“Didn’t you see the signs, son? What are you doing in my yard?”
“What sign?” I stammered.
He was 250 pounds, if he was an ounce, and he didn’t look particularly thrilled at my being there.
“The sign that says, ‘Trespassers will be fed to the hogs.’”
He paused to let that sink in. His face gave a little spasm that lifted his upper lip just enough to hint at the yellowish and brown teeth behind the veil.
“THAT SIGN.” He said.
“Well, no sir, augh, ah, I didn’t. I truly apologize, but I didn’t see it.”
“Then you’re either blind or stupid. Considering you’re down this trail this late in the day all by your little lonesome, I would guess stupid.”
I had been hiking down the “River Trail” in the Congaree Swamp National Park for four hours or so. The “River Trail” is the lengthiest trail that the park has to offer, and on account of that, it is seldom used. Most folks consider one mile or less a walk and everything beyond that a hike. Hikers consider anything under five miles to be a walk and everything beyond that to be a hike. The “River Trail” comes in at about eleven and a half miles, and since most visitors to the park either don’t have the time necessary to make the trek or the wherewithal to handle it, it is a wonderful hike for those who hunger after solitude. I fall into that category, and I hike on account of that condition.
To the best of my recollection, it was either late July or early August several years back. It may have been a bit later. On second thought it was. It was during “Indian Summer.” You know the latter days of August or sometimes just when September starts. Those cool autumn breezes have winked at you but not settled in yet, and then in a last ditch effort to assert herself, summer summons up one last hot breath that startles and stifles the world. It was at that time that I was working my way down the trail.
It was wonderfully quiet that day. Even the dragonflies and mosquitoes considered flight too much of an effort in the heat. There was a slight breeze, but other than that the world was at rest, and I was in hog heaven.
You see I spent all of my summers down on the panhandle of Florida with my grandparents when I was a kid, and the panhandle of Florida is perpetually in a “Indian Summer” state. So I wasn’t hot that afternoon. I was a young’un again. I suppose that may have been one of the reasons I wasn’t paying particularly close attention. I had been hiking for a while like I said, oh maybe six and a half, seven miles before I noticed anything askew.
Now the floor of the Congaree Swamp is made up of whatever Mother Nature chooses to put there; and Mother Nature isn’t always one to keep a clean house. Basically the floor of the Congaree Swamp is a wild chaos of disorderly fallen limbs, downed trees and cypress knees, along with a wonderful assortment of roots running every which-a-way. What I had failed to notice as I wandered through the woods dreaming of days gone by were the occasional patches of orderly chaos hidden within the regular, run of the mill chaos of the swamp. Here and there it was kind of like somebody was looking for something. Occasionally there was dirt pushed up and scattered around with the limbs and leaves pushed to the side. Now I knew no one had done it. After all, considering its condition, I had little doubt that I was the only person who had been down that particular trail for a long while.
The truth is I actually knew what it was, but I wasn’t concerned. These little patches are all over the swamp, so I paid little attention. The increase in size and frequency was gradual, so gradual in fact that I failed to notice it until when rounding a blind curve, a slight whiff of musk hit my nostrils a millisecond before that primordial sound hit my ears.
If you have never heard a full grown razor back hog with malice on his mind say grace before his evening meal ten feet from your face, then I pray you never do.
I still find it amazing, but with a herculean effort I managed to keep my wits about me and remain relatively continent at the same time. At least I didn’t scream like a little girl, pick up my skirts and run back down the trail willy-nilly. Somehow I knew that to do so would be considered rude by the hog, and with feelings hurt, he would chase me down and kill me without a second thought or the slightest twinge of guilt. So I stood my ground, weak knees and all.
Razor back hogs don’t look like regular eating hogs. They look like hogs from the wrong side of the tracks. Hogs that you don’t want to mess with. They’ve got little beady eyes, spiked hair, switchblade tusks, black leather jackets with studs and an attitude to match the outfit.
Now I had a .22 caliber pistol with me for protection, against what I don’t know. Instinctively, however, I knew that to shoot this hog before me with a .22 caliber pistol would act more as an inspiration to him than a deterrent, so I chose the middle ground and shot a tree. That hog didn’t even flinch. Actually, he looked more insulted than startled.
After that, he looked me over a couple of times, decided I was more bone and gristle than meat and not even worth the effort. So he turned away disgusted and sauntered back down the trail the way he had come, grumbling under his breath the whole time.
When, at last, he was out of sight and his grumblings had faded, I discovered that remaining upright was not an option for me at that moment. So I decided it might be a good time to sit down and rest for a spell, for a long, long spell.
The world and the sin it traffics in can sneak up on you, if you’re not paying close attention. The changes are often gradual, barely noticeable most of the time. A little compromise here, a small compromise there and then one day you round a blind curve, and there it is: a compromised life, a witness diminished, a faith in crisis.
So remember to keep your eyes on Christ, and Christ alone. He will keep you from falling prey to the world. He will protect your faith, strengthen your witness and make your life more wonderful, more joyous than you could have ever imagined without Him.
Tony Rowell
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