Ross Hammock Ranch, January 8 & 9, 2010


It all started with a conversation on New Year’s Day.  A few weeks before, my husband Scott had gone on an exotic game hunt at Ross Hammock Ranch, a high-fence hunting preserve in Inglis, Florida.  It was time to go back to pick up the meat.  “I know you don’t hunt”, Scott said, “but I think you’ll enjoy staying at the lodge.”  So that following Friday we made plans to go up there. 

Over the next few days, things progressed toward our trip.  Temperatures dropped, the forecast called for record cold by the weekend and I started hearing comments around the office.  Because Scott & I work together, I often hear things from the staff before I hear it from my husband.  Knowing that I’m more likely to be found in a mall than in the woods, the staff keeps commenting saying “you’re going hunting?”  “I can’t picture you in a tree stand.” One of the girls says, “You’re going to need warm camouflage clothing, I have stuff you can borrow.”  It was all becoming clear to me now.  When I said, “OK, let’s go to the lodge”, Scott heard “let’s go hunting”.

I like to be a good sport and try new things, especially if it’s important to my husband. It always works out—even quitting my cozy job in Corporate America to open a Gun Store together worked out.  So, I borrowed the clothing, washed it in dirt-scented detergent to mask any human scent, and we were ready to go.  By the day before, the forecast was now “oh my gosh, it could even snow”.  Saturday’s low was set at 18 with a high of only 22.  Still, we packed the truck and headed out and we arrived at Ross Hammock Ranch where the lodge sits on 1,500 acres with high fences and a variety of animals, plus a separate area for exotic species. 

We’re greeted by H, an experienced hunting guide who knows the animal’s habits, when and where you might find them, and most of all how to be safe.  Scott introduced me as a first-time hunter.  Me? A hunter?  Hmmm.  We told H that Scott’s goal was to get a large Russian boar to add to his growing collection of trophy animals.  My goal was to get some great photos.  Good enough.  “As soon as you get your warmer clothes on, we’ll get out there” H says.  Daylight was a wasting…

The Friday afternoon hunt was upon us.  It would consist of spotting animals from a truck and occasionally stopping and stalking our target.  I am a decent shot, but pulling the trigger to kill an animal was not something I cared to do.  My biggest challenge would be to refrain from naming the animals.  Once you name them, you certainly can’t shoot them!  Scott would be the one going for the kill—his prized Russian boar.  He would be patient and wait to see the 300-pound Russian boar the other hunters had seen.  And maybe even a good meat hog.

We hopped in the truck with H and soon approached a very high fence with a gate, chains and a padlock.  Very Jurassic Park-like.  H drove us through and we were in the animals’ territory, where they are likely to see you long before you see them.  The animals have the advantage, and they know it.  We headed down the dirt road and Scott said, “Hun—you are officially hunting.”  Cool!  I wondered what we would see first?  The monstrous water buffalo, the white-tail deer, or Dumb and Dumber, the two goats aptly named after Scott’s last visit for staying in the road, too dumb to get out of the way.  Wait, he had named them so they were forever safe!  Maybe we’d see the rams or some wild boar.  Or would it be “the big one”?

As we drove, we saw many water buffalo, whitetail deer, the Red Deer and even a small stag.  I was snapping pictures on the right and then on the left.  So far, the only shots taken were with my camera.  While we were driving around the ranch, H had been dumping corn along the road, hoping the boars would be feeding as we circled back.  As planned, we started to see wild boars as we came around the corners.  The truck would come to a stop and H and Scott would hoist their binoculars for a better look.  “How much do you think he weighs?”  “Should we go closer?”  Decisions...  Each type of animal you shoot has a price tag.  Whatever their size, meat hogs are one price, trophy hogs are more, Russian hogs are even more.  With all Scott’s hunting trips lately, I know the hunting budget was also being considered.

Suddenly, the front doors of the truck open and the guys get out.  Seriously?  For the last hour, they told me to not open the door and stay in the truck at all times.  “Come on” they said.  Lovely.  If I don’t go, I’m in the truck by myself.  If I do go, I’m not armed.  Where was my gun that’s always within easy reach?  I had packed everything else.  Why wasn’t I packing my H&K or my Glock?  Those mean old water buffalo appear and disappear in a moment.  Where are they now?  Scott was well armed and a very good shot, so I would go and follow closely. 

We were stalking a nice Russian Boar.  But how big was he?  Was he was the one?  You must decide quickly then be precise.  Otherwise, you’ll find yourself back at the lodge talking over dinner about that one you should have shot.  It was a decent size but H didn’t think it was the big one he knew was out there.  Scott agreed.  This Russian boar will live to feed another day.  Back to the truck…

It was approaching the time when the feeders would go off, so we began checking those areas.  We went to the “gut pile”, where carcasses from other hunts are discarded.  It’s a popular feeding area, a good place to spot animals, but not guaranteed.  The first couple passes produced nothing more than a small white-footed hog beneath a feeder that had just dropped its corn supply.  It wouldn’t be the last time we’d see him.  This was the feeder where my future tree stand experience would take place. 

