Within the first few days of the new year a wild boar ran through the streets of Uwajima and entered a school yard, a woman was attacked by one and seriously injured, and in the US, William Coursey of Fayetteville, Georgia, shot and killed a 500 kilogram wild boar. To give you an idea how big that is, Konishiki, the mammoth sumo wrestler who reached the rank of ozeki, usually weighed around 270. Try to imagine being charged by a wild boar almost twice the size of Konishiki.

I also had an experience with a wild boar last January but since I am a bit shy and didn't have a camera to document it with, I didn't bother to contact the media. It really is a shame too because what happened to me makes any of the stories they reported pale in comparison. Anyway, now that I (and the wild boars too, it seems) have calmed down I think I can talk about it without too much of a hubbub being made.

Despite having lived in Hiroshima for almost two years I don't know many people here. My current situation doesn't allow me to get out much but when I do find myself with a chunk of free time I often go hiking alone in the mountains that border the city. Actually, even if I knew more people, I would probably still go by myself because of something that happened to me when I was a senior in high school.

I grew up in the American southwest and every autumn my friends and I would go as a group to the county fair, but that year I got the plans wrong and wound up there alone. I'd already paid to get in so decided to see the sights and found it a completely different experience from what I was accustomed to. I'd been going to the fair with my friends for years but as I strolled up and down the midway it seemed like I had never really been there. For the first time I went at my own pace and took notice of the smells, sounds, lights and faces like never before. What particularly caught my attention was watching the carnies as they worked the crowd. They were like wolves and communicated with each other with glances and subtle gestures whenever a likely target approached. Realizing how much I had missed affected me profoundly and I began to drift away from my crowd.

I like hiking alone because I can linger whenever and wherever I want and am able to wander off the trail where a partner might not want to go. It's exactly because of this freedom I sometimes make discoveries like the odou where the incident took place.

An odou is a building that is neither shrine nor temple but usually has religious overtones. As I understand it they are erected by the local people to be used for entertainment (I have found a couple with small sumo rings made of straw embedded in the earth, and I am guessing they are for oshirizumo, a playful kind of sumo where you "fight" back to back or butt to butt) and are usually located in somewhat isolated, idyllic spots. They are built to be enjoyed and nobody's going to get upset by your being there as long as you are respectful of the property and clean up when you leave. Just the same, I am not going to give directions to this one because if it became well known it could easily become a popular place for drinking and then something unfortunate might happen. I know of what I speak here: I used to go to an odou surrounded by cherry trees on a mountain top in Matsuyama that was burned down during hanami season a few years ago. Suffice it to say that this one is on the side of a mountain that can only be gotten to on foot. It is a wooden building on stilts and has an area of six mats, with a narrow, paritally covered veranda in front. There is an open doorway under the veranda and inside is an altar with a statue of Kannon. It has no electricity nor outhouse but is quiet, peaceful, and the air is always something special to breathe. I am especially fond of spending afternoons there in the rainy season.

It happened on January Third, an unusually warm day. There was also a full moon, which is a great lure for night-time hiking, though even when the moon is new on most of the trail I don't need a flashlight due to the abundance of ambient city light. I always use a flashlight as little as possible because without one you can sometimes see things you normally wouldn't. For example, one night while seated on the odou's veranda, I saw the sillohuette of a flying squirrel crawl out onto a branch and leap down the mountainside. It was amazingly aerodynamic and I never would have seen it if I had been waving a flashlight around. I always hope I'll see one again but it was probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I'd brought a change of underclothes (I'm usually sweating by the time I reach the odou and will get cold if I don't change), iPod, portable stereo to use as an amplifier (now stashed there), three Steinies (330 milliliter bottles of Asahi Dry beer), and a very special chicken salad sandwich. (This sandwich is so easy. First, go to your favorite Indian restaurant and get a takeout order of chicken tikka {skewers of tender chicken marinaded in coconut milk then cooked in a tandoori oven}. Bring it home and leave it in the refrigerator for a day or two wrapped airtight in plastic. When you are ready to make the salad take the chicken out and dice or mince it to the consistency you want. Put it in a large mixing bowl with whatever sounds good: onion, raisins, carrots, celery, cashews, whatever. Mix it with mayonaise and/or mustard to taste. Cover and refrigerate if need be. Just before you are ready to make your sandwich go to Andersen's bakery and get a fresh loaf of Dutch pan, a small, round bread with a thin, crinkled crust. Slice the bread in half like a hamburger bun and pile on the chicken salad. Try it- it really is good.)

