have made a bigger difference. On my fi rst trip, I bagged 74 ’hogs in six days, with 22 my best day’s score. This time, the three of us got between 20 and 30 each and we had to work a bit harder, too. My preferred style at home is to lie up in a spot where I know varmints will appear, glassing the landscape constantly. I’m happy to wait awhile. This time, I didn’t get to do as much of that (which I fi nd very rewarding) as I’d like, since Henrik is accustomed to fi nding ’hogs everywhere he goes and prefers just to move on to another farm if he doesn’t spot ’hogs immediately. Oliver’s 16-year-old impatience means he can’t stand still for long, so he too was reluctant to hang around when we didn’t see any targets for a while. But although we didn’t shoot a lot of ’hogs we got some each day and sure had lots of fun! Neither did I push out my distance shooting — which I
A varmint hunter’s fi rst groundhog is a special occasion! It was Oliver’s fi rst trans-Atlantic trip and he loved it, as expected — the spaciousness, the relaxed driving, the food, the friendliness — and the groundhogs! He brought down more than one ’hog at 265 yards plus.
55-grain V-Max from the .22-250 — identical performance. I got several ’hogs at 250-300 plus. I confess I’m no tourist, hopeless at walking around
looking at things — don’t see the point. I like to get into a country and blend into the scenery, living alongside the na- tives, and during the week or so of our hunt that’s what we did. In a small country motel, basic but comfortable (at around $70 Canadian a night for a double room, very cheap by UK standards) we were of course the only foreigners, but being English speakers we didn’t seem too foreign! We established a good routine. Up before seven, over to
the restaurant for breakfast, always the same group of good ol’ boys who’d arrive in their pickups for a chinwag about raccoons, or farm machinery, or fi shing for pike and bass ... whatever. The constant highway theatre outside was a lot better than TV! Roadworks caused a queue every morning, so as we ate we could admire the difference in automobile cul- ture compared with England. Enormous semis by Kenworth, Peterbilt, Western Star; the huge campers; the surprising number of older cars, very well preserved, including occa- sional ’60s and ’70s muscle cars; and of course the 4x4s and pickups. Rural Ontario must be pickup truck headquarters, and it’s proper Detroit iron, not the Japanese machines we get in England. After a nutritious intake of coffee, juice, bacon or ham,
eggs, fried potatoes, toast, etc., we’d load our armory into the trunk and take off, following the maps Henrik has built up over the years. He knows the area intimately after hunting there so long, and has acquired many good friends among the local farmers. The groundhog population has fallen off, and nobody
knows quite why. Henrik admits to having shot thousands himself but is inclined to think coyotes moving into the area
Page 154 July — September 2011
would most defi nitely have done given another few days at it on my own. One farm with a large, very long fi eld, cut and rolled with the bales still standing, gave us a wide range of shots that typify our hunt. Here, we could glass all the way down to a fence line against the trees more than 400 yards away, and off to one side across a steep dip into an adjacent piece of rough ground covered in scrub grass, bushes, small trees, and fallen trees. Over there we spotted a few ’hogs at between 300 and 400 yards. Suffering from mild “groundhog fever,” I got the clicks wrong on one at 370 yards and missed clean. Then, ’cause I was watching two or three ’hogs at dif- ferent points, and they kept hiding and then reappearing, I got confused and shot at the one I thought was at 300 yards, but it turned out to be the one at 350 yards. I saw the bullet strike short, dead in line. Turning ’round to look in the other direction, I glassed
the fence line running down the east side of the fi eld. “Hey, Henrik!” I called. “I got one for you sitting on a fencepost!” Generalissimo Hoyer sure likes blasting ’em off posts, espe- cially with heavy metal, and he was toting his wife, Marilyn’s, very nice Remington in 6mm Rem. A quick laser check gave us a tad over 260 yards, and the Remington settled across a hay bale. Boom! One airborne groundhog. And only a few minutes later I saw another down the same fence line, dif- fi cult to see in the shade, lying along a wide horizontal rail at 287 yards. This one survived, but he sure spent a few days on tranquilizers. Henrik’s bullet had grazed his belly hairs, driving several of them into the rail. A little later I spotted a ’hog at the far end of our fi eld.
He was on the ground, passing through a pile of logs in the shade. I lasered the logs at 418 yards, clicked up my elevation, and prepared for a careful long shot. Solid shooting practice improves one’s skill and confi dence, so while I’d have been doubtful back home about connecting with my target at this distance using such a modest rig, I’d already zapped a num- ber of ’hogs in the preceding days and I was optimistic about getting one at 400 plus. But he didn’t emerge again, and my companions were restless, so we moved on. The pictures are on the wall of my offi ce as I write, along
with those from my fi rst groundhog safari. I alternate between fond memories of both — and planning the next trip. Ontario again? I love the place. Or maybe I should head Stateside next time. Maybe rockchucks out West, or….
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