By Matthew Morris

“How many more days until we go pig hunting, Dad?” Waylon asked. 

“Oh, we have a couple of more weeks Buddy. Are you getting excited?” I inquired, already knowing the answer. 

“I cannot wait! Did you really see dozens of pigs when you were there last time?”

“I sure did, and we’ll see just as many on our trip.”

This had been an ongoing discussion with my ten-year-old son, Waylon, particularly after I confirmed that I had booked a father-son pig hunting trip in central Florida. For several weeks we watched videos on YouTube of hunters stalking and harvesting wild pigs in the swamps and agricultural lands of the Sunshine State. I had completed a very similar trip in April 2024, as I attended a work conference in Orlando; but, managed to sneak in a day of pig hunting and surf fishing at the tail-end of the trip. While the fish did not cooperate, I did manage to bag three healthy pigs with my hand-made longbow. Our family of four has been happily enjoying meals of wild pork since the spring.

For our father-son trip, I leveraged the expertise of Matt Cates and his guides at Triple M Outfitters, based out of Palm Bay, FL. Triple M runs a well-organized operation, which involves riding around on eight foot tall swamp buggies where hunters glass for pigs, and follow-up with a well strategized stalk to their quarry. This was a repeat visit, as I hunted with Triple M in the spring and knew they’d provide the ideal environment for a family trip. To make the adventure more wholesome, my 72-year-old father-in-law also decided to join us on the trip.

Waylon and I arrived at the Orlando International Airport on a Thursday, and acquired a rental vehicle after collecting our luggage. During the short walk to our SUV we commented on how hot and humid the day was. “It’s sure ‘human’ out here eh buddy?” I razzed my not-so-little man. 

“Dad, I know the word is ‘humid’ not human. I’ve not said it wrong for a million years,” he retorted. 

My father in law, Jay, met us at the hotel in Melbourne Beach.  We all enjoyed a nice seafood meal at a local restaurant, and shared enthusiasm for the next day’s adventure. Our Friday agenda involved a fishing trip with a local charter where we intended to spend 4-6 hours shark fishing off the coast of Melbourne Beach.

While we attempted to rally at the dock by 7:00 AM, we managed to arrive a smidge before 7:20. I swear, I don’t know who’s more difficult to shuffle out the door, my 10 year old son, or my older (ahem, wiser) father-in-law.  Our captain, Jim,  was very relaxed and told me not to sweat it. We spent the next four hours trying our best to catch one of those toothy creatures, but all we managed to catch was a good tan. Jim, though, was  quick witted and grabbed an ultralight with small hooks so that Waylon could occupy his time catching small bait fish, which we all celebrated with great enthusiasm with each landed fish. No doubt that Jim knows his stuff, it just was not a great day for the fish bite. For lunch we dined at a local restaurant on the water and heard murmurs of equally unimpressive fish reports from the day among the patrons. But hey, we had a good platter of shrimp and fish tacos. 

That evening we talked about the next day’s plans and how we hoped it was going to be more bountiful than today’s fishing trip.  I informed Jay and Waylon that the last time I hunted with Triple M we probably saw 150+ pigs, and all in one day! This got everyone’s excitement up, and I think perhaps incited some evening jitters for Waylon as he could not fall asleep until late. 

The following morning Waylon, Jay, and I rolled out of our rental vehicle at a ranch that Triple M manages. We greeted Matt and climbed up on the swamp buggies, which we rode a mere ten minutes or so around agricultural lands before we spotted our first hog on the run.  The pig was a smallish, all black blur who disappeared into the bush in mere seconds. While the terrain was flat, and we could see for probably a mile or more, the grass was waist high in places which made it difficult to glass up pigs from distance. The fields were pocketed with thick scrub brush, which provide shade for the feral swine during the heat of the day, but also dense cover for hiding from predators (i.e. the three of us).

I commented that the grass was much higher than it was in April, and Matt advised that its quite a bit tougher to see the wild swine compared to the cooler months. He was confident, however, that we would see a pile of them today. 

