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The Boar Hunter

by Travis Lau

IT TAKES A CERTAIN kind of man to kill another animal, to look into its eyes, without attachment, and with the slightest movement of a finger to watch it bleed to death in front of you.  The thing is, you never really know how you’re going to feel until that moment before the kill, when the adrenaline courses through your veins, your heart beating fast, breath and time slowing.  This is what I prepared myself for as I ventured from the comfort of Orange County suburbia, along the Golden State Freeway, through the industrial reaches of Los Angeles, and up into the gritty landscape of California’s elbow.  Was I that kind of man?  It took mental preparation, hours of practice, the right guide, and a weekend in March hunting wild California boar to find out.

It’s late, nearly 11 p.m., and we’re a little over halfway through our 270-mile journey up to our hunting grounds, a private 9,000-acre ranch in the middle of California. At this hour, the highway is nearly empty, save the occasional beam of headlights whizzing past, cutting through the darkness, and illuminating the vast nothingness around us.  In the driver’s seat is Brock Hill, my friend, and now my guide. At only five-foot-six, he is unhesitant in his command of the beast of a truck we are in, a lifted GMC Yukon with mud tires bearing treads so deep you could stick half your finger in them. The exhaust produces the guzzling sound of an M-1 Abrams. If a regular car hums, then this one most certainly roars. It’s the only real sign of life for miles. On the dashboard lies a neatly folded American flag fastened with masking tape, an outward symbol of Brock’s perception of himself as the quintessential American: a patriot, a soon-to-be Marine, the president of the College Republicans, an NRA member (confirmed by a sticker on the back windshield), a fraternity gentleman (another sticker), a fan of the metal band Slayer (yes, another sticker), and, of course, a hunter. There is no sticker for that.

As the night wears on and the road becomes emptier, we know we are getting closer to the ranch, which is situated somewhere between King City and Coalinga. It is encased in mountain ranges and filled with ridges, giving it weather patterns that are unique to this region. We exit and head west.  Fifteen miles ahead is Harris Ranch, one of the largest slaughterhouses in the state, a place that bears the distinct and isolated smell of raw manure that those familiar with Highway 5 know well. It’s the place where you close your vents, roll up your windows, and hold your breath as you pass by hundreds and possibly thousands of cows and their dung, festering in the sun.  But we don’t get this far, and we don’t smell anything, not this trip.

At this point the road becomes empty.  There are no streetlights. The only light comes from the blaring beams of our truck. Around us is nothing but a grid of barren fields and eerie roads. We charge on for a little bit, through a small town, and finally wind up surrounded by a string of oilfields, populated by an army of derricks, and still more emptiness. Brock cruises through as if it were a matter of habit.  The route has been programmed in his memory by weekend trips and summers spent at the ranch as a boy. To a stranger, however, the dark vastness of the land is intimidating and disquieting. It takes a concerted effort to remember that we are still in California because, by the looks alone, we could easily be in the back country of Texas or Oklahoma. 

Our trudge through the monotonous land ends abruptly as we reach a small, narrow road at the northeast corner of the grid. It’s called Old Coalinga Road, and it barely looks drivable. Up to this point the terrain has been rather flat, but standing right before us is the entrance to a steep mountain pass. As we head upward, leaving the last remnants of familiarity behind, I am now completely out of my element.

We make our way through miles of uphill road, following the twists and turns of a large creek that flows with the mountains. Blanketed by thick tree lines on each side of us, we slow down only to take on the deep trenches and dips in our path where the creek and road intersect, an improvised culvert for heavy rains. With the wrong weather, the water level makes it almost impossible to get through these points in the road.  I find it hard to believe that anything less than a truck could make it up. “My little sister always pukes right here,” Brock blurts out as he mashes the gas.

We arrive at the gate, a large and impressive mix of cemented river rock and metal.  Above it, flanked by two American flags on each side, is a sign for “Rancho La Cuesta,” which Brock tells me is slang for, “Ranch of the Hills,” a double entendre combining his family name and an apt description of the terrain. 

Past the gate, and now on his property, we make our way further uphill to the ranch house itself, a sentinel structure that sits about a mile ahead on a high peak overlooking part of the territory.  We climb 1,200 feet up to the top and from it, in the daytime, you can see below the runway that Brock and his father built years ago to accommodate their small fleet of single-engine planes that they occasionally use to travel to and from their home in Northern California.  This is the place where Brock, as a boy, watched his father--an ex-stunt pilot--take off and land, the place where he first decided he wanted to fly for the Marines. As he tells me this he motions to the darkness with a hand full of blisters and scars, souvenirs from long, grueling summers spent at marine officer boot camp.

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