Hunters Saying Aloha to Wild Boar

The big black boar appeared suddenly on the hillside and froze -- as if aware that it had made a terrible mistake by coming out of hiding.

On the opposite hillside, higher up and a few hundred yards away, stood the hunter with his spear, and the guide, peering at the pig through binoculars. They too were motionless, not wanting to be noticed.

It was truly a moment frozen in time.

An adventure that had begun hours earlier in the predawn darkness, on a vast expanse of rolling grassland high above the coastal tourist havens, had reached the point of first contact -- when hunter and prey become aware of each other and sort out their next moves.

But it was only a moment.

Over the next several minutes the wildest kind of chaos would reign on the eastern slope of Parker Ranch, a historic spread long known for its cattle but more recently as a paradise for sportsmen in pursuit of game.

It’s unique to Hawaii as a hunting destination. Spanning 175,000 acres on the Big Island, it is practically an island unto itself. Its terrain is mostly open grassland, with steep and craggy upper recesses. It is splendidly stocked with wildfowl, 14 species in all, and such big-game animals as Corsican sheep, Spanish goats and Vancouver bulls.

And it has feral pigs, as many as 2,000, roaming free just as they do throughout all but one of the main islands, on which they plow carelessly through the soil, destroying native plants, spreading nonnative plants, creating health hazards for birds and damaging watersheds.

Indeed, not everyone appreciates the unsightly, ungainly -- but wonderfully delicious -- ungulates. But hunters, those responsible for keeping their numbers in check, love them to death. And nowhere is that more apparent than on the wide-open spaces of Parker Ranch, where the success rate is nearly 100%.

“Parker Ranch is the only ranch I know of in the state where you can go out and consistently spot and stalk and see a lot of pigs,” says Patrick Fisher, 35, the game manager and head guide. “Not only do we have a high population of pigs, but we have all rolling hills, and the pigs sleep during the day in the deep gullies. They come out early and then get hungry again just before evening, so those are our windows.”

During a recent morning outing with Fisher and Chuck Ferreira, 28, a resident of the nearby Kohala coast, three small sows had been hunted down and set free before the tusked boar made his presence known.

Ferreira’s three dogs set upon the quarry instinctively and with purpose, charging down the hill, through the gully and up the other hill, closing fast on the dark, hairy beast that, surprisingly, held its ground.

Soon the sounds of the confrontation -- the incessant barking and growling; the grunting and snorting; the unearthly squealing -- wafted through the canyon. The stout boar, sporting 2-inch tusks, lunged at the dogs with powerful bursts. They, in turn, darted in and out of harm’s way, trying to keep the pig in place until human help arrived.

As the hunters hustled toward the fray, small birds scattered from the brush, and a pair of wild turkeys, having taken flight, watched from the lone tree standing sentinel over the golden slopes.

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Wild or feral pigs have been thriving in Hawaiian forests and grasslands since the arrival of the Polynesians more than 1,500 years ago. They brought domesticated pigs as a source of food. Today, boars and sows -- now a mixture of Polynesian and European strains -- roam free on all but tiny Lanai, having been eradicated there years ago.

Population estimates statewide range from as few as 450,000 to as many as 2 million, Department of Land and Natural Resources biologist John Polhemus said.

Whatever the number, it’s significant. Ed Johnson, the state’s hunting coordinator, refers to pigs as “the most damaging single animal in the state” because of the destructive manner in which they behave: constantly uprooting worms, insects, small animals and plants.

They spread seeds of invasive plants in their feces. The troughs they create fill with rainwater and attract mosquitoes, which promote avian malaria.

Wildlife managers have started to reduce the number of animals in some areas and eliminate them in others. Private landowners have begun to fence more of their property to keep the pigs out, and some are using snares to trap and kill those still on their property.

All of that has drawn the ire of animal-rights activists, who say the use of unattended snares is inhumane. It has also upset hunters, who say the available land on which they’ve long been able to hunt is shrinking.

“The big change is more no-trespassing signs -- more and more,” says Pascual Dabas, 73, president of the Oahu Pig Hunters’ Assn. and a hunter since he was 11. “We go out into the forest to hunt with dogs for subsistence as well as for sport. It’s a future-generation type of thing.”

Hunters like Dabas say that with each lost opportunity goes a piece of Hawaiian culture. That’s debatable, others counter, claiming that there is no direct evidence linking hunting back to the Polynesians.

“There was no hunting before the whites came,” Johnson said, referring to the arrival of British explorer Capt. James Cook in 1778. “But Hawaiians for the last 100 years have really gotten into hunting and eating pigs, and enjoying their luaus. If pushed about this, they push back, and who can blame them?”

Johnson calls hunters “the good guys” for their role in managing pig numbers -- using guns, archery equipment, knives and spears they killed a reported 1,953 pigs on public lands statewide in fiscal 2001-2002, and many more on private lands. Eradicating pigs and other feral animals -- goats, sheep and axis deer also cause environmental problems -- would be too difficult, too costly and controversial, he added. Hunting is here to stay.

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Ferreira was first on the scene and took aim with his spear, but the boar dashed down the hill and into the deep grass of the gully dividing the two hillsides. He was backed against a cluster of rocks and turned to greet the dogs with more ferocity than before, tossing the smallest one like a rag doll high against the hill. The dog came down with fright in its eyes and a gash in its midsection, and remained on the perimeter thereafter.

Ferreira again arrived with his spear, wanting to end this game as quickly as possible, to spare the animal unnecessary suffering and to spare his dogs serious injury or death.

That was all that mattered. The brilliance of the countryside, the breathtaking view of the Pacific, the sheets of rain blowing across the distant sky, were lost in the moment.

Throughout a given morning or afternoon at Parker Ranch, hunters are lost in their own little world, a wildly spectacular realm made so, in part, by the field work of Fisher, but also because of the vastness of a surreal landscape that rises and dips from near sea level to about 7,000 feet.

None of the controversy so prevalent in other areas exists within what remains a working cattle ranch, where cows are given large fenced parcels in which to graze but are not entirely protected from the unruliness of the range.

Feral pigs, no peace-loving creatures themselves, are not deterred by fences and have been known to attack newborn calves. Fisher has video of a pack of pigs devouring newborn goats, one after another.

“Pigs are the ultimate scavenger on the ranch, next to wild dogs,” Ferreira said. “People think hunters are cruel or that this is a cruel way to die,” he added, pointing to his spear. “But you look at what happens when a team of wild dogs gets onto a pig. It takes them three hours of biting, biting, biting to kill it.”

Feral pigs -- which when cornered have also been known to knock down, bite and gore hunters -- can sense the presence of humans and stay well hidden in the gullies coursing through ranch property, once the sun is up. Fisher and Ferreira, therefore, prefer to remain upwind and walk downhill to let the dogs pick up the scent of wild pigs.

The big black boar, perhaps made curious by the sounds of the two turkeys taking flight, wandered out into broad daylight and was seen before its scent was detected. The reason he held his ground, it turned out, was because two wild dogs had also seen it and were approaching from below.

The wild dogs bolted at first glimpse of the hunters. Ten minutes later, the boar was lying on its side with a spear in its shoulders, its throat slit. Ferreira was literally bringing home the bacon.