This wild hog arrived too early for breakfast

Long before dawn on Tuesday morning, I found myself sitting on the crest of an inland dune not far from both the Atlantic Ocean and the Virginia-North Carolina border, shotgun in hand, looking at the stars.

It seemed fitting that the first constellation I picked out was Orion -- the hunter.

Behind me was a thick bush for cover. To my right was hunting partner Darin Strickland. In front of us was open dune and then the pine-oak tree line. The sun wouldn't be up for more than an hour, and we weren't allowed to start hunting until 30 minutes before then. We sat quietly, waited and listened, shotguns empty, actions open.

A novelty drew us to this lottery hunt at Virginia's False Cape State Park: Anyone can buy bacon. How many seek out the source in a wild state before it becomes bacon? That's wild with a capital "W." I don't mean any old farm-fed, pen-raised bacon. I'm talking wilderness-bred and sometimes-ornery feral swine bacon.

Equally alluring was the idea of the hunt itself. Wild hogs are a common quarry for hunters all across the Deep South. But it's possible Virginia offers the most distinctive hog hunting experience in the country. Why? The landscape and the nature of the pig population.

False Cape SP and Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge, its neighbor to the north, together make up more than 12,000 acres of isolated wetlands, marshland, dunes, pine and live oak forests.

They're separated from the rest of civilization by the fenced state border to the south, the Atlantic Ocean on the east, Back Bay to the west and Virginia Beach to the north.

This much of this kind of habitat is unique on the East Coast. That means the 250-300 hogs that call the area home operate in a closed system. They're descended from domesticated hogs that farmers brought to the area in the 1800s, but they've been wild for dozens of generations. With every subsequent generation, they revert a little more to the characteristics of their Eurasian ancestors.

This hunt is one of the most popular lottery hunts organized by the game department every year, and Strickland and I were thrilled to be selected. We and four other hunters were assigned to a 417-acre zone in the state park, a zone that had produced four hogs on Saturday's opening hunt.

We settled on an approach: We'd try to ambush a pig in the morning as it moved from its bedding area in thick grass near the ocean to even thicker cover in the marsh. If we didn't see one then, we'd head toward the bay and try to surprise one on the edge of the impenetrable swamp thicket.

This was the third of four days the hunt had been open, and we knew the hogs were smart. They'd be likely be laying low by now. But we had hope.

Hunters were driven to their zones. We got off last at ours and followed a snaking trail toward the beach. It dead-ended almost a mile later at an area of open dunes, scrub oaks, persimmon trees and pines. There were deer and pig tracks everywhere. We settled in to wait for dawn. A strong breeze blew in hard off the ocean, so we knew a hog coming from that direction wouldn't smell us.

Darin kept an eye on his watch. It was 6:15. The first hints of dawn spread out in front of us. Our shotguns remained unloaded and open. Five minutes later, we heard a noise from the tree line.

What a strange thing to hear something so familiar -- a pig's squeal -- in such an exotic landscape. But it wasn't much of a squeal, and after two minutes of silence, we started questioning our ears.

Then it appeared. Thick neck and head; distinctive razorback hair pattern. The pig was trotting almost right at us. Were those tusks? It was hard to say for sure in the gloaming.

There wasn't even time to react. He jogged up and over our dune and passed not 20 feet to our left. He was compact and strong looking and must have weighed at least 60 pounds, maybe more. Darin checked his watch: It was 10 minutes before the hunt was to begin.

As it turned out, that was our chance. When the sun came up, we followed his tracks. We found fresh signs everywhere we went -- a roughed up meadow, wallows, bedding areas. . . . We ranged all over our zone and never saw another hog. We weren't alone. When we got back to the check station in the afternoon, we found that not a single hunting party had bagged a pig.

There'd be no wild bacon for us, or anyone, that night, but it was hard to be disappointed. The weather was mild all day -- a day spent tramping around one of the truly unique places in Virginia. Our approach was right. The hog proved that. He just started his day too early. I guess I admire his industriousness.