Matt told me that his clients have  still been hitting the hogs pretty hard either over bait or via spotting and stalking from the swamp buggy. He also noted that in the hotter months, the majority of the hunters target alligators in the ponds, canals, and waterways that Triple M leases in the area. Waylon of course shared his enthusiasm for wanting to hunt an alligator someday. 

At the beginning of the hunt Matt advised me to sit in wait at a watering hole where pigs often frequent before bedding down during the heat of the day. I invited Waylon to come along, and Jay joined Matt on swamp buggy safari. 

When I think of Florida, I definitely think of swarms of mosquitoes, especially near water. In this case, the mosquitos were not as bad as expected, but the gnats were otherworldly! I had no less than two-hundred of those annoying little devils glued to my clothes, and probably half that buzzing in my ears, nose, and eyes. Waylon ended up stuffing his whole face inside of his shirt for a bit of reprieve. He did, however, risk the insects flying into his nose holes after I told him to check out the pair of pigs that were trotting our way. 

While this pair decided to carry on seventy or eighty yards out, well beyond stickbow range, it was still entertaining for Waylon and I. Like any activity you want to immerse your children into, you have to find ways to keep it entertaining. This can be a book, word puzzles, telling each other stories, drawing in the dirt, the dreaded smart devices (lame), or if you’re lucky you’ll have the opportunity to showcase them a vibrant world of flora and fauna. I try my best to incorporate the latter most frequently. 

After about forty-five minutes of waiting in our ambush site, I heard a rustling in the grass behind us. As I peeked up I could just see three nice sized pigs working their way to us, and they were already within bow range! I told Waylon to sit tight, and readjusted my position to a stable kneel. After a moment, I identified the pig I had appeared to be the largest of the trio. He was a 100 pound-plus boar with a patchy black and brown hide. I drew back my bow, picked a spot, and released. Thwack! I saw the arrow penetrate just behind the shoulder and knew I made a good shot. However, as the pig trotted off I noticed well over three-quarters of the arrow was sticking out. I assumed that the broadhead had hit the offside shoulder and pushed the arrow back out the entrance hole. 

I radioed Matt to alert him that we had arrowed a nice pig, and I thought we would find him piled up 50-100 yards away.  We searched for probably 45 minutes and had not discovered more than a few drops of blood. I was confident that I had made a lethal shot on the boar, and that he would have expired within seconds. I was sick to my stomach thinking that I had just wounded an animal, and in front of my son also. 

Matt could see my distress, and insisted that we’d probably kick the pig up later in the morning, as he likely bedded in the tall grass somewhere. “For now, lets get that young man on a pig,” he enthused. The excitement was evident on Waylon’s face, and I quickly pushed this morning’s mishap to the back of my brain … mostly. The four of us rode around in the swamp buggy, binoculars to our faces, calling out pigs in the distance. Jay was really enjoying himself also, as he observed his grandson having a wonderful time despite the bugs and the heat. We viewed dozens of feral pigs, from large 150-pound boar hogs, to little groups of “bacon bits” scrambling to keep up with the mother sows. Colors ranged from all black, to brown, to a cinnamon-blonde color, an plenty of patchy mixtures in between.

As the buggy plowed through the waist high grass we would often see little black and brown blobs shoot out only a few feet away from the massive tires. The pigs were very confident in their refuge, and seemed convinced that if they remained still that we would not spot them. Oftentimes this was true as we kicked more than a few up from the grass with less than an arm’s length between us. The excitement was enjoyed by all, and we marveled at how fast the little porkers could run out of sight. Around 10:00am, we spotted a sounder of 8-10 pigs fifty yards away, which would provide a perfect shot for Waylon. The grass in this part of the property was inches tall, rather than feet, and the hogs were in the wide open. Instead of a longbow, we had borrowed Triple M’s suppressed Ruger American chambered in .223, a perfect setup for young ones or adults who are a bit recoil shy. I helped Waylon get into position with the rifle, and oriented him with the optic and the landscape. By the time we were dialed into the pigs, they were nearly 100 yards away, but paid us little attention. I alerted Waylon to a heavy, all black boar on the far left of the sounder and instructed him to place the crosshairs just behind the pig’s shoulder. Once he said he was stable and ready to shoot, I took the weapon off safe and told him to fire when he felt comfortable. 

