Kiosk - The Boar Hunter (page 3)

The Boar Hunter
(continued)

We are making the drive down Perimeter Road though another field dusted with oak trees and more grass, when Brock finally spots them on one of the hillsides. In the distance over one of the ridges we can faintly see a small group of black dots nestled in some heavy brush about 250 yards away from where we are positioned. The Jeep comes to an abrupt halt as Brock pulls us over and shuts down the engine. The sun is now at its peak and we grab our binoculars and weapons and begin walking along the tree lines toward the direction of our targets.

We do more glassing and collapse into a slow crouch.

We are able to get within about 100 yards from where they are and glass one more time before raising our rifles to make the kill. What are we looking for is one with testicles, Brock tells me. The females are called “sows” and its just plain immoral to shoot something that’s going to ensure repopulation. A male, though, they can do without. It takes a few minutes to scan the group of five to ten boar gathered around another thickly spotted area of brush. By now we are completely on our bellies as we both peer through our binoculars in complete silence, examining each one that we see. They weave in and out, turning in different directions, completely oblivious to our presence. Once we spot the one we want, a healthy-looking younger boar, about three-and-a-half feet long, and close to 150 pounds (perfect “eating size”), we wait for it to turn sideways so that it maximizes the surface area of the head, which is where we want to shoot it. Shooting it in the head avoids internal bleeding into the good meat, which would render it unusable.

Still on the ground, I draw the rifle in front of me and kick out the bipod, two metal legs that support the barrel, and rest the stock comfortably against my shoulder. The weight of the gun feels good in my hands. The smoky-colored metal is cool and worn from years of use. I grip the bolt with my right hand to push the bullet into the chamber and lock it down in place. Brock readies his rifle, too, just in case I miss the shot and the boar needs to be put down before it can run away, which would force us to chase after it. We keep waiting patiently for it to turn, hoping that it doesn’t go back into the brush. I slow my breath and can feel my heart beating as my finger stays ready on the trigger.

As I wait, It think about what is about to happen. Am I ready? Can I kill this creature? On the one hand, I feel the same excitement and fascination that I intitially had when shooting the squirrels, but with more intensity. Not only is this a much larger beast, its what I’ve been waiting for. On the other hand, I feel saddened that it is about to die, to know that in the next few seconds, that something was once alive, that was free and wild, will die because of me. By this time my body is full of adrenaline, which gives me the anxiety that I imagine a cliff diver must feel right before taking the plunge. I vacillate between the two feelings and realize what I already knew: It’s too late to turn back. This is my mission. This is my hunt.

And then it turns.

With the slightest squeeze of my index finger, I pull the trigger back a fraction of an inch. The weight of the gun is thrown into my shoulder by the blast, which resounds throughout the valley. The hot bullet casing falls to the ground next to me. In an instant, the beast falls, too. I continue to breathe, slow and deep, as a feeling of relief comes over me. Hours of practice, a long journey through the night, and almost a full day of searching through acres of open land have led to this one moment. I feel the sadness from only minutes ago slowly disappear, replaced by an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. I think to myself, “So this is why they do it.”

As we rush over, the rest of herd, frightened by the sound of the shot, scatter away. We come up to our boar and see the wound steaming as the warmth of the flesh meets with the cold air.

Killing it turns out to be the easiest part of the hunt. Now it’s time to gut it. Brock throws me the knife and repeats to me what he told me the night before, “It’s the hunter’s code: you kill it, you gut it.” He instructs me as I insert the tip of the knife right below the genital region and creates a seam from one end to the other, exposing a mess of blood and flesh. Next, I force myself to reach inside with both hands and pull out what seems to be a big bag containing all the organs and entrails. It’s warm and gooey. As I sit there taking this pig apart, divorcing its vital organs from its lifeless body, I’m reminded of my high school biology class, where we spent a week dissecting a fetal pig. Barely the size of a loaf of bread, eyes closed, cold to the touch, smelling of formaldehyde, and never having had breath in its life, the fetus allowed me to stay detached. But the dead beast in front of me is different. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for it.

Brock goes to fetch the Jeep as I continue extracting whatever’s left inside, piling it all into a mound that we will leave for the coyotes to feed on later tonight. When Brock returns, the boar, now lighter, is heaved into the backseat, still dripping blood everywhere as we hurry to drive back to the house.

Not too many things in life make me queasy, but skinning an animal that was alive only an hour before is one of them. The boar, now a little colder, is fastened to two metal clamps through slits made at the “heel” of its hind legs, and is hoisted up in the air over a tall oak tree in front of the house. We begin, each taking a side, and remove the skin with a knife, making small incisions that separate it from the flesh, as we pull, and pull some more. By the time all the skin is off the body of the carcass, it flaps over the neck of the boar looking like a woman’s red dress, hiding the head beneath it. The final step is to remove the head from the body, which in turn will take the skin with it.

I can’t do it. I think about all I’ve done today, slaughtering the squirrels, shooting the boar in the head, cutting it open, removing all the organs with my bare hands. And now, with the final step, removing the head from the bloody mess hanging in front of me, I think I’ve had enough. This is not what I signed up for.

Brock laughs as he reaches underneath the flap of skin around the head and pulls out the windpipe with his hands so that it doesn’t contaminate the good meat. With a knife and a few vigorous twists, the severed head of the boar comes loose and falls to the ground. What remains other than the outline of the legs is an unrecognizable mass of red and white. Brock takes the head and tosses it over the fence, providing another meal for the animals that will devour it in the night. With the carcass no longer bleeding, we hose it down and place a white, cotton bag over it, ready to be sent to the butcher whose job is to continue the process of turning an animal into meat.

(conclusion on page 4)