"Yuck," you might be thinking, but that's because you don't have the proper context yet. You should know, for instance, that Shane wears a cowboy hat and is impossibly cool. You should also know that feral pigs across the United States are one of the most glaring errors in nature's career. When settlers brought the hogs over from Spain, the environment shirked its responsibility and didn't do enough to prepare for their arrival. As a consequence, the pigs capitalized on that negligence. They thrived as invasive bullies in their new habitat, eating up all the others animals and vegetation. As farming spread into wild lands, the pigs become notorious for eating up crops, which has caused the government to step in and issue everyone free reign to kill pigs in whatever way they see fit.
"With children! We choose children!"
Hunting wild pigs is different than hunting every other animal, I learned, because we are allowed to drop the pretense of reverence for life and just admit that killing things feels rad. No one has to pick up the carcasses, there are no tags to fill or a hunting lottery to draw from. We just get to shoot them from the air until we run out of bullets or fuel because we are helping the planet. It's like the glory days of shooting buffalo from trains all over again.
When I met Shane on the landing pad, he wore a sheepskin-denim jacket and a toothpick slid around under his mustache. His handshake was powerful from a lifetime of chopping wood and pulling hysterical women in for sobering kisses. I made a mental note to start chewing toothpicks.
"You ready to fly?" he asked me.
"Absolutely," I nodded. "Let's murder some animals."
He stopped short and looked me over with his steely blue eyes, the color of masculinity. "We, uh, we don't call it that, OK? We're doing a service."
"Totally," I smiled, assuring him with my own unblinking eyes that I was effortlessly awesome too, that we could be friends who talked about 4-wheel-drive and winches when this was all over. "I'm just psyched to shoot something. Particularly in the name of conservation."
Ecology is awesome.
He tried to wink at me but it only came off as a wince. Then he whistled for his pilot and we were off into the sky. Shane brought two guns in the helicopter, both of which I had only seen in movies about terrorists. I asked him if he had affectionate names for his weapons.
He nodded and said, "7.62 OBR and AR-15." Shane, it turned out, wasn't very good at naming stuff.
"Are these for armored pigs?" I shouted over the helicopter.
"What? No, of course not."
"Why do we need such big guns?"
"Because it's funner."
"Nice." I put my hand up for a high five but he was already busy with more important things like looking at my hand and deciding not to high five it.
A few minutes later we were approaching a sounder of hogs and Shane grabbed for the weapons. "What do you feel most comfortable handling?" he shouted.
My heart soared. Shane thought I had used guns before. He had looked at me and just assumed we were cut from the same cloth. After this hunt we would probably exchange email addresses. We would be Facebook friends and put pictures of trucks on one another's walls, out where everyone could see we were buddies.
In truth I had never fired a gun in my life. When I was 12 I was really into pocket knives for awhile and once I bought a pair of nunchucks while I was drunk at a state fair but that was the extent of my expertise with weaponry. I pointed to the one that looked the most like Snow Job's gun from