enough to chase one with a pistol, but I would soon discover things about hunting bush pigs the guides don’t always tell you when booking your hunt.

After being picked up at the Johannesburg airport, I listed the extra animals I wanted to pursue during the hunt.  Claude quickly devised a plan to locate the trophies I was after, but he curiously left the bush pig out of the scheme.  The first few days went well and I soon forgot about the bush pig oversight.  I collected a number of trophies in Safari Club International’s top 20 and we had hours of good footage. 

On the third day, when we arrived at Claude’s base camp, I quickly noticed a large grizzly looking pig mount hanging behind the bar.  The trophy belonged to Claude.  It was the largest bush pig ever taken in South Africa.  “That is what I want to get”, I said pointing at the pig on the wall.

Claude hesitated before telling me how you must hunt them at night, chase wounded ones with dogs and flashlights, and as if to dissuade me, how bush pigs are a whole level of viciousness over a warthog.  Being a bear hunter and a jack lighting coon killer from way back, this only fueled my fire to pop one of these African night pigs.

After my one shot kills on the largest zebra they had taken in fifteen years of hunting, and the number seven (unofficial) blue wildebeest, we both had confidence in my shooting, the 2X Burris scoped 7 ½” Freedom Arms revolver, and the Nosler partitions.  Claude set up the hunt for the following evening, but indicated if we didn’t see a bush pig that I might consider taking a reedbuck if I saw a good one. 

Claude didn’t share with me that in fifteen years of guiding he only had two (rifle) hunters successfully get bush pigs, one of Claude’s friend had his leg snapped while hunting them, and the ranch manager’s mastiff recently chased one into the brush and was quickly killed.  I was told how they like to use their powerful neck muscles and razor sharp tusks to hook and break your legs.  Once they have you on the ground, they go straight for your soft mid-section and start rooting around for something tasty.  Those of you who play the commodity markets may call that “pork belly pay back” 

  Undaunted by the stories, I set out in the back of the Land Cruiser with Claude, Louis (the ranch manager), and Claude’s two exceptionally trained hunting mastiffs.  It was a cool, clear, moonless night, and we bundled up against the night air while Claude used the spotlight to scan the river bottoms and grapefruit groves.  We saw a number of female reedbucks, fresh hippo urine, crocs, and assorted varmints (jackals, and porcupines) that were quicker than I was.  The porcupines are especially destructive to the fruit trees.  Toward midnight we spotted a trophy size duiker running through the groves.  We raced to the other side of the grove and caught the dog-size buck skirting through some tall grass.  When he emerged in an opening at 40-50 yards, I gave him a 260-grain Nosler partition straight through the heart.  The moon was rising and the prime hunting was over so we called it a night.

The next day was Claude’s birthday and we began the evening at his in-laws ranch.  Claude’s father-in-law, Wesley, was driving and Rebecca was manning the camera from the cab.  Claude had warned me if we did see a pig DO NOT wait for the camera.  If I did get a shot, it would be one brief chance and one chance only. 

There was no action at the bait pile so we drove up above the river and searched the grapefruit groves for pigs feeding on fallen fruit.  Hours had gone by scanning down the rows of thousands of sweet smelling citrus trees, when Claude calmly said “bushpig, shoot.” 

I drew, cocked, and took aim at the south end of a north going pig.  I hesitated, I thought the chance of making a Texas heart shot on a running pig, with a revolver, at 68 yards, at night was not worth the risks of wounding one.  Claude was awfully fond of those two dogs and Louis had said that usually one dog ends up getting killed on the trail of a wounded bush pig.  In addition, I didn’t think putting my guide and his dogs in peril was much of a birthday present.  

Claude’s next words weren’t nearly as calm, “SHOOT! SHOOT!” 

The confidence that your PH has in you goes a long way.  I leveled the cross hairs just below the tail, stiffened my arms against the thunderous recoil, and dropped the hammer on over 1800 ft-lbs of 454 fury.  The pig was down and I was being pushed out of the truck as someone yelled, “Get to it!”

I raced up to the shadowed mound in the grass.  When I got within a few yards the old sow jumped to her feet.  There was only one thing that was going through my mind – how do I keep from becoming swill?  There was no time to aim; I just looked down the side of the barrel and fired.  The first shot smacked her down hard, but she got two more for twitching.  Claude gripped my shoulder and said, “you got her” in his deep Afrikaans accent.       

We rolled her over and the far shoulder was one massive contusion.  The shoulders, spine, and lungs were destroyed.  There was no entrance wound, just what looked like burn marks around the sphincter.  The skinners found the bullet.  The 260-grain Nosler hollow point partition, traveling at over 1800 FPS, entered where we thought, expanded perfectly and lodged in the liver. 

Rebecca had just enough time to get the video rolling.  When we played it frame by frame, we could see the streak of the bullet backlit from the spotlight.  The streak drives right into the pigs tail, her rear end drops to the ground, and the sow rolls to her side.  

There was much to celebrate that night.  Happy birthday Claude and thanks for your confidence, I needed it. 

Mark Swalley  Copyright April 2001

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