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Clover Creek Ranch is located in central Oregon, 6 miles
south of the isolated little hill-country hamlet of Ashwood. It is a 2000+ acre
ranch specializing in exotic game, including various sheep, goats, fallow deer,
bison, yak, Russian and feral boar. The bunkhouse is at about 2700 feet
elevation and the hills of the ranch stretch up to over 4200 feet elevation. The
scenery is classic mountain West; the rugged countryside is littered with
junipers, rock outcrops, grass, and lots of animals. Clark and Nancy Couch own
Clover Creek ranch (541-489-3344) and offer
year-round hunting. The bunkhouse comfortably sleeps 4 or 5, and has a hotplate,
microwave and coffee maker. Indoor bathroom facilities are available in the
adjacent outbuilding (including a hot shower!), which even has a washing machine
if you need to do some laundry. There is a covered picnic table and a fire pit
nestled in next to the bathhouse under some shade trees. Right next to the
picnic table is a very well-outfitted skinning shed, with chain hoists, block
and tackle, gambrels, meat hooks, knives, butcher steels, and a walk-in meat
chiller. All in all, a very comfortable and well though-out permanent hunting
camp. This was to be a special hunt for me on several levels. I
was hunting with a Ruger Super Blackhawk that I had converted to .45 Colt with
the guidance of my good friend Dave Ewer. This revolver has .480" chambers,
.452" throats, a cylinder gap of .003" and a 7 1/2" barrel with a .4515" groove
diameter). It shoots very nicely (good teachers are a blessing indeed). While I
have worked with this gun a fair amount, and am very pleased with how my
handiwork turned out, I had never killed anything with it. It was time. Over the
course of a number of conversations with Rob Applegate, another good friend and
one of the most knowledgeable experts in the field of cast bullets, I have
pieced together a vision of what the perfect cast hunting bullet should look
like. To be honest, there's really nothing new in this design, it's just a
collection of features that Rob and I liked from other designs, proven through
years of testing, all captured in one bullet. I had a .45 caliber version of
this vision made up by Mountain Molds, specifically for the .45 Colt (I would
have liked to have Rob make this mould for me as he makes the finest moulds I
have ever seen, but medical issues in his family have severely limited his
shop-time, so I turned to Mountain Molds and have been very pleased with the
results). So, I had an excellent revolver, loaded with an excellent bullet, both
of my own hand, but both also representing the contributions of dear friends. I
also had the pleasure of making this hunting trip with another good friend, Bill
Gilson, who I met through our interactions online at Sixgunner.com. Bill (aka
"El Cazador", spanish for "the hunter") is a pastor in Oregon and has been one
of the organizers of, and regular contributors to, our annual Pacific Northwest
Sixgunner rendezvous. Caz is a good man, a serious elk hunter, a member of the
Pistol-Packin' Preachers, and lever-gun aficionado. I was hunting with Caz, but
Dave and Rob were along in spirit through what they had taught me; I was hunting
with a favorite revolver that I had built myself, loaded with bullets that I had
designed and cast with my own two hands. Yup, this was going to be a special
trip.
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Converted .45 Colt Ruger Super
Blackhawk. |
Caz and I met at the Bunkhouse Friday afternoon
and went on up the hill to walk around the ranch a bit and stretch
our legs after driving for several hours. We ran into Clark on the
way back to the bunkhouse and chatted with him for a while, learning
some of the history of the area in general, and of the ranch in
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The Mountain Molds 325
grain .45 caliber flat point, loaded in the .45 Colt. |
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particular. We asked him questions about what the
general lay of the land was, and where we might find various animals. Clark was
downright chatty, and shared this information freely. After this, it was back to
the bunkhouse for dinner.
