Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished. Meaning that those who have been conquered are at the complete mercy of the conqueror. Something similar to that idea was running through my head as I was handed a half-working flashlight and Landon was given a dull pocket knife. 

           We had just gotten back to where we had parked the truck down at the Tenkiller Dam. The parking area was a small dirt circle that was at the top of a hill which had a rough dirt road descending down for a quarter of mile. It was roughly 8:00 or 9:00 pm and we had done an all-day hunt for whitetail on the public land surrounding Lake Tenkiller. Me and Landon were excited to get into the warm truck and head back to the house to eat something hot and watch college football. Our desires were put on hold as Landon’s father Cliff exclaimed that he had left a jacket down at the tree where he had been hunting. Both fathers then turned to their sons seemingly making the decision Abraham made long ago in mere seconds. 

              I was given the failing flashlight, Landon was given the dulling blade. Our mission was to retrieve the jacket, and we assumed that our safety was of secondary importance. We both turned and began the descent into the dark pit of forest which surrounded the dam. The quarter-mile descent seemed like a mile-long descent. It was Herculean in nature and I half expected to see a three-headed dog awaiting us at the bottom. Luckily no such monstrosity was there at the time. 

             We turned and began walking into the woods along a dirt trail, following the directions we were given while also recalling where we had seen Cliff walk off to set up his tree stand. We turned off the trail into the small field where we believed the jacket to be. The light-emitting from the flashlight seemed only to shine all of two feet in front of us. That’s when we heard the sound no hunter wants to hear at night unless wielding an AR-15. A deep grunt from the belly of a wild hog came from our right and it sounded close. 

            We both looked each other in the eyes and fear stared back. We ran forward and immediately saw the jacket laying at the base of a tree. We grabbed it, and then ran, not stopping, all the way up the steep road and back to the truck. Every step I took my mind told me that something was chasing me. That, I believe, may be my current land speed record. And in classic dad fashion, our story was downplayed. There was no danger, we were fine, and it was silly for us to run back. And maybe all of that is true. Maybe we heard what we thought was a giant killer hog when in reality it was something harmless. Regardless if the danger was real, the fear was real, and so is the memory. It is one I will always remember and laugh about whenever hunting stories begin to be told around the fire. 

           Thus began the hatred for wild hogs.