Two pairs of eyes were intensely focused on the two warthogs digging in the peanut chaff, a mere 15 yards away. As I pulled my 65-pound takedown recurve to full draw, I could almost feel the excitement of my four-year-old son Ivan next to me. I knew I had better get this shot right.

A week before the hunt, I had made up some hunting arrows for my son's laminated longbow, using a couple of 16" dowel-stick arrows. His excitement had flowed into a multitude of questions and I had to be careful not to get irritated. I had decided to take him along, as he is just as crazy about archery as his dad and some of his dad's friends. Hopefully we would have some success on this hunt so that I could discover what my self-made takedown recurve was capable of.

At 3 pm on Friday afternoon I rushed to the Army Surplus store to buy camouflage overalls for a four-year-old boy. This he held onto until he fell asleep almost halfway to Buffelsdoorn in the direction of Dwaalboom. On our arrival Marius, our host, welcomed us.  We immediately knew that we were going to enjoy this weekend as he was just as excited as we were. We were taken to our 3-bedroom chalet with kitchen, lounge, and bathroom with shower. The "donkey" was steaming with hot water for those who needed to freshen up after the four-hour drive, but being typical bowhunters we opted instead for the campfire and as always went to bed quite late after some serious hunting stories.

The next morning Marius came to fetch us, but before we went off we did some target practice. With our traditional bows we usually do not score 80s, but Marius was nevertheless impressed. After a short update and some tips, Marius dropped Ivan and me at the second hide. 

I had my hands full to keep the little one's excitement down and fortunately the sweets I brought along worked just fine. Suddenly a sow warthog appeared in front of us with four quite young piglets. Since I did not want to spook them or shoot them, I had to explain to Ivan why I did not want to shoot the mother of possibly still dependant piglets. 

Suddenly two bigger warthogs appeared. They knelt down at the waterhole. I knew from experience that you do not shoot these extremely alert animals while they are drinking. When they had finished they moved toward us to a spot where some peanut chaff was left. The slightly smaller one turned slowly broadside and some serious facial expressions kept Ivan quiet. As I drew my 65-pound bow I could almost feel my son's excitement next to me. As soon as I touched anchor I released. I could hear the upper limb of the bow hitting the roof of the blind. In a split second I had to judge whether the shot was accurate enough. Although it appeared to be a bit high the almost full penetration of my 125-grain, Snuffer-tipped arrow gave me some relief. 

How do you explain to a four-year-old boy that you have to wait some minutes before you can start tracking? Well, eventually, after about 20 minutes, which felt like an hour, I could show him the blood trail. Soon he was ahead of me and with his young eyes made even better progress than I did. We had tracked the warthog some distance when Marius' dog, Kaptein, took over and shortened the expedition. To my relief the shot placement was excellent, at least for a traditional bow, and the warthog had lasted only 70 meters after the shot. This was a great relief. When your son is watching, you do not want to disappoint him!

The photo session went well amongst a host of questions from Ivan. I must admit it is a lifetime experience to share a hunt with someone so close to you and with an even stronger urge toward archery than yourself. I wondered afterwards whether he had not been too young for such an experience, but when I later heard him talking in his sleep saying "shoot the big one" some of my fears were relieved.

 The hospitality went on for the rest of the weekend and after shooting another warthog and sleeping past a possible record kudu, we were on our way home. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience to me, with thoughts and memories I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Reprinted from AFRICA'S BOWHUNTER Magazine