It was midday, and most of the wild pigs on southern California’s sprawling Tejon Ranch were bedded down in heavy brush and steep canyons. Most of the hunters in our party had taken their cue from the pigs and headed back to the cabin for a snooze. But Myles and I weren’t ready to quit yet, and our guide, Bryan, had an idea.
He stopped the truck across a shallow creek from a narrow ravine that cut down one of Tejon’s steep, grassy hillsides. About a third of the way up the ravine was a small, thick patch of brush.