The Wedding Pig – Part I

I reacted. 

Long before I thought, I reacted. 

By the time my mind caught up with my body, I was down; right knee shoved into the shale, left foot out, rifle up, safety off, leaning forward.  I was down low, were I could see under most of the manzanita and buck brush that completely blocked my vision when I was standing.

I was focused; focused on a direction, a sound.  Searching for the rushing paws, hooves, body, or whatever had to be following up the sound that triggered my response.  It was loud; it was threatening; not a cough, not a snort, nor a roar or gnash of teeth, but a blend of all of them.  Unquestionably it was a challenge.  One that I thought I was going to have to meet head on.

I heard the rattle and rush of something coming to its feet or hooves, or paws; I could smell the bitter dust in the stifling hot afternoon air, and the musk of something wild.

 

Allison was due to be married in a month and a few days.  She had asked if I could hunt down a wild pig for an in-ground BBQ as part of the wedding feast.  I had asked my brother Barry if he could help, and he had further drafted a friend, Jerry.

We were hunting on a private ranch in central California, the owner generously gave me permission; with the warning that no one had seen any pigs on the ranch in most of a year.

I assured him, if two Vandermolens and a friend were going into the woods, something was going to die.  This wasn’t a hunting trip, this was a planned assassination.  After all, Allison is my only daughter and the plan was that this would be the only time I would be able to supply the wedding pig.  And thus it was written, a pig was to be hung in the locker before the trip was done.

On this our first afternoon of the hunt, we had been stalking the northern reaches of the ranch, working our way uphill.  Barry was slipping through the mixed pine, oak, and brush some hundred yards to my right, Jerry was walking the dirt road also to the right about 50 yards, and I was slipping along weaving and winding my way through the manzanita  poison oak, and buck brush on my side of the road.

We were in effect sweeping a wide path, working our way uphill towards a spring I knew was on the hillside.

And now here I was, hunkered in, waiting for the chance to identify and defend myself from some unseen attacker.

The rush never came.  Easing upright, I worked my way around a number of heavy growths and found a large scree covered area that had been recently disturbed.  Rocks flung in every direction.  Search as I did, I couldn’t find any hair, or identifiable print in any direction. 

I went back to working my way uphill slow and careful.  Wondering which way whatever it was had gone and after a while almost wondering if I had dreamt the whole thing.  About 125 yards further on, I stepped out onto the dirt road that had curved around in front of me just as Jerry came around a corner. 

All he said to me was; “What the heck, you step on Sasquatch’s tail in there a while back?”

I have hunted a lot of years.  Jerry has hunted a lot more than I.

I have never heard anything like that before, neither had he.

I have no idea what it was.

I just know I never want to meet up with it unarmed.

 

Copyright © 2013 Marty Vandermolen