I'd timed the forty five minute bicycle ride from my apartment to reach the trailhead just as the sun was about to set. It's at the back of a graveyard at the foot of a mountain and you really have to know where to look to find it the way it angles off, then snakes up through a bamboo grove. Though steep at first, it has bamboo steps and soon levels off and meanders along the mountain side at a gentle grade. There was no one in the graveyard when I got there but as I neared the trailhead I heard what sounded like someone walking through the forest above.

I know hiking in the mountains at night is a bit eccentric and I would be wary of anyone I met along the trail, particularly in a city, so I stopped and sat down on a gravestone to wait for for the person to come down. Whoever it was wasn't making any effort to keep quiet and judging from the sound of the limbs breaking underfoot he (she?) was an adult. It was frustrating watching the light fade but finally, off in the corner, I saw an old, large dog lumber down from the forest's edge. It kept its nose close to the ground moving slowly and stiffly and I guessed it was a stray and had been scaring up mice in the leaves. When it started walking down the path between a row of tombstones towards me, I leaned back behind the gravestone just out of sight and waited for it to notice me. When it was about three meters away I flipped on my light and we both froze- "it" was a full grown wild boar. Whether because it was blinded or caught off guard and frightened, it didn't move until I flicked the light out of its eyes. As soon as I did it lifted its front legs off the ground, pivoted, and tore off straight up the mountain banging its way through the brush. I sat listening long after it was out of earshot.

It was a long ride back to my apartment and I had been looking forward to listening to my new iPod on the stereo, but knowing a wild boar was up there was, let's say, "unsettling." It was hard making a case for not going home but eventually I concluded it was probably more afraid of me than I was of it and headed for the odou. Before setting off I got my flashlight handy to blind it with again and sharpened one end of the bamboo staff I keep hidden near the trailhead. It was hard taking that first step but eventually I made up my mind and took off at a good clip.

Philippe, a friend of mine who grew up on a farm in France, once told me that the boars that lived around his farm used to walk with him through the woods on his way to and from school. They kept their distance- it wasn't like walking with a pack of dogs (a group of wild boars is called a sounder, by the way) but they are essentially social animals and can be surprisingly nonchalant around humans. I didn't believe him at the time but now I was rethinking what he'd said and wondered about this one: What was it doing there alone? If boars are social animals was this one an outcast? What would it take for a boar to be driven from its group? Was it the last survivor of a sounder with nothing to eat but offerings to the dead? Would a boar consider me food? The more I thought about these things the more uncomfortable I became and without being aware of it I was tearing up the mountain side, sure that it was on my trail. It didn't take long to begin to sweat but I didn't stop until I reached the spot where the trail leveled off. My underclothes were soaked and I struggled to catch my breath as the worst sort of scenarios kept rising to the surface of my mind.

The city sounds were muffled by distance and foliage and I let my ears adjust to the quiet as I paused. The woods were dark and deep, the moon now just visible above the opposite ridge, and if it hadn't been for the boar it would have been a perfect night. It was a comfort knowing that from there the odou was within easy reach but my heart refused to stop pounding. There was also something that kept gnawing at the back of my mind, like that feeling you have when you know you have forgotten something but just can't figure out what it is. A limb cracked underfoot about thirty meters away and suddenly whatever it was I'd forgotten didn't seem so important.

I learned how to sail in Puget Sound and the first time I sailed in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, we were going along under a genoa (a large jib used for light winds) when a wall of wind came slamming into us. We had our shirts off and were basking in good fortune when the wind sent everything flying. We took in our jib and spent the rest of the day fighting a two knot tide, beating into the wind under a double-reefed main. For a while I didn't think we'd make it and was stunned to realize that the sea has no choice but to be indifferent to the lives it claims. As I stood straining my ears for any telltale sound the boar was near, that same sinking feeling came back to me.

"COME ANY CLOSER AND I'LL KICK YOUR ASS, PIG!" I shouted... "I HAVE A SPEAR!"

