Over the past several weekends, Turner had been able to pick the younger members of the passel off one by one, and had sold the beasties to a local meat processing plant. But the sow had so far eluded him. In fact, she’d come damn close to picking him off during his last expedition. Armed with his crossbow—the only weapon he cared to use—Turner had been in the southwest corner of his acreage near Myakka State Park, west of the Gulf of Mexico in Florida, when he’d heard the distinctive snorts. She was about six feet away. How had he missed seeing her before now? She pawed the ground, and snorted louder with each grunt as she protected what she thought was her territory. It was not. This was his land. Turner brought the crossbow up ever so slowly, keeping his eye on what to him was the devil itself. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, began to pull back the bow, and quick as a wink, she’d turned tail and run off into the palmettos. He’d cursed himself for not being faster.
The engine sound of the Camaro he’d given his older son, Mac, for his sixteenth birthday reached his ears and he watched as his boy pulled the sports car into the driveway. Football season was over, and in just a few weeks it would be time to plant tomatoes for the early summer harvest. That sow and her sounder had rooted and wallowed up nearly the whole field last year, and had eaten every palmetto berry and pine nut. Turner was determined that it wouldn’t happen again.
Mac, Davis, and Graham bounded out of the car, backpacks in tow, and warmly greeted their dad. “What’s the truck doing up here?” asked Mac.
Not one to waste time or words, Turner answered, “Decided it was time to take that sow down this weekend. I was hoping you three might be able to round up a few friends to serve as flushers tomorrow. We’ll put her on the spit tomorrow night, and then have a fine barbecue feast on Sunday with baked beans, potatoes, and S’mores.” The boys could hardly hide their excitement, but they remained subdued until their oldest brother responded to their father.
“Mom won’t like it,” said Mac.
Turner felt the stubble on his face as he mused on the fact that his wife had started calling him Captain Ahab. “No, I don’t suppose she will,” he agreed. But, by the time she found out about it, the pig would be just about ready to eat. She was away with friends until late Sunday afternoon. In deference to what he knew she would say to him when she found out, he instructed the boys to put together their list of who they thought would be best for the hunt, and resolved to call the parents of each friend himself.
Between Turner and his boys they managed to put a gang of ten together, which included three more boys and four girls. None of the parents had hesitated in giving their permission. After all, this county—fancy and wealthy though it had become over the past three decades—was, at its heart, still the wild Florida of many generations past. Turner was hard-pressed to recollect whether he even knew any families whose children weren’t taught how to handle guns. Out east of where they had built the Interstate, you could lose your life if you didn’t know how to shoot.
By 6:00 AM, the group was gathered at the town home ready to form their caravan. Turner first made sure each teen was dressed as he had specified to their parents: jeans, long-sleeve flannel or cotton button-up shirts, wide-brimmed hats, at least calf-high boots, gloves, and DEET. The mosquitoes would eat you alive if the hogs didn’t gore you first.
Turner bought all the kids breakfast at McDonald’s, and thus fortified and properly attired, the hunters headed east to the ranch.
During the hour drive, Turner’s thoughts mused on the general problem of the invasive species of feral hogs in Florida. “PETA can go to hell,” he muttered aloud. The non-indigenous wild hogs, brought to North American shores by Spanish Conquistadors, were out of control. They preyed on cattle, sheep, farm animals of all ilk, and were no friend to rancher, farmer, or homesteader. He had lost count of how many people had lost their family dogs, never mind the number of calves. His cattle herd alone had lost four of their newborns since September.
After, once again, checking the group to make sure they were completely prepared, Turner admonished them about the dangerous undertaking they were about to make. He carefully explained the method they were going to use—a grid searching strategy often employed when looking for a missing person. Except that Turner was pretty certain he knew exactly where the sow would be at this time of the morning. What he really needed from the group was to make enough noise to flush her out, but not so much as to threaten her into attacking.
It didn’t take long. Turner knew about 30 minutes into the process, that they were going to be successful. As soon as he saw the freshly churned earth no more than 100 yards from where they had started, he held his hand up to stop the progress of the group. They all froze in place as he focused his eyes to take in the view ahead of him. There she was. She was rooting around the base of a pine tree and didn’t seem to even notice him. Turner raised his bow, pulled back the steel arrow, held his breath, aimed directly at her head, and fired. “Gotcha!” he breathed out. She fell to the ground with a great thud. It had been a clean shot straight into her brain.
“Stay where you are, and don’t move a muscle,” he instructed the group. Turner waited for several minutes before moving ever so slowly closer to the downed hog, another arrow readied in the bow. With the cool morning air, even the smallest tell tale sign of breath could be seen, and there was none coming from the sow. He waved at Mac to come forward and handed his son the bow and arrow to ready just in case. Turner then removed his bowie knife from its holster at the side of his waist and quickly moved in to slit the animal’s throat. A collective sigh of relief went out from the group that then moved in to help Turner with the field dressing. They worked quickly and by noon, the hog had been skinned and bled. They hoisted it onto a bed of ice in the back of the truck and got ready for the ride back to town.
Turner made a quick stop at a diner to pick up sandwiches, and the group talked about what an easy kill it had turned out to be. Turner told the teens to be sure to scrub themselves well after getting home as no telling if any of them had inadvertently stepped into or touched poison ivy or any number of other plants that could cause a rash or allergic reaction. His wife would ask him if he’d cautioned them about this and he wanted to be able to say he’d thought of everything.
Once at home, Turner unhooked the spit rod from the enormous backyard rotisserie and, with the help of his sons, skewered their game to it and placed it above the fire pit. He applied the first layer of Crisco—a process he would repeat several more times—lit the kindling, and flipped the switch to start the spit’s rotation. It was almost midnight before he felt that the coals beneath the rotating spit were hot enough to sustain a temperature that would continue to cook the meat through to the morning. He’d rake the coals down and lightly stoke the fire again after he woke up.
At mid-afternoon on Sunday, Turner’s wife, Ellen, pulled her Cadillac DeVille into the driveway of their town home. Turner was putting the last layer of Crisco on the boar. He’d declare that the barbecue feast was ready to eat in about an hour. “Well, hello there, Captain Ahab,” Ellen called out to him. He waved and smiled with unabashed pride. Ellen wrapped her arms around her husband, gave him a peck on the mouth, and said, “Looks like you finally took down your Moby Dick.” Turner nodded, and grinned again. “Baked beans and potatoes?” Ellen asked as she headed toward the back entrance into the kitchen.
“S’mores, too!” Turner called back to her.
Everyone who had a hand in the hunt, along with any family members who had wished to join in, sat around the glow of the fire pit's cooling embers, full bellies protruding in appreciation of the feast they had just eaten. Turner chewed absently on a toothpick and sighed. There was nothing more gratifying than enjoying a good meal with friends and family, especially a meal that included a main dish that one had provided the old-fashioned way.
Copyright, DJ Anderson, 2020
