It's the end of January. The season is coming to an end, the moods of the hunters are pervaded by the excitement for the last bars and by the harbingers of nostalgia for the imminent closure.
For the last hunt of the season I am in Capalbio, in particular in Capalbiaccio. As always happens, the two magical moments that correspond to opening and closing, whenever possible, I try to experience them surrounded by my closest friends. He quickly cleared the formalities and began to get serious. Fate assigns me post number 37. Along the way we travel to reach the post office, my friend Fabrizio whispers in a low voice "I think it will happen to youà the very same post that I occupied there'last year in this joke; covers a nice trot, has a'great view and for me è was quite lucky there'others'year!”And a pleased smile illuminates his hot face. Fabrizio was not wrong. The stake was that in question and with a few blows of the billhook I manage to create a gap in the dense and low scrub.
The posts are tense, the little roads are cleared, the radios are on… the real protagonist of wild boar hunting in Maremma is missing: the wind. In such dense vegetation, where wild boars can move safely and arrive unseen up to a few meters from the post office, the tips that the wind provides to their sensitive griffin are truly decisive, and the fate of a joke can be influenced by a harmless gust. Unfortunately, like all atmospheric agents, even the wind is not "controllable" and it may happen that in the middle of a hunt we find ourselves in a rotten wind to send in spite of ourselves counterproductive olfactory information to the crafty animals protected by the thick scrub. And that's exactly what happened on that morning in late January. But don't worry.
We implement the ancient Maremma trick: we begin to collect twigs and logs to set up a small fire near the post office to try to “confuse” our own human smell with that of the smoke produced by burnt wood. FOLLOWS