02/13/2026
The sun hadn’t yet burned the mist off the bottoms of DeSoto Parish when Keith and Eric stepped into the timber, shotguns in hand, listening to wood ducks whistle through the cypress tops. It was shaping up to be one of those perfect Louisiana mornings.
They should’ve remembered the hogs.
The woods were torn to pieces—ground rooted up like it had been run over by a plow, ridges and trenches everywhere, slick wallows sunk deep into the mud. The sour, musky stink of wild hog hung heavy in the damp air.
Keith stepped off a narrow ridge and onto what looked like solid ground.
It wasn’t.
The earth gave way and he dropped straight into a hidden hog wallow. Mud splashed, and then came a sharp crack followed by a yell that scattered birds from the treetops.
“My leg!”
Eric fought his way across the churned-up mess to him. Keith’s leg lay twisted wrong, pain draining the color from his face. The wallow reeked, freshly worked by a sounder of hogs sometime in the night.
No cell service. No clear trail. Just acres of hog-destroyed timber between them and the truck.
“I’m going for the four-wheeler,” Eric said. “Stay with me.”
The wait alone in the woods was long and loud with imagined danger. Every rustle in the brush sounded like hogs coming back to their wallow.
Then, at last, the growl of an engine rolled through the trees.
Eric burst into view on the ATV, tires already caked with black mud. Getting Keith loaded up was agony. Every shift and lift sent white-hot pain through his broken leg.
Then came the ride out.
The four-wheeler bucked and jolted over the hog-rooted ground. Tires dropped into trenches and clawed back out. The land looked bombed—ripped, churned, and unstable. Eric had to fight the handlebars to keep them upright.
Every bounce felt like the bone grinding wrong. Keith couldn’t stop the groans that escaped his teeth.
The smell of hog hung thick as they crossed wallow after wallow, the destruction stretching as far as they could see. What should’ve been a simple ride turned into a slow, punishing crawl across ruined earth.
Finally, they eased back toward the bayou and the main trail, where the ground flattened just enough to pick up speed. When the gravel road came into sight, it felt like salvation.
As sirens wailed faintly in the distance, Eric looked back at the scarred timber.
“This ain’t hunting sign,” he said quietly. “This MEANS WAR.”
Stay tuned for what’s next in the hog eradication.
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