The alarm clock rang at 5:30 the next morning, and soon
the sausage was sizzling in the cast iron skillet, with the gurgling of the
coffee pot providing an aromatic harmony. We wolfed down breakfast then loaded
into Caz's truck and headed up the hill. Our first stop was just over the first
ridgeline, overlooking the bowl northwest of the bunkhouse. We worked our way
into the bowl on foot, and worked our way through the woods around the pond at
the bottom. We found lots of sign there, and there were clearly lots of animals
using this pond as their water supply, they just weren't there at the moment. We
slowly worked our way back up the hillside back to the truck, and then turned
the rig up the ridgeline to the west and headed for the Caterpillar D8 we had
been told was about a half mile up the road (it turned out to be farther). It
seems that there was a pond in the vicinity of this particular D8, that had a
big ol' boar wallowing in it. We stopped along the way a couple of times to get
out and walk down a couple of side roads, just to see what was out there, and to
bask in the beauty of Creation. It was clear and sunny, with morning
temperatures in the 50s, and the scenery in those hills and canyons was
spectacular. With the familiar heft of a revolver on my hip, it was the glorious
kind of morning that made one thankful to be a hunter. We didn't see anything on
these hillside jaunts, but the weather, the countryside, the company and the
hiking made them memorable. I believe Thomas Jefferson said something along the
lines of "Of all the forms of exercise, those involving the gun are best.". Mr.
Jefferson would have enjoyed this morning.
We continued to work our way up the road. At one point, we
kicked up a small sow with 4-5 little piglets, that scampered off in that
hilarious way that only piglets can. So far this morning, this was the only game
that we had seen (other than a couple of small hogs down in the meadows around
the entrance gate). As the truck crept up the heavily rutted jeep trail,
suddenly a small patch of yellow paint became visible through the trees.
"There's the Cat! Pull off." We quietly got out of the truck and swung wide of
the clearing so that we could approach from downwind. We worked our way through
the trees and sagebrush into the clearing. Sure enough, there was the Cat D8,
and there was a drainage ditch, and there was sign of animal activity
everywhere, but once again, there were no animals. Right place, wrong time. We
scouted the general area to see what we could learn, and then worked our way
down the ridgeline and drainage to see if the pond was below the Cat. We saw
lots of buffalo sign, but that was all.
Back to the truck. What next? Let's go farther up the hill
and see if maybe the pond is up there (but I thought water flowed downhill...).
A few hundred yards beyond the Cat, the jeep-trail crested out, and as we broke
over the top, I immediately knew that this was the place we were looking for.
There was a wide open, expansive meadow, that had a couple of modest
undulations, one of which had been dammed to form a muddy catch basin. Sign was
everywhere; the meadow was heavily grazed, a variety of forms of scat were
apparent, there were well-established game trails woven through the grass, and
off in the distance we could see half a dozen fallow deer (white, spotted and
chocolate). I had a good feeling about this area. We dismounted, and once again
swung around to approach from downwind. As we wormed our way through the sage
brush and scrawny, wind-twisted junipers of the ridgeline, I spotted a large
brown mass, reclining on the far side of the pond, a couple hundred yards away.
A massive ear flapped to shoo away a fly. Even from this distance it was obvious
that this was a hog, and a very large hog at that. This had to be the old boar
that Taffin had told me about. I motioned Caz over to my position, and pointed
the boar out to him. "Whoa! That's a big pig!". We side-hilled our way around to
get a better look at him. He was stretched out napping in the midday sun, so we
had no trouble moving without spooking him. Occasionally he would lift his head
and look around, or adjust his position, swish his stump of a tail, or flop an
ear, but mostly he just laid there and soaked up the sun. We stumbled onto a
young yak carcass (cougar kill?) that did a fine job of masking any scent trail
that we might have had (besides, we were downwind of the only animals that we
could see; we would soon find out, however, there were in fact animals downwind
of us). We sat back and marveled at the size of this old boar, but at this point
neither of us was really interested in taking him as we both had planned (and
budgeted) for meat hogs. Caz wanted to donate much of his hog to members of his
congregation, and my intended trophy for this trip was a black Hawaiian ram, so
we just sat and watched the old boar and the fallow deer, off in the distance.
Eventually, we swung wide of the old boy and worked our way closer to see what
was happening over by the fallow deer, and to get a better look at the woods
beyond and the drainage below. The view from that vantage point was spectacular.
As I sat there soaking it in, it occurred to me that if I passed on the ram that
I could afford the old boar, and that a huge old boar skull, with his heavy
tusks, would make a fine trophy to remember this trip by. Besides, I may never
get a chance to shoot a boar like this again. The decision was made. "Caz, I'm
going to take him."
