Beware the wildlife

Behold, the javelina:




A rather comical-looking creature, you might think, with that stout body perched on spindly little legs. I used to giggle when I saw them.

Now I know better.

On April, 30, 2001, the day after Hubs and I wed at Big Bend National Park, we set up camp down by the Rio Grande. A sign, bolted to the picnic table, warned us to leave our tent down during the day in order to avoid javelina invasions. If an encounter could not be avoided: "Do Not Provoke the Javelina!" the sign declared.

Hubs and I cackled.

Until, 30 minutes later, we watched a band of javelinas slice open a tent left standing. Horrified, we watched the resourceful creatures make short work of the tent's contents. They rooted, ravaged and feasted.

Oh, well, we thought smugly. We didn't leave ours up. Things will be fine.

We spent the day hiking. When we returned to the campsite, we saw a German couple circling their devastated tent, clearly puzzled as to what had happened during their absence.

Hubs pulled up next to them. "Javelinas," he offered helpfully, leaning out the window and pointing.

The Germans looked puzzled.

"Javelinas," Hubs repeated. "You know" -- he fluttered his fingers in air piano fashion -- "pigs."

Actually, javelinas are NOT pigs, but I kept silent as Hubs and the Germans continued to waggle their fingers at one another.

I'm not sure that they ever understood. By that evening, they had packed up and left, leaving us as the only tent-campers in the area.

That night, Hubs and I ate a leisurely dinner, toasted our nuptuials and crawled into our sleeping bags. Sometime around midnight, I smelled something ... garbagey.

I heard snuffling. Snorting. And -- was that chewing?

I poked Hubs in the ribs.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

"Mmmm...no..." he mumbled.

More snorting. And that smell.

Suddenly, my side of the tent bulged inward.

"Aaiiiieeee!" I shrieked, rolling on top of Hubs. "They're coming in!"

Hubs grabbed the keys and started pressing buttons on our pickup's remote. The horn blared. Headlights flashed.

The javelinas scattered.

A half-hour later, they were back.

Snuffling. Snorting, Chewing.

I could hear them surrounding the tent. And then -- another jab at my side.

"Eek!" I screamed.

Just then, something crashed from our picnic table. We would later learn it was our box of cooking utensils. No food. Just silverware.

Hubs leapt to his feet, hair standing wildly on end. He jabbed at the bulge. Then he unzipped the tent and lunged through the opening. There was much shouting and clanging. The horn blared. Headlights flashed on.

I fumbled for my glasses and then peeked outside. My new husband was crouched on top of the picnic table, waving -- was that a spatula or a pair of tongs? -- at the 10 or so javelinas running amok through our campsite.

"Do NOT provoke the javelinas!" I yelled, quoting the picnic-table sign.

"What do you want me to do?!" Hubs yelled back as he brandished his tongs. "Pet them?"

Finally, the javelinas trotted off, reasonably certain that the humans at this particular campsite were totally and hopelessly insane.

Hubs clambered down from the picnic table and picked up the pieces of his dignity.

"I guess they won't be coming back here," he boasted.

Nevertheless, after two more sleepless nights involving more horn-blaring and spatula-waving, we fled.

To a motel.