farm life

HOG HUNTER

Preserving the Pasture

BY ASHTON GOGGANS
PHOTOS BY CHAD SPENCER

I’m waiting to meet Jason McKendrie and Stevie John. J & S—both of their barrel chests, Southern charm, and firm handshakes—work for land management and agri-business giants Schroeder-Manatee Ranch (SMR). This outfit owns 28,000 acres of farmland, cattle range, natural timber, citrus groves, and turf farms in northeastern Sarasota County, and Lakewood Ranch, too. Jason is SMR’s cattle manager; Stevie SMR’s citrus production manager. They are also champion cowboys, competing this year in the Working Ranch Cowboy Association’s World Championships, in Texas.

But I’m not here to learn how to rope a calf. They are taking me hog hunting. Now, hunting has always been something about which I’ve held mixed feelings: I was a vegetarian for a decade; I am an animal lover and pet owner; though I eat meat, I am constantly aware of the painful and truly unfortunate realities of meat eating, factory farming and, to a lesser extent, hunting.

That said, even the most diehard PETA activist, of which I was once, can’t ignore certain realities about hogs: they are a nightmare. It’s estimated that there are somewhere between four and five million feral hogs in the United States today. A mix of different European pig species, mainly of Spanish descent, these beasts are some of the meanest, most ugly critters this side of the 49th Parallel. Sit an armadillo down next to a hundred-, two hundred-, three hundred-pound tusked behemoth and the armadillo seems about as cute as a housecat.

The Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission considers them a Nuisance Animal. And boy are they pains in the tushies for farms, ranches, golf courses or, really, anywhere they show up. They eat virtually anything and are capable of just amazing destruction. They root up grass looking for grub worms and tear through crops. As predators (yes, predators), they will kill deer fawn, goats, chickens, turkeys, and lambs. They spread diseases among farm animals. Hogs produce so many hoglets that a herd can double, even triple, in a given year. They have the highest reproduction rate of any large animal in the world. With the disappearance of most large predators from the area (an issue all its own, surely) there are very few animals capable of preying on the tough and tusked terrors. Despite shoot-on-sight policies in states all over the country, their numbers continue to grow.

This being my first time hunting hogs, I was expecting J & S to be carrying some powerful firearms and a cooler of beer in the back of a pickup. The latter proves to be true, but instead of guns they’ve brought three friendly looking pups and their ranch “Do-Boy” Clinton Thum. Clinton is a cowhand for SMR, doing general maintenance on the ranchland. He’s 19, handsome in a way I can only describe as “country,” and one of the most polite people I’ve ever met—all Yes, sirs and Misters and Ah, hells. I’m jealous of his leather suspenders. The dogs, all three of them some variation of the Black Mouth Cur, prove to not be quite as polite. Focker is the leading lady, the senior hog dog of the bunch. She gets to ride with the boys, while the other two, Jazz and Goose, who are not terribly friendly, are kept in a large steel pen, on top of which are fastened two camouflage bucket seats, where Stevie and Clinton sit and keep lookout.

Cruising through the ranchland, I’m struck by just how gnarly wild Florida land is. It’s all mud and muck, thick bush, heavy brush. We see several does and a buck that Clinton swears is huge. We pass acres and acres of crops—peppers and tomatoes, mostly. I imagine the conversations early Florida settlers surely had upon arrival: You dragged me down here for this? It’s nothing but a swamp!

Twenty minutes in, we spot a family of hogs crossing at 12 o’clock. The dogs are set loose, with Goose and Jazz taking out front, Clinton and Jason hot on their trail. The dogs dive into the brush. Clinton hears a hog’s squeal on the other side of the brush. Jason takes us around in the truck. Focker is back, running alongside the vehicle.

Silence. Jason and Clinton are standing at the edge of another stretch of wild growth, listening for sounds. Out of the cover come two very happy pups, but no hogs.

We saddle back up. Jason is telling me about the last time he went out for hogs: It was Valentine’s Day, 2008. After he pinned a 225-pounder, the thing flipped suddenly, and lacerated his upper thighs, just south of his goods. “I knew right when it happened, that it was bad,” he says. “All I was thinking about was my cojones.” He lost a ton of blood, but the hog just missed his artery. Pigs carry diseases, like brucellosis, which causes flu-like symptoms, arthritis, and meningitis. It’s nothing to scoff at. Fortunately, everything turned out OK, though the lover’s holiday surely has bittersweet memories for him. This is his first time back out.

Just a few hundred yards farther on we spot a decent sized loner and the dogs are off, diving into the brush. What follows is something of a blur, but here’s what I remember: the feral growl of domesticated dogs accessing their true K-9 instincts; the blood-curdling squeal of a pig who knows it’s been had; the calm, collected voice of Jason saying, “Welp, boys, got ourselves a hog. Get in here”; the sudden realization that I am holding my opened pocketknife in my right hand, despite being a good 50 yards from the action, which to be honest doesn’t really require the use of a pocketknife, anyway. I push my way through the brush to get a look at what Jason is doing. The hog is on its side, with Jason kneeling on its chest, tying it up. Up close, hogs are just as ugly as you imagine them, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that as I stared down into the eyes of the terror- stricken wild animal I felt pangs of guilt, flashes of empathy for the poor, ugly thing. Meanwhile, the dogs circle the action, with a sense of pride I’ve never seen in any of my lazy mutts.

Jason and Clinton drag the hog out of the brush to get a good look at it. It’s somewhere around 100 to 150 pounds. A little guy, respectfully. Now that it’s caught we have options. The first is to just kill it and eat it. But males of this size are apparently gamey as all get-out. They could take it somewhere else and let it loose. Or they could castrate it and let it loose, which keeps it from making hundreds of other hoglets and apparently takes the gaminess out of the meat after a few months, should someone catch it again. We choose a non-fatal option. The hog is let loose and takes off into the brush faster than I ever imagined any swine to move.

We pack it up, head in. Jason is driving, waxing nostalgic about his time growing up around these parts. He’s worked for SMR for a long time. Two years ago they employed several hundred people, but with the economic downturn the staff has been cut in half, at least. But J & S possess a confidence that comes from experience, a real understanding of Emersonian self-reliance. They are as much a part of this land as the animals that call it home. They’ve poured their lives into it. Staring out across vast fields of open land, Jason considers the future. “If times got hard,” he says. “This is what we’d live off. Come out here and get quail, catch hogs, hearts of palm, swamp cabbage, catch trout, softshell turtle. We’d be doing alright.”