Mountain boars are a breed apart...

By Mick Frost

WINTER is upon us again on the northern New England tablelands of New South Wales.
The first frost makes its presence known as the grass crunches underfoot. The moon is full and high in the night sky, illuminating the landscape in a silvery wash of light. The two dogs tremble and quiver, whining in delight. Their collars tight and the red light on the GPS unit flickers reassuringly.
The time of night, the season and state of the moon add a degree of anxiousness to a hunt like this.
Lone dominant boars use this time to range far and wide in their territories in pursuit of sows in oestrous.
It's well after midnight and the surrounding mountains well up on the horizon in the moonlight as I approach the hunting area. By daylight the range is a scattered mess of house size granite boulders, scarred in deep hidden gullies. The gullies are filled with blady grass, bracken fern and tea tree and somewhere in that thick mass of vegetation and eucalyptus a lone boar makes his home. Far away and independent of lesser pigs he uses the mountain as a safe haven. By day he camps at a certain level that affords him greatest safety, constantly sniffing and testing the rising thermals for any danger from below. Coming down for a short period at night to feed he melts back into the range at the first glow of light on the eastern horizon.
With winter his visits to the low lying flats become more numerous and of longer duration.
This is the time I like to target these big secretive mountain boars.
With the shorter days and plummeting temperatures the frosts burn off the more succulent summer grasses and food becomes more scarce. Big boars materialise out of the thickest scrub and bush land and offer dedicated hunters a chance at nailing them in the open where they are at their most vulnerable.

 The particular pig that I am targeting has made a mockery of numerous dogs over the past year.  The cocky has had crosshairs on him on the rare occasion he's spotted him but he is always on the move and gone before a shot can be fired in anger. From vague reports he's a typical high country pig, all black, a thick, dense wiry coat to fight the frosts and occasional snow falls. Often his whereabouts can be gauged; dogs flying off the ute and high tailing it up the mountain into the gorge only to be smashed in the tea tree or to lose him all together in the thick undergrowth circling round and round, back tracking on the GPS eventually coming up empty handed.
In conversation with the property owner he points to his jersey weaner and says "he'd be as big as Dulcey there". My heart skips a beat. He shows up sporadically through winter, but disappears into the mountain range with the spring rains and warmer temperatures.

Big pigs in these parts are almost exclusively nocturnal. Hunting pressure is high and pigs educated. The sounds of a ute travel far in the crisp dense mountain air. The inorganic groan of a diesel engine, the squeak of a cage, or the rattle of a chain mean only one thing to a mature boar that has survived several winters. Pure unadulterated danger. At the first sign of intrusion he will melt back into the shadows of the mountain and be enveloped in the mass of gully systems.

Of course these pigs can and are caught off the ute but a different tactic can be employed with these secretive mountain boars that will allow the dogs to nail them in the open. Walking in on known big pigs is a deadly tactic that pays quick dividends on hard hunted boars. Walking is especially effective once a big pigs habits have been "patterned". This patterning will be done during the day, keeping a note of where boar sign is sighted, travel directions, measuring foot size, what he is feeding on, where he is feeding and in the last few years the employment of game cameras. Many of these mountain pigs are non crop dependent meaning their movements seem slightly more erratic. Generally as they are far from any crop and are usually feeding on grass seeds, blackberries, grubs, tubers, roots and carrion. These food sources mean growth rates are slower and by the time a boar reaches the 120kg mark he has most likely come to an agreement with several dogs.

Walking is not for everyone, you must be fit and dedicated. A boar will often be missed time and again from the ute in rough country due to the headstart they can have on the dogs. Of course there will be blokes out there with super dogs that hit up big boars off the ute and never miss them and won't need to walk...
Dogs must be fast on scent, direct with their finding, very highly driven in the pursuit of their quarry and even better at honing in on and stopping a big boar. Add to that sometimes long periods of time with the boar because of the time it an take you to get there.
Hunting on foot puts you in touch with the wild life and landscape around you. You start to pick up on more sign  and get to know better where this sign will be found. For example: Tusks marks on trees, what sort  and size of tree to look for that boars prefer to use;. Pig tracks on pads, their size and where they are heading; Turned over logs and cow pats. All things that can be missed from the comfort of a ute.
Hunting at night on foot with the aid of moonlight on big 'patterned' boars adds a whole new dimension to some of the pigs you will come in contact with in regards to size and strike rate on finds for the dogs. The moonlight allows you to walk long distances without the aid of torch light, potentially alerting big flighty pigs of your presence.

