Wild boar hunting - In January, as every year, an invitation for a hunt is always welcome in Montauto in that of Manciano, in the province of Grosseto. It is a particularly cold Sunday. In Maremma, winter comes later. "Today the Fracasseta joke is made”Announces David, the huntsman, in the preliminary speech with which he reiterates the few, ineluctable rules of good behavior and safety. "It will be hard today to get to the post office, especially for the last ones!”- comments David as he explains today's strategy. "Maybe, but the last stakes of this joke are also the best!”I hear comments in a low voice among the many orange caps that surround me.
In Montauto the stakes are assigned by drawing lots. I asked Franco and Moreno to take a number for me together with theirs, so as to be close (except for complications). They give me the number 66. The number is extracted. "The first stake is: 62!"I breathe a sigh of relief ..."Vincent Frascino"Declaims David, sliding his finger over the list. "Well, there must be a mistake!" comment "I have 66, I can not be the first post!". "I don't know Vincenzo, here on the list your name corresponds to 62, I don't know what to tell you ... probably there has been a bit of confusion, but for convenience we will follow the order of the list". I find myself in one of those unfortunate situations in which, despite having tons of reason, to assert it I would risk creating confusion and ill will, as well as passing for a meticulous and inelastic person. And so, I decide to gloss over, and let bad luck have my mail at stake. I will be the first stake, or rather, the second, since Tucci was added at the last minute. Moreno, on my left, becomes the third place. Franco, on the other hand, was separated from us and went with the lucky ones to occupy the perched positions but with a high rate of possibility of encountering the wild.
We set out. After a first climb we enter a toilet and there Ghiandaia [Alberto, ed] begins to displace the post office. I understood in front of a fairly clean stretch of stain that does not bode well. I go to see the next post which covers a trot created inside a dense cove. Back at the post office, I study the situation: I have a trot on the right and one on the left. I try to create a visual tunnel by cutting a large marruca that could hinder a possible shot. I dodge the leaves for several meters creating a walkway where I can move without creating alarming sounds for the bristly. The layout of the stalls is complicated, and given the extent of today's hunt, this operation takes a long time. It is about 11:30 when, finally, I hear the sound of the horn on the radio. The joke has begun.
I rolled they melt in front of us and our hopes are tied almost exclusively to the very first part of the hunt. A few minutes after the melting we hear the first scagni. Looks like they've found something. A noise of hooves from the trot on my left just anticipates the appearance of a female roe deer that with a single jump disappears behind me, swallowed by the thick bush. THE dogs with their barks they stop shortly in front of our post office. As their voices fade away towards the post above, a fearful hare appears in front of my post and seems to have breathed a sigh of relief at the demise of the hounds.
"Attentiiii bark at fermoo !!”The excited voices of the canai announce that the hunt is in full swing. We hear the first shots up at the top, our minds are captured by what is happening up there, in the midst of action. "BAM BAM”I turn to the left and I can see the last moments when a big boar jumps near Moreno: the animal has arrived scalloped and Moreno, taken by surprise, was the author of a beautiful pan! Subsequent waves of hooting dogs approach our posts, making us shudder just long enough to see them continue towards the posts above, where gunfire after gunfire can be heard in the distance. At our post office silence reigns. A Maremma hound comes next to me, crouches and curls up. I'm not even sending him away. An icy wind rises. Even if we shouldn't, I reach the Tucci, at the post next door: we are now out of the game, we light the fire and whisper a chat in front of the burning flames. After a long time we seem to hear a canice in the distance. It gets closer and closer. I'll be back to my mail immediately. "Bam!".
A porcastro arrives like a splinter in the direction of the ditch, insoles himself and when a 30.06 bullet from Moreno's carbine goes up it brings it back down. Meanwhile the echoes of barking and gunshots come from the high stakes. "It rang”Is heard on the radio, not everyone can hear the sound of the horn in the great lines of Montauto. It's over. Thirty dead at the roll call. Franco shot down a boar and John, next to him, two. I think back to the draw of the morning. If I had "stayed" with my number 66 I would have certainly fired. Patience, it will be for the next one! At the end of the joke we find ourselves, all together, between fires, joy and the inevitable game of the morra. Thus ends another day in one of the "sanctuaries" of wild boar hunting.
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