My first big bore rifle was a Ruger #1 in .45-70, I purchased in 1974 for the incredible full retail price of $265. The first year I had it, over 40 lbs. of hand cast bullets were sent down its barrel. With just a 1-4 power Leupold scope on it, I considered it pretty good to keep three shots under two inches with the 405 grain lead bullets I cast on top of my mom’s gas cooking range. I used two Lee aluminum single cavity molds to cast those, one at a time, going from one mold to the next to allow enough cooling time before whacking the sprue plate away and dropping the hot bullets on an old bath towel. Reading all I could about casting, I next sprung for a 330 grain Gould hollow point Lyman mold. I’d read they were much better for hunting because some expansion could at least be expected if cast soft enough.
I vividly remember casting all day one cool fall Saturday, on the top of the gas range, and ending up with over seven hundred .45 caliber slugs for my rifle. I could’ve never afforded to buy that many jacketed bullets for it back then, still in high school and making a whole $2.00 an hour at my part-time job. Every other weekend, I’d go to the range and see how well I could shoot it with my very first ever rifle handloads. One day in the middle of winter, it was snowing so hard I could hardly see the black aiming squares of my targets at 100 yards. I hardly knew anything at all back then about handloading, much less how to work up a load, knowing even less about cast bullet making, but that was all I could afford. Most often I just picked a load out of a manual, and however it shot, that’s what I figured my rifle was capable of as far as accuracy.
Chapter 1: Big Handgun
A few years later, I was able to purchase a blued 4” Smith & Wesson .44 Mag, my first big bore handgun. This was about five years after the movie Dirty Harry came out, and any Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Mag was going for twice suggested retail of $300, often commanding $600 or $700 or more on the street, if you could even find one for sale. I was able to get mine from a police officer in one of my evening classes at college. He had an FFL, and whenever he personally wanted to buy a handgun, he would buy three of the same model, then sell the other two for $50 to $75 more than his cost to help “buy down” the final cost for the one he kept for himself. So unbelievably, back then my brand new Model 29 was purchased from...
my friend for only $345- almost half the going rate!
With a new “unobtainable” handgun now in my battery, I also began casting for that. Splurging this time, I bought adouble-cavity Lyman mold for the classic 250 grain Keith bullet. At first, I could hardly keep five shots on a piece of copy paper at 50 feet. That was pretty poor shooting. Over time, I eventually could shoot 4 inch groups or so, but when I backed my target out to 25 yards, groups went to heck again. I was learning that being a good shot with a scoped rifle had no correlation at all to being even just a poor shot with a handgun. Eventually, I bought a black basket weave leather holster for my Model 29, wishfully thinking that if I ever go hunting with my .45-70, I’d also carry my .44 magnum, using that if I happened to be real close- yeah, right!
Chapter 2: Tennessee Hogs
Soon after I landed my first full time job, I started night school. There I met Brad, who’d hunted the year before in Tennessee for wild hogs. He used his Marlin .35 Remington and had so much fun he was going to go again the next spring. When he asked me if I’d like to come along, I jumped at the chance. As I could regularly shoot 2” or under with my cast bullets at 100 yards with my .45-70 (which was good for me in only my second year of shooting), my plan was to practice twice a week with my .44 handgun until I could shoot 4 inches or less at 25 yards with it. I hoped to take a hog with my hand cast bullets in the pistol, but also bring along the rifle if it got late in the hunt and I was not yet successful.
By the time spring rolled around, I’d just barely met my self-imposed group size with the handgun. There was also a bit of personal pride in being able to take my first big game ever with bullets I’d cast myself, and I looked forward to doing just that. I’d also worked up a fair load with the 330 grain Gould cast hollow point for my Ruger #1, but had doubts about its ability to penetrate, having read again and again how tough wild boars are.
Brad would go with “T-Bone”, while my colorful guide was named...
“Lark”.
Back then, I didn’t have a chronograph, so I had no idea how fast my handgun load was going, or either load in the .45-70. While my 4 inch .44 had to be doing at least 1,300 fps, today I seriously doubt that my 405 cast loads in the Ruger were hardly going even that fast, and the lighter 330 cast hollow points may have been hitting only 1,500, if I was lucky.