My threat had no effect and I was desperate so I switched to Japanese: "BAKAMONO! KOCHI E KURU NA! KOCHI E KITARA SHINDE SHIMAU ZO!" but it kept moving in. Then, less than ten meters away, it stepped into a small clearing, broke into an easy trot and made a shallow semi-circle around me before disappearing back into the brush.

If its purpose had been to put me in my place it succeeded. At this point I wasn't sure whether I should advance or retreat but the next sound I heard made me think it was back down the trail. As soon as I caught my breath I took off for the odou.

I was on my favorite part of the trail. The mountainside is very steep there- in many parts the path is just a notch no wider than a shovel head- and if it confronted me I'd either have to fight or jump off the side and hope for the best. I was dwelling on this when it came to me what I had forgotten: my sandwich. How stupid could I get? I had left a ribbon of beckoning fume that lingered and entwined itself around everything I passed. The building was close and getting there would be a race against time, but once I did I could eat it and remove any reason for it to attack me. If it did try to get me I'd be safe there because boars weren't able to go up steps, I'd heard. And if it did try, I could fend it off with my spear.

I had always considered that odou a sanctuary but never before had that characterization been so true. As soon as I arrived I slung off my pack and sank down on the veranda to catch my breath and regroup. I sat still, my ears keened for the slightest sound and after a few minutes of no crinkled leaves nor broken twigs, I began to relax. It seemed reasonable that a wild boar wouldn't attack someone unless it felt threatened and I am- I freely admit it- a coward in matters like these. I lit some candles on the altar, changed my underclothes and put them in a plastic bag. I also figured that, like a fire, playing music would announce the presence of humans and ward off any animals so I got out the stereo and hooked up the iPod.

A few years ago I became interested in opera when a friend introduced me to Filippa Giordano's self-titled album. She is a second generation opera singer (she doesn't perform in operas, however) and on the extreme, outside chance angels sing to me when I die, if they sound anything like her I'll be happy to go. She has a range of four octaves and makes everyone else I've heard since Filippa so ho hum. Next to her Maria Calais sounds like an old windbag. Whenever I am upset or tense I listen to her first and within the first few notes of "Casta Diva" I am calmed. Even on this night she succeeded and I put away my thoughts about the sandwich and opened a beer. When she reached the first few notes of "Habanera" I was standing with the crowd in front of the cigarette factory watching her sashay back and forth as she laid down her rules. By the time I opened my second beer I had put the boar out of my mind. I switched the iPod over to shuffle mode and Miles Davis' "All Blues" began. The backpack was lying next to me and even through its wrapper I could smell the sandwich and remembered it'd be best to eat it right away.

The woods were quiet and the forest floor was dappled with clear-edged pools of moonlight. The city lights glittered through the trees limbs and brought to mind pleasant thoughts of the holidays as I took that first, glorious bite.

The odou is perched on a crescent of land that tapers into trail on both sides. The clearing is fringed with camellia and descends to a second, smaller flat spot about five meters below. At the third bite the boar, like the opening frame of a recurrent nightmare, poked its head out from the camellias on the path I entered on and stood watching me. It wasn't clear whether it was blocking my escape or begging for food, but all the strength drained from my limbs and I was powerless to move. Shouting at it hadn't done anything so I began to give it the silent treatment with a mean, hard glare. We stayed that way for some time but I finally gave in. What was the point anyway? Surely it was hungry and in some small way I began to feel sorry for it. It was, after all, a lot like me: a lone, social animal. Then a new thought came to me: maybe if I shared my food it would leave me alone once it was all gone. I tore off a small chunk of sandwich and tossed it about halfway between us. It made a series of false starts but couldn't bring itself to leave the cover of the bush. I tore off another piece and threw it further away. After some hesitation it made a quick move forward, snatched it and moved back.

Did you know boars eat with their mouths open? I didn't. The noise they make is incredibly graphic and I suspect the expression "eat like a pig" originally meant more than to gorge oneself. I tossed another piece its way and it immediately came forward and moved back as before. Poor thing, I thought. Why are you alone? It waited for another piece but when I threw it it snatched it up as soon as it hit the ground and stayed there as it chewed. I tossed another one a bit closer to me and the boar moved forward. When I tore off the next piece the boar continued walking forward until it was close enough to let me feed it by hand. I began putting the pieces in the flat of my hand the way you'd give sugar cubes to a horse, but as the sandwich began to disappear I had to ask myself what I would do when we got to the end. When the time came it began licking my palm but when I began wiping my hands off on my jeans it seemed the boar was in distress. It had probably eaten too fast or its mouth was dry and the food was caught in its throat. It was convulsing like a cat choking on a hair ball and was having trouble breathing. Not knowing what else to do I cupped my palm and poured beer into it hoping the boar would drink and clear its throat. It understood immediately what to do and was soon breathing easily.

