We’re settling into camp, dropping gear and claiming cots, and I notice I’m reaching for my phone. But there’s no text or email buzzing because there’s no cell service here. It usually takes me about half a day or so to adjust to the peace of being disconnected when I’m off the grid, but I imagine the transition is more abrupt for Matt. On a normal day, Matt Horn is “Chef.” His is the name on the restaurant, Horn Barbecue in Oakland, where his day runs at full speed, responding to calls and emails, running staff meetings, going back and forth to his different properties. He’s in the middle of opening his third restaurant.

Here at the Jack Ranch in California’s central hills, we’re a long way from the city’s pace. It’s about three hours on the highway from Oakland, but we only arrive at camp after going farther still with a four-mile ride in on horseback. The mission: cowboy camping and pig hunting. The crew: the Kika guides (true-grit cowboys), Chris Malloy (a pro-surfer), Matt Horn (pitmaster), and myself (a fellow hunter).

I give Matt a lot of credit for agreeing to this hunt, having never so much as shot a rifle or ridden a horse prior – or hell, not even really knowing any of the rest of us. We’re connected by our common home state, love of challenge, and opportunity to eat a meal we harvested ourselves, which for Matt, is something he’s been looking for.

Shawnee – one of the Kika guides and the horseman of the group – is assigning us our animals. “Okay, we’ve got you riding Warren G.,” he says to Matt, then asks, “Have you been around horses much?” Matt answers honestly, “You know, my dad went hunting all the time when I was young, and I grew up around horses but have never ridden myself.” Shawnee grabs the lead rope and assures him, “Warren G. is a good mule. He can be stubborn, but he’s surefooted.” Matt springs up and over the saddle but doesn’t quite make it. Stepping back down he regroups and tries again. With a helpful shove from Shawnee, Matt settles into the saddle, wipes the sweat from his brow, and grabs the reins. He looks good, even if he is unsure.

Chris Malloy shares with him a little of the wisdom he’s picked up over the years in having a few horses of his own: “These horses feel everything – they feel your energy and your mood. They know when you’re nervous or frustrated.” Chris looks every bit the cowboy, from his bushy beard down to his spurs. His weathered face, however, he can attribute to his career as a legendary big-wave surfer, accomplished filmmaker, and lifelong California outdoorsman. Chris’s son Lucas is here with us too, also on the receiving end of his dad’s pointers on proper horsemanship and riding mechanics. If Matt’s overwhelmed, he doesn’t show it, his mule reading a confident rider as cowboy Kade leads our string down the dusty road.

Jake Franklin, Kika’s founder, explains that the plan is to opportunistically hunt our way to camp. If we see pigs, we’ll make a play on them. We ride on dirt roads for the first half then bust our own trail through the oak trees. We top out on a ridge as the sun is beginning to set. Looking through his binos across the valley, Shawnee reports, “I got pigs.” After a quick wind check, he pushes the horse string back down the ridge to stay concealed. Pigs have notoriously poor eyesight but an extremely keen sense of smell, so the most important element is staying downwind. Here, Lucas connects on his first pig, and the energy for the trip spikes with excitement. The guides make quick work of it and pack the quarters into saddle bags just before the sun dips below the horizon.

As we pass through the last cowboy gate, camp is visible at last. Jake’s dad, Sheriff Paul, is cooking ribeye steaks for us. The scene is transporting: Three canvas-wall tents are glowing from propane lanterns within, a chuckwagon sits adjacent, and a roaring fire and picnic table call us in.

I notice Matt reach for his phone, responding to a phantom vibration. “It’s funny,” Matt says, lighting up a cigar, “I’ve been looking forward to being able to shut down and just be here. I love all the stuff I have going on, but it’s like night and day going from all that,” he gestures with his phone – the tether to life’s obligations – “to this,” he says, taking in his surroundings. “And man, it’s so beautiful,” he reflects, finding a seat close to the fire.