The day finally came when we left the suburbs of Chicago for our 600 mile, 9 hour drive down to Tellico Junction, Tennessee. We arrived very late in the day, and met our two guides who would take us out the next morning. Brad would go with “T-Bone”, while my colorful guide was named “Lark”. Both were slender Tennessee boys who looked fit as a fiddle and were probably used to running up and down the hollows all day long- something I was to learn the next day; I was not!
Laying down to sleep that night in a small cabin on the property, I was beginning to have great doubts of what I was about to attempt the next day with my Model 29, then “the most powerful handgun in the world!””
Still committed to trying at least up until noon with only the handgun, I left the rifle back in camp. By the afternoon, while I would carry the .44 in its holster, for sure the Ruger .45-70 would be in my hands. Having waited over 6 months to get down here, if handgun hunting in the morning did not pan out, I wanted to be certain I’d be bringing home the pork with my rifle, by days end.
All of the gun magazines I kept reading made wild pigs seem like they were almost bullet proof, so I pretty much wrote off using the 330 hollow points. I was certain they wouldn’t even make it part way through a pig broadside. Should things not pan out in the morning, in the afternoon, it would be hard cast 405s in the Ruger, and my .44 on the hip “just in case.” After all, how often do you have a bona fide reason to carry a .44 mag on your hip in the suburbs of Chicago?
Chapter 3: Morning Hunt, Stone Deaf
This being my first ever big game hunt, I’d never even thought to ask what the terrain was like. That was an oversight I’d soon live to regret. When Lark and T-Bone came knocking on our cabin early in the morning, I was ready to go with my holstered .44 on my hip while Brad grabbed his. Lark and I headed east up a trail; T-Bone and Brad headed west down a valley. Being on my very first hunt,...
I’d no idea what to expect,
but I thought we’d just be walking down the trail. We might see several pigs up ahead, put the stalk on them, and drop a monster boar with one shot. It didn’t exactly work out that way.
As it turned out, the only part of the land that was gentle and rolling was the jeep trails at the bottom of the “hollows,” as Lark called them, while to me “valley” would be a more familiar name. He said rarely would we ever see any pigs down low, out in the open on a trail. Instead, we needed to run up and down the hills to try and come across them in thick brush, or wallows near creeks higher up. So began a morning of up and down hiking like I’d never done before in my life!
At twenty years of age, I was in pretty good shape, but lived in the suburbs of Chicago where things were pretty flat. Lark proceeded to show me how it was done as he raced up and down the hills, which at times seemed to be at nearly 45 degrees. Sometimes it was a little easier as we’d pick up a game trail that ran parallel with the slope. Once off the trail though, most places were so steep you had to grab from tree to tree to keep from sliding down or literally falling over.
Barely ten minutes into the hunt, we heard a group of pigs just up ahead of us in the trees. As I drew my .44 from the holster, a small group of four or five came trotting out from a bush, not 15 yards from where I stood with my cocked magnum. All except one was a muddy, dirty brown. But the one that really caught my eye had a tan band over his left shoulder, about eight inches wide, with a tennis ball–sized black spot in the middle. I cocked the .44 and took steady aim as he paused perfectly broadside, facing to my left. Lark was surprised as I placed my thumb on the hammer and slowly lowered it down, watching as the group decided there might be a better place to be.
“I’ve dreamed and waited for this hunt for over 6 months Lark! I couldn’t shoot one ten minutes into the hunt, and have it be over so soon.” I sheepishly explained to him.
“It’s your hunt and I fully understand. We’ll just keep on hunting until you feel you’re ready,” was his...
reply.
I admired him greatly for that and was relieved my hunt was still on. I truly wanted to relish my first hunting experience, and I felt good about my decision to let the banded hog walk off, even though he was larger than average in size. For the rest of the morning, it almost felt like Lark was going to make me pay for passing so soon. We tore up and down the hills until almost noon. My lungs were doing just fine, but my thighs and knees were burning from covering so much steep terrain in such a short period of time. My city legs were not used to this at all, while Lark never slowed down, or seemed to even break a sweat.