The wind had shifted somewhat, and so we swung down into
the drainage so I could approach from downwind. At about 100 yards, Caz stopped
and broke out his camera so he could take pictures of me on the final approach
and firing the shot. As I quietly worked my way into the wind, I was feeling an
interesting jumble of emotions -- the excitement of making a stalk (I hope I
never outgrow that!), a hint of anxiety (I was sneaking up to get up-close and
personal with a 500-600 lb critter with large, self-sharpening tusks), and the
silliness of the situation (the focus of all this excitement/anxiety was
asleep!).
He was bedded down on the far side of a weather-beaten
juniper log, which shielded his vitals from me as I approached. At about
30 yards, I eased the hammer back as gently and quietly as I could. 20
yards. 10 yards. At 15 feet, I finally had a clear shot. The Super
Blackhawk came up and the front sight nestled into his left "armpit", to
angle the shot down through his heart (he was laid out on is right side,
and I was approaching from his belly-side). I remember thinking
"Squeeze...", and only vaguely remember the muzzle-blast, but I have no
recollection whatsoever of any recoil (Caz captured the shot on film, and
I must confess that when I first saw the image, it took me by surprise as
it didn't recount the moment the way my mind's eye did, the Ruger was in
full recoil with the muzzle pointed skyward above my head). Once the
hammer fell, the old boar grunted loudly, and started to flail about
mightily, kicking up a sizable dust cloud. My attention was focused on the
neat, round .45 caliber red spot, painted exactly where I had intended. He
continued to kick mightily. I thumbed the hammer back and kept him covered
with the sixgun. If he started to gain his feet, I would shoot again
before he stood up. If not, I knew from the shot placement that he was hit
hard in the heart and lungs, and would die quickly. It was soon apparent
that he would never regain his feet, and his kicks slowly became more and
more feeble. A short while later, all was still, and his dust cloud
drifted off with the breeze.
I approached him with the Ruger still covering him, and
began to marvel at his size. From nose to tail he was longer than I am tall (I'm
5' 10"). His ribcage was the same size as that of a full-grown cow elk. His feet
were softball sized. On his back left leg he had a softball sized festering
wound, apparently from an earlier encounter with a ricochet. He was clearly well
past his prime, and was leaner than most hogs (in fact, sausage made from this
guy is so lean that it will stick to the fry pan if the pan is not greased). He
was an old man, quietly waiting out the end of his days. His final moments
played out in his favorite dust wallow, soaking up the sun on a beautiful fall
day.
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The Old Man of the Mountain
and the revolver that killed him. |
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We took some pictures, but I was still fixated on the size
of this guy and his thick, coarse, bristling golden-brown hair along his back;
his thick, sharp tusks; his thick , wrinkled and very tough hide (it reminded me
of a rhino's). It took awhile, but eventually I stopped admiring him and broke
out the knives and started field-dressing him. It took both Caz and me to roll
him over and prop him up with rocks so I could gut him. The Mountain Molds
bullet had gone right where I had intended (at 1230 fps, with 21.3 grains of
H110 and a CCI 350 primer), up through the middle of the left lung, routed out a
.45 caliber groove across the backside of the heart, through the right lung,
passed a couple of inches under the spine and exited out the top of the right
shoulder, after having penetrated approximately 30-32" of tough old boar. It
basically punched a .45 caliber hole all the way through. In the lungs, this
hole was surrounded by about 3" of severely bloodshot tissue. In other words, it
did pretty much exactly what you would expect a 325 grain .45 caliber FP bullet
at 1200+ fps to do.
