The Omnivore's Dilemma Part 11

I had tried out my rifle only once before taking it to the woods, at a firing range in the Oakland hills. By the end of the morning my paper target didn't show much damage. But my left shoulder ached for a week. I wasn't ready to buy a gun of my own, so Angelo had borrowed a fairly basic pump-action rifle, a .270 Winchester. I had been worried that I wouldn't have the nerve to fire at an animal. And after my session at the range, I began to worry that if I did fire, I would miss completely.

The plan was to hunt boar in the countryside north of San Francisco. A friend of Angelo's has a thousand-acre property up there and Angelo has permission to hunt on it. We could have hunted for deer or turkey or duck, but I felt more comfortable going for wild pig. The animal is not native, and is regarded as a pest in many parts of California. That made it easier for me. Wild pigs can be pretty nasty. One of their nicknames in California is "dog ripper." They destroy farmland and forest by ripping up the ground with their digging (or "rooting," as it is called).

This is the paper target I used at the firing range in the Oakland hills. Each hole is one shot. Some of my shots didn't even hit to paper target.

So I had a good excuse for hunting pigs. But I also had another reason-I like pork, and since moving to California I'd often heard how tasty wild pigs are. When I asked Angelo why he hunted wild pig he didn't hesitate. He just kissed the tips of his fingers and said, "Because it is the most delicious meat. And there is nothing that tastes so good as boar prosciutto." (Prosciutto is a kind of ham.) "You'll see. You shoot a big one and we'll make some."

HAM HUNTINGIn a sense, that's what Angelo was really hunting, not pigs so much as prosciutto. Maybe because he's been hunting his whole life, he doesn't talk about the thrill of it all. "For me it is all about the eating. Not the 'sport,'" he told me. "I am not what you call a trophy hunter. I take what I need, enough to make a nice dinner for me and my friends, maybe some salami, a prosciutto, but then: That's it, I go home."

On my first hunt with Angelo we were joined by Richard, the owner of the property, and Angelo's friend Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre hadn't hunted in years, though he had grown up hunting boar with his relatives in northern France. He had on one of those green felt Alpine hats with the feather and a pair of tall black riding boots. Richard had on a full orange hunter's outfit and I was wearing my brightest orange sweater. (Hunters wear bright clothing so other hunters won't mistake them for a wild pig or a deer.) We divided into pairs, me with Angelo. Our plan was to meet back at the cars for lunch around noon. Jean-Pierre and Richard walked off into the lower forest. Angelo and I rode up to the top of a gra.s.sy ridge on his four-wheel-drive ATV. The bike made a racket, but Angelo claimed it didn't bother the pigs and would allow us to cover a lot more ground than we could on foot.

Jean-Pierre grew up hunting boar in northern France.

"You are going to kill your first pig today," Angelo shouted over the roar of the engine. Given the nature of hunting, not to mention me, I understood this as less a prediction than a prayer.

After a while we parked the bike and set out on foot. Angelo told me to head for a wallow in a gra.s.sy opening at the bottom of a ravine. When I got close I was to find a tree with a good view of it and wait there, perfectly still, for twenty minutes until I heard him whistle. He would make his way toward the same spot from another direction, in the hopes of driving some pigs toward me.

HUNTER'S EYE When I was alone, and could hear Angelo's footsteps no more, I fell into that state of extreme alertness I described earlier. It was as if I'd dialed up the volume on all my senses. I heard every little sound. I could see farther into the woods than I ever had before, picking out the tiniest movements. It was as if I had put on a new, strong pair of gla.s.ses for the first time. "Hunter's eye," Angelo called it when I told him about it later.

It was a completely different feeling than I get from just walking through the woods on a hike. It was the difference between being a spectator at a ball game and one of the players. It was the difference between being a tourist and belonging to a place. I felt part of the forest, instead of just a visitor.

We saw no pigs that morning, and around noon, we met back at the cars as planned. Jean-Pierre had shot a small boar and Angelo hung it from a nearby branch. Then we turned to eating. Being Europeans, Angelo and Jean-Pierre take lunch very seriously, even when out in the woods. "So I brought with me a few little things to nibble on," Jean-Pierre mumbled. "Me too," chimed Angelo. And out of their packs came course after course of the most astonishing picnic. They laid the feast on the hood of Angelo's SUV. There was: GELLED LOBSTER AND H HALIBUT.

