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Wild Boar Hunting

On the Big Island of Hawaii, protecting the fragile ecosystem from destructive wild boar is a slow reveal of ancient history, present-day economic reality and, ultimately, killing your own supper

Driving around Hilo, I noticed battered, monster-wheeled pickup trucks with pit bulls gaping from the flatbeds, driven by beefy, Samoan-looking dudes with tattooed necks and forearms. The trucks snarled past; their drivers were obviously into trapping something other than tourists.

I would soon learn these dudes hunted feral pigs, a local scourge. I began to see these dudes everywhere. Their mystique got even more intimidating. Apparently, they’d drive into the jungle, unleash their dogs to sniff out the grisly beasts and, once cornered, they’d jump into the melee, blade cocked, and slit the pig’s throat…

But this story really begins in older, no less volatile times. Polynesians brought domesticated pigs aboard their canoes on the epic journeys that led them to the Hawaiian Islands more than a millennium ago. They also brought a surreal reverence for the animal that pervaded their lifestyles, spirituality and vivacious identities. As Lilikala K. Kame’eleihiwa wrote in A Legendary Tradition of Kamapua‘a, the Hawaiian Pig-God: “Nowhere else in Polynesia is there evidence that a pig was worshipped as a god, and some maintain that nowhere else was devotion to sensual pleasure as exalted and refined as in Hawai’i.”

Typically, overzealous European sailors changed everything. Waves of invasive species were unleashed after Captain James Cook’s arrival in 1778, among them a larger, more voracious wild boar that steered the swine bloodline into less-exalted territory. The import of mango, guava and foreign earthworms helped sustain and broaden the resulting feral pig population, as did the overhaul of land use, the advent of modern agriculture, and an influx of other hoofed immigrants. All this wreaked considerable havoc on the archipelago, where mostly endemic plant life had evolved without poisons, thorns or such intensely drooling and grunting enemies.

Killing feral pigs eventually became customary, even necessary, to curb the destruction of vital ground-level shrubs, herbs, ferns and flowers. Compared to more measured forest-protection efforts like Hawaii Volcanoes National Park’s use of elaborate fencing and constant observation, hunting for sport is definitely a subculture that arrived with the American dream.

Just as they could when they endured the tumultuous ride aboard those sea-faring canoes, pigs can forage and fertilize like nobody’s business. They feed local families and fit right into natural selection.

But what got me interested in all of this were the pit bull pickups and their unnerving rung on the Hawaiian food chain. So I found someone to take me to hunt for pig on the Big Island.

My hunting guide was nothing like the dubious warriors we’d seen driving around Hilo, and thankfully his method wasn’t nearly as brutal. A Vietnam vet, Jack Ku would prove to be patient, wise and affable—as quick and skilled with a joke as he was with a weapon.

We met Ku under a lush dawn at a gate to the famous Parker Ranch’s 130,000-plus acres, which overlook a resort-peppered coastline and rise toward the nappy crown of the 4,205-metre Mauna Kea, bearded by raggedy clouds. The grassy foothills lolled in the morning glow. Depending on your elevation, these green slopes rippled with Angus cattle, Rio Grande turkeys and Spanish billy goats that look like Star Wars interlopers.

We’d come to hunt Polynesian pig, a free-roaming, raven-hued link to Hawaiian antiquity. We started plodding along in Ku’s truck, scanning the landscape with a pair of $2,000 binoculars. “You’re looking for things out of place,” explained Ku, his words elongating as he noticed something.

Beyond a eucalyptus grove, a smallish sow trawled the grassland, snout rummaging. We eased out of the cab; the pig scampered. Loading his rifle, Ku pointed out that my binocular harness was on backwards. We all chuckled quietly.

We skulked over a knoll, watching, crouching lower as we closed in. “You’re gonna shoot that pig,” Ku whispered, urging me to the ground.

The only trigger I’d ever pulled before was at a Vegas shooting range, and that was a handgun. So I channelled some Hollywood wisdom. I steadied the oblivious pig’s shoulder—about 200 metres away—in the crosshairs of the Swarovski scope on Ku’s Savage 270. The rising sun glinted. My mind went blank. I relaxed and fired.

We heard a dull whop. The pig took off, trailing dust. Its sprint quickly tapered while Ku grabbed his gun and fired again, missing. “You got it!” he barked.

It took a few minutes to find its body in the clumpy grass and yellow fireweed. It lay motionless, a bullet hole flaring its hindquarter, crimson splats framing its gaping jaw.

I was bemused by my fluke accuracy. But I wondered: how much karma did I just unravel? I pitied the animal’s dull, rumpled carcass. And yet I fantasized that pig on a spit, swivelling deliciously.

As we carved away and skinned the useable meat (which we’d end up donating to our breakfast waitress’ upcoming luau) and snapped off bones (for Ku’s dogs, Curby and Chance), Ku explained he didn’t like the idea of killing an animal with a knife, because it was unnecessarily slow and humiliating. As he spoke, my mind explored the chasm between shooting a wild pig and the ecological baggage of buying plastic-wrapped steak from Safeway.

Later that afternoon, Ku took us to meet Anthony Garcia, a neighbour he trusts enough to hook up with wealthy clients that want to hunt in the jungle. Garcia tracks wild boar in the Waiakea Forest Reserve near his house (upland from Hilo), using four Southern Black Mouth Cur dogs that are “bred for hunting.” He’s teaching his son his trade, invests time and money in his dogs (and has the tracking antennas on their collars to prove it), and the vocation feeds his family.

Garcia’s backyard is an ode to pig hunting as a means of survival. There’s a kennel spread sporadically around the rocky bush, lean and curious dogs thwarted by their leashes, a ramshackle smoker parked near his pickup, a grungy ATV, skulls lying around randomly and a skeleton train of hog jawbones nailed along the trimming below his roof. He speaks of tracking down huge wild boar (“without guts, maybe 220 pounds; on the hoof, you’re looking at 250, 260”) as though it were an art form: a harsh melding of strategy, patience, thick and difficult terrain, skill with a well-chosen weapon, and being acutely aware of a wounded boar’s tenacity.

As I listen, savouring a garlicky bite of Garcia’s smoked-at-home boar and surveying his vivid property, something I’ve been mulling crystallizes: it’s not whether you kill the beast or not that harnesses your karma; it’s how and why you choose to hunt it down.

Perhaps that means I’ll be taken out of this life by surprise, my breakfast interrupted by some other fish out of water. I can only hope it’ll happen in a place as primal and spellbinding as the Big Island of Hawaii.

GUIDE TO BIG ISLAND HUNTING

Jack Ku’s Outfitter & Guide Service (25-59 Pukana La St., Hilo; 808-938-1369)

A skilled and versatile guide with more than three decades of experience, Ku can set up a range of hunts in all sorts of stunning landscapes.

Parker Ranch (67-1435 Mamalahoa Hwy., Kameula)

This outfitter arranges game hunting for groups on its gorgeous, sprawling ranchlands and offers a rich, authentic window into Hawaii’s cowboy heritage.

Kuhio Grille (111 E. Puainako St., Hilo; 808-959-2336)

No-frills dining amongst local families; check out the Kalua pig plate with rice and salad (US$11.99)

Huli Sue’s Barbecue and Grill (64-957 Mamalahoa Hwy., Kamuela)

Hearty home-cooked meals featuring pork, beef and other meats, plus fresh local produce, in a quirky, scuffed-up roadside joint.

Waianuhea (45-3503 Kahana Dr., Honokaa)

An exquisite, remote, off-the-grid estate with fascinating art, fresh local food and wonderful hosts. The huge DVD selection is impressive, too