In the south of Tuscany, in Maremma, and more precisely in the territory of Saturnia, famous for its sulphurous and very hot waters, the territory is all a swing of fields, woods and gentle slopes. The streams flow full and fast eager to flow into the Albegna and, right among the numerous streams that intersect in these sweet lands, the wild boar joke takes place to which we were invited by our friend Massimiliano, a passionate lover of the breed. from Maremma brindle. We are in the first days of January of a year that began in the name of true winter, as has not been seen here for some time. We meet soon and the procedures for registering hunters and arranging the posts take little time, thanks to the excellent organization and the fact that, for better or for worse, we will be few.
Moreno and Massimiliano will immediately release their flagship dogs, respectively Belen and Tosca, two reliable, gifted and fast young men from Maremma. "Two good dogs!”Aldo comments with a grin as we walk through the olive grove to the post office assigned to us. Francesco will stay in the field above, on the jump there will be Aldo, me in the middle of the field below, then Vincenzo, in the (dry) ditch Giovanni and, again in the clean, on the slopes of the hill, Gianni. The voices of Moreno and Massimiliano reach us only by radio, they melted almost a kilometer from us. Massimiliano is excited and gives a detailed commentary: "Here, Tosca is probing a rogaio ... barking at a standstill! I can't get in, it's very high! Go Tosca vaaa !!!”Urges the young conductor. From the radio we hear Tosca's steady barking and get ready. "It will not start! This is big ... ..beats my bitch !!!". Maximilian's apprehension is perceptible on the radio in the vibration of his voice.
The bark of Belen joins that of Massimiliano's little Maremma. "He has left, careful posts!”With two words Moreno inflames our fervent expectation of an animal that announces itself to be large and tenacious. Our rifles are all facing the shrubs that border the grove from which we await the boar. "Comes towards the ditch !!”Shouts Massimiliano on the radio. In the I see-I do not see of the stain that has replaced the water of the ditch, a dark bolide heads towards Giovanni. The barrels of his side-by-side await yet another wild boar of his long hunting career. None of us dares to pull the big sow on the run which, as expected, ends its race at the feet of the elderly hunter with the two Maremmana to bite the warm and bristly meat. While at the post office we wait for the rolled that will focus on the thickets behind us, all the seasons of the new year alternate over our heads: a cool north-easterly wind sweeps away the clouds and gives us a dazzling and very hot sun that would induce to undress a little. As soon as a bit of wool is put away, new black clouds blown from the west cover us and pour a cold, minute autumn rain on us. The wind still turns, with cold gusts from the north that make us plunge back into the harsh winter. When the canai join us to head to the opposite side of the expulsion, they are a bit baffled: "I am only sorry that now you will be in rotten wind!”Says Massimiliano with Tosca on a leash. "Not necessarily, Massi. In one morning the wind swirled continuously .... maybe it gets back in our favor!”Comments Vincenzo confidently.
With the wind on the back of our necks we set out towards the field to which we had our backs. The canai do not have time to re-melt that the barks, this time close and perceptible live, make us raise our antennas. "Beware of posts that have already left !!! It's a branchettoooo !!". Between us and rolled there is a small stream, characteristic for its almost insignificant flow but always in full, summer and winter. He is called affectionately Ditch Mollo precisely because it is always rich in water. Shady and well protected by shrubs in the middle of the fields, this is the passage we all look at while waiting for the herd. From the corner of Fosso Mollo here is the first one. Then the second, I count four. They go straight to Aldo. When I'm a few meters away, Aldo lets go of a shot from his automatic but I don't see any stopped or injured animals. Then I turn behind me and aim for the wild boar further ahead in the row: the first shot raises a column of earth. The second starts when the red dot is on the template, and the boar rolls its legs in the air, electrocuted. I focus on another animal that has arrived in the meantime: I only have three shots left. The first one hits a hind leg and I distinctly see bits of tissue splashing away as the boar lags on. When he is about to throw himself into the bush I shoot again, although from behind the silhouette is rather thin: I hit him from the apophysis, I am sure he is taken, but the dive with which he is swallowed by the brambles does not allow me to evaluate the extent of the blow . Francesco rushes from the field above, where he has stopped an animal. He too shot below and looks for his victim, but the rifle shot on the only one boar on the ground bears my signature. A few meters into the bush lies my second boar. Only one member of the pack managed to escape our fire.
A few minutes later another porcastro leaves from the maquis besieged by the canai. He too follows the Fosso Mollo and is about to take the same path as the pack. I follow him with the red dot on his chest as he walks briskly towards Aldo but he rushes him, nails himself on his paws and makes a steep curve towards the field above. The unfortunate animal encounters the net that the previous herd has moved in its escape and remains blocked long enough for Francesco to cool it with an almost stopped shot. "Eh eh ... so everyone is good!”Jokes Vincenzo on the radio. This last wild boar, lonely and unfortunate, will be the final gift of Tosca and Belen on this cold January day, where the inextinguishable stream of Fosso Mollo has offered us many wild boars and unforgettable emotions.