HOMEMADE SALAMI, PROSCIUTTO, AND MORTADELLA.

HOMEMADE PTe OF BOAR.

HOME-CURED OLIVES.

CHICKEN SALAD.

A GENEROUS SELECTION OF CHEESES AND BREADS.

FRESH STRAWBERRIES.

PASTRIES.

And naturally, a bottle each of red and white wine.

It was a delicious lunch, but it took off some of my hunter's edge. After lunch Angelo stayed behind to dress the small pig and Jean-Pierre lay down in the gra.s.s for a nap. I was feeling pretty relaxed when Richard and I set off to look for another pig. Our rifles slung over our shoulders, we strolled down a shady trail and chatted as we walked. My attention floated away from the woods and the hunt.

READY. OR NOT.

Until I happened to glance up and saw directly in front of us, not thirty yards away, four large black shapes in the shadows. There they were, four pigs milling beneath an oak tree, eating acorns off the forest floor. They gave no sign that they'd spotted us or heard our yammering.

I grabbed Richard by the shoulder, put my finger to my lips, and pointed ahead. He stopped. "It's your shot," he whispered. "Go ahead. Take it." It's the custom when hunting that the first shot belongs to the person who spotted the animal. These pigs were mine.

One little problem. I had neglected to pump my rifle before we set out on the trail. There was no bullet in the chamber, and to c.o.c.k my gun now would make a loud noise. The pigs would be on the run by the time I was ready to shoot. I explained all this in a whisper to Richard, who, unlike me, was ready. I gave him my shot.

Richard got down on one knee and slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder. I braced for the explosion, preparing to pump my gun the moment it came. Richard took his time, aiming carefully. The pigs had their heads down, eating acorns. Then the woods exploded. I saw a pig stagger and fall, then struggle drunkenly to its feet. I pumped my rifle, but it was already too late: The other pigs were gone. Richard fired again at the wounded pig and it fell. By the time we ran up to it, it was already dead. I felt a rush that made me light-headed and shaky.

The pig was a sow weighing perhaps a hundred pounds. She was too heavy to carry, so we took turns dragging her by her rear legs back toward the cars. Holding the pig by the ankle, I could still feel her warmth beneath the bristly skin.

When we got to the cars, Angelo trotted over to see the animal, excited and eager to hear our story. As we told him what had happened I could see the disappointment on his face. It had been my shot, my pig, but I hadn't taken it.

"You weren't ready," Angelo said in a level voice. "In hunting you always need to be ready. So, okay, you learned something today. Next time you will be ready and you will take your shot." He was trying hard not to sound like the disappointed father. I couldn't help feeling like the disappointing son.

I spent the rest of the afternoon hunting alone, walking the ridge, searching the shadows for signs of pig, looking and listening as hard as I could to will another animal out of the woods. When Angelo announced it was time to go home, I felt deflated.

A SECOND TRY.

Well, I had had gone hunting. Plus, Jean-Pierre offered me some cuts from his pig, so I had some meat for my meal. But I hadn't done what I'd set out to do-kill my own food. So I asked Angelo if I could go out with him again. He called me about a month later, said to meet him on a Monday morning, six o'clock sharp. We would be going back to Richard's property again and this time it would be just the two of us. gone hunting. Plus, Jean-Pierre offered me some cuts from his pig, so I had some meat for my meal. But I hadn't done what I'd set out to do-kill my own food. So I asked Angelo if I could go out with him again. He called me about a month later, said to meet him on a Monday morning, six o'clock sharp. We would be going back to Richard's property again and this time it would be just the two of us.

We spent the first part of the morning going to all of Angelo's pig spots. (Believe me, I made sure I had a round in my chamber.) It was hotter than last time, so Angelo felt the pigs would be keeping to the shadier parts of the property. We staked out a wallow deep in the woods, and then a clearing of ferns, but saw no signs of pig.

A little after nine in the morning we were walking together down a logging road cut into a steep hillside. Then we heard it. We were stopped in our tracks by a grunt so loud and deep that it seemed to be coming from the bowels of the earth. A very big pig was very close by. But where? What direction to look? We crouched down low, and I listened as hard as I've ever listened for anything before.

The next sound we heard was the sharp, clean crack of a branch coming from above us to our right. I looked up to the top of the thickly wooded hillside and that's when I saw it: a rounded black form, coming over the top of the hill. Then another shape, and another, a total of five or six, I couldn't be sure.