This shift in pace is a big part of why we love what we do as hunters. Being out here forces you to be present; hunting forces you to be patient and slow down. And settling into it is both natural and unnatural at the same time.

“Wait until tomorrow,” Jake calls out in response to Matt. “You’ll get to see it from the very start of the day – asses in the saddle at 5:30.” Despite the fast-approaching morning, we take our time around the fire. It’s quickly apparent that there’s an easy camaraderie among this eclectic cast of characters coming together under the same open sky in pursuit of one thing: a shared experience. Okay, and a pig or two.

We wake to the smell of bacon and cowboy coffee that Sheriff Paul has going over the fire; the guides are already out roping horses to saddle. But the morning’s cool air gives a false sense of leisure; we’re racing the rising temperatures. During the heat of the day, pigs bed down under the shade of oaks and scrub bushes for protection from the sun and predators. Once they’ve bedded, it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Jake’s leading the string on a five-mile loop out from camp, primarily on ridgelines, allowing us the best vantage points for spotting pigs. Ridgelines can be unsettling for experienced riders, and I’m thinking about how Matt’s doing up ahead of me on his mule. We come to this precarious ledge with a steep drop and have to get around a tree. The only way around is on the outside of it, ledge side. Jake, Chris, Shawnee, Lucas – they each ride around it with no visible hesitation. But Matt stops. His body language tells me everything, but then he calls out, the indecision thick in his throat, “We’re really high up.” I know this feeling – trusting this animal with your life and in the back of your mind trying to forget that it can feel what you’re feeling, which does not add up to more confidence.

Instead of getting off and walking, Matt moves Warren G. forward and around the tree and continues on, the sure-footed mule having proven himself. Catching up to Matt, I feel so damn proud. He’s giving the mule a pat and says to me, “He’s a good mule, huh?” with the gravity of a man who just conquered something inside himself. We ride on to catch up with the rest of the crew, Matt riding a little taller in the saddle.

The temperatures are now in the mid-nineties. After about three hours of scanning the hillsides, Jake calls it, and we point the ponies back towards camp, giving us all a break from the heat and letting the horses rest up before the evening hunt.

Arriving back at camp I notice Matt’s much more confident handling his mule. While having lunch and throwing ropes, we get to talking about the ride. “I’ll be honest,” Matt says, “I know I held everybody up when I stopped, but at that moment on the ledge, I really had to overcome my fear. I felt powerless but knew I was going to have to do it. My heart was racing. Then I took a deep breath, trusted, and did it,” he says, picking up a rope to try his hand with the roping dummy. “I truly almost got off and walked back to camp.”

“But you didn’t,” says Chris in a proud fatherly way. “You put your head down and did it.” For the evening hunt, Jake’s plan is to gain elevation to a glassing point where we can overlook a watering hole that should hold a good number of bedded pigs. We set out and find the hillside has come to life with deer, turkeys, and rabbits in the cooler twilight air. And just as the sun begins to drop below the horizon, a pig walks out into a clearing across the valley.

Jake and Matt hustle. “It’s a long shot, but it’s the closest we can get without being seen,” explains Jake. Matt confidently nods his head and reaches for his rifle. Sitting on a downhill slope, they’re in an extremely difficult shooting position.

Matt had quieted any concerns the guides may have had about his shooting capability the first day of the trip when he hit a tiny white square target about a hundred yards out on his first shot. Turns out, he’s a natural.

Here on the hillside with Jake’s guidance Matt takes a shot. But it’s a clean miss. “250 yards is a long way for a new shooter. Don’t beat yourself up,” says Jake. The ride back to camp is quiet. The phenomenal sunset does its best to lift the mood, but Matt’s shoulders bear the weight of his missed shot.

Back at camp, we settle in around the fire, and Matt lights his nightly cigar. “Man. I really want that shot back. I can’t stop replaying it in my head.” Any hunter who has done it for a few years knows the feeling – replaying every single detail over and over. Was it the wind? Did I anticipate the recoil and jerk before the shot? What could I have done differently?

