Archivo del Autor: LOBACO

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PRIMITIVE, ATAVISTIC AND AUTHENTIC. They could say without error and surely they will say that I am a too unsociable guy, that I do not know the name of most of my neighborhood, their kinships, homes, cars, sorrows, glories, miseries and I do not even have to. Beyond the obligatory courtesy I have very little dealings with the people around me and almost no participation in the events and parties of the town where I live most of the year. I am that meditative guy who comes and goes with his dog, his car or his junk whose life is rich enough not to need to stick his nose in the others'. I am not angry with the world, nor with anyone in particular, I will lend my help if I see that they need it and ask for it with education, but do not expect me to lose three minutes talking about the bloody football or the famous, because neither I do not even care, much less to stop thinking "in mine". The wheater and politics we all know how they are, fucked. No one could suspect that under that unsociable and sullen face hides a mind unadapted to urban bustle, a gray and somber life accompanied by solitude. Owner of a nose that the offensive smells of artificial perfumes are expensive or cheap, smokes, asphalt and eyes tired of looking to discover no other color than the dirty smoky of the sky or the gray of the cracked cement. An impassive and sullen look with those who try to snoop in their life united to a “montain heart” that beats to run out of there to get lost in the immensity of the mountain and never return. To ambush among rockrose, rocks, pilgrims, ponds, holm oaks and cliffs, hidden in a planting, on the banks of the river or on the edge of the mountain between two lights. Live according to the hard but beautiful and ancient laws that govern life since a monkey walked on two legs with the intention of conquering the world. With no other gods than the Sun, earth, water, fire, wind, following unwritten rules of hunting without harming and taking advantage of everything that abounds, to return to be free again. Hunter forever, when he was a child trying to catch sparrows with his hands, he chased chickens in the town or pulled the Little rabbits out of his cage to fill me with fleas and caress them. From "even when I did not know" but I lost my eyes on the horizon after the bluish flight of the then unreachable pigeons. Far from collecting trophies and memorable photographs I hunt for food, to live intensely the haul, to look for the rooting to the earth that connects you with the very essence of the primitive human being, that in which you recognize yourself as soon as you live it. Alone, self-taught as well as I have only learned almost all the things I know in this life, I rarely go with my offspring and when he learns he will also hunt on his own. My evolution has always been guided by the respect towards my prey, to make things difficult for me to give them a greater opportunity to escape or to redouble the triumph in case of catching them. The bourgeois and expensive semiautomatic shotgun gave way to the slightest and humble slider but equally effective if you know how to "make it work". The beautiful and precise rifle of forceful caliber sometimes supplants the compound bow and this will supplant a traditional one with time, one that I have surely done with my hands. The sixty meters that separated me from the wild boar have remained in just twenty when not less with the danger, the adrenaline and the glory that it supposes. Today, the lived experience, the flesh, the memory of the haul, furs and fangs make up my "gallery" of trophies, to my vanity I am content to write a simple story of those I learned to write on my own. But not only live hunting the field, asparagus, mushrooms, some berries and weeds along with the meat of "my corral" complete my diet and that of my small great family where dogs have been part of always, sharing our lives as members to full rigths. I never "used" them to hunt, my friends never "use" them, we just hunt together. In my eagerness to build everything that my mind and hands reach, to always say what I think, to be an ax woodcutter, to sleep on the ground wrapped by my dogs, thin or delicate, to despise fascism, to go out to the mountain in any circumstance, risk my physical integrity, being non-conformist, foul-mouthed, having an excessively acid humor, not prostrating myself before hypocritical political, social or religious conventions and my fondness for high-spirited spirits I have often won among those closest to me the nickname of " Prehistoric". The most foolish who are the majority will never know the favor they give me by considering me a feral being without taming, their lack of understanding does not give them anything more than to stay in the shell. For those who are docile, fearful or conformist suppose a virtue I have nothing to offer but my sincere condolences for his sleepy spirit, some saved by his submissive nature and a requiem very fat for his broken pitcher soul. Despite preferring raw things, embers for raw meat, trunks for my ax and live animals to a butcher shop I am a child of my time and use "the modernities" that I have within my reach. The car, the "smart" phone or the computer, the power tools and the manuals, many of them also made by me. Active in social networks in which I share my limited knowledge or reflections and from now on I will also divulge this blog and its contents. From the internet forums I'm back, tired of enduring falsehoods, tendentious news, rancid conservatism, rampage, interests, cronies, and “Singermornings”. They are like bad politicians, no matter how much they disguise they always finish portraying themselves, and what they do not know they invent it. From here I send a greeting to the few cabal people that endured and endure until the end. But it would not be fair to admit that I also found in the forums a few good friends that after the purge of the "maestrillo without a fucking booklet" that served as "old woman of the curtain" remained in the real ones. In them I trust and for more than one I would put my hand on the fire without risk to burn myself. And little more to add, except offer my hand to all that person of any sex, gender, creed, nationality, race, age or condition that wants to accompany me in my journey by Mother Nature. To love her and understand her in all her beauty, hardness and reality, fleeing from false modern beliefs and prejudices that lead them to despise what they do not even know. >> It may be that the road becomes hard, that the merciless needles grip the cold hands and legs or that they can hardly breathe because stunned palpiten the temples of pure effort and heat. That the thirst open up to the soul or that we have to hold on candle all night to not see a single prey and be satisfied with the great miracle of the Sunrise. May we be surprised by a storm in the countryside and it overwhelms us to the bone, stripping us of our human and useless pride, making us so insignificant in the face of their tremendous fury as in reality we are without knowing it. Let us walk from Sun to Sun with hardly any rest, raising our toenails again to finish tired but happy drinking wine and peeling birds by the fire . <> But one thing if you can be safe or secure, you will sleep with the satisfaction of having been part of a life that remained hidden and visible only to those who dare to seek freedom through learning to direct their steps. You will feel that unknown sensations that have remained hidden under the weight of a monotonous and ordinary life of the city are reborn in you. As soon as you tear the bark of your spirit with the reality of death, fatigue, pain, Life after all, your primitive Being will emerge to look for that site that was yours forever and you intuited that it existed somewhere of the world. <> Where you always wanted to find yourself, where you should never have left. Then you can heal your wounds or maybe they do not even hurt you and you end up leaving them to heal on their own drawing a beautiful and dignified scar that will adorn your skin better than the most expensive and florid of tattoos. << It is up to you to decide, dear reader, this is over and there is no other way but to take one of the two paths. Those who leave have my respect and gratitude for having read these lines and who knows if one day we will meet again. For who accompanies me I keep the best drink of my “boot of wine”, the pieces of dried ham and bread from the bottom of my backpack and the shade of an oak to share a sunset while we wait for the Boar or the owl begins its beautiful song to demand the attention of his partner. A BIG HUGG OF LOBACO

