Having been just a wee lad when President Reagan beat the Russians, cold war novels and movies are boring for me. I just didn’t live in that time. Now, being in my thirties, if there’s a desert storm movie on I’m there. My point to this rambling is that I never had anything against the Russians until I met up with a couple of their boars with an attitude they definitely didn’t learn from Sunday school.

After taking a Mouflon Sheep the previous year on a game ranch in southern California, I decided to return to hunt for an Angora goat. I wanted a rug for in front of the fireplace. So, after a short detour due to the radiator in my vintage truck evaporating halfway there, being towed back, changing to my work truck and picking up my brother in law for moral support (and to help push if this truck had fits) we were off.

Upon arriving at the ranch, we witnessed a very stern-faced man sewing up the side of his "hog dog" that had gotten the wrong end of a Boar. We were told that the ranch had just come into possession of some extremely mean Russian boars and we were warned to be careful while we hunted.

In my previous article, I explained that this ranch is pretty darn big. Maybe not Texas big, but what it lacks in size it makes up in terrain. Sheer cliffs and deep valleys make for some challenging hunting. Being very fond of sending sheep and goats to their maker, the terrain wouldn’t have mattered if it was Death Valley (and it is pretty close).

After wearing the soles off our shoes and burning roughly 10,000 calories, I finally spotted the goat that would make my fireside so much more enjoyable. I was shooting a 30-06 with 180 grain monster loads made by Winchester. I know this is over kill for goats, but after seeing the side of that dog I was glad I had a full magazine of heavy loads. Anyway, I lining up the crosshairs with the goat and touched off a round. The goat bucked and ran a short distance before falling.

When I attempted to chamber a new round, the bolt wouldn’t close. Seeing that the goat wasn’t going to get up and leave, I began to inspect the bolt problem. Ed left me with my trophy and went back to the ranch for help to collect the goat and I knew he would be gone for a while. (A little side note should be mentioned: Ed was unarmed and that’s pretty stand-up with those Russian boars running around.)

I have to be honest: I was concerned about my jammed firearm and had boars in the back of my mind, but my manly side said, "no way is anything bad going to happen. They’re not one of the Big Five, they are just pigs!" However, I did seem to recall a story about what happened to a friend of my aunt’s sister’s cousin, who had his knee cap bit off and the hamstring torn out of his leg. Legend maybe, but now definitely in the forefront of my mind.

So, when two boars came out of the bushes in front of me about 20 yards away I somehow wasn’t too surprised. It was time to fix my gun and I do mean now! I used super human, alien, come to Jesus strength and got the bolt closed on the round.

The boars had my scent and started grunting and coming my way. I stood steady, scope on the lead boar, and squeezed the trigger. NOTHING but a dry click. I attempted to work the bolt, but it’s not opening. Surely these two Ruskies knew the war is over, but I could see it in their eyes: they hate me and my capitalistic lifestyle and they were going to make an example out of me. So I did what any other red blooded American would do, I ran. They were hot on my heels; I made it about forty yards before I leaped into the tall shrub that would serve as my protection. The boars circled and were generally pissed off for about 5 minutes until they got bored, felt guilty or feared nuclear retaliation. I don’t know or personally care; I just got down and thanked my Maker for their departure.

About this time, Ed returned in the ranch owner's truck accompanied by a bow hunter and his "hog dog." I told my story of survival; the hunter released his dog and off it went. We were in the back of the truck, which is set up safari style and quite comfortable, driving slowly along the road when that dog came flying back into the pickup with the boars on his tale. I thought, “thank God the dog ran too!” The bow hunter let fly and drilled the lead boar and the other one took off for the hills.

It turned out to be quite an eventful day. Of course, our sport should be fun and no one was the worse for wear, but from now on, I’m keeping an eye on those Russians.