Beyond The Bow: A Primitive Pig Pursuit In Central Georgia

The smile from Andre Moore proves there may not be a more action-packed hunt than one that involves wild hogs, dogs and a knife!

As the first rays of dawn broke through the fields, I knew I was on the brink of an adventure that would push me to my limits and fortify the connection to my ancestral lands. I’ve hunted for well over 20 years, but this time was going to be different. Today, I was leaving my bow and rifle behind and exchanging it for my rosewood-handled Bowie knife to kill my first wild pig with Do Work Outdoors, working mostly out of Stewart and Calhoun counties.

Feral pigs, scientifically classified as Sus scrofa, have become a significant problem in Georgia’s agricultural landscape. Mostly originating from feral domestic swine, their population has surged dramatically in recent years. These adaptable creatures thrive in the varied ecosystems of central Georgia. With a high reproductive rate and few natural enemies, the agricultural losses amount to millions of dollars in Georgia annually.

My destination for this hunt was near the small town of Lumpkin—a place steeped in my family’s history. Lumpkin holds a deep and complex history for me. It was here that my ancestors were once enslaved, enduring unimaginable hardships. Yet, it was also here where they found their freedom and began to build a new legacy by ultimately establishing a restaurant downtown and holding various elected positions in local government.

We convened in a local parking lot at 4 a.m., ready for the morning hunt. Adam Stanfill and Josh Hodnett, with their rugged faces and big smiles, were the quintessential embodiments of the Central Georgia way of life.

The dogs accompanying Adam and Josh were a diverse and spirited group, each with a unique background and a shared enthusiasm for the hunt. Zeb, the venerable redbone hound, served as the elder statesman of the pack. Tank, a blue brindle pit bull, had been lovingly raised by Josh since he was a puppy. Nova, their cherished, red-nosed pit bull, was a resilient survivor, rescued from an alleged dog fighting ring, now fondly remembered as she rests in peace. Mowgli, a beagle and black and tan hound mix, was our reliable scout, whose frenzied bark signaled imminent action. Lastly, Kodi, a German shorthaired pointer and Weimaraner mix, was a rescue Josh had saved as a puppy after her mother was tragically struck by a car. This eclectic ensemble of canines, each with its own story and personality, epitomized the spirit of what was to come.

We drove a few miles east and staged our trucks in a wooded area. As the sun gradually illuminated the vast fields of corn and soy, I accepted that I was not merely a passive observer; I was about to partake in a deadly dance between man and beast that had played out for generations.  As the dog cages on the back of Bo’s truck swung open, his pack of dogs took off running, their keen senses latching onto the faintest scent of a wild pig. At this moment in time, I was thankful I had health insurance because depending on how the next two hours went, I might need it.

The chase that ensued was a chaotic ballet of sounds and sights, with the dogs weaving through the underbrush and cornfields. My heart pounded in rhythm with the frenzied pursuit, first on ATVs and then on foot. My breaths came in rapid bursts as I waded deeper into the corn fields. I remembered the brief safety briefing where they asked me if I could swim, given the presence of a few small but deep lakes dispersed throughout the property. I had confidently confirmed that I could, but as I thought about it, I realized I’d never had to swim with my clothes and hunting boots on—what exactly had I gotten myself into?

In addition to being mauled by an angry pig, accidentally mauled by dogs, or bitten by a snake, lurked one more unexpected fear—the fear of drowning. Despite my proficiency in swimming, the idea of being submerged in one of those murky lakes, tangled in underwater plants, made me a bit nervous. I decided that if I fell in, I’d start stripping off my clothes if necessary and swim to safety.

The pursuit of the wild hog led us deeper into the fields, the dogs’ relentless determination serving as a reminder of the timeless connection between humans and our canine companions. As we closed in on the pig, a renewed intensity pulsed through the air, a primal symphony that transcended all languages. The dogs began to bay, with lead dog Mowgli’s barks drastically changing in tone as they cornered the hog. We blindly rushed through the fields, using handheld GPS and our ears to locate the dogs. The confrontation that unfolded was a test of wills, a contest between survival instincts and the human capacity for resourcefulness. The dogs held the wild pig down in a pond, their fierce energy clashing with the wild strength of the hog, creating a scene of raw, untamed nature.

“We gotta hurry; she’s going to try to drown the dogs!” screamed Josh.

We raced to the edge of the small pond and jumped right in. We grabbed the pig by its rear legs, flipping it over and dragging it to the bank as it angrily squealed and bit furiously. The dogs had surrounded the wild pig, tearing at its ears and holding it down. My Bowie knife gleamed in the lights of the ATV as I lunged forward with precision, driving and twisting the blade directly into the big sow’s heart with precision.

I felt the sow take her final breath. In that fleeting moment, I felt a rush of emotions—a mingling of respect for the animal’s strength, a profound connection to the cycle of life and death, and thankful I didn’t get hurt. The hunt was over, and it was barely time for breakfast.

This fast-paced and mud-soaked experience deepened my respect for the powerful spirit of nature and the bonds that connect all of us to it.

If you’d like to contact Dowork Outdoors – GA Wild Boar Guided Hunts, Adam Stanfill at 229.201.9740 or Josh Hodnett at 229.456.4240. You can email them at [email protected].