With the ute in low range and lights out, it slowly groans down the side of the hill to where I will finally abandon it, step into the crisp air and begin my walk along the base of the mountains. Hunting boars in the mountains is more about the outsmarting of the animal. It is far separated from the pig chasing of the western downs and plains. Numbers fewer, more hunters for a given amount of pigs and a far more challenging environment combine to make it the ultimate challenge for man and dog.

Using the light of the moon I walk slowly, testing the direction of the wind, confirming that it is correct for the direction in which I will hunt. Without shining lights around I broach the side of a small stream that hugs the base of the mountain to the east. To the west the country opens up into creek flats interspersed with blackberries and rising into small hills and open eucalyptus bushland. Mob pigs often use the latter to live and feed. Big lone boars will often hang on the fringes of mobs, closest to the side of retreat hugging the edge of the mountains, and for this boar his escape route will always be to the west across the stream. With this in mind another way to try to single them out from the mob is to try to circle around known mob feeding areas and cut between them and their escape routes and picking loan boars of the fringes. Easier said then done.

I know where he has been crossing the stream, his tell tale hoofs leave an impression on the ground giving me a picture of how big he is. I've marked the spot on the GPS and am making a beeline to it hoping to pick up some ground scent on his pad. Being an animal of habit I know if he's crossed it will be at this particular place. Getting to within about 700m of the spot the dogs intensity starts to rise and a more serious demeanor can be read on their face. Their noses point towards the sky testing the slight breeze, getting fragments of that tell tale rank smell that floats on the frigid air. They canter off into the breeze with their noses high in the air. No ground scent yet, but a rank waft that ebbs and flows. On the GPS I trace there movements . They cut in a zig zag fashion. No doubt losing the scent on the breeze, then gaining it again as they work to a different position all the while working toward the target. With that their pace quickens and becomes more of a straight trajectory on the GPS as they vector in on a target. You hope dearly you won't hear a squeal. Standing there. Listening. Knowing. Your hair stands on end. You stand dead still straining to listen, hearing the pump of your own blood in your ears. The feeling is akin to throwing a surface lure into a deep dark mass of logs on sundown in some bass or cod river, knowing what's going to happen, but the explosion still surprises and scares you every time. With that my Bull Arab lets out a huge deep bark, closely followed by a massive exhalation of air and the unmistakeable roar from an enraged boar, then silence. He has been caught in the open, red handed with nowhere to run and must fight for his very existence. Getting to about 20m from the battle I turn off my headlamp and walk slowly in to better gauge the situation in the moonlight. The last thing you want is to become the attention of a 100kg pig that's just a little bit pissed off. Scarily old pigs know who and what poses the greatest danger to them, and it's not the dogs. The occasional yelp, grunt and growl is heard. Big pigs can and do break from even the strongest of luggers so I use the cover of a big tree and time my run from behind it to race out behind the pig and grab a leg as he spins wildly all the while violently thrusting his head up in the air.

A few pats and "good boy" to the two panting dogs, I check them over and find the pig was not the only one to pay a price tonight. The pigs fighting pads reach his hips and are an inch and a half thick where they hang down over the top of his front legs, like an armadillo. Sitting there, I stare at this animal, steam floating from his still body, I wonder what it is that draws me on such a deep level to find and catch this dangerous adversary. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of a big boar, or importantly being in the bush and doing something for the environment and landholders. But it's then that I look at my two dogs, staring back at me puffing, and I realise for me at least, it's about them. Working with them, experiencing the highs and lows of pig chasing with them, watching their development, conditioning and training them, having them put their lives on the line for me, experiencing their mateship, knowing they will push themselves to physical failure to please me and sometimes even feeling their heart beat for the last time laying in your arms.
All this from a few weeks of age until the day they die, working with ,and training a good dog is what makes this activity not just a sport or a hobby, but a religion that I live and breath 24/7.