Life in the Gorge   by Les Marriott

 

I Decide against Pig farming

As the calves were weaned and I had spare skim milk, I decided it was time to try my hand at pig farming. As usual there was no money to buy pigs with, but wild ones caught alive should start me off. My brother Jack had come back from town again. His last bright idea for making easy money had not come off, and out of the goodness of his heart he had come-or so he told us-to see Mum, while waiting for his next big deal. I really think it was usually an empty stomach which brought him home.

However, when it came to pig-hunting he had few equals, and his two dogs, Caesar and Butch, were a great pair. Caesar, a foxhound, was game to the last and Butch, once he got hold of an ear, could hold any pig. Jack was very enthusiastic about bringing them home alive, so we chose a spot as close to the house as possible, on a plateau of about 20 hectares in scrub and fern. Once we got in there we sent the dogs out and in no time Caesar let forth his usual bark and was soon joined by Butch. Obviously they had something bailed, so we set out, making a bee-line for the barking. Approaching from above we could just make out the dogs in a small clearing. But it meant crawling through high fern to get to them, which would have its moments if a boar decides to break up the track you are on. I went first, and on reaching the clearing all I could see were two legs of a pig more or less backing down the track I occupied. Here was what I had been looking for. All I had to do was grab its two hind legs low down and swing it on to its back. Putting the rifle aside I made a grab, secured both legs, and with a mighty heave burst into the clearing, swinging the pig onto its back as I went forward. But to my dismay I found I had an almost full-grown boar and a very annoyed one at that. Worse still, the dogs got such a surprise at me bursting out, complete with the rear end of the pig, that they backed off, unable to comprehend my action, for as a rule once they saw us there was a loud bang and their work was over.

By this time the pig was dragging me around in circles as I fought to keep it on its back and its tusks away from my legs. Jack broke into the clearing and, on seeing the predictiment I was in, joined the dogs on the sideline almost doubled up with laughter. However I will say that when he got down to business, his job was not all fun, for he had to get a rope over its snout and behind the tusks to get a grip. He managed this, and tied the end of the rope to a tree. Then we tied its back legs and stretched it out between two trees while we had a rest.

Jack wanted to know why I chose a boar, and I didn't like to admit that I had only seen about three inches of its back legs in the scrub. I gave him a lecture on the birds and the bees and informed him that if I wanted to go into breeding, a boar was rather a must. As the pig was too large to carry or drag, we had to think up some way to make it propel itself in the right direction. This was solved by the pig. Jack undid the rope holding its back legs before I could undo the one on its snout tied to the tree, and it charged like a shot out of a gun. Luckily for me, Jack weighed fifteen stone (95 kg) and took the strain before the pig reached me. Jack was thrilled with what he claimed was his idea. All I had to do was walk ahead of the length of my rope, about 3 metres, then he would let 2 metres of his go slack. The pig would charge me and he would stop it short of the mark. The mark being me. At the first charge I nearly jumped out of my boots, but Jack with the end of the rope around his middle, made a great anchor.

This method of progress went on for some time, until Jack woke up to the fact that I had the easy part and, being a few years older than me, he didn't believe in this, so we had to swap ends. Now, I weighed only eleven stone (70 kg), and when the pig spotted the oversized target he now had, he really went to town. I held the first half dozen charges and then my feet went from under me and the pig collected Jack as it went past and ripped him from knee to thigh. At this stage the dogs took over again and what with them barking, the pig squealing and Jack cursing, all hell was let loose, with the pig disappearing from sight. Luckily Jack had canvas leggings on over heavy pants, and the rope round the tusks prevented really serious penetration. It was a nasty looking mess, but when I washed the blood off I could see it was only about half a centimetre deep. Jack was sure he was dying and if it wasn't from loss of blood it would at least be from blood poisoning. I was a bit annoyed because I had to use the only singlet I possessed for bandages, and although they only cost a bob at Woolworths I knew it would be a long while before I could offord to buy another one. I got him tied up at last and told him that when we caught up with the pig again he had better stick to the back end because that was the blunt end.

