Year of the Pig

23. Peanuts

23 Peanuts Nowhere in recent human history are our tribal, interdependent natures more realized than in farming communities; although these social units are not without dysfunction, ostracism, and strife, here the human spirit seems to thrive. —Janisse Ray, Wildcard Quilt, 2003 One week after killing the biggest sow of my hog-hunting career, I followed Larry to another one of his fields during our lunch break. Larry had forgiven me for shooting the sow out of his cow pasture, and I promised to pay double market value for any incidental bovine takes. Having grown up hunting in fields full of pigs, cows, and horses, I was confident of my ability to distinguish between my quarry and Larry’s livestock. We pulled up to a field that was planted to peanuts in 2007. After the peanuts had been harvested, Larry had planted a winter cover crop of oats and rye. The pigs were coming into his field at night and rooting up the old rows looking for peanuts missed in the 2007 harvest. There were hundreds of spots where pigs had rooted the field, turning the soil and reducing forage production for the cattle. The east side of the field had an electric fence. The back (west) side had a four-strand barbed wire fence separating the field from a pasture that abutted the Conecuh National Forest. Larry had given me written permission under his crop depredation permit. Since I was now legal for night hunting, it was time to put the red light to use. He showed me around the field, saying, “If you see a large light-colored boar, 236 cHaPter 23 shoot it first. That boar runs as soon as we shine the field. It may be light red, but it’s a big one and you can pick it out of a group.” If this big pig was a frequent visitor to the field, I felt I had a good probability of shooting him. I assured Larry, “Consider that pig dead!” It was pouring down rain when I returned to Larry’s place at 7:00 that evening . I fell asleep while sitting in my truck, waiting for the rain to abate. Waking at 8:00, I noticed that the rain had stopped and the wind was out of the north. I walked toward a chufa patch with the red light mounted on my 7 Mag. There were no pigs in the chufas or the area around the pond that had produced my big black sow. Walking the timber’s edge south of the pond, I circled through more pasture and approached the southwest edge of the peanut field that the pigs had been tearing up. As I moved up a terraced slope into the field, a pig grunted above me, to the north and east. My position was safely downwind . Easing further upslope, I reached the top of the terrace, which allowed a good view of the surrounding field. I stepped forward with the wind in my face, swinging the red light from right to left. Halfway through the arc, the light picked up a large, light-colored pig next to a smaller black pig. It was the one Larry had told me about! The pair was about sixty to eighty yards out. I raised the rifle, placing the crosshairs on the light-colored pig as it walked up to the black pig and stopped. I pulled the trigger. The recoil rocked me back on my heels, kicking the red light off the scope. With the red light dangling at my feet, I grabbed the light cord with my left hand while working the bolt with my right hand. The red pig was running to the left. It was headed for the west fence and, judging by its slow gait, it had been hit hard. The black pig, on the other hand, was moving exceptionally fast and straight at me! It veered at the last second, passing about five feet to my left. I was already focusing on the big red pig as the black pig shot past. I just managed to get the crosshairs on the pig and pull the trigger as it ran under the fence and disappeared . The second shot rocked me back, knocking the light from my hands again. Damn the recoil! Both pigs were gone. The black pig was probably in Florida by now, but the Peanuts 237 big...