El duelo

He pasado los últimos cuatro años aprendiendo y entrenando, mejorando mi puntería y equipo para llegar hasta esta tarde, aquí y ahora. Atalayado con mi arco en la mano a no más de doce metros de la charca.


Solamente el hondo respirar del campo tal vez sus poderosas montañas, el aliento del Solano o el esplendor de esta calurosa  tarde pueden atisbar sin llegar a concebir tan magnífico aunque fugaz espectáculo.


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No existe sensación ni sentimiento moderno capaz de definir una dicha tan atávica como la mía, para sentirlo has de volver muy atrás. Transformarte en una más de las bestias del campo, más  animal que humano, un predador en lo más alto de la pirámide natural y en lo más bajo, puro y auténtico de la evolución humana.



Agazapado sobre una ligera silla de lona, camuflado de cabeza a pies espero a un enorme jabalí que tengo por seguro acudirá a la cita. Llevo varios días observando la impronta que sus “zapatos” no pueden dejar de marcar en el barro cada vez que entra a beber en la charca. Intuyo su tamaño y conozco su entrada por sus marcas de barro en las enormes hojas de girasol que rodean los cuatro costados de la baña.

El agua limpia que allí reposa me prometió  esta mañana que el animal acudiría y mi instinto de fiera montuna confía en que así será.