I am a city boy and though I grew up in an agricultural state I don't know much about farm life. It was obvious the boar was a sow and it looked to me that she was either pregnant or had a litter of piglets somewhere. Her teats bulged with milk (I guessed) but it seemed to me that it would go against nature for a mammal to have a litter in the middle of winter. She was lapping up the beer as quickly as I could pour and once the bottle was empty she began nosing around my pack. My trepidation came roaring back and I didn't want to confront her by taking the pack away, but when she started to drag it off I knew I had to do something. I latched onto it gently but firmly and when I did she looked up at me and made a noise. I'd always thought of pigs as squealing or "oinking" but what it sounded like to me was, "orrr may."

She kept sniffing at it trying to get at what was inside even though all the food was gone. Finally I set the pack down on the veranda and took out the wrapper and spread it open for her to lick. When she finished she started rummaging around the pack again so I took everything out to show it was all gone, but when I set the remaining beer down it was clear that that was what she was after. She kept nudging it and I had to do something right away or she would surely break it. I took it away from her and when I did she started crowding me trying to get at it. I was afraid she'd turn on me if I kept it and in the end I felt I had no choice but to give it to her. As soon as it was open and I began to pour she took it in her mouth, tilted back, drained it and flung it to the side. After that she began pressing against me with her snout and since everything I had to offer her was gone, all I could do was shrug and say, "No more."

She kept looking up at me and shifting from foot to foot saying, "orrr may, orrr may, orrr may." She was persistent. I sat down on the veranda and she followed me then began nudging me again. I moved into the safety of the odou hoping she couldn't get to me there. She started trying to hop up the stairs and I knew that if she made it in she could cause some serious damage. I had to do something quick and remembered the bottle of Calvados I'd hidden under the altar last fall. I figured that, like a child experimenting with that first sip of whisky, she'd quickly pull back from the flame and maybe even run off. And if she liked it, well, she wouldn't be on her feet too long and I could extricate myself from the situation. There was about a third left and after I crawled over and fished it out I fortified myself with a stiff belt.

We had been listening to "Bolero" around the spot where the kettle drums begin to make themselves felt when I began to pour. She trotted over, took one lick, shuddered, seemed to sneeze then said "ORRR MAY!!!" This time- unlike with the beer- she was content to drink from my palm and seemed to be enjoying it, making little "mmm mmm" noises as she slurped. She was licking the last moisture from my palm and fingers when the music came to its rousing end. There was a pause and then the intro to The Isley Brothers' 'It's Your Thing" came on. It could easily be mistaken for a Motown record but it was recorded by Epic. It starts off with an electric guitar riff packed with tinky clink ghost notes that sound something like this:

boom bubba boom bubba boom
dah da
bubbah boom bubba boom
dah da

boom bubba boom bubba boom
dah da
bubbah boom bubba boom
dah da

It's your thing
Do what you wanna do...

When the song started something came over her and she backed up and froze. She'd put away a lot of alcohol and I thought she was going to vomit, but then, when the second dah da came in, she made a wide step to the left with both her left front and back legs, then slid the right ones over. She did it again at the next dah da but this time to the right.

There are some profound differences between humans and the animal kingdom (speech, opposing thumbs, etc.) but one difference you never hear much about is animals' inability to dance. Some animals, like the Leipzig Stallions, can be trained to appear to dance, but they are inattentive to the music and are following a routine they suffer greatly to learn. When this boar stepped to the side and slid her legs over I thought she'd lost her balance and it was a funny coincidence that she did it in time. But when she did it again at the exact same spot in the music, well, it gave me pause. I was willing to grant that that was a coincidence too, but when the Isley Brothers came in with the chorus, she took off in a circle with little pitter pat steps locked on to that funky, irresistible bass line. Not only that, she was tossing her head to that drunk-in-the-afternoon piano player and waddling her hips to the horn section. I stayed on the veranda and at the first verse she stopped in front of me, slid her front legs forward and began to weave to the music in full-bodied, heartfelt ticks.

