Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
I cross the dry creek bed and work back toward the far end of the pond, which I'll check
out before heading back to the truck.
Oaks, mesquites, and junipers dominate the open terrain. At rock outcrops I watch
for black-and-white banded crevice spiny lizards but see none, perhaps because it's
overcast and too cool for the ten-inch-long sunbathers. I round a brush-choked boulder
pile as the game trail leads up a grassy knoll, thinking it looks good for broad-banded
copperheads and puzzling over why we haven't run into any western diamondbacks.
Perhapsit'sjusttoodry,ormaybehogsreallyarehardonsnakes?
These herpetological
daydreams have barely registered when sixty yards ahead a black pig traverses the hill,
evidently having come through fencing off to the right. It pauses, a curved dark mass
with head to the ground. There being no discernible wind, I creep forward and gain cov-
er behind a gnarly old oak, from which I intend to kill my first feral hog.
Just as the Ruger reaches shoulder level, my attention jerks fifty yards hard right to
a dingy brown sow, plus a black shoat like the one we ate and three gray piglets, all
bobbing toward me in grass on the other side of the fence.
What the hell, I'm surroun-
ded by pigs!
When I turn back there's a more formidable-looking, reddish-gray animal,
with prominent woolly ears and dull cream facial markings, a dozen yards to the left of
the black pig and facing it. This hog immediately turns toward me, advances a couple of
steps, and growls loudly—
Thesethingsgrowl?
—at which point the black pig looks at its
compatriot. My vantage is from downslope, and although I've encountered no cattle this
morning, I cannot be sure a longhorn isn't behind the pigs, in my line of fire. Truth to
tell, I am also worried the largest hog will charge, because it's still staring my way and
growling. During these few seconds I steady the scope's crosshairs between its eyes,
intending to fire when the pig takes just one more step forward. Instead it wheels out
of sight, the black one rockets of in a blur, and I hear muffled snorts, then silence. The
five that were approaching from behind the fence have vanished without a sound.
Hoping to catch up, I sneak into a side ravine and up onto the pond's dam, but see
only a soft-shelled turtle basking on the far bank. I sit under a tree for fifteen minutes
and scrutinize the surrounding slopes with binoculars: nothing appears, and it's lunch-
time. Back at the house David barely conceals incredulity, given his resolve to knock
back hog numbers. “Shoot first, then ask questions,” he says with a grin, scrambling
eggs with chorizo while I throw together black bean quesadillas, intent on heading back
out and hunting until dark. It's almost midnight when, explaining my hesitation with the
red hog, I tell of how as a nine-year-old I fired Grandpa's .22 at a stray cat and inad-
vertently killed one of his chickens. Then I announce that, finally, late this afternoon, I
reduced the Double Helix pig population by one.
The sow's erect, rounded ears and coarse black pelage first put me in mind of a
short-legged bear instead of the desultory, sparsely haired pigs of my youth. For five
hours I'd hidden under some oaks, scanning a meadow near Upper Pond. Time slipped
by while cardinals whistled, little dark butterflies fluttered among cactus flowers, and
a trio of young raccoons traipsed through the grass. Late-afternoon hues shifted from
golden brown to soft bluish-gray. She'd appeared at the clearing's edge as a mourn-
ing dove
oWoo-woo-woo-woo
ed, and from 125 yards away this manifestly self-willed
creature looked like fresh charcoal, as if her fur could soak up the waning daylight.
After several minutes the sow walked two dozen yards and stopped behind a small juni-
per that blocked my shot, but through branches I glimpsed her head tilting this way and