“Missing that pig reminds me of my second date with my wife, Nina” he says. Between the high spirits and the whiskey tasting good, we have to laugh not knowing where this story is going. He tells us how he had wanted to impress her by cooking ribs for her. But the ribs came out tough, and she let him know. From that moment on, Matt was obsessed with perfecting his ribs. He quit his job in retail and focused all his energy on learning how to smoke meat.

I gather he’s in that headspace now – deep commitment, bordering on obsession. While riding on the trail the other day, I asked him how important it is to get a pig, or if it’s more about just being out here. Without hesitation Matt replied, “Oh, I want to have a very successful hunt. I’m extremely competitive, and when I focus on something, I want to see it through.” “We can make it happen, man,” I told him. Even though there are no givens on any hunt, I know we’ve got some of the best guides around.

“They’ve already been so patient,” Matt was saying about Jake, Shawnee, and Kade. “What I do at the restaurant centers around patience, so I connect to that. And I’ve been grateful for that here because they aren’t rushing me, and their love for what they do is reflected through their instruction, you know what I mean?” I do. Great guides make all the difference.

As the night winds down around the fire, I can see the focus in him. In between telling stories and smoking his cigar, Matt’s staring off. Mentally committing. Before turning in, he goes, “I’m gonna get one in the morning,” to no one and everyone, but most importantly to himself.

It’s our last morning to hunt. Matt’s the first rider mounted. Jake takes Matt out, just the two of them, to get a start on the day. I head out with the second group. It’s hard to focus while scouting because we’re thinking about Matt. “He’s in good hands,” Chris comments, “but all you can do is put a guy on a pig, then it’s just him. He has to do it.”

Hours later our two groups arrive back in camp at the same time. As we approach, we see Matt pumping both of his fists in the air. “You did it?!” Chris shouts with great expectation. With a huge smile, Matt nods, and not just with his head but his full body giving the affirmative. Chris jumps off his horse and gives Matt a big bear hug. There’s celebration all around, with high fives, hugs, and stories flowing. There’s a relief that comes with the success of a clean kill. And now we get to eat wild pig prepared by chef, pitmaster, and hunter, Matt Horn.

With limited camp supplies (as opposed to his fully stocked restaurant kitchen), Matt gets creative and begins reducing canned peaches and bourbon for the base of his makeshift backcountry cowboy BBQ sauce – such lean meat as wild game requires a different approach than the simple dry rub he would typically use. The rest of us grab chairs and squeeze under a precious sliver of shade in front of the grill to watch Matt work. It’s fascinating to see him switch gears from hunting to cooking, and it’s evident he loves what he does.

“This is the best wild pig I’ve ever had,” says Chris as we all dig into the beautiful spread. His remark goes uncontested as the table chatter quiets on account of full mouths. Matt nods in acknowledgement, then in a half-toast, half-retrospective, he says, “For this pig to have been running around, and then for me to take its life, carry it on my back out of the canyon, and prepare it out of love for everybody who is here…” he starts, meandering through his sentiments. He takes a sip of wine and continues, “You’ve all shown me so much, I really feel the love for what you do. And now I get to share my love through my skill set and craft.” We raise our glasses instinctively and build upon his tribute, enjoying our last meal and feeling truly full.

The night sky is brilliant with a billion stars, and I get that pang of pre-nostalgia – that feeling that you know you’ll miss this moment even while you’re still in it. Matt shares another realization that brings it all home: “Before anyone hunts for the first time, you might think that you're just aiming a gun and shooting. But you have to be in the right mindset.”

He continues saying, “And for me I had to understand that I'm only in control to an extent. I had to trust the process and be respectful of what it is that we're doing. I had to really let go and arrive at this place of peace, you know what I mean?” Yes, Matt. We do.