Boar Hunting
(five minute read)
I just finished cooking oatmeal over a camping stove tucked between two large rocks used as windbreaks. The sound of the waves crashing against the lava cliffs reverberated in the background. A light cover of kiawe trees cast dappled shadows sheltering me from the bright, morning sun.
As I sat down in the sand to start eating, I was startled by someone calling my attention. I had gotten used to the repetitive sounds of nature after living alone on the coast for a few months. To hear a human voice calling me was surprising. It was even more surprising to look up and see three men approaching each with a rifle strapped across their shoulder. They all had dark hair and wore long surfer shorts. They were definitely locals. The tallest one seemed to be the leader of the group. Hoping for the best, I inquired, “Are you guys going boar hunting?
“Yeah, you seen any around here?”
My campsite was tucked into the trees and nestled up against an old lava wall made by indigenous people. Ruins from a village abandoned centuries ago helped camouflage my spot along with a few well placed palm fronds. It was simple, but enough to keep inquisitive visitors at bay.
Normally, my only company was the local fauna. Mongoose would roam around the area skirting in and out of the lava rocks looking for food. The sounds of the birds were as constant as the crashing waves. Apart from these peaceful critters, there were a few others that cast a shadow on my idyllic island paradise.
Several wild boars also lived in this area. I had my first encounter with one while walking through the palm trees searching for a place to camp. The breeze that usually carried the sweet scents of the ocean abruptly brought a horrible stench my way. A putrid odor of death that filled my mouth so strong I could taste it. I covered my face and a little further along, I came across the body of a wild boar laying dead on the sand. It’s body half hollowed out by foraging creatures. I resigned myself to the knowledge that I’ll be living amongst wild boars.
As I first explored the area, I noticed many little hoof prints on the sand. They seemed to have a pattern and they consistently walked along paths they created through the underbrush. I tried to set up camp away from these natural walk ways. A few days later I saw my first one. It’s thick body was scuttling along behind my tent in the morning. So much for camping away from their paths. Eventually I saw others and even some babies as well.
We lived with a cautious apprehension of each other. They didn’t seem to bother me and I certainly wasn’t going to bother them. Living there and walking around every day, I eventually learned their patterns. In the mornings they tended to hang out in a grotto made of hardened lava rocks just west of my camp. In the heat of the day they’d rustle under some fronds deeper in the trees.
So when I was caught off guard by these three men with rifles, I assumed they were hunting boars instead of wanting to rob me.
“What are you doing down here?” The tallest one asked.
“I’m just camping out.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know, a couple months?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Why? It’s pretty chill. No one bothers me.”
“Because of all that happened. Tons of people died down here. There’s no way I’d sleep here.”
As peaceful as this area seemed today, it had seen it’s fair share of death over the centuries. In 1779, the infamous explorer Captain Cook was killed in a skirmish with the natives after he tried to kidnap a local chieftain. Many locals died as well as several of Cooks sailors. A few years later there was a larger battle between forces of the royal families vying for power.
These locals didn’t like the idea of sleeping amongst the spirits. According to local legend, on certain nights close to the new moon, Night Marchers walk about. Ghosts of ancient warriors whose job was to protect their sacred leaders. They would travel at night to the beating of drums carrying torches and sounding warnings with a conch shell. Any mortal who looked upon them would die a violent death.
All of this was unknown to me before I arrived. After hearing about the history, I still felt at peace being there. When it came to mythology, I figured if my intentions were postive, and my actions were respectful, then I’d be safe. I was more concerned about the living boars than I was about the spirits of the dead. My guests didn’t like the idea of being there for more than an afternoon.
“So have you seen any boars around here?”
“Yeah, I see them all the time. Do you want me to show you where they are?” And that’s how I stumbled into being the guide on a wild boar hunt.
It was still morning time, so I had a general idea of where the boars might be. After putting away my uneaten breakfast, I led them along the coast northwards. The copse of trees line the shore and was bordered on each side by lava. The first place we looked there weren’t any signs other than old hoof prints. We continued walking and talking quietly.
“Did you guys see that dead boar closer to the mouth of the bay?” I inquired.
“Yeah, I killed that a few months ago.”
“Ah! So that’s how it got there! I was wondering how it died. Why didn’t you take it home with you?”
“By the time I got to it, it was covered in ants.”
“Couldn’t you just brush them off?”
“No, I mean it was covered in ants.”
He emphasis made me realize that it was probably disgusting. Hawaii has problems with invasive fire ant species. I didn’t have many issues with ants , but I did have an issue with the cockroaches. During the day they were well hidden. At night around 8:00 like clockwork, they came out in full force. Even while I was sitting in the hammock I’d be bothered. They’d hop down from the branches toward my light as I read. After one too many times of dealing with that, I made a truce with them. During the day, the camp is mine, but at night, the camp is theirs. Every evening before eight, I’d retire to my tent to read leaving the roaches to their own devices.
We continued onward. Walking at a slow pace so we could stalk our prey in silence. After tiptoeing through the trees for about a quarter of an hour we came to the grotto. A sunken area of sand and trees surrounded by small cliffs of black lava. There was a mother boar with a couple of babies resting under some trees. I pointed them out and let the riflemen sneak a little closer. A loud gunshot echoed around the grotto as the boars fled away unharmed.
I suspected where they might have scampered off to. So I directed us to keep walking west where the trees created a dense thicket of underbrush. Here we spotted them again camouflaged under the changing shadows. The hunters lined up and crept closer. Without a rifle, I stood off to the side. Bang! One shot goes off and the pigs scatter in all directions. Bang! Another shot goes off but misses it’s target again. The mother boar makes a broad circle and runs past me on my left. The hunters on my right follow the pig with their rifles aiming up for a final shot. When they swing their rifles towards me, I was afraid of getting shot shot. No offense to these guys, but they didn’t look like the professional hunting type. In the heat of moment, they could have easily been too eager to shoot.
Fortunately, they lowered their weapons with a look of resignation. The disappointed was felt by all. I wanted the hunt to be as successful as they did as it would have made a better story. We continued on for a while longer, but that was the last we caught sight of any boar. Eventually we turned around and headed back along the shoreline when he asked me, “So you got any pot?”
I offered the last of what I had and we made our way through the trees to go swim in the bay. In lieu of killing any boar that day, they choose to spear some fish with their harpoon. These guys came prepared. When I asked if that fish was dinner, they said it was an invasive species and no good for the reef. I have no idea if it's true or not. All I know is now I'm associated with these guys who are spearing random fish. The handful of other people on the shore of the bay offered perplexing looks as the fish flopped around on the hot lava until it stopped. The onlookers seemed hesitant to say anything since these guys not only looked like native Hawaiians, but they carried rifles and harpoons.
It's interesting what we choose to care about. I wasn't too bothered about the killing of the wild boar, but the flopping fish made me uncomfortable. Thinking back, it was probably because I was positive the boar is an invasive species, but I didn't know about that cool, looking fish.