Many years ago my mother's long-term companion, John, told me something that made a deep impression on me: At the end of your life it will not be the things you did that you will regret- it will be the things you wanted to do, but didn't. I had never imagined myself dancing with a wild boar but I knew that if I let this chance go by I would always regret it. And so, when the Isley Brothers started the second chorus and she returned to her loop, I was off that veranda and in the middle of her circle dancing like I hadn't in years.

As a boy I'd once seen a documentary about a group of Africans living in the traditional way. The village was having a dance and the narrator explained how the dance's purpose was twofold in that it served as entertainment and as a way for the dancers to commune with God. According to him the music was polyrhythmic and the dancers were isolating different parts of their bodies to the various rhythms. The more the dancers were able to isolate, and the more effortlessly they were able do this, determined the intensity of the religious experience. That's what I always tried to do whenever I danced, but when I reached a certain age I found I could no longer keep a beat. The passing of my ability to dance was one of the saddest adjustments I'd had to make to middle age, but when I leapt from the veranda and began to move with the music, it all came back. The old Me/It dichotomy disappeared and luscious, luscious music coursed through my veins and flowed from my hips to every limb and digit. For a few all-too-brief moments I became the living, physical expression of music and no longer followed the beat- I was the beat.

At the instrumental section she turned to face me and rose up on her hind legs. It was, like everything else that night, an unexpected development.

She was doing The Shimmy with a sense of purpose that was heart stopping. My mouth dropped open and I, against all my good manners, began to stare at her chest. She slowed, arched her back and from her shoulders began creating a double wave of ripples up and down her smooth, pink belly. When she saw she had my attention she cocked her head, her eyes took on a saucy arch and she began to advance towards me, one hoof at a time. The effect on me was like sliding a needle across a turntable and I began to fuddle through the music. She kept coming forward and to break the tension I made a spin. She tried to follow, but when she did she teetered on one leg, lost her balance and went tumbling end over end down the hillside.

I grabbed the flashlight and ran down to find her splayed on her back in the lower clearing, all four legs sticking up, bent at the knees and hooves. She wasn't making a sound, and except for the fact she wasn't moving, didn't appear to be injured.

"Pig! Pig! Are you OK?" I said and knelt beside her.

She stirred a bit and gave me a weak "orrr may" followed by a belch.

Suddenly, I had a revelation and began to speak to her in soft, soothing tones. "Oor-pay ing-thay... Eep-slay."

When I said that something inside of her seemed to gather and her body went rigid. When she winced I thought she was going to die but she'd only wanted to fart. I smiled, stroked her jowl and said, "Eep-slay eetheart-sway." She closed her eyes and soon began to snore and I stayed by her side till the cold forced me to make the long ride home.

I've looked for her since then but without luck. The other night on Ushita mountain I startled another wild boar but it ran off before I had a chance to speak to it. On my way home I was telling one of my neighbors about it in the elevator and he said that every twenty or thirty years a bear will be spotted up there. It's hard to believe but I know from experience that strange things can happen.

I have had a lot of fun at odou and I hope you can find one not too far from where you live. They aren't marked with signs and you may not find one right away, but they are out there and discovering them is worth the effort. If you go I suggest you take a stout walking stick, something good to eat and drink (including water) and be prepared to meet the unexpected. I would never want to give a wild boar the feeling it was cornered, especially if it were a sow with piglets, but if you unavoidably find yourself in that position it is always good to have a bottle of Calvados handy. Just dangle it in front of you and say, "Alvados-cay? Oo-day esuka-day?" and you may be at the start of a great adventure.

And remember- and this is really important- one who walks up the mountain must walk back down. That return trip will probably be the greatest danger you'll face, so be sensible and don't do anything I wouldn't do, okay?

Rick Nelson 3/2007
Rick Nelson grew up in Oklahoma and has lived in Japan for all but a few of the last 27 years. His mother was a librarian and professional storyteller and was instrumental in developing his interest in literature and writing. Hiroshima inspires him and he currently divides time between Hiroshima city and Shikoku.