It wasn’t my first time out hunting the wild boars that wander seemingly aimlessly through the East Texas forests in search of food, but I hadn’t been out in a while either. I had my bow in one hand and a camera in the other, ready to catch the elusive Tiger Boar that everyone had been talking about. The camera helped me remember my own timeline – I am a modern hunter, in the 21 st century, just miles from a bustling city with lights and cars and TV screens, not a primeval Indian stalking his prey to bring it back to my teepee as necessary food for my tribe. You’d be surprised how easy that is to forget, even when you’re wearing snakeskin cowboy boots, modern Wranglers and a T-shirt with a Dickies logo splattered across the chest (my more modern camis were in the laundry). Not even the high technology of my Guardian bow could shake the feeling that I had stepped back in time to an earlier, purer form of procuring a living. Because I didn’t have any of the important sprays or treatments to get rid of my human scent, I took some time to try to block my scent with more natural odors before I got too far away from the house. Not the most pleasant experience in the world, rubbing mud and whatever other kind of natural goo I could find in various strategic spots on my body, but I did the best I could and then set off, by a roundabout route, for the tripod I knew was waiting for me. After tramping through the woods for an hour and getting lost twice, I finally found the tripod just barely visible to someone who knew what they were looking for. It was in a good location, overlooking the crossing points of two paths and on the way down to a nearby watering hole. It had been a relatively wet summer by Texas standards, so the watering hole was nice and full and enticingly cool to someone who’d just spent an hour tramping through the woods, but I resisted the temptation and climbed up onto the tripod to settle in and wait for some action. My previous experiences with hunting had taught me that it was mostly a long day of waiting with a short spurt, maybe two, of some action, so I was prepared to just sit and watch the day go by. That was not to be the case today, though. Almost before I got settled, I heard the first of them. There were soft grunts coming from just in front of me. When I looked down into the brush to my right, I could see several animals jogging along the trail toward the river. Their position prevented me from taking a shot as I realized, a little too late, that the tree must have grown since the tripod had been erected. Several branches blocked my line of fire at several angles. Instead of the wide range I had expected, I was left with only a small window almost exactly where the trails met. I would either have to wait for the hogs to reach the junction or I would have to move my position – and the hogs were moving away from the junction. I could take pictures through the leaves, though, so I reached out for my camera, which I had hung on a small branch nearby. The motion produced a reaction I hadn’t expected. From directly below me, I heard a sudden crashing in the brush, the tripod rocked and I was suddenly grabbing for balance. A deep-throated grunt sounded directly beneath me and the other hogs began squealing and crashing through the brush on the other side of the trail, heading directly away from the watering hole and scattering into the dense undergrowth. Meanwhile, my arms wer