Terror By The Dashboard Light
A Tale of Brothers and BS on a Family Road Trip
When I was a boy growing up in Wisconsin, my parents would often shoehorn my three siblings and me into a small padded cell on wheels and condemn all six of us to interminable periods of inhumane confinement, semi-starvation, mind-wasting boredom, devilish treachery and noogies. That is to say, we would go on family road trips.
While other families headed west to Yosemite or the Grand Canyon, or east to Gettysburg or Washington D.C., my family would almost always head due south — the most direct path to a sunny tee box so that my golf-addicted father could get his fix during the long Wisconsin winters. That meant our travel route would often lead us through an area of the country where we might come face-to-face…err, snout…with the mysterious and terrifying creature known as the “razorback.”
What made our encounters with this shadowy denizen of the deep woods more intriguing is that: 1) it’s debatable any of us knew exactly what a razorback actually was, and 2) it’s unlikely we ever really saw one, dead or alive. But as soon as we would cross the border into Arkansas, and continuing until we exited Georgia, my two brothers, sister and I would spend long hours with our eyes glued to the roadside looking for any sign of this elusive beast.
Now, anyone who has lived in razorback country — or has attended the University of Arkansas — can readily tell you what the animal actually is: a “razorback” is the name applied to any of a variety of feral pigs that roam the woods of Appalachia and the American South. However, as described to me in the backseat of our family car by my brothers, Mark and Bruce, the animal took on a rather more colorful and threatening countenance.
“It’s like a pig, but much bigger and covered with hair,” Mark would begin, accurately enough.
“Yeah, and it has huge tusks,” Bruce would chime in.
“You mean like an elephant?” I’d ask.
“Kinda. But sharper. More like fangs that point up instead of down.”
“So why do they call it a ‘razorback’?” I’d inquire, my eyes turning nervously to the passing forest.
At this point, especially if it was nighttime, my brothers would get more imaginative with the details, the glow of the car’s instrument panel serving as a suitable stand-in for the flickering campfire such tales are usually told around.
“Well, it has skin like armor and a row of sharp spikes running down its back. That’s how it got its name.”
“So, like a Triceratops,” I’d deduce, displaying my vast knowledge of the animal kingdom.
“Exactly. And it has a club for a tail, too.”
By now my 7-year-old mind was busy processing all this information and piecing together a mental picture of a hideous creature that was some sort of mutant hybrid of a vampire, a pig and a dinosaur. A vampigosaur, if you will.
“Are they dangerous?” I’d ask, my eyes growing wider.
“Very. And crazy, too. Razorbacks have been known to charge hunters and rip them apart with their tusks,” Bruce would respond, making a slashing motion with his hand for emphasis.
“I’ve heard they’ll charge at cars, too,” Mark would add, just to lend a little more drama to our situation. “It’s why they’re often spotted near highways.”
“So why don’t we see more dead ones at the side of the road?” I’d challenge them.
“Well, they’re really tough with those spikes and armor on their backs and all. If a car hits them they usually just grunt and run back in the woods to wait for a motorcycle or something,” Mark would explain.
Now, I have no idea how much of what my brothers told me they honestly believed. I’m sure they had a vague idea of what a razorback actually was, even if it wasn’t exactly the type animal that TV’s Marlin Perkins could be seen tracking down on “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” on Sunday nights. I’m also sure my brothers took a few liberties with the details they dispensed just to yank the chain of their little brother. It is, after all, what big brothers do. But from the way they kept an attentive eye outside the window, I’m pretty sure they were every bit as interested as I was in seeing whatever a razorback actually looked like as well.
Looking back now, I’m also sure it was no coincidence my parents remained conspicuously silent whenever my brothers peppered their accounts of the razorback with some obviously embellished flourish — its ability to spit venom and fly short distances with its leathery bat-like wings or what have you. They no doubt found my brothers’ increasingly outlandish descriptions as entertaining as I found them horrifying. Meanwhile, my sister, Leslie, simply sat mute between them, unsure what to believe.
Of course, between my brothers’ fanciful descriptions and my parents’ silent complicity, the whole affair was really an elaborate snipe hunt, with me as the unwitting pigeon. For countless miles, while the rest of the family dozed off in their respective corners of the car, I’d keep my chin propped up on the front seat, staring unblinkingly out the windshield, probing the forested landscape for any movement and scanning the highway shoulder for a hairy heap with tusks.
If Dad sensed I was losing interest, he’d tap the brakes and abruptly jerk the steering wheel as if to avoid some obstacle in the road, and exclaim, “Whoa! I think that was a dead razorback back there, did you see it?”
I’d immediately spin around to peer out the rear window and spot some pile of road debris fading into the distance. “Are you sure? I think it was just a hunk of tire off a semi.”
“Pretty sure. A razorback’s armored skin can look a lot like tire tread and it turns black when it starts to rot out under the hot sun.”
Unsure of what I had seen with my own eyes, I’d once again fix my stare to the road ahead. To be honest, I think my Dad just liked having someone else awake to keep him company while he drove. Even if only to discuss the traits of a mostly mythical creature as we made our way along the dark Arkansas highway.
