It’s All About the Route

Ground Hog Day – the same early November communication from the same high-country farmer, the same comments about newborn lambs and murdering pigs. Year upon year, the only variables are the site and the rate of mortality.

My response, as always, “I’ll be there early tomorrow”.

The pressure to perform sits heavy. More so if the culprit is a killer not a scavenger. Scavengers are simply Nature’s clean-up team. Killers are costly.

I spend a sleepless night envisioning a route. Tomorrow’s hunting success or failure, will all hinge on me and my ability to put my dogs in a position to find a free-range pig.

Without doubt it will be a fit and intelligent porker which is familiar with every feature and feed area of its own immense back yard and who’s own route will change every night on a whim.

The goal will be to get my route and the pig’s route to intersect. Ideally while its scent trail is still fresh. And, better still, while I’m down wind, so the elusive grunter doesn’t know we exist.

I’m there or thereabouts before dawn the following day but the ewes and lambs are hunkered down peacefully – the pig has not been back, not to this paddock anyways.

The route then – a big meandering loop which puts us nose-first into a westerly breeze – it takes us above vast matagouri terraces, through bracken fern basins, and along proven pig highways – it deviates through rocky outcrops which might make a pig’s day bed – it catches the first rays of sunlight and includes ‘had been’ spots, ie every spot where there ‘had been’ a pig in the past.

Zero. Zip. Nada. No skerrick of fresh sign, nor sniff of oink.

I can’t hunt smarter; I’ve done everything I can think of. But I can hunt harder. I can venture into the savage country. The places with contour lines piggybacking one another and creeks that are sheer-sided gutters impossible to ford. Where the vegetation is impenetrable, toughened by weather extremes and adorned with thorns and spikes.

Nugget heads away alone. A glance at the tracker tells me he’s slowly accruing distance and height. He will be aware that he has no back-up, but he pushes on.

Seasoned dogs have an incredible sense of what is required to catch and keep an aggressive pig contained. They read a situation and body language better than we humans could ever do. So, when Nugget goes straight into hold and his quarry grunts deeply, I know I must turn on the afterburners and jet off rapidly.

Little orange Pip’s reaction – thrusters engaged, turbo mode – she’s on her way.

Old Chop, all senses dulled by age, cannot hear the kerfuffle. I take a moment to prep him like a wind-up toy – hold him still, wind the key till he’s primed, point him in the right direction and let him go – ‘Sssss, skitchem Chop!’.

Dogs and pig have settled into their fight by the time I arrive.

I didn’t realise immediately, but my golden halo has been replaced by a flashing neon overhead sign which reads BITE ME. The pig, a young boar, takes one look and does his best to oblige. He has eyes only for me, which would be flattering if his intentions weren’t so hateful.

Eventually I manage to attach myself to the boar’s blunt end but not for long. His cloven hooves and determination are better suited to the chore than dog’s claws or rubber boot soles. His low centre of gravity and powerful neck give him ample opportunity to teach us all a lesson. Unfortunately for him we have the numerical advantage and loyal bonds.

There’s much splashing, panting and slippery sliding in the creek. Dogs getting battered and bashed against boulders as they hold tight. Me trying to keep a grip of the boar and hold him at bay as he does his best to bite any part of me that his mouth can reach.

While the rest of the wrestlers are not aware of the waterfall looming ever closer, I most definitely am. For the life of me I cannot halt downstream progress, so, in desperation, I pile atop the melee and wrench and writhe till the boar is U-turned.

Normally a flip’n’stick would be achieved without this much bother, but we’re slippery wet and slicked with slime. We each fall over the other, loosing our grip as we bump boulders, stumble into deep pools and stand on each other’s feet. We take turn about at being upside down and downside up, repeatedly winning then losing the upper hand.

Finally, heart blood merges with flowing water, the river runs red and flurries of white froth dance away in swirling eddies.

Nugget’s initial assessment was on the mark, though he is by no means a monster this was one very tough pig living in an equally tough place. But is he the one? There has been absolutely nothing to link him to the scene of the crime, so, perhaps he is just an innocent bush-dweller in the back of beyond.

More splashing and wrestling, more panting and sliding on boulders, for the deceased grunter must be hauled out of the creek bed so as not to foul the waterway – hunting etiquette 101 – ‘look after the land which feeds you’.

That just leaves the autopsy then getting our bedraggled selves outta there.

A stomach packed tight, a night’s worth of selective sampling, a multi-course degustation dinner and dessert. Bright green grass – finely chewed fern root – small pieces of foetid meat – strips of newborn lamb pelt – a sliver of tiny liver – all slathered in saliva.

The stench indicates the boar was a scavenger, not a killer. We’ll never know for sure. The pressure which weighed so heavy lifts and leaves. I head for home assured that the sleepless night was not in vain, the route was slow but good.