Just before we were about to call it a morning, we headed into a dark hollow with very steep sides. Lark was very keen to get me a pig. He said there was a wallow up ahead about half way up the hill that the pigs like to lay in by late morning after they had been feeding. The trees in this area ran from two to over twelve inches in diameter, and as mentioned earlier, you really had to grab from tree to tree as you walked to keep from falling over.
As we approached the area of the wallow, Lark whispered for me to keep quiet. He told me he’d go down the hill, go past the wallow, and then come back towards me. If a pig was resting there, he might just come trotting out towards me. When we got to within 40 yards of the wallow, we actually could see only the tips of a pig’s ears that might be napping in the mud. So he brroke off at this point, and slowly started to make his way, down and back around the pig.
I was now within less than 20 yards from the pair of resting ears off to my left, just about three feet above me up the hill. I draw and cock my .44 to hopefully await the pig Lark may startle my way. I was leaning against the side of a 3 inch trunk to help keep my balance. In front of me in the side of the hill, was a sheer rock wall at the same level the pig was resting. In front of the rock face, there appears to be a game path leading to the wallow. Lark had barely gone 25 feet when he suddenly slipped in some leaves on the steep slope. In an instant, all hell broke loose, as that one pig did not come slowly walking out, but over a half dozen rose up squealing and came tearing towards me on the game trail just above, at full speed. I quickly swung on the third large boar and fire, missing him cleanly at only 15 feet. The concussion of a 4 inch .44 being discharged at
a rock wall right...
in front of me was deafening beyond belief, while the flash illuminated the area like a strobe. I lost my balance and started to fall backwards down the hill.
My natural reaction of trying to grab a tree to keep from falling, resulted in me rapidly squeezing off a second shot double action, barely a fraction of a second after the first. Lark turned around at the shots, just in time to see me falling backwards, and then saw me rolling head over heels, tumbling down the steep hill. Worried that I might have only wounded the boar, I foolishly cocked the .44… “In case he comes after me, and I have to shoot him again” was the thought that ran through me. As I continued to cartwheel down the hill, I realized what a stupid thing it was to cock my gun as I tumbled downhill and work to uncock the magnum while I still continue to roll head over heels to the valley below. My ears were ringing so loud, I couldn’t hear a thing at all.
Poor Lark saw his client rolling down the hill like a whiskey barrel, and came running. He thought I had shot myself! After about a 60 foot tumble, I finally hit a small tree and stopped, my arms and legs sprawled out all over, with my now uncocked .44 still in my right hand. I stood up totally confused and disoriented just as Lark got up to me and placed both hands on my shoulders.
“Did I get him?” I shout.
Lark was moving his lips, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Not only couldn’t I understand him, I didn’t even hear his words at all. Tthe double blast against the rock face had left me stone deaf! He kept moving his lips, but I still couldn’t hear a sound at all.
“I can’t hear a thing you are saying. I see your lips move, but I am deaf from the two blasts. Other than that, I’m not hurt at all Lark.”
I told him over and over that Iwasn't hurt; I was OK from the fall. He kept talking, but it was pointless. I couldnn’t hear anything but ringing in my ears. He quickly checked me over to make sure there were no .44 caliber bullet holes anywhere in my tender body, and then made me sit down against a tree. He seemed as shaken as I was, possibly even more so. After about twenty minutes I began to get some of my hearing back. Lark said when he was walking away from me and slipped, he heard the two rapid-fire shots, and as he turned around, he saw me rolling down the hill. He was so happy to see me get up after I...
stopped tumbling because he thought I had shot myself and was already dead! It was nice that my guide cared that much about my well-being.
After another fifteen minutes, I got up and asked him if I got the pig? He thought I was nuts, but finally agreed to go up and have a look. On the face of the rock wall, we could clearly see the bullet splash from the first low shot, with no blood anywhere, and about five feet higher up we saw where the second, double action shot also struck rock.
“That’s enough for this morning’s hunt,” he orders, “time for us to get you back to the cabin to relax some.”