Cuando llega me coge por sorpresa, esperaba escucharlo antes de salir de la trocha de arriba  pero ha gastado tanto sigilo que lo escucho por vez primera  sacudirse las “orejotas” a cincuenta metros de mi posición.

Apenas se ve el campo a pesar de la cercanía, las enormes flores se encargan de tapar la escasa luz que queda, ya solo puedo escucharlo para situar con precisión su andadura. Va y viene por las protectoras sombras que lo cobijan sin atreverse a entrar pero sin reparar en mi figura, mi rastro o mi olor. A menudo se detiene para aspirar el cargado aire de la tarde que amenaza con volverse noche y que no llevará mi tufo.

Para cuando yo me descubra será tarde para él.

Mejor debiera haberlo sido porqué las estúpidas dudas de Homo Sapiens ganaron al instinto del Neanderthal. Ese poderoso cerebro casi mágico que todos poseemos, que nos ha permitido conquistar el mundo con  enorme éxito para nuestra especie y la perdición para las demás. Ese saco amorfo de gris materia que a veces nos conduce por el derrotero acertado esta vez me juega la mala pasada de “hacerme verlo” en la charca bebiendo sin hacer ruido y sin ideas de revolcarse.

Abro las setenta libras del arco con la confianza puesta en la letal punta matadora. Apunto al bulto oscuro del agua y enciendo la luz roja para comprobar el engaño en lugar de tomarle los puntos al costado de la bestia. Un ronquido sordo, potente y malhumorado sube desde la junquera apenas cinco o seis metros donde yo apuntaba. Destenso lentamente y espero acontecimientos con la vista clavada en el oscuro bulto que me dirige gruñidos tan toscos como maldiciones.


…y el cazador por un instante se convierte en presa.


Es tan grande y osado que se prepara para subir a buscarme, mi inseparable rifle espera sobre la mochila. No dudo en dejarlo, esta noche voy armado con algo más fiero que él, la seguridad de dejarlo “seco”en cuanto me muestre su costado.

Gruñe, ronca e intenta amedrentarme para descubrirme, se mueve hacia mi e impasible lo espero para cumplir el duelo más justo y equilibrado que en años han visto estas tierras.

Se detiene a mi altura está muy cerca, tanto para distinguir la enorme, pesada e imponente figura con la que quiere intimidarme.

Gruñe de nuevo, me está mirando y duda entre largarse o dar una lección al intruso que ha llegado en la noche a tocarle las pelotas, pero no se atreve.

Aprovecho para hablarme, de nuevo mi cabeza piensa por si sola y el pensamiento que la recorre es escuchado por el jabalí.

>>No sabes y jamás sabrás quién soy aunque de sobra me conoces, soy  ese al que no puedes oler que no escuchas cuando camina, el ser que no tiene rostro, que no te teme, Soy El fantasma de la lluvia,  y he venido a llevarte conmigo<<

Esta vez la luna faltando a su promesa se pone en contra mía para ayudar a mi presa. Justo detrás mía cuando vuelvo a tensar el arco, a cinco segundos de anclar la cuerda y soltar el mortal veneno en forma de saeta. A solo cinco de alcanzar la gloria descubre mi espectral figura recortándola sobre su disco y espantando al jabalí.

Usando el muelle de sus cuatro patas da un tremendo salto para ponerse a cubierto mudando el pesado gruñido de enfadado por el ligero y febril  de un terror antiguo.

El cerebro del “moderno” ya no gobierna, el último alarido del marrano ha sacado de su letargo al ancestral instinto que intentará atrapar su presa a cualquier precio.

Cojo el poderoso rifle para darle alcance, mientras se aleja al trote por el espesar de los artificiales girasoles. Le “arrimo” dos píldoras entre los claros por donde me ha parecido verlo con la luz de la antorcha.

Con su escape termina el duelo que decido declarar en tablas y postergarlo dos años más. Cuando vuelvan a nacer de nuevo las pipas de laboratorio y cubran otra vez la charca con sus enormes sombrero.

Habrá de ser otra noche porque a pesar de la promesa de la charca, sus susurros hechos brisa y el oscuro manto que ya lo cubre todo ambos hemos ganado y perdido, de nuevo Vivimos los dos.



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