I touched Angelo on the shoulder and pointed toward the pigs. What should I do? Should I shoot? No, you wait, What should I do? Should I shoot? No, you wait, Angelo said. Angelo said. See-they're coming down the hill now. See-they're coming down the hill now. I followed the pigs with the barrel of my gun, trying to get one of them in my sight. I didn't have a clear shot-too many trees stood in the way. I followed the pigs with the barrel of my gun, trying to get one of them in my sight. I didn't have a clear shot-too many trees stood in the way. Take your time, Take your time, Angelo whispered. Angelo whispered. They will come to us. They will come to us. And so they did, right down to the road directly in front of us. And so they did, right down to the road directly in front of us.

MY PIG.

I have no idea how long it took the pigs to pick their way down the steep hill, whether it was minutes or just seconds. At last the first animal, a big black one, stepped out into the clearing of the dirt road, followed by another that was just as big but much lighter in color. The second pig turned, giving me a shot at its flank. Now! Now! Angelo whispered. Angelo whispered. This is your shot! This is your shot!

We were both down on one knee. I braced the rifle against my shoulder and lined up my sight. I felt calmer and clearer than I expected to as I took aim at the shoulder of the grayish pig. I held my breath, resisted a sudden urge to clamp my eyes shut, and gently squeezed.

The crystal stillness of the scene exploded. The pigs ran in panic, moving every which way at once, and then the blam! blam! of Angelo's shot directly behind made me jump. One pig was down; another seemed to stagger. I pumped my gun to fire again, but I was so excited that I pulled the trigger before I could lower my gun. The shot went wild, far over the heads of the rioting pigs. Angelo fired again and so did I. Then they were gone. of Angelo's shot directly behind made me jump. One pig was down; another seemed to stagger. I pumped my gun to fire again, but I was so excited that I pulled the trigger before I could lower my gun. The shot went wild, far over the heads of the rioting pigs. Angelo fired again and so did I. Then they were gone.

I DID IT-OR DID I?

We ran forward to the downed animal, a very large grayish sow sprawled on her side across the dirt road. A glossy bubble of blood grew directly beneath her ear. The pig thrashed briefly, attempting to lift her head, then gave it up. Death was quickly overtaking her. I was relieved she wouldn't need a second shot. We ran past her, looking for the others. Angelo said he thought he had grazed another one. I climbed down the embankment looking for it, but the hill was too steep and Angelo called me back up to the road.

He clapped me on the back. "Your first pig! Look at the size of it. And with a perfect shot, right in the head. You did it!"

Did I do it? Was that really my shot? I had my doubts. Yet Angelo insisted-he had fired at a different pig, a black one. "No, this is your pig, Michael, you killed it, there's no doubt in my mind. You got yourself a big one. That's some very nice prosciutto!" I do it? Was that really my shot? I had my doubts. Yet Angelo insisted-he had fired at a different pig, a black one. "No, this is your pig, Michael, you killed it, there's no doubt in my mind. You got yourself a big one. That's some very nice prosciutto!"

I wasn't ready to see it as meat, though. What I saw was a dead wild animal, its head lying on the dirt in a widening circle of blood. I kneeled down and pressed the palm of my hand against the pig's belly above the nipples. Beneath the dusty, bristly skin I felt her warmth, but no heartbeat.

I was overcome with a strong mix of emotions. The first was a powerful feeling of pride: I had actually done what I'd set out to do. I had successfully shot a pig. I felt a flood of relief too, that the deed was done, thank G.o.d, and didn't need to be done again.

And then there was this wholly unexpected feeling of thankfulness. For my good fortune, I guess, and to Angelo, of course, but also to this animal, for stepping over the crest of that hill and into my sight, to become what Angelo kept calling her: your pig. your pig. I felt it wasn't my skill that had brought me this animal. It was a gift-from whom or what, I couldn't say-and thankfulness is what I felt. I felt it wasn't my skill that had brought me this animal. It was a gift-from whom or what, I couldn't say-and thankfulness is what I felt.

There was one emotion I expected to feel but did not. I felt no sorrow or remorse. Those would come later. But at that moment, I'm slightly embarra.s.sed to admit, I felt absolutely terrific-completely happy. happy. Angelo wanted to take my picture, so he posed me behind my pig, one hand cradling the rifle across my chest, the other resting on the animal. I thought I should look serious for the picture, but I couldn't stop smiling. Angelo wanted to take my picture, so he posed me behind my pig, one hand cradling the rifle across my chest, the other resting on the animal. I thought I should look serious for the picture, but I couldn't stop smiling.

