Early yesterday morning as I stood on the side deck watching the
sun come up a magnificent wild boar strolled out of the woods.
These animals are almost blind, but they have an exquisite sense of
smell. His snout twitched tasting the odors, he let out a low but loud
grunt, I knew he was aware of me.

He lifted his huge head snorting and sniffing then began moving
toward me. These beasts are not shy nor do they need to worry
about their own safety as a male, such as this one, weighs in at
about 200 pounds and sports razor sharp tusks curling upwards
several inches. They own their territory.

This boar is much larger than the one which confronted me

Had I been reasonable I would have retreated into the house, but never had I been this close to a wild pig and thoughts of succulent ribs immediately sprang to mind. He was closing on me quickly and I looked around the deck for a weapon, any kind of weapon.

In hindsight I realize how foolish I was, but I also love the irony of the weapon I chose . . . a barbecue fork.

I stepped off the deck and we began our mutual approach, the pig and I advancing, determined. I hesitate to describe in detail what ensued. It was not pretty. The battle seemed to last hours although it must have only been three or four minutes. I'll live and recover from the slash in my thigh, barely clearing the femoral artery by a centimeter and requiring 214 stitches. The hog exhibited intense bravery attacking all but silently until I drove the fork through his left eye and deeply into his piggy brain.

It was at this point that he truly scarred me. To my last day I will not be able to erase from my mind the scream which came from his throat and the fetid last breath which enveloped me.
.
I have never been a hunter of mammals even though I do eat them. I doubt I will ever again initiate a kill as the sound that beast made was excruciating, almost human.

The next order of business was to close my wound, a task aided by the pint of Jim Beam I happened to have on hand. I was able to do a fairly good job with only a dozen stitches using packaging twine and was later that day treated by a much more competent surgeon at the emergency room.

But I had stopped the bleeding and was now able to hobble around without fear of tearing the cut more deeply. More importantly, I was able to deal with the butchering.

I was a bit ashen faced after the self-suturing

I harvested only the ribs then managed, with the use of a come-along, to drag the carcass far enough into the woods so the coyotes and vultures could deal with it.

Last night, before hitting the sack, I began the marination and very early this morning (limping, for sure) I coated the ribs with my secret rub, got the pit up to heat, and started the eight hour smoke. Got on the phone to alert the usual suspects and this afternoon while we await the results we'll be pitching horseshoes.

Wish you were here.