By Anshita Das
The evening was quiet, except for the faint drizzle tapping on leaves and the soft, persistent chirping of crickets and occasional bird calls. The damp air clung to us as we trudged through the tea estate, navigating rows of lush, green bushes still glistening from a heavy rain earlier that day. Shadows stretched across the path, and the light was fading fast. We’d been out since morning, checking and retrieving camera traps around Valparai’s dumpsites to monitor wildlife activity. I’d been hoping for a dhole sighting all day, but luck hadn’t favoured us so far.
Now, only one more camera trap remained to be checked. We were exhausted, but there was something strangely calming about the rain-soaked landscape. My colleague and I exchanged a quick look—almost there, almost time to call it a day. As we unstrapped the camera from a tea bush near the garbage dump, a low grunt rumbled from somewhere close by. It was so low I barely registered it, and we both dismissed it, assuming it was each other, grumbling or sighing from fatigue.
But then the sound came again—deeper this time, unmistakably real. It echoed through the quiet rows of tea, sending a quick jolt of alertness. I glanced back and saw a dark, bulky shadow just meters away. The figure wasn’t moving, but I could feel its stare. For a second, I froze, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The rain and fading light blurred my vision, but then I saw it—a wild boar, its eyes glinting as it fixed its gaze on us, a low grunt rumbling in its throat.
A camera trap photo of a wild boar (Sus scrofa sp.) | WCS-India
I nudged my colleague, trying to be as calm as possible. He turned slowly, only to stop mid-motion as he processed the situation. A flash of surprise crossed his face. After a few silent, tense seconds, we decided to try and shoo it away. With a deep breath, we started clapping and making noise, hoping the boar would lose interest. And, thankfully, it did—disappearing into the thick bushes.
We shared a relieved glance and decided to head back, quickly. The path was narrow, bordered by tea bushes on one side and a swampy edge on the other. I led the way, my phone torch lighting the path as I watched my steps. The drizzle was dying down, but the dampness clung to everything, and the world around us was rapidly falling into darkness.
I felt a tug on my backpack. I turned to find my colleague holding me back, his face tense, his eyes wide. I looked up, following his gaze, and there it was again—the same wild boar, standing right in the middle of our path, just ten meters ahead. It had circled around through the bushes as if anticipating our exit route. For a moment, none of us moved. The boar stood silent, staring, its wet fur bristling, and all we could hear was its steady breathing.
We stood there, as if locked in a standoff, each side waiting to see what the other would do. Once more, we clapped our hands, hoping to intimidate the boar, to convince the swine to let us pass. This time, the boar seemed to consider us, its gaze lingering for a beat longer, and then it vanished back into the tea bushes. Relieved, we moved cautiously forward, the flashlight guiding us through the dark, narrow path.
And then we heard it—the unmistakable rustling of leaves to our right. We turned, and there, only two meters away, the wild boar was staring right at us from within the bushes, its eyes sharp and alert. The boar moved, and this time, it seemed to be advancing. My colleague and I didn’t need to exchange words. With one quick glance, we both understood: it was time to run.
We bolted down the narrow path, feet slipping on the muddy ground. Heart pounding, I dared a glance back. The boar had emerged from the bushes, still moving toward us, unrelenting. As we reached the edge of the swampy area where the terrain sloped upward, we turned to check—and saw that it was still following. Desperate, we made more noise and picked up a few small stones, tossing them in its direction, careful not to hurt it, just hoping to shoo it away. Finally, the boar halted some distance away, looking at us with an almost curious gaze. After a few seconds, it let out a final grunt, as if in reluctant surrender, then turned and ambled back toward the swamp, disappearing into the night.
We stood there for a moment, staring after it, feeling the flood of relief mixing with adrenaline. My colleague turned to me, eyes wide but a hint of a grin forming. I could feel my own exhilaration bubbling up, a quiet thrill that filled the air as we realized we’d made it through. We shared a look—part amusement, part disbelief—before deciding to keep moving, still on high alert as we made our way back to our bike.
On the ride back to our field station, we replayed the whole incident, from the first grunt that we’d misinterpreted to the final sprint through the mud. We laughed at how each of us had thought the other was making the noise, amused by the mix of tension and absurdity that had filled each moment. And as my colleague recounted his surprise, I could see the thrill of the encounter sinking in, maybe even a bit of the excitement I felt.
For me, it was one of those rare field moments—unexpected, thrilling, and filled with the kind of energy that makes every second feel sharper. We hadn’t seen any dholes that day, but a close encounter with a wild boar was more than enough to end the day on a much-needed high.
In fieldwork, it's often the unplanned encounters that leave the deepest impression—we must always stay alert because nature rarely follows a script.