That was fine by me, because while I still was having a hard time hearing, my legs and knees were screaming from all the up and down that morning. After a bite to eat and lying in my cot for a while, I grabbed my Ruger .45-70 and headed outside. Lark and T-Bone were sitting by the fire, and Brad was over admiring the nice pig he'd shot that morning with his muzzleloader. I walked right up to Lark and told him that I was ready to have at it again, only this time with my rifle. He shook his head in disbelief, but then got up and pointed to me the way we’d be going, knowing my hearing still was not very good.
Chapter 4: Deja vu Afternoon
Lark and I headed out to the west, up a valley with steep sides. My thighs and knees were burning from the morning up and down escapades, but I had to push through it. This was my last chance. After about two hours we dropped down to a dirt jeep trail at the bottom. Coming around a hillside on our left, we kicked up a group of six or seven hogs that took off running parallel to the trail, about 30 yards up the hill. Lark grabbed me by the left shoulder with his right hand and started running after them, but stayed down on the trail, pulling me along the whole time. After about a hundred yard dash, we caught up with them, but they were still in the trees running parallel to us.
“There is a rock face up ahead,” he said in huffs and puffs, “they have to come down and cross this trail. You can take them when they do that!”
I should’ve taken the 330 cast hollow points, but instead had loaded my Ruger with the 405 grain hard cast bullets, thinking I’d need all the penetration I could get. It’s actually not a very good game bullet, as it’s a round nose design with a proportionally small flat point. That fact would be...
confirmed in a moment. I only carried two other rounds in a black nylon cartridge holder slipped over my buttstock, besides the one in the chamber. My .44 was holstered, but now on Lark’s hip. Suddenly, about 40 yards out, the pigs reached the rock wall and started to drop down, and headed to cross the trail.
Which one should I shoot? All are black except for one. As he runs from left to right, I could see that his right shoulder had a tan patch covering it. I swung on him and fired. At the shot, a great mass of dirt flew up behind him. He stumbled but started to take off, so I reloaded and hit him again. Which one should I shoot?
He barely reacted to the shot, and a large clump of dirt was again kicked up behind him. He started to trot across the trail, so I reloaded and fired my very last round. And for a third time, a huge clod of dirt flew from behind him. Finally, he stopped and turned towards us, all of the other pigs having long since run off. He slowly started walking towards us, and began popping his jaws.
“Lark! What should I do?” I loudly scream, as I turn towards him, standing barely ten feet from me.
“Save my ass!” he shouted. As he unsnapped the holster and tossed me my .44 Smith & Wesson, just like you would see in a movie, it floated towards me in what seemed like slow motion with the grip headed towards me.
I caught the revolver, and turned back as the angry hog was now less than 10 yards from us both. Cocking the gun, I aimed and sent one 250 grain hard cast bullet from my 4 inch .44 on its way. The boar collapsed, and all is quiet.
Lark told me that he thought I was missing every rifle shot. Each time I fired, he saw a huge chunk of dirt fly up behind the pig. The only thing was, after each shot, the boar was slowing down just a bit.
The boar collapses and all is quiet
As I was walking up to examine my trophy, he’s lying with his right side up. We could clearly see three holes in his right shoulder in the tan portion, all within about 3 inches of each other. Turning him over to look for the exits, we saw three very small holes in his left shoulder, and a black tennis ball-sized spot right in the middle of the tan- I’d just shot the boar I passed on, ten minutes into the morning...
hunt!
Obviously, the cast bullets I made up were far too hard to expand at the modest velocities I was pushing them. They were punching through like a round nosed solid, hardly causing much damage or shock at all.
All of the dirt Lark kept seeing kicked up after each shot, was not because I was missing, but because the non-expanding slugs where whistling right through, and tearing up the ground behind the pig. If my first round had been the 330 hollow points, things would have ended much quicker.
I was so glad things played out the way they did though, and especially Lark’s reaction to me being out of ammo. We both thought it was quite ironic that we ended up taking the very same boar I had passed on so early into the hunt. It was a truly great first big game hunt of my life. I would not ever wished it to have turned out any other way.