FROM ANIMAL TO MEAT.

Angelo posing with my pig after hanging it from the limb of an oak to be gutted and skinned.

Angelo made a cut across the pig's belly and pulled the skin loose. The inside-out skin looked like a sweater coming off.

The happy excitement didn't last. Less than an hour later I was hugging the pig's carca.s.s as it hung from the limb of an oak. My job was to hold it steady while Angelo reached in and pulled out the guts. We had used a block and tackle and two hooks to raise the pig by its rear ankles. A scale attached to the rig gave the weight of the animal: 190 pounds. The pig weighed exactly as much as I did.

Dressing the pig meant getting much closer to it than I really wanted. Angelo made a shallow cut across the pig's belly and began to gently work the hide loose. I held down a narrow flap of skin while he cut into the fat behind it, leaving as much of the creamy white layer as possible. "This is really good fat," Angelo explained, "for the salami." The flap of skin grew larger as we worked our way down the body and then slowly pulled it down over the pig's shoulders. The inside-out skin looked like a sweater coming off. What hunters call dressing an animal is really an undressing.

As we drew the skin down over the rib cage it exposed the bullet, or what remained of the bullet. It had pa.s.sed through the animal and torn a ragged slot in the last rib, where it came to rest just beneath the hide. "Here's a souvenir for you," Angelo said, pulling the b.l.o.o.d.y, mangled chunk of metal from the bone like a tooth and handing it to me.

Using a short knife, Angelo made another shallow cut the length of the animal's belly. He talked while he worked, mostly about the dishes he could make from the different parts of the pig. I could not believe Angelo was still talking about food. The pig was splayed open now. I could see all its organs: the bluish intestine and the spongy pink pair of lungs. I'd handled plenty of chicken guts on Joel's farm, but this was different and more disturbing. That was probably because the pig's internal organs looked exactly like human organs.

I held the cavity open while Angelo reached in to pull out the liver ("for a nice pate"). He cut it free and dropped it into a Ziploc bag. Then he reached in and pulled, and the rest of the guts tumbled out onto the ground in a heap. There was a stench so awful it made me gag. It was a mix of pig manure and p.i.s.s with an odor of death. I felt a wave of sickness begin to build in my gut. I still had my arms wrapped around the pig from behind, but I told Angelo I wanted to take a picture. What I really wanted was a breath of fresh air.

THE JOY OF HUNTING.

The disgust I felt was so strong I wondered how I could ever eat this animal now. How could I serve it to my friends? Some of the disgust I felt made sense. After all, part of the stench was from the waste in the pig's intestines. But it was more than that. When we kill an animal, especially a big mammal like a pig, it can't help reminding us of our own death. The line between their bodies and ours, between their deaths and ours, is not very sharp.

I recovered from my disgust enough to help Angelo finish dressing my pig. Yet the emotions did not go away. They really hit me late that evening. Back at home, I opened my e-mail and saw that Angelo had sent me some pictures under the subject heading Look the great hunter! Look the great hunter! I was eager to open them, excited to show my family my pig. (It was hanging in Angelo's walk-in cooler.) I was eager to open them, excited to show my family my pig. (It was hanging in Angelo's walk-in cooler.) Angelo's walk-in cooler packed full of foraged mushrooms and curing meat.

The image that appeared on my computer screen hit me like an unexpected blow to the body. A hunter in an orange sweater is kneeling on the ground behind a pig. From the pig's head comes a narrow river of blood, spreading out toward the bottom of the frame. The hunter's rifle is angled just so across his chest. One hand rests on the dead animal's broad flank. The man is looking into the camera with a broad, happy grin.

I looked from the dead, b.l.o.o.d.y pig to the big, happy grin on the man's face-my face. Then I hurried my mouse to the corner of the image and clicked, closing it as quickly as I could.

What could I possibly have been thinking? What was the man in that picture feeling? What was I so d.a.m.ned proud of, anyway? Suddenly I felt ashamed. What was I so d.a.m.ned proud of, anyway? Suddenly I felt ashamed.

I had set out to do something new and difficult for me. I had messed up the first time I tried it. Now I had succeeded and it made complete sense that I would feel relief and pride. I was okay with that. But was it okay to feel joy over another creature's death?

