There's no doubt some of my ancestors ate Whistle Pig. In the Southern Mountains, every critter was tried (and fried) at one time or another. Hard times call for desperate measures.
On the 2nd to last day of a grueling moose hunt in NH's White Mountains (D1) after some 14 hours and at least 10 miles in rough terrain, including humping neck deep beaver swamps, we finally busted through the bush near the Canada border on rt. 3. We were into the 90th hour of what was for me the most brutal and physically demanding hunt of my life. We were out of water, completely gassed and half delirious when we arrived at the state trout hatchery. The live-in employee had just arrived at the caretaker's cabin as we staggered in. The 1st thing he said was, 'you kids look a bit dehydrated. Want some cold spring water?' In the next 15 minutes I literally downed 2 GALLONS of water. After, Natureman Jim as he called himself, offered me, Mrs. KG and our 72 years young guide a pile of sandwiches. "Thanks for your kindness and generosity, Jim", I told him. "No worries, gang. Just got done whipping up a batch. God knows a freshly killed 'chuck sandwich always hits the spot!" I think it was then both me and Mrs. KG lost concsiousness and collapsed in his parlor. Ever since been curious about eating the overgrown rats. True story.
