‘Tis a Siberian-styled wintery morn outdoors. So bitterly cold that my nose leaks and my extremities turn blue. There is not a whisper of wind, and the weak July sun has yet to perform its dawn rituals.
Freed from the confines of the travel box the pig dog’s strut. He’s cock’a’leg, she’s squat. Urine streams, steams, then freezes yellow. The proverbial piss holes in the snow.
I’ve dressed appropriately. Layers begin with merino wool against my skin and progress until I’m swaddled in canvas chaps and an oilskin vest.
I fill my pockets with dog leads, ammunition and a cotton bandana which might multitask as emergency tourniquet, scope wiper or hair keeper upper. Add camera gear, tracking gear, rifle and hi-viz beanie and I’m hung like a donkey. One of those knock-kneed donkeys which lug obese beachgoers – head down, overladen and unhappy.
We get cracking. I work hard. The dogs work hard. The day brightens and Sol shows us his love.
I know the pigs will be camped up high. They’ll be on a ridge where the sun strikes early and the breeze, of which there’s none yet, will tip them off about the presence of danger. They’ll be hunkered down, piled one atop the other, farting and grunting as they doze.
We climb and climb. We hunt and hunt. We investigate every lead. The canine’s labour. I perspire.
That perspiration trickles and seeps. It is absorbed by my layered clothing. I have pocketed the beanie, pulled up my sleeves and unzipped my oilskin but my body heat is not dissipating.
Like the little donkey I cannot ditch my load. This is a one-way route, and my clothing and gear must accompany me every step of the way – the most efficient way to carry said clothing and gear is to wear it.
We cannot find the pigs. They have roamed far and wide. They have left clues like upended thistles, shiny baubles of dung, rubbed trees – but we are tired and our well of enthusiasm is running dry.
My ute, parked afar, looks tiny, like a matchbox diecast. The distance between us wobbles ever so slightly as Sol’s heat distorts the air. I plod on, weary like a dumb ass and stubborn like a mule, extending our random route time and again in the hope of a win.
Out of the blue, just fifty metres ahead, Kola barks.
Old Chop finds her and lends a hand. I load the rifle and push closer, chaps scratching loud against the porcupine shrubs. Reek of boar assailing my nostrils, heart rate elevating.
The boar rockets from his hideout when my rifle barrel is pushed close to his ear. He sprints from cover to cover, honking and scoffing indignantly. Kola and Chop zig and zag in hot pursuit till fang connects with ham and close quarters combat begins.
Its all in and all on. 110 per cent physical expenditure by all parties, lots of heavy breathing and dirt and blood till the young boar expires with a squeal and a shudder.
I am short one dog and the tracker reveals he has stopped far away. I climb a nearby knoll, look and listen. Down towards a neighbouring house and outbuildings I can hear his story – his pig is squealing, held firmly on the ear, while geese at the cattle yards are kicking up a heck of a fuss. A motorbike is leaving the house and closing on the scene.
The tracker reveals something else too. The two dogs which had been lying beside the deceased boar are now rapidly heading southwards. Damn.
The pair extend the distance between us, climbing another ridge before Kola starts to bark. Wait – wait – a few minutes later the old boy catches up and joins in, uncertainly at first, then warming to the task. They have something well bailed in tight cover. Double damn.
Alone, exhausted and overheated I stand with ‘piggy-in-the-middle’. One dog far north. Two dogs far south.
I can’t be everywhere; I can’t do everything.
I suspect the northern dog down amongst the gaggle of geese is going to have his pig taken from him by a stranger. The other two need my help asap.
I amble off, picking a pathway down the steep and overgrown face – knees failing, I stumble often.
At the bottom I’d love to shuck my excess clothing and gear as it’s literally killing me. But, if the pig breaks and the bail relocates, I risk misplacing the lot.
Mule-mode – an untracked climb ahead, warm sun shining, no air circulating – I stew in my own juices. The missing dog appears and disappears, he joins his mates and they begin to hold their quarry.
Steep. Dragging or pushing myself upwards, vegetation resisting – I stop every half dozen strides to prop a foot forward, lean onto my knee and breath deep. I’m cooked. Waves of nausea surge, my ears ring and my balance is gone.
Still, I cannot stop as the dogs are holding hard and they are as exhausted as I am. The only reprieve they’ll get is when I put an end to this silly game. I stutter on but it is a mammoth struggle to maintain forward momentum of any kind.
The young boar breaks when I eventually arrive. The dogs’ reserves are spent, their tanks empty – they struggle to dominate. As one we bounce and stagger downwards till, finally, we win the battle down in the gully.
There is a pond just metres away – here the dogs wade – eyes glazed, tongues lolling and muscles a’tremble. I don’t dare join them. My vision goes, casting everything in blurry shades of grey. The ground is my friend; I hold it close and dear.
Heat stroke in July, who would believe it.
That ute of mine, it’s still kilometres away. The donkey which is me gets there ever-so-slowly – and with the salt-laden and soggy load still worn upon my dumb ass.