I was confronted with yet another dilemma. What exactly is the joy of hunting? I know what made me feel good when I was out in the woods. I enjoyed feeling totally alive and a part of nature. I enjoyed discovering new abilities that I didn't know I had. I enjoyed succeeding in my difficult task.

However, I also knew what made me feel bad about hunting. No matter how I looked at it, I felt regret about killing that pig. The animal is at once different from me and yet as a living creature it is in some ways the same. Maybe this is an important part of hunting too. Hunters ought to be aware of the seriousness of what they are doing and never treat it lightly.

THINGS AS THEY ARE.

I went hunting to kill a pig and turn it into meat. But I realized I was looking for more than that. When I started my journey down the food chains of our society, I wanted to look at things as they really are. I did not want to look away from the reality. The hardest thing had been looking at where our meat comes from. Now I had seen it as up close and personal as you can get. There was no industrial or organic food chain here. It was just me and my food.

There was one other picture Angelo sent me. I didn't look at it until some time later. This was the picture I took of Angelo cleaning my pig when I needed to break away. It's a simple snapshot of the pig hanging from the tree. You can see in that one frame the animal and the butcher and the oak tree against the sun-filled sky and the pig-plowed earth. In that single picture you could see an entire food chain. There is the oak tree standing in the sun. On the ground are the acorns the tree made with the sunlight. There is the pig that ate the acorns, and the man preparing the pig to be eaten.

I had started out to see exactly where our food came from and now I had. The man in that photo did not create that food chain, he is just a part of it. Just as the tree took in the sunlight and the pig ate the acorns, the man is taking his nourishment from that natural cycle. In the end, whatever we think or feel, triumph or shame, that is the way it is.

21.

Gathering

THE FUNGI.

To make my hunter-gatherer meal, I needed not only hunting skills, but gathering skills as well. Since my menu included mushrooms, I would need to learn yet another set of skills and join yet another club, the semi-secret society of wild mushroomers. I found that club even more difficult to join than the club of hunters. Luckily, Angelo was once again going to be my guide.

At first glance, mushroom hunting looks easy. You just go through the forest happily picking mushrooms, kind of like picking tomatoes in the garden. The only difference is you didn't have to plant, water, fertilize, and weed the mushrooms. They just grew all by themselves. Easy, right?

Not so easy, as I was about to discover. For starters, I've never gotten lost in a garden. It is surprisingly easy to get lost when you're deep in the woods with your head down, looking for wild mushrooms. Also in the garden, you know where the vegetables are growing. Mushrooms hide from you.

And of course, there's the whole poison thing. I have never once worried that a cuc.u.mber I grew from seed would kill me if I ate it. But picking and eating the wrong mushroom can get you killed. Mushrooms, you soon discover, are wild things in every way. That's why people who go looking for them call it mushroom hunting hunting-not harvesting.

THE MUSHROOM HUNTER.

It was a Sunday morning in late January when I got the call from Angelo.

"The chanterelles are up," he announced.

"How do you know? Have you been out looking?"

"No, not yet. But it's been three weeks since the big rains. They're up now, I'm sure of that. We should go tomorrow."

At the time I barely knew Angelo (we had yet to go pig hunting), so I was very grateful for the invitation. To a mushroom hunter, a good chanterelle spot is a closely guarded secret. Before Angelo agreed to take me I'd asked a bunch of other mushroom hunters to take me along. Some of them acted like I had asked to borrow their credit card. Others promised to call me back, but never did. A few used the same old joke: "I could show you where I get my mushrooms, but then I'd have to kill you."

Even Angelo wasn't really giving away a secret. The place he took me was on private and gated land owned by an old friend of his. No one could get to it without permission from the owner.

The chanterelle lives on the roots of oak trees, usually very old ones. There must have been hundreds of ancient oaks on the property, but Angelo seemed to know every one of them. "That one there is a producer," he'd tell me, pointing across the meadow to a tree. "But the one next to it, I never once found a mushroom there."

I set off across the meadow to hunt beneath the tree. I looked around for a few minutes, lifting the dead leaves with my stick, but I saw nothing. Then Angelo came over and pointed to a spot no more than a yard from where I stood. I looked, I stared, but still saw nothing but a mess of tan leaves. Angelo got down on his knees and brushed the leaves away to reveal a bright squash-colored mushroom the size of his fist. He cut it at the base with a knife and handed it to me. The mushroom was heavy, and cool to the touch.