I was about halfway through the gutting chores, and up to
my elbows in innards, when I looked up and saw two hogs coming over the ridge,
on a bee-line for the smell of fresh blood (remember me saying that there were
animals downwind?). Caz had his back to them and was watching me work, eating an
apple. They were about 100 yards off and I could clearly see that at least one
of them had a red-tag hanging from its ear (red ear tags are how meat hogs are
differentiated from trophy boar at Clover Creek, and it turned out that both of
these hogs were red-tagged). "Caz! Get your gun! Red-tags in-coming!". His apple
got flung out of the way in a hurry as he grabbed his Winchester 71 and levered
a .348 Winchester round home. The hogs turned in all this excitement, and were
milling around on the other side of the drainage from us. Finally the larger
spotted sow, stepped clear of the second, smaller brown hog and Caz planted a
200 grain Silvertip low in her chest, just behind her right leg. She jumped and
squealed, turned around and slowly started to walk back to our left, with her
head hanging low. Caz busted her a second time, a little higher up, this time on
her left shoulder. She went down hard, with a red geyser erupting from her right
shoulder. She died quickly. Congratulations were once again shared and pictures
taken. Caz recovered both of these bullets, both perfect mushrooms; one weighed
140 grains, the other 156 grains.
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Caz, his
.348 Winchester and his spotted sow. |
As Caz field dressed his sow, I cut the old boar in half.
We loaded the front quarters onto a blue plastic tarp (the kind that every
hunter has in the back of their truck), and tried our hardest to lift them into
the back of Caz's truck. No go. It was still too heavy for the two of us to lift
up to tailgate height. Fortunately, Caz had a couple of 6 foot 2x6's in the back
of his rig and we used these to fashion a ramp onto the tailgate. We slid the
front quarters about halfway up the 2x6's, then Caz lifted the 2x6's, levering
the front quarters up to tailgate height, and then I shoved them onto the bed of
the truck. We repeated the exercise with the boar's hindquarters, and then
re-positioned the truck and did it one more time with Caz's sow. We had to
juggle the pig parts around some to get it to where we could close the tailgate,
but we finally found a combination that worked, and then headed down the
mountain to the skinning shed.
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The
recovered .348 Winchester 200 grain Silvertips from Caz's sow (photo
by Bill Gilson). |
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Matt met us down at the skinning shed and had the hogs hanging in
no time at all (ah, to be young and strong...). I told Matt that I
had my guess of what the old boar weighed (about 600 lbs), but I
wanted his estimate (since he did this for a living, I figured that
he would have a better sense of an animal's weight). He opined that
my boar weighed closer to 500, but he knew the animal and said in
his prime the ol' boy had gone between 800 and
850. Matt estimated the sow's weight at 475. Caz and I sat around and
re-hydrated ourselves while Matt peeled the hides off of the two hogs, got 'em
washed up, split and hung in the cooler, which he did in a most expedient
fashion.
We fixed a quick sandwich and since we still had a couple
of hours left in the day decided to go back up and sit overlooking the gut-piles
in case any coyotes came in. A large flock of crows had almost completely
consumed the sow's gut-pile, but much of the old boar's gut-pile was still
there, with a couple of magpies working it over. A couple of sparring fallow
bucks (chocolate) came within a couple hundred yards of our position, along with
lots of crows and magpies flying over, but no coyotes. As the sun dipped below
the horizon the temperature started to drop quickly, and I stood up to stretch
my stiffening legs. As I did, I spooked a mixed herd of 15-20 hogs and Russian
boar, 75 yards to my left, coming in from above the pond. If I had waited
another 2 minutes to stretch, they would have walked right into our laps!
As we packed up to head on down the mountain a second
time, we gathered a little firewood. When we got to the bunkhouse, we built a
small cooking fire in the fire-pit and grilled steaks and sausage for dinner.
Man, that was good! Sleep came easily that night (in spite of Caz's snoring!).
The next morning was a lazy morning, spent drinking
coffee, soaking up sunshine, discussing religion, philosophy and solving the
world's problems. Clark and Matt joined us and the conversation turned to
politics and the presidential elections coming this fall. Then folks drifted off
and I went over to the skinning shed and boned out the old boar while Caz got
showered up and ready to go preach later that afternoon. We got Caz loaded up
and on his way, then I settled in and fleshed out the old boar's skull. When I
got home I cut and wrapped the back-straps, tenderloins and hams, and ground up
the front quarters into a whole bunch of sausage. The old man of the mountain
had a good life up in his mountain-top lair. Now he will contribute to the good
life of my family and friends. The cycle of life rolls on. Barbeque anyone?
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