Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
the air as they hoped to turn the boar, and soon we could see the hounds heading back our way. Not wishing to face down a boar in the thick woods, Quentin and I worked uphill to get a better view into the valley. Suddenly the boar broke from cover just ahead of us, racing down a long ravine. We shot almost simultaneously . . . then let off another round, dropping the big tusker in a gnarly thicket. Suddenly, all around us came a chaos of shouts and laughter, while the aidi crowded around the boar, sniffing, growling, and taking quick nips at the carcass. Quentin and I worked our way down to the base of the hill where much congratulations were doled out. Smiles and happy faces all around. As for the aidi, they looked none the worse for wear, and, in fact, they could have continued hunting had we chosen to do so. L ying under the midday sun with a lunch of sardines, dried beef salami, thick, warm bread, olives, figs, and wine spread out before me, I was content to relax as the aidi dozed at our feet or occasionally came over to beg for some bread or meat. These interesting dogs had certainly shown some sport today and what a joy to have been a part of it. Reliving the day's hunt with Quentin, I explained just how impressed I was with the melodic voice of these beautiful hounds. He shook his head in agreement, and then staring out across the hills, he said the Bergers will tell you: "The song of the aidi is the song of the Atlas. Both are beautiful, ancient, and an integral part of this land." I couldn't agree more. Truly the magic of Morocco. n Watching from the rear window, I could see the hounds behind our ancient Toyota, running or trotting up the sheer mountainside with seemingly little effort. These dogs must be incredibly fit, I remember thinking. The top of the mountain was covered in a thick, cedar-like scrub laced by old roadbeds. Quentin and I proceeded down one trail to where it ended amidst a spectacular cascade of giant boulders. The valley below climbed sharply to our position, through jagged geography and rough flora—a perfect place for wild boar and mountain goats. We watched as several locals picked their way down on their burros, scrambling bravely over the treacherous footing, all hoping to be in on a kill so they could share in the bounty. I must admit that hunting driven boars with hounds can be addictive. Shivering not so much from the cool mountain as from the anticipation, I strained to hear the aidis' strident barking. Soon we heard shouts from across the valley. "Sanglier! Sanglier!," the French word for boar, echoed across the steep mountainside. Somewhere in the distant woodlands, the sweetest sound of all could be heard, rising in tempo—the symphony of aidi hounds in full cry. Quentin and I listened for several minutes, then shouting for me to follow, he led me running, stumbling, and half-rolling downhill into the thick forest where we hoped to intercept a boar. In our frantic rush we nearly ran into a pig. I could hear his hooves rattling off the stones as he raced away off to our right, the deafening music of the aidi in concert to the rear. The shouts of the Berber hunters filled S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 63