Mike arrived early, which was a little bit of a surprise. But maybe that was because we had a late start—he arrived at five to six, before I had my boots on. I tried tying them up in the truck but it was too dark.
Pigs are a pest. They root in the soil for fern roots and wipe out entire hillsides. They’ll even take young lambs. They’re also bloody good eating: any one of these would be a good reason for traipsing onto a farmer’s land on a Sunday morning, and so we did.
I’d got up about twenty past five: put the kettle on and gone into the moonlit garden to dive into the pool. A couple of lengths and then I made a cup of tea; and a piece of bread with hazelnut spread (I fancied peanut butter but couldn’t find the crunchy, only the smooth). Got dressed, put some fruit and a salami roll and a bottle of water into a bag. Checked my email (this 13 hour time difference is a real bitch).
On the way to the Awatere valley we talked a little about guns and the laws surrounding them, and the differences in Australia, New Zealand and the UK. Mike was surprised that in New South Wales a firearms licence and a lockup cabinet are required for a paintball gun. We talked about tools and intent and the damage a hammer can do to a human if you’re really determined.
Rabbits, grey in the moonlight, ran alongside and in front of the Toyota as we sped up the valley. Even this far up, scraggy grapes hugged the valley sides, their chances of ripening this season less than minimal. We pulled over to let Mike #2 and Andy in the Nissan catch up, then took a left turn, heading towards the 20,000 acre block of scrub and pasture that was our playground today.
The sky lightened as we climbed, clouds cosseting the hills. In the lead vehicle, I had to jump out and hold the gates open: I could imagine Andy laughing at me although I couldn’t see him. Just after seven we parked the trucks at a gate in green pasture and all four of us piled into the Toyota: seven or eight dogs in the box and knives and rifles stowed safely. I took the opportunity to sort out my boots and we climbed further into the hills: Mike pointing out trees he’d planted 18 years ago and telling us about the third generation stewards running the farms into the ground and neither knowing nor caring about who would come after them.
Muttered curses against the low-lying cloud evaporated when we passed the gate guarded by bullocks and cowpats: behind us, the tops of the mountains glowed golden; a white sea lapping against their shores. Tapuaenuku, the footprint of the rainbow and nicknamed ‘The Watcher’ by Captain Cook, glinted in front of us.
We turned left below the lone pine (visible, it’s claimed, from the Christchurch road—thirteen miles away) and climbed up again, until the two Mikes decided it was a good place to stop and proceed on foot.
The dogs’ radio collars were affixed and we headed into the hills. Almost at once they started off; but they soon turned back and we saw the quarry they’d sniffed: four young deer on the fenceline, prancing back and forth. Heading back to the north east we crested a ridge, the dogs back and forth, sniffing and pissing and working off the pent-up energy of a week in kennels. We pointed out diggings to each other, and checked their freshness through the telescopic sights of the rifles.
Then a bark! and the dogs shot into a gully. We checked our knives and rifles and quickened our pace.
We stood on a ridge: across from me there was a gorse-filled gully, a minor ridge; and then a sheep track up the hill opposite. Mike pointed: it took me a few seconds to get my eye in but then I saw the black boar moving down the hill, Mike’s best dog, Pete, in pursuit. In an instant mike shouldered the .308 and let off a shot: I fancied I saw the dust kick up and the pig kept on. Another shot, but Pete was too close and Mike lowered the rifle.
Then a second pig appeared on the minor ridge, clear of the scrub. Mike handed me the rifle and told me to take it out. It took me a moment to adjust to the sight and I saw it in the crosshairs about 80 yards away—but then it ducked back behind the gorse. Mike was telling me to shoot it, and I saw the black shape hidden in the green. Almost instinctively I breathed out, squeezed the trigger, felt the recoil in my shoulder and smelled the cordite: the pig went down, motionless.
‘You got the bastard!’ — then Mike took the rifle from me, pulled the bolt and reloaded. We started across the gully to the corpse, still looking for the first pig. A third, we saw, was headed towards Mike #2 and Andy: but that was theirs; we had our own to chase. I reached my pig, made sure it was still, and dragged it into the open so we could find it again. Mike passed me and suddenly shouldered the rifle, firing again as the first pig broke cover, straight towards me. The pig turned, Pete still snapping at its heels. Mike stood next to me, and my right ear rang with the report: but the pig kept running.
I set off down the gully, the last shot still ringing in my ears and my heart pounding. It wasn’t yet eight and I’d shot a pig!
Below me, I saw four dogs barking and snapping at a grunting, squealing black shape. As I got closer I saw it was smaller than last year’s pig, but larger than the one I’d just shot. By the time Mike got there I already had hold of its rear leg and was reaching for my hunting knife. I hoiked the animal onto its back, and stabbed down at its throat, piercing the skin on the second attempt. I changed hands on the knife, and spread the pig’s foreleg, then drove down through the neck with my blade, into where I thought the heart should be. The pig’s blood mixed with my sweat: somewhere around me the dogs were were panting and growling but all I could think of was how to kill it as quickly as I could, and how not to get gored by its tusks.
Then the boar was still: I withdrew the knife, noting dispassionately how it and my hand were equally covered in blood and how I’d have to clean them both.
Mike took his own knife and started gutting the animal; I stood back, waiting for the pounding in my ears to subside. We counted three holes in the carcass: Mike had actually hit the animal three times with the .308 but done no major damage with any of them. It was reasonably young and lean, 80 lbs probably but not much fat. We decided to keep it for eating ourselves (last year, the pig I killed, being old and fatty, was sold to a butcher to feed the tourist trade). But when we cut open the one I’d shot we saw that it was no good for eating: my round had shattered the ribs and the backbone, and turned the internal organs to soup. No wonder the pig had dropped.
We stood on the ridge as the cloud moved back and up again, a surfless white sea. With the sun behind us a rainbow was trying to form in the valley’s cleavage, and slowly, after the barks and the shouts and the cordite and the gunfire, peace and birdsong returned. The sun was already hot, and I was beginning to regret leaving the sunblock in the truck.
Andy and I carried the two good carcasses back to the track, blood dripping down our shirts and into our pants, the animals wheezing through breathless throats with every jolt, to be picked up with the Toyota later. But by the time we’d got back to the fenceline on the ridge the dogs had taken off again, and were headed towards the road to Christchurch. Mike #2 was in pursuit: Mike #1 said he’d go and get the tracking gear and Andy and I set off down the valley to try to catch the dogs if they decided to come back that way.
We spent about two hours trying to retrieve the dogs: like a hammer or a rifle or a Gilson these are the tools of the trade, and you look after them: lose them and you lose your livelihood. Finally Andy and I headed back to the truck and met up with Mike #1: Mike #2 was chasing the dogs back towards where we’d left the Nissan.
The three of us piled in and started the drive back round the mountain, where—
but ah, it’s late, and tomorrow I’ll tell you what I had for dinner tonight.