Only 45 minutes of daylight left.  If we got the “big one” today, we could be spared the freezing temperatures Saturday morning and enjoy the cozy warmth of the lodge.  Otherwise, we’re assured a trip to the tree stand.  H headed for the gut pile again.  This time, a group of hogs were feeding, and we began our stealthy approach on foot.  One huge hog was nearing the pile.  A huge meat hog, maybe even a nice trophy for Scott’s wall.  Scott readied his rifle to take a shot.  This hog either saw us or picked up our scent and immediately fled to the safety of the dense palmetto brush.  It wasn’t meant to be.  They don’t get large by letting their guard down and this one was no exception.  No shot was fired. 

But Scott was still ready.  Only seconds had passed.  Many hogs were still feeding on the remains.  They weren’t as large, but still good meat hogs.  We waited quietly and patiently, not moving.  Scott made his choice and a shot was fired.  Immediately I knew he hit something.  I wasn’t prepared for the squealing sound I heard or for the scenario that followed.  The hogs had sensed something and had begun to move out, but for the one, it was not in time to escape Scott’s keen shot.  But the hog wasn’t down.  Scott has been on many hog hunts and never had to track one into the brush, until now.  A scenario I had not considered, much less with just 15 minutes of daylight left.  We must find the hog quickly.  No hog is left behind.  Is he lying dead somewhere or just wounded?  Either way, we’ll have to track him.  Do they seriously expect me to follow them into the brush?  Decision-time again.  The truck is not near enough.  I’m not armed, so I can’t stay behind.  Again, I longed for my trusty 45-caliber pistol.  My only choice is to follow Scott and H into the thick brush and palmetto-covered terrain and search for a wild animal that may not even be dead yet, just very angry because we shot him. 

For the first time, I was happy it was in the low 40’s.  At those temperatures, you nearly eliminate the chance of red bugs, ticks, spiders or snakes.  Where I was headed, that was a good thing.  We ventured into the brush.  “Look for any signs of blood on the ground or the palmettos fans” H says.  We spotted blood here and there.  The trail would stop.  H would go ahead and find more blood.  “He’s this way.”  Finally, the blood trail ended right in front of the most densely wooded area yet.  “Oh, I hate this thick stuff.  Ya’ll stay here and I’ll circle around.”  He heads to the other side then we hear nothing for a couple minutes.  We think he’s about 10 yards away, with a very heavily covered area in between.  I looked back at what I had trampled through, thick, dense palmettos and brush.   Did I seriously do this?  I hadn’t paid attention until now.  My concern had been just keeping up.  Soon we must find our way back and we don’t know exactly where H is and he’s the one who knows the way.  But I’m with Scott and he has the rifle.  OK, I had chosen wisely.  After all, we still didn’t know if this mighty creature was dead yet. 

We hear an expletive nearby.  H had found the hog, “He’s over here”.  Now trying to determine just where “over here” was got interesting.  Suddenly, all your human senses come into play, beyond the slight sense of fear.  The sense of sound was in full gear now.  “Talk to us H so we can find you.  Keep talking, is he dead yet?”  “Not totally but he’s down and I don’t think he has the energy to get up.  He’s lost a lot of blood.”  Scott and I make our way through the thickest brush yet and now gladly have H in sight.  He’s five yards away, keeping an eye on a wounded and irritated hog that is still determined to survive.  Was this hog’s attitude in spite of us or a determination to take us with him?  You can’t predict what nature has in store.  To be safe, H calmly, and so politely, said to me, “Miss Laura, get behind that tree.”  “That tree”, my new best friend, was a scrub oak with conveniently placed branches, forming a v shape, just at arm’s length, thick enough to support me if needed.  Not being armed, I had already eyed that tree as a potential escape option.  Being the cooperative type, I got behind the tree. 

Scott, still well armed, moved forward to join H, who has no gun, only a shooting stick used to brace your rifle.  One final check to make sure the hog was done; H poked him with the stick.  That was all the hog needed, one more prodding to inspire him to gather any remaining energy for one last effort to achieve victory over the humans.  In a split second, up he went, headed for H, more expletives, and another precise shot immediately fired by Scott.  It was over and the hog was done. The fear level subsided, and the adrenaline flow eased. 

It was nearly dark, we had to find the truck and somehow haul a 200-pound hog with us, hoping not to run across any unfriendly animals.  I was again longing for my pistol.  Through the day, I was impressed with H and his skill of handling himself in the animals’ territory.  But it was at this moment that I was most impressed.  H removed his belt, wrapped it around the neck of the large, lifeless beast, and dragged him out of the brush.  Scott offered to help, but H insisted this was the most efficient way.  And until now, we didn’t know we had gone so deep into the woods, that we were, thankfully, only steps away from the road on the other side.  H dragged the hog to the road and told us to wait while he got the truck.

Scott’s hog selection had been a good one, a nice meat hog.  I concluded it was well worth all the trouble required in our pursuit of him, now that I was safely out of that tracking situation.  Our hunting for the day was done and we had not been skunked, even if we didn’t get our big Russian.  But it meant we still had a date with a tree stand very early that next morning, before we would see the sun again.  H dropped us off at the lodge and excused himself for the night so he could go clean our hog.  “See you at 6am” he said.  Following some wine, a nice home-cooked supper, and a movie in the media room, it was time for some shut-eye.   The Saturday hunt was just hours away.

To be continued next month…..


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