A hunter's life

The author and a couple from the night before.

By Mick Frost

There is a hunter and gatherer in us all. That much is true.
In the modern day it presents itself in ever more sophisticated forms. Life circumstances, culture, environment and ideologies dictate whether the individual acts on their primal instincts and picks up rod, gun or knife and engages in hunting in it most pure form. Being raised on the land and having a huge innate drive to catch, trap or shoot anything that ran, hopped, flew or swam it was inevitable that I would develop into someone obsessed with the hunting of animals and fish. As with everything, one naturally moves onto more challenging pursuits having mastered a certain skill set. Pest control on the farm errs on the side of mundane after a length of time. My hunting and pest control experiences have now led me to what I believe is one of the most challenging, rewarding, effective and dangerous forms of hunting available in the Australian bush; the targeting of big wild pigs (especially mature boars) in mountainous country with well trained holding dogs.

The amount of frost on diggings tells you how far ahead the pigs are.

After an inch or so of rain the patches of soil would be turned over. The scotch thistle and stinging nettles on the sheep camps up high on the mountain tops drew the most attention. I knew what was doing it. Hogs in these parts on the NSW New England Tablelands are nocturnal and rarely if ever sighted in their travels in the light of day. Their whereabouts would be indicated by the diggings and wallows. I would come to realise by the volume of the sign I had seen, there were a lot more pigs then I realised at first. With the coming of winter the frosts would scorch the pastures and the odd cow and sheep would fall victim to the cold of the tablelands. Their bloated carcasses would be there one day and gone the next with only a few tufts of hair and wool left on the ground. So many questions surrounding these animals were posed to a young hunter. Pigs were more of an enigma then anything at that time. They had a certain aura around them. I was always warned they were extremely dangerous when cornered or wounded, and heard mumblings and read of some of the more ‘adventurous’ hunters somehow catching them with dogs. They were obviously nocturnal and retired back into the thick undergrowth of the eucalyptus scrub and mountain ranges that met our boundary fences with the first of the morning sun.

Rocks, scrub and timber all work in the boars' favour.

Habits of Sus Scrofa were studied in detail. Game plans formulated. Many a time the tell tale dewclaws of pigs using pads were followed with rifle in hand back into the thick of the mountains after a bit of wet weather. Following their tracks for what seemed like kilometres before they would peter out, I would be left standing in the dense encompassing eucalyptus scrub thinking I was chasing a mob of ghosts. It had all seemed so easy...the deer, foxes and rabbits of before.

Years later in my late teens a couple of good mates offered to come up from the coast for a hunt to target a few of the pigs that had been busily tilling up the basalt. They had a couple of pig dogs. Lo and behold... Of course, I knew what ‘pig dogging’ was. Those two words had so many differing connotations for people on the land, some positive, some of them not so much. It smacked of rough and tumble and had a controversial edge to it. One could be led to believe it was the sport of ruffians, something a purist rifle shooter and deerstalker like myself thought of as a bit taboo initially. To a young country bloke who loved the thrill of the chase and snuffed at a bit of danger with delight,  once discovered, it was like a tonic.

It was after dark as we descended into a swampy area I knew pigs had been frequenting. My hopes were not high as we strolled along immersed in a conversation about something else. All of five minutes into our hunt the dogs had disappeared, barely raising an eyebrow on my behalf. Bloody things will probably chase the sheep, I thought. With that a, bark and the loud squeal of an adolescent boar promptly punched through the cooling night air. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I was converted, a ‘born again pigger and I ain’t goin back’ to quote the song, (God forbid).

It had all started with the trapping of rabbits at the age of five, quickly progressing to shooting. Rabbits although still fun to shoot, don’t take too much thinking to find and dispatch, but a marksman of me it made. Where there is smoke there is fire and so it is with rabbits and foxes. Yet armed with only a .22LR foxes are a hit and miss affair during the day. The Tenterfield fox whistles arrived in the mail three weeks later. The cat and dog were whistled in and I was away. The extraordinary fact that an animal as smart and wily as a European Fox could be whistled in and sniff the muzzle of your barrel is still not lost on me to this day.

Glen Innes country is riddled with fallow deer. Foxes and rabbits were put on the backburner and fallow deer became the main objective. Knowing ballistics it was obvious a .22 wasn’t going to cut the mustard. My stalking skills already developed from the pursuit of rabbits and foxes, were honed to a razor's edge in the pursuit of deer with a .22. Stalks were made into a range of 30 or 40m and less in order for clean headshots to be made. A deer’s head is roughly the size of an entire rabbit so it was no problem placing a .22 projectile through the centre of a deer's skull at that range. The freezer was perpetually full. Crumbed venison backstraps and baked shoulder were a staple for a while and the kelpies got fat too.