Pop! The weapon snapped barely louder than a mouse fart with the suppressed muzzle. “Miss. Shot right above him,” Matt told us. The boar continued to browse while we put the weapon on safe and chambered another round. Waylon took deep, calm breaths just as he had been taught. Once again he told me he was “ready to shoot.” I slid the button to take the rifle off safe, and instructed my son to shoot when he felt that he had a clean, broadside shot and the pig had stopped walking.

A split second after my ears registered the audible of the discharged weapon I saw the pig drop in its tracks! “Hit!” Matt exclaimed. I put the rifle on safe and placed it in the seat so that I could embrace my son. “You did it Buddy, good job. I am so so proud of you!” I whispered in his ear. 

“Way to go Way-way!” Waylon’s grandfather shouted. 

“Did I really get him?” He asked. 

“Let’s go take a look.” I told him. 

There was no tracking to be done. No blood trail to follow, and certainly no stress of searching for a wounded animal. Instead, Waylon and I were able to calmly walk right up to our bounty and embrace the joy in the moment, with ‘Pop-pop’ Jay observing with noticeable pride in his boys.  The first thing we ever do when we get an animal in my family is we kneel down and we pray. We pray over the animal, we thank God for the bounty, and we thank the animal for the sacrifice. As I asked Waylon to kneel with me, he whispered that there was something wrong because his whole body was shaking like Jell-O. I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit when I told him that we hunters, a club that he was now indoctrinated with, call this feeling “buck fever.” Even veterans of the hunt, of all ages, and all game still get buck fever at times. 

We knelt down, we prayed, and we thanked God for our blessings. Waylon caressed the handsome boar and told him thank you for the food that he will provide our family. We then continued our tradition of finding the softest greenery around and placed it in the deceased animal’s mouth. This is to provide a tasty meal as the beast makes its journey into the afterlife. 

After we loaded the hundred-plus pound boar onto the buggy, we commenced searching for the animal that I had shot earlier in the morning. We did see a glimpse of the pig from a distance and went to see if I could make another stalk. When I got closer, I was initially delighted in finding the broken arrow that I had shot the pig with. However, my delight was soon crushed when I realized there had been no more than three to four inches of penetration. I was nearly sick to my stomach from wounding the pig, but after glassing it a final time some 200 yards away we concluded that while the shot placement was good, the pig had not sustained a fatal wound. In fact, the chunky swine was still pretty swift as he ran away out of sight. 

I admit, the dark cloud that resulted from this mishap was significant. For a solid hour or more I let that feeling overshadow the success that Waylon had just had. The animal deserves near-perfect shot placement, as well as a quick and ethical death. Instead I had managed to wound this beast and was not able to find another opportunity for a follow up shot. I’ll need to re-evaluate my arrow set-up when I get home to ensure that penetration is dialed in, I concluded.

But alas, I shook myself off the instant Waylon asked if we were going to eat his pig tonight! That made me chuckle so loudly with sincere joy. In part it was because I was happy that my eldest son truly relished the day he had. Also in part because his innocence was able to snap me back to the importance of the day, and not my own selfish feelings and focus on failure. I do not want to understate how upset I was by the pig’s wounding, but the day was not about me. This day was about my son, and the milestone event that he had accomplished with his father and grandfather in observation. This day was pure magic…for all three of us.

We may not have eaten feral pig that evening, but we no doubt ate about every sort of ocean animal we could find on the menu at a local seafood joint. By the time we returned to the hotel we were fat and happy and had acquired lots of great stories to tell the ladies when we returned home. As we laid down for bed Waylon said to me, “Dad, am I a hunter now?”

Yeah buddy, you sure are.

Author’s Note: Our family has enjoyed many meals of wild pork in recent weeks, and Waylon is quick to remind everyone that this meal came from his pig. 

By: Matthew Morris