During the hot, boring, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other trudge back to the ute one day, we crossed a dry creek in burned-out country miles from water. I didn't even have any bullets in the magazine, I was that confident that the hunt was over. Imagine my surprise when a boar pops his head up about twenty metres away, where he'd been hiding in the shade of the dry creek! I ducked down, fumbling in my pocket to find a bullet, and loaded it in quickly, cycled it through, then popped back up and planted a little .30/30 round through his noggin - all done. He was pretty crook, it turned-out, and we didn't touch him. He had nice teeth, mind.