Along with a love of hunting existed an infinite love of dogs. Among my best and truest mates has always been a cattle dog, even to this day. With the responsibility of owning and looking after a dog it became apparent early that a dog should have a job to do, it should be trained correctly and have a purpose in life. A bored and ill disciplined working dog is a dangerous dog, and a waste as well. To watch a kelpie cast around 1000 wethers or an old cattle dog draw blood from the nose of a recalcitrant beast and send it floating back into the mob is always a delight. To watch a 30kg bull terrier dog put its life on the line for you and hang from the ear of a 100kg boar in a stand of tea tree is sublime.

The hunting of pigs, and more specifically mountain dwelling pigs, has become an obsession. Sambar aside, it is my opinion that catching big pigs with one or two holding dogs is the pinnacle of hunting in southern Australia. Not just any pig chasing but the tracking down and outsmarting of secretive, mature mountain boars. It is far removed from the numbers game that can exist out west. Dogs are never dropped on sighted pigs and a spotlight seldom used. A dog's nose and its ability to follow it quickly and proficiently reigns in the mountains. I approach the hunt from a purist’s perspective. My style of hunting dictates that all pigs should be smelt and found by the dogs. The aim for me is to train a dog that will efficiently find, locate and hold any size pig in rough, steep country without the aid of a spotlight, even to the extent of only using parking lights to minimise the amount of light projected from the vehicle. Dogs need to be quick on deciphering scent, and highly committed on a find, whether that is from a briskly moving ute or quad or on a walk while targeting a particular pig or training a pup. The slightest flash of light, the bang of a chain on a headboard or the squeak of a cage will send the better pigs tearing off into the thickest and most inaccessible areas of scrub. The faintest of wafts is all the dogs have to go on most times. Prey drive needs to be huge, the brain needs to be switched on while on the find and the heart needs to be engaged when the dog is connected to something nasty. Pigs in the mountains can be akin to a needle in a haystack. A rifle is as useless as a hip pocket on a singlet when they are a kilometre into scrub you can't see more then a couple of meters into. A seasoned working pig dog is what's needed, one that is able to sniff out that 'needle', grab it by the ear and hold on indefinitely. It is these attributes that make a dog an extremely valuable tool that is unsurpassed in its effectiveness in a hunting/pest control role (baiting aside) for feral pigs.

A natural progression takes place with everything we do in life (profound statement I know), and so does it in hunting. Some will have you believe ‘pig dogging’ is a barbaric practice. Yet as someone who actively participates in it, and who has hunted with both bow and rifle, it is one of the most pure and deeply satisfying forms of hunting that exists when practiced correctly. No other form of hunting puts you so in touch and connected with your quarry, nor is there anything that involves you on such a deep level with the ‘tools’ of your trade. It's in your face. Its real. It holds none of the falseness of the modern world. You get blood on your hands, and you ain't going with the flow of the status quo. Yet it's morally far superior to the poison 1080. Our animal liberationist friends like to spruik and advocate against dogging pigs preferring the 'apparently' less cruel means by which 1080 kills an animal. Footage of animals going through the throes of death and agony of 1080 seems to conveniently be a little harder to come by and doesn't make it on to the 7.30 Report. No, 1080 allows death to take place out of sight and out of mind. It's better for everyone that way, no one has to see and its nicer just to not think about it all. 1080 means pigs die in silence out in the bush. We don't get to watch it on Youtube, or Facebook. See no evil hear no evil. The city kids like it that way...

Dogging is raw, unadulterated, real. A juxtaposition from the everyday world around us. A break from 'reality'.

Hunting with a rifle is an often sterile and dreary science when compared to the art of being an accomplished dogman. Every dog is different. Every dog has his day. You can't add half grain of powder, glass bed the action, change primers or load boat tails. It starts when he's a pup and continues until the day he dies. It starts with you as a dog trainer, handler, conditioner. A dogman. Where the dog will lead you and what it will achieve all hangs on you. Watching him on the ute, knowing when that smell crashes into his face. Expecting the jump. Grassing that 100kg rank boar. It's all about the dogs, and yet it's all about you as a hunter. When you hunt.  How you hunt. Where you hunt. Being in the right place at the right time. Having the 'firepower' to stop that rank boar charging through thick scrub.

Dogs. They're all different. Some mad and stupid. Some brave and smart. Knowing what makes him tick is not merely science but an art.

Having driven through a block and come up with nothing, you want to close the gate knowing there was nothing there that day. That's the dog that one aims for. It is the variables and randomness that come with the reliance of a fallible animal and mate. The frustrations and challenges and the never-ending pursuit of the ‘perfect’ dog and the biggest of boars.