‘Sorry, but can we reschedule our ride? I can’t make it tomorrow,’ read the late-night message.
I cannot put hand on heart and swear I’m bitterly disappointed about the postponement. Not when the weather forecast predicts an unusually cool start to tomorrow. No, I’m not spilling tears at all!
Last weekend, in torrential rain and ice-laden chill, the pig dogs and I had partied hard. Dogging opportunities in late spring are rare and treasured. While other folk stayed indoors complaining about the dreadful conditions, we were scarpering about getting all saturated and hypothermic in pursuit of target species.
Together we’d wrestled a porker, whose heart blood had reddened a flooded stream amidst wind-thrown trees and rock outcrops. I’d dragged it well clear of the waterway to disembowel and prep it – a heavy load to recover from this gnarly place.
Unbeknown to me I’d left my knife behind as I staggered away from the scene. My favourite knife, it kept a sharp edge and was an efficient sticker, skinner and boner. Its handle was an eye-catching bright green, very bright green, so bright it was impossible to lose, or so I had believed.
So, today, all four dogs and I were about to venture directly back to the gully with its wind-thrown trees and rock outcrops to recover the coveted knife. Well, we were, until intuition altered my plan. Intuition told me to go via a more difficult route. Further, steeper and greener.
There was an internal debate, short and silent. Intuition beat logic.
The grass growing in ‘Intuition Way’ was long and lush, it hid rocks and gutters and blackberry tangles but, as a positive, it was laden with dew, so heavily bedecked with overnight moisture it kept the dogs damp and cool.
At their level they were comfortable but up at mine I was copping swirls of a humid nor’ westerly wind. No time to dilly-dally then – the moment the dew evaporated off the vegetation the dogs would begin to overheat – as the sweat dribbling down my face indicated that I already was!
There was no fresh pig sign. No evidence of recently cropped grass, no soft smelly grass-fed pig faeces. There were no trails evident in the dew. There was not even a wallow in the mud. Perhaps intuition had been telling ‘porkies.’
The airflow became ever more unpredictable. The super-heated equinoctial gales from the northern aspect collided with the cooler random wafts from the south. The katabatic and anabatic wavered undecidedly between down-draft and up-draft. On one of these ever-transitioning air currents the young dogs detected the slightest scent. Keen, they forged off through the high grass to investigate.
I paid them scant heed. I believed any pig worthy of interest would have vacated the gully already, tipped-off by the stench of human and dog carried on the wayward wind. Besides, there was still no evidence to suggest a pig had ventured this way in a long while.
A single ‘yip’ was all I heard at first. A tiny signal there was indeed a pig in the gully and the youngsters had found it.
Seconds later the heavy breathing started and no, it was not me!
The old dogs are grey-faced and slow, their eyesight and hearing dulled by age but, with a “skitch ‘im” from me, they began to bounce, ears pricked and noses questing for a clue. Then, luckily, we three seniors all heard the growl of a dog holding hard and we accelerated as one. Boar on, here we come!
The old dogs arrived at the pig, which was clean-held by the two hard-working youngsters and then it was all-in – the sound affects changed little – the boar continued with his heavy breathing, no grunt, no squeal.
Teeter-tottering across the face I stumbled repeatedly on those obstacles so well hidden by the long grass. What began as contouring curved into a downhill slalom.
I glimpsed the boar – small, black and tusky. He had an escape plan and was working solidly towards achieving it. Thrashing tusks left and right, teeth grinding on collars and dog ruffs, he alternated between attack and defence, using the geography to his advantage.
The melee descended at speed. I could not keep pace, deciding instead to pick the safest route and arrive at the bottom ready to make my presence count.
Down where the terrain was kinder the dogs and the boar were feeling the heat. Their work rate had been terrific, both predators and prey had given their absolute all to tip the battle in their favour and they literally steamed. Canine heat exhaustion loomed large, and I hurriedly intervened to call a halt to the exertions.
So, it ended, all players of this game of life and death laying in various states of disrepair in the long, lush grass of the gully floor.
The nor’ wester and the anabatic began to dominate. The morning sun marched ever upwards, the shadow of the ridge descending and warm sunlight seeking out every nook and cranny.
Targeted by a horde of persistent blow flies we rallied and picked ourselves up from our prone positions. The boar prepped, my replacement knife sheathed, we ventured back the way we’d come.
The favourite green knife remained far afield, beside a creek, amongst the wind-thrown trees and rock outcrops. All is not lost – and nor is the knife – I will retrieve it on another cool morning, my route dictated by either intuition or logic, another silent debate will decide.
