Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
202 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S the spartina. Oysters and barnacles pop and crackle in the rising water. Other places, pigs feed at dawn and dusk. Out here on the Sea Islands they are more like marine animals, venturing from thickets to root and graze on low-water tidal flats, no matter the time of day. Gibbes noses the wind and lays out a campaign. There is this sweeping bend in the river, he says, with a broad and flat expanse of what he calls "high marsh." High marsh does not describe prevalent vegetation, but rather the ground, such that it is, beneath. High marsh has a high content of sand—slightly on the solid side of Jell-O, like concrete making up its mind to set. A man can walk there; maybe keep his kneecaps out of the slop. Gibbes cranks the outboard and hums us downriver a few miles, idles down, then eases the skiff onto the bank at a gator slide. It is another perfect spot for a man to consider his mortality—a spot worn bare by numerous saurians' downhill treks to food and safety. I put my feet where gator feet had very recently been, struggle up the slippery bank. We have seen a dozen gators on our trip downriver. They lay in the sunshine, impassive as logs, soaking up BTUs, then, when we came too close for reptilian comfort, they eased for the safety of deep water. One was longer than our skiff—800, 900 pounds? His belly bulged from his last meal. He looked like a crocodile on an African travelogue. There is something inscrutable about a gator. Face down a bear or a wolf; look into those eyes and you'll likely know what lies behind them. Hunger, fear, indecision— something will give you the answer. But a gator? A gator has the intelligence of a chicken, of a digital watch. And those yellow eyes will tell you nothing, nothing at all. But I see only gator sign on that trek through the high marsh. Gibbes leads the way down a well-used game trail. Our tracks atop knife-edged deer tracks; atop the rounder, shorter cloven marks from pigs; atop coon prints like hands on my own birth certificate. The spartina gradually gives way to needlegrass, finally surrendering to broomsedge as the land slowly creeps above the high-water mark. We round a long, their judgment is just fine. A whiff of man- scent on the eddying breeze, perhaps a foot popping out of the mud, and there is a snort and a great rush in the sawgrass. A rush in the opposite direction. I need a place to sit, but the nearest spot is a stump somewhere off in those trees 5,000 yards away. So I stand instead, swatting at the gnats that are beginning to explore the interiors of ears and nose. The grass moves again and sends blood rushing up into my head. But it's just Gibbes—God bless him— on the tail-end of a mile-long stalk. He works his way through the last 40 yards of sawgrass, stalking to the very end. Even right at my side he speaks in a whisper. "Got your wind at the last minute," he says, wiping a glob of mud from his temple. It leaves a long black streak down the side of his face. "Hog's got a nose like a bear," he says with a weary grin. "Peg you in a second." Gibbes looks over my shoulder, way out to middle distance. Far off somewhere, a gator bellows like an old outboard that won't quite start. A marsh hen cackles to the changing tide. "Let's get back to the boat," he says. "We'll grab a bite, then float up a creek as the tide comes in. There's a little spot I want to try." Sounds good to me. Gibbes takes up the long trail to where we left his skiff nosed up into the marsh. There we swap hog stories over lunch—Po' Boy sandwiches, sardines, crackers, and that sweet nectar of Carolina, strong and dark sweet tea. The tide, now an hour into flood, courses through little creeks, murmuring and humming through And the pigs are grunting. Blame it all on Gibbes McDowell. Gibbes has the reputation for bringing home the bacon—and all his body parts to boot. If he hadn't been such a damned fine hog man, I'd never have invited myself on this foray into foolishness. I'd have called it off long ago, satisfied with the pig I shot with No. 1 buck out of my little double 16 when I was about the same age. Been satisfied with the one I tacked in thick cover with my Ruger .44 rifle a few years later. With the last one Gibbes put me on—a 150-pound sow taken from the safety of a treestand. But no. All those pigs had a severe deficiency. They had no tusks. Tusks are inedible, and there is no room for a fearsome boar head on my already crowded walls, but a pair of evilly curving tusks would sure look good in my curio cabinet, right next to my almost-B&C black bear skull. Right next to that shot-pocked Mason decoy. Or perhaps, should the queen of my heart concur, shining solo in the middle of a living room end table. And there is certainly room for another picture—Kodacolor, framed in weathered barnwood. Me kneeling in the muck, the sawgrass all around, bespattered, gnat-gnawed, cradling the head of a long- tusker for the camera. Gibbes McDowell smiling in the background. So here I am, perhaps closing in on one hog too many. Or maybe two or three too many. But the Lord looks out for drunks and fools. I qualify, being higher than hell on adrenaline and guilty of numerous, serious errors in judgment. But the Lord looks after pigs, too, and In the Southeast, pig heavan is a dank, dark woodland fringing a tidal marsh with plenty of mud for the hogs to feed and wallow.