A Caccia con mio Padre
(Hunting with My Father)
by ROBERTO PIRINO
The work kept me away from my land for too many years. I dedicated to my beloved hunting only a few days a year where I could return to their birthplace. I lived for the rest of memories and fantasies.
Ever since I met Lorenzo, a few years ago, I used the few outlets for hunting boar. Lorenzo, a few years older than me, for this hunt had a real fixation. He was able to break down every year at least one animal, but I was still dry. Actually the year before, a cursed day, twice the boars were gone from my post, but the shot had left only a few signs in the Mediterranean. I was there was so bad that I was no longer released. The insistence of Lorenzo and the passion I had convinced, after a year, groped again, the black beast.
The day after the Epiphany took me awake with open eyes, the two boars year before had tormented me for almost the whole night. Was not so hard to get up. I dressed heavily, I knew the day was cold, was just hoping there was some sunshine. I drove cautiously, the country was totally frozen.
The unmistakable silhouette of San Gimignano with its towers silhouetted against the hill of the City, a huge hill covered with Mediterranean vegetation and wild turkey.
I passed the town and the hill. A light fog had invaded the stage, and the plants seemed to be ice sculptures. After a few miles of dirt road,
around a bend there appeared a huge bonfire with several hunters who pressed around it. Lorenzo came to me smiling, from around the fire and shot the canizze chased fast in tales of hunters. Boars padellati were always the largest. Sausages, steaks and roasted slices of bacon on the grill. A generous bottle of brandy to warm my stomach.
After about half an hour, the fog materialized three figures who were the plotters. We shook them around for the outcome of their work. The two youngest disconsolately shook his head, everything was so frozen that it was impossible to detect even the slightest trace.
The oldest, with a cigar in his mouth permanently shut down, spoke last. For some scratches in a chasm seemed that an animal had entered the "cacciatina" (a vast ocean of stain), even if it was really difficult to be certain.
The huntsman promptly decided that it would fight the "cacciatina" knew too much about William, the eldest plotter, and knew that he had never padellato a track, while with the gun ........ was best left alone.
Silently mails began to crumble as ghosts in the fog along a path that cut through the woods. The capoposta effective with few gestures indicating where to stay and where you could shoot.
At first the forest was eerily silent, then slowly resumed its life cycle. Even a shy sun begins to warm our chilled bones. A quick mouse across the path, after a while 'a weasel appeared from the woods with a mouse in his mouth. A blackbird scratching among the frozen leaves, searching for a worm.
Luckily the post office near me stood still, as if we had been absorbed by the wood.
Far away a dog barked. I held my breath to feel better. It seemed that Stella said the Wolf abbiava be detained after a while there is also Zorro, was confirmed. The dogs had hooked the wild boar. Some other dog joined timidly all'abbaiata detention. Of course they were far away, the boar was impossible to go from these parts.
It was after a few tens of minutes that a coppiola broke the chorus of dogs. A canaio fired firecrackers and was starting to force the boar, probably cried too, but not from that distance you could hear the screams. Finally, the wild boar left lestra, immediately sparked a furious racket, the other dogs that until then had carefully refrained from approaching boar now joined the racket filling the woods barking.
Soon the racket disappeared behind the hill in front of me. I thought it was lost somewhere when a series of shots behind the hill. I felt that they had entered into action spotters. Were those who, on the sides of the expulsion were trying to push the boar to the post office shooting blanks and screaming like mad when the racket was heading toward them.
After a little while on one side of the hill here, the chorus of dogs reappeared. It was about two kilometers away, but now aimed straight for items falling into the ditch. At some point the boar stopped, as if by magic, the dogs fell silent, only the wolf, Zorro and a few others got
to stop barking.
Now I could hear them very well and I seemed to see that in the thick of trying to maintain contact with the prey without getting too close to a non buscarsi zannata. An occasional puppy tried to bite into it but was deterred by violent charges.
A canaio began screaming at a few tens of meters from where it stopped the boar, but he did not seem to decide to leave. The usual coppiola convinced him, and the racket resumed more violent than before.
But the boar did not want to come to the post office, taken along the ditch and the racket faded on the right side of Post. This time I thought that I really know where they went, the wild boar and dogs. Mario indomitable canaio began to shout and shoot like crazy in front of the racket. The boar stopped; and after a while, he started up the coast to the post office.
This time it seemed really made it unlikely he could get away without buscarsi few shots. It also seemed that it pointed towards the far corner of the forest, where I was also the post office.
Slowly, the environment disappeared, existed only me, the rifle and Trattolo which would have appeared. A jay and two blackbirds darted cackling through the lane. A noise of broken branches and then pounding of hooves on the stones was fast approaching.
Violent waves of shivers down my spine I climbed. Blocked and half animal appeared before crossing the narrow road. The moment when we looked at seemed to expand indefinitely.
The two gunshots broke the spell. The boar continued the unabated race.
I was shouldered, eyes still had the crosshairs on the shoulder hairy. Bands of barking dogs burst from everywhere. I felt like I could not
even breathe when placed near the hunter said, "to stop barking."
The blood running through my veins again, and I realized that a furious barking to stop it was triggered at no more than fifty meters into the bush. Now even the dogs barked less brave.
Mario, the canaio, emerged from the woods, I would bet that was passed by the same Trattolo wild boar and those like him, knowing there would be no wonder.
"Come with me," he said. Unloaded the gun and threw myself on all fours behind him. It seemed impossible to go through intrigue of branches but
Mario was advancing.
The dogs did not bark as a firm, but felt good fight for biting the boar. The stain and the tear-bags were attached to my clothes and scratched hands and face, but did not feel anything.
We started to see the dogs first, and after a few meters beneath a tangle of legs, mouths, tails lay the dead boar. The scene was pretty funny, every time a dog bit into the animal by pulling it and making it move the other dogs darted away like spring, instinct told them that there's little to be trusted. The boar lay sprawled in a basket of brooms, once I tried the signs of gunshots and found them a little further back to where I expected, but fortunately high enough to be fatal. Evidently, the boar had left a while before stringessi the trigger.
Mario took a zampuccio and began dragging him toward the path of Postal, fortunately the road was downhill because the animal was not huge, but
not too small. It was a boy and already thinking of where to place the shield with the trophy, the defenses and whetstones.
After some difficulty we got into the path. The stakes, after the signal of the huntsman, were returning to the meeting.
Lorenzo was cutting the classic pole to carry the boar. As he saw me, he came up to me hugging me. Then I dirtied the face with the blood of prey. It was the baptism of the first wild boar.
Arrived at the fire all came to meet me to know the details of the shooting. Told the same scene several times, but some details I gave them to me.
It was lunchtime, steaks, sausages and bacon resumed their place on the grill. Someone had also fully equipped with pots of pasta or lunch prepared by his wife. Towards the end of the meal also appeared a mocha coffee. The flask of brandy came to an end.
In the afternoon it was decided to hunt in a forest surrounded by fields, the rumor circulated that Beppe had found in that forest a branchetto of animals. Indeed, five boars were found, of which two were killed, one by Lorenzo who evidently did not want to stay back for even one day.
When we got back to the cars, he drove the group to head down a boy. Three boars were released in the field where it was placed. The boy had discharged his gun. But the boar did not spill even a drop of blood. I felt sorry for him, because I knew how he felt. But it was useless to try to comfort him. Time and luckiest shots mitigated its bitterness.