The dogs had the pig bailed up not far away and we were soon underway again. The least said about the trip down the cliff face the better, for when we sorted ourselves out on the river bank, the pig was not the only one with a lot of skin missing. But I must say we were nearly on friendly terms. Jack did the last 15 metres sliding on his stomach while clasping the pig round the middle, while I slid on ahead, holding the rope tight to keep its head away from him.

From the river bed up to the flat where the house and yards were was an anti-climax because none of us had any sting left, and except for one minor rush I almost led the pig to the yards. We turned him loose in a very strong sheep pen and went to the house for a coffee and to dress our wounds. I must admit Jack's leg didn't look too hot, but Mum had been a nurse and didn't consider it serious enough to warrant a trip to the doctor.

After milking I took a trough over to put in with the pig, which was sulking in the corner, but as I reached over to put it down the brute charged and all but got me in the face. If the rails of that yard had not been split six by two logs, it would have had me for sure. Even as I poured the milk in, it tried to rip the stream of milk, but not a drop would it drink. It wouldn't look at food of any sort. This went on for several days and the pig was fast becoming more razor-backed than ever. Then Jack came up with another idea. Get some ropes on it and pour milk into it with a bottle. Darcy was home again by this time and had the time of his life getting it all roped up. A colour slide of three men trying to force a bottle of milk down a wild boar's throat would be worth a fortune. The idea was to get it used to the taste of milk. We went through all that trouble three times, but not a drop would it drink on its own. After we had it five days I decided to turn it loose that night if it hadn't eaten, however it took the decision out of my hands by rooting its way out under the rails while I was sledging a load of posts down from the back valley.

Mum heard the dogs, which were chained at their kennels, barking their heads off and went out to see what was wrong. The boar was passing the front of the house and on seeing her he spun round and charged. Mum didn't have time to shut the door, but slipped into the bedroom as he shot into the house. Luckily the back door was opposite the front and he charged straight through and took to the dogs out the back. I arrived in time to see this part, and the sight of three dogs trying to balance on the roof of the kennels while the pig tried to knock them off was darned funny. They knew they had no hope against him while chained and so did I. My rifle was in the cowshed between the pig and me and I didn't waste time getting it. As I came near I hoped he would take off, for believe it or not I admired his fighting spirit; but he signed his own death warrant by charging me on first sight. I hadn't seen him go through the house and was surprised to see mum looking so white and shaken until she explained what had happened. I was glad then that I had shot the brute, for I am sure mum would never have been happy with him wandering around, in case he had come back. Thank goodness Dad was away that day, for if it had been him instead of mum, I'm sure he would have taken a dim view of a pig in his house. An Englishman's home is his castle, and he would probably have had an argument with the pig on the front step.

There was really nothing good about that pig and the labour he cost us all. Mum decided to make two hams out of him, a pity to waste good meat. A bit of the Scotch coming out in her, I suppose. She took over the salting etc., and when the hams were ready to smoke, we put them down the chimney of the big fireplace and stacked up the fire with green timber. Then we all took off for the day, because the whole house was full of smoke. When we came home the hams were burnt to a mass of black charcoal. How that green timber burnt with such heat we never found out, all I can say is that darned boar put it over us all the way, and put me off pig farming permanently.

Although the weather was quite chilly when Jack went back to Wellington, he stuck manfully to wearing shorts. I'm sure his hunting pals' admiration of his scar helped to keep him warm, and judging by some of the tales about that scar that drifted back to me, he really must have got carried away. The one I like best was about how a boar cornered his dogs in a hollow stump, ripping them to pieces. Unable to use his rifle for fear of hitting a dog, he went in with his knife and in the ensuing battle royal collected his scar. I must say that sounds better than being ripped by a boar that his brother had tied by the legs.

For information on tramping up the Otaki river try:

Otaki river track.