Paul H. Williams and Gareth Manning, Staff Reporters
Kevin, Desmond and the hog chasers as they climb the mountain. - Ian Allen/Staff Photographer
Whoever decided to take two Sunday Gleaner writers - one ageing, the other young - and a photographer on a hunt for wild hogs in the hills of Portland took them for a ride, literally.
Brimming with excitement, The Sunday Gleaner team left Kingston very early, two Saturday mornings ago, for the quite mountainous district of Reach to meet their guides - seasoned hunters, Kevin and Desmond. They arrived at Kevin's house about 8:30. Kevin rode his bike to fetch Desmond, who arrived with a pack of lean and noisy mongrels, hog chasers.
Off they all went, along the winding country road leading to the foot of the John Crow Mountains. The barking dogs ran behind the bike carrying the hunters, while The Sunday Gleaner team followed in a motor car.
In the distance, the top of the dark and eerie-looking mountains was shrouded by thick fog. There was peace in abundance all around. But, there was also war - dog war. As the hunters and The Sunday Gleaner team cruised along, the dogs that live along the way came to meet the hog chasers, who were in no mood for pleasantries. There were many chases, a bite here and a bite there, high-pitched yelps, baritone barks, hasty retreats, and stupid bravadoes.
The mist on the Blue Mountains was settling and what was originally thought to be cool country atmosphere slowly transformed into perspiration on our faces.
'Just around the corner'
As it often goes in the country, what was 'just around the corner' was really about a mile or two away, but then the team finally saw the sign: "Welcome to the Blue and John Crow Mountains Park". It was time for the real journey to begin. We were about to hunt wild boars.
The morning air was thin and refreshing, and the path damp. The team followed Desmond and Kevin up a rocky, but well-kept trail. The place seemed virtually untouched, "No wonder wild boars live here," Young Writer said to himself. Then, Bam! The car hit a stone. Somebody was too heavy, or the Subaru was just too low. So the writers exited and started to walk.
At a juncture, where it would have been foolish to continue driving, the car and the bike were parked, and the real trek began. Kevin and Desmond led the way, followed by their canine companions. The stony path got a bit steeper as they got farther into the rugged terrains, and that was when Ageing Writer began to lag behind, walking gingerly on slippery stones.
When he finally reached the rest of the party, they were waiting for him at the foot of a steep hill. They had changed course. Soon after they began the ascent, The Sunday Gleaner team immediately realised it was about to get what it didn't bargain for: thorns, fallen trees, mud, flies, ants, mosquitoes, barbed wire, tree barks that scratched the skin, and thick curly vines dangling from high branches.
Then, there was a bark. The dogs had picked up something. "Di hog dem did de yah. A one big one, enuh Kevin," Desmond declared as he observed fresh hoof prints in the mud. Young Writer felt a mixture of fear and excitement. The dogs ran through the bushes, but soon returned. False alarm.
They walked for at least an hour. "Man, we no reach the top yet?" Young Writer asked in frustration. "Man, you not even start walk yet," Kevin replied, mischief glinting in his eyes. They stopped for a while.
"A which part Paul dey?" Ageing Photographer queried. "Call him, call him."
"Paul, Paul, Paul!" Young Writer shouted. There was no answer. "But a how him love chat so and him cyaan mek it man. A bare mouth him have man," Desmond remarked teasingly. They waited, but there was no sound from Paul. "Him mussi stop an turn back, man," Desmond continued.
Dark woods
Under the quiet, Young Writer was hungry, and suddenly, the dark woods became darker. Young Writer sat, but couldn't say a word, because, his ego, or what was is left of it, was on the line. He couldn't let the group know he couldn't have made it. Luckily, Desmond had picked a few coconuts. Young Writer drank the water from one. He was ready again, or so he thought. Just two steps and the woods went black again.
All this while, Paul, the ageing writer, was huffing and puffing. He heard Young Writer's call of the wild, but he was breathless and could not answer, holding on to the nearest tree, leaf, vine. Then amazingly, his cellphone rang! In the John Crow Mountains! It was Ageing Photographer. Ageing Writer assured him he was on his way. The group decided to wait.
Muddy and haggard, he appeared, trying desperately to reach where the group was. "But a how you a gwaan like you so fit, an you caan even walk little bit?" Desmond said jokingly, as he handed Ageing Writer a coconut. "I was just taking in the scenery, man and I didn't want my camera and phone to drop," he responded. He was lying through his teeth.
A decision was then made for Desmond to take the team back down the hillside. Kevin and some of the dogs would continue up the hill. The conditions going back were just as punishing. Then, at last, the main path appeared. Joy again.
After a very long walk to the foot of a very high ridge, wild hog territory, they stopped to rest, and wait, again, for Ageing Writer and some of the dogs. Kevin had rejoined the group by then.
They waited, and waited, but not even one ill-tempered wild hog dropped by to say hi. How 'boarish'! In the meantime, Desmond boasted of his many run-ins, with the wild hogs, of course, and also of his luck with the ladies. But, the storythat got Ageing Writer, and not the dogs, yelping was about what a certain Amazon did to Desmond and what he said to her, when she once caught him in flagrante delicto.
More stories, more laughter, more disappointment. Two of the dogs returned, and there was no sign or scent of hog on them. When Kevin pointed to the ridge, and having realised what they were about to go through, Young Writer and Ageing Photographer refused to go any farther. Wild hog hunt interrupted.
Along the path, up and down, the scenery was awesome - exotic plants, some flowering; very tall coconut trees rising from dense herbaceous undergrowth; giant creepers, ferns, and Tarzan vines; strange fruits hanging from unknown trees; old and young bamboos singing and dancing in the same clump; epiphytes sucking the substance from moss-laden trees; snakelike lianas, some thick, some wiry; and enough fallen coconuts to stone dogs. In the gullies and in the trees, birds and other creatures chirped and sang, creating a natural symphony.
Back at where they had started, they drank from big jelly coconuts, after which Kevin took them to a pig sty, in which there were light-brown pigs. And then, they realised their journey was not in vain. There were also a few wild hog offspring. You could tell the difference - very long snouts, big pointed ears, flat body, a ridge of stiff hair running along their back, but they were all tuskless.
Amazon's feats, conquests
Back in the village, at Kevin's shop, over drinks, Desmond told more stories of the Amazon's many feats and conquests. And, his audience wondered, "Who is the fiercer, she or the wild hogs?" The ageing writer quietly concluded that it was the Amazon of Reach.
Kevin bid the team goodbye, and then it was off to Miss Annie's, where the team had a few cups of her nourishing crayfish soup. They also met 'Sweetness', one of the lovely ladies of the area, who looked into their eyes, and said with a provocative smile, "It nice, man," in response to a statement from the ageing photographer, about a certain 'beating'.
The final stop was at the magnificent Reach falls, where they soaked their weary bodies, and their bruised and battered egos, as they reflected on the aborted hunt.
Ageing Photographer: "The trip was exciting, it can be the ultimate experience, but you have to be fit."
Young Writer: I was disappointed, but next time I'll ensure I'm fit to take the journey.
Ageing Writer: "I would not wish it for my greatest enemy. I think I deserve a beating. Somebody should beat mi pan mi foot battam dem - the adventurer that I am."
For, they were taken on a wild-goose chase, rather, a wild-hog chase, totally unprepared for the drudgery of life as a wild-hog hunter.
Read more in Lifestyle on Tuesday.
