There’s a high-country hare up ahead, body upright and whiskers twitching. I am speeding towards him in pre-dawn gloom. Not open highway, tar seal and white lines type speeding. No. More gravel road, potholes and boob-bouncing corrugations type speeding.
Yep, I’m traveling at 50kph, and the hare thinks my approaching ute is the second scariest monster he has ever seen. Illuminated by my headlights, the other scary monster is directly behind him – its black and its hare-like shape stands between him and freedom.
The black monster blocks his every move. Terrified, he side-steps left and right. Then, as the ute gets ever closer, he extends to full stretch and tries to out-sprint the monsters behind and ahead. Stones flick from beneath his hairy paws and his heart-rate accelerates but he cannot escape the perceived perils.
Eventually tiring, he zigs and zags, his ears and tail pressed down to improve his aerodynamics. His shadow, for the black monster is his shadow, sticks with him.
Finally, a familiar farm gate offers an escape route. As he dodges sideways both monsters are shaken off. He slows, then props stiff-legged and tall. Crisis averted, he lives another day.
Tender shoots of spring growth are most nutritious alongside the road verge. Disturbed soils and gravel run-off make for prime pickings and hare after harried hare dodges and dances with their shadows as I hurry inland. Headlights announce my impending arrival – taillights indicate that danger has safely passed.
Tender shoots of spring growth are most nutritious alongside the road verge. Disturbed soils and gravel run-off make for prime pickings and hare after harried hare dodges and dances with their shadows as I hurry inland. Headlights announce my impending arrival – taillights indicate that danger has safely passed.
It seems only yesterday that wintery frosts had whitened the landscape on mornings like this – now the temperature sits at a balmy ten degrees, and the blazing sun jumps from the horizon, ascending at speed. Only yesterday that I could meander about the mountains all day long – now hunts are handicapped by escalating heat.
Nek minnit it will be summer. Outings limited and shortened; the dogs will lose their match fitness and muscle tone. Like every other creature which has come through a tough winter they will get fat and live life at a more leisurely pace. So today is the beginning of the end – one of the last adventures of our prime pig hunting season.
I am aware too, that Old Chop cannot go on forever. Though no-one has the heart to tell Chop that!
Kitted-up, I strike off up a tight gully, all winter it has been in perma-frost but now, miraculously, it is green and lush. There is paradise duck shit and possum shit and the splayed prints of playful fallow deer. Higher up there are distinctive goat marks, young billies venturing in search of new territory. But there are no pig marks, no rooting nor sign.
We contour on forest tracks, detour out onto sunny spurs vegetated in porcupine scrub, matagouri and lawyer. We poke up clover-floored gutters, and we use all our senses – the dogs excel at ‘sniff’ while I cover the ‘see’ and ‘listen’ efficiently.
None of us is perfect, but together the three dogs and I have nearly a century of hunting experience. Old age has its downfalls, but it also has its advantages. ‘You can call us old boy, but you can’t call us stupid!’.
The boar we find is not stupid either. He camps far from the weaners my questing ear had heard earlier – avoiding the unwelcome attention they attract. And his bed is high above the land both gentle and green. Up here he can hear the approach of hardworking dogs, it gives him time to do his warm-up stretches and to tie the laces of his best trail running shoes.
Said boar is fully prepared as the dogs track uphill. He stands still and silent – hackles up and go-juice percolating. And when he’s sure that they are indeed tracking him, he rockets away from the site.
Perhaps he waited a moment too long. Perhaps the dogs fluked a one-way street or no-exit alley. There is a collision, fang on ham, then after a moment of indecision, two battle against one.
Circling bodies bounce off trees; a dozen feet dislodge rocks and leaf litter.
Old Chop bolts up from below while the threesome spin and slide downwards. He joins his teammates, holding hard. Three now battle against one.
It begins to rain. An immaculately timed southerly squall adds to the drama. I’m not sure who’s side it’s on. It doesn’t cover the sound of battle because there is no sound. There is just puffing along with the odd grunt or growl.
The dogs and I know the battle is not yet won. The boar knows the battle is not yet lost. The win will go to he who fights the hardest or to he who gets lucky.
Is it luck, that between the old boar’s daybed and the gentle and green lands below, is a bluff system? Is it luck that, despite being hard held, he drags himself bodily towards those bluffs? I think not.
‘Call him old boy, but don’t call him stupid’.
Self-preservation means that the boar is prepared to drag himself over the edge of the rocky drop-off and free-fall. His nuggety body, thick shield and wedge shape see him land safely and scramble to his feet.
That same self-preservation means that the dogs are not prepared to dive headlong into the abyss. Instead, they relinquish their grip and find a route that is safer but a minute slower.
That minute makes the difference – the boar now on turbo boost, following well known trails – to falter is to fail.
Down he goes, down and down. Along the way he contours through the family living quarters. He’s not there to say a fond farewell to the wives and kids. They will be his sacrifice and his saviour – and, a minute later, so they are.
A weaner begins to squeal; the dogs hold it tight.
In a clearing below, the gnarly boar bounds through, hackles and tail high, his freedom earned, my respect for him immense.
