BOARING

BOARING Eight hunters, ten "beaters", a dozen assorted dogs and two guests are perched precariously on wooden benches positioned along each side of a flatbed wagon. The old tractor pulling this motley assortment is sliding diagonally backwards down the steep, icy mountainside with one wheel trapped in a 16 inch rut giving the entire entourage a view of the valley below from a 70 degree angle. My companion, David, has a look of terror sweeping through his entire body. I'm thinking that at least our obituary will read more exciting than most - "Englishman and American Crushed Under Wagon while on Wild Boar Hunt in Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania - dogs survive freezing conditions by eating corpses."

7 AM - multiple layers of clothing (it is bitterly cold out). David, a visiting British journalist currently working for an English-language magazine in Bucharest, and I are driving to pick up Dufy, our host for the day. Dufy, the participating "Pig Cutter", has arranged with the Doctor, the leader of the hunting expedition, for us to join the party of Hungarian and Romanian hunters on their weekly foray into the wilderness IN PURSUIT OF THE WILD BOAR. Having deposited his tools (a large butcher knife and an ax)in the trunk of the car, Dufy is pleased to learn that David is fairly fluent in Romanian, thus placing less strain on his ability to communicate in English. The thirty-minute ride into the countryside seems longer because of the temperature - the heater blower of the Honda died a few days earlier and repair won't begin until after - or IF - parts are located.

The hunters are arriving in their individual cars as the beaters walk from the various directions of their local villages with their dogs vocalizing their enthusiasm. Everything is covered in a thick hoarfrost which sparkles in the beams of sunlight occasionally poking through the gray clouds. The hunters look as if they have been outfitted by Abercrombie & Fitch - the beaters by salvation army rejects. Except for two dachshunds, the dogs appear to be of varied and sturdy lineage. The rifles are polished and handled carefully. The prewar tractor (I don't ask which war) has arrived and again departed for some last minute repairs. The Doctor distributes surgically specific maps with precise arrows and notation detailing the five progressive locations where the tractor will track, beaters will beat and hunters will halt - all poised for the appearance of the wild boars. The air is crisp with anticipation - my feet are already freezing.

As the Doctor addresses the troops, the tractor returns pulling a flatbed wagon on four bald tires. An hour's ride later, up in the wilderness, the hunters climb down and head off into the forest. David and I remain with the dogs and the beaters for an additional half hour's ride around to the far side of the forest where scrub brush waits to shelter the boars and scratch our hands and faces. Positioned about 30 meters apart in a line along the edge of the scrub we are signaled to advance - dogs barking, shouts and whistles amidst the crunch of iced snow and the snap of breaking branches and twigs. Forty-five minutes later we all emerge from the bush to see a line of hunters poised with rifles. No sound of rifles has been heard - no boar has been routed. Everyone walks through the forest together to rendezvous with the tractor for the ride to the next location. Evidence of boars recently feeding on acorns heightens anticipation, assuring success with the next foray. False hopes - after two more attempts it becomes apparent that the boars have obtained copies of our maps and have outflanked the troops. On the fourth maneuver, David & I have been positioned with the hunters instead of the beaters. Relieved from having to clamor through the brush, we begin to wonder if we are suspected of collaborating with the boars and have thus been reassigned to less strategic positions. We soon realize that standing quietly and motionless so as not to alert the boars is far less comfortable than tromping through the brush - when moving, the temperature is relatively tropical - when standing, it is arctic. Meanwhile, the boars must have gathered at their local pub, lounging near the stove, drinking tuica.

Fifth and final sortie - back with the beaters. So far several dozen deer, a couple of rabbits and a fox or two have been spotted. One boar was supposedly sighted for a second or two but that may have been an hallucination precipitated by iced eyebrows. The sun disappeared behind gray clouds sometime during the first sortie and it is now probably setting somewhere near the Riviera or Tunisia. One of the dachshunds has also disappeared and the other, his companion, is whimpering in distress on my lap as the wagon begins the long - long trip back to base. The same dog had gotten lost last year but was located in a nearby village several days later - it is assumed that the episode would be repeated again this year. As the tractor's lights are engaged, I looked down at my feet - they had long since ceased to provide me with any reassurance that they were still attached to my legs. The dachshund kept my lap warm and his nose protected under my armpit.

He was sleeping when the tractor found the icy rut and began its slide. We all abandoned the wagon and watched the tractor make numerous, futile attempts to proceed up the mountain. After retreating 100 meters, we re-boarded and continued back THE LONG WAY ROUND. Two hours later, in the pitch black, we were breezing down the highway - the Doctor blinking his flashlight at cars overtaking us on our way back to base. As we passed through villages, beaters received their pay and headed to their respective homes and local bars where they presumably recounted stories of the boar that got away.

A suggestion from one of the hunters that a stop at a butcher-shop could provide pig meat similar to boar meat was jokingly considered and then rejected. David & I worried that we may have been considered a "jinx" but agreed that, for us, the day had been anything but boar-ing.

7 PM - Driving home in the Honda, I quietly resolve to get the heater repaired ASAP.

That night I dreamed that page two of the newspaper that chronicled the news of our deaths carried an article entitled "WILD BOARS DISCOVERED IN POSSESSION OF STOLEN TOPOGRAPHICAL MAPS ALONG WITH COPIES OF GEORGE ORWELL'S ANIMAL FARM.