Christmas Javelinas
I was hiking along a neighborhood trail not far from my house in Sedona, Arizona. There is something spiritually comfortable about going hiking without getting in the car. I wander amidst the red rock on the Javelina Trail.
True to the trail’s name I encounter a small herd of javelina. There are nine javelinas in the herd with three baby javelina. The presence of the young ones makes the entire herd more dangerous. When I stand still and act calmly the herd ignores me and grazes happily. Gradually the herd of javelinas surrounds me. The smallest of the babies is more cautious than the rest, scurrying beneath her mother’s belly and between her legs. As the herd mingles about me it is exhilarating but I try to exude calmness, not wanting to startle the herd. Perhaps because of the season I am reminded of Ed Abbey’s essay “Merry Christmas Pigs”
The javelina or collared peccary is common to the American southwest and may look like a wild pig, but it is not. The collared peccary is more of an oversized rodent like the capybara. The closest living relative to the javelina might be the hippopotamus but peccaries have been their own evolutionary branch for a long time. Javelinas came to North America during the Great American Biotic Interchange which began about 20 million years ago when the North and South American continents collided for the first time. Basically, we sent them jaguars and they sent us javelina and armadillos. It hardly seems like a fair trade to me.
Javelina are amazing creatures. When the first explorers of European descent reached the region, they often reported herds numbering in the thousands. There are many reports of explorers being treed for hours while they waited for huge herds of javelina to disperse. Early American maps often referred to the Gila as the Puerco or Pig River because of the abundant herds. Like coyotes, the densest populations of javelinas are not found in the middle in the wilderness but on the edge of suburban and rural sprawl. Javelina are expert scavengers of garbage cans and gardening terrors.
When I post photos of my most recent javelina experience on my Facebook page one of my friend’s comments “You must smell good.”
I doubt this. The opposite is probably true. Javelinas are a rather odiferous species and if my fragrance made them feel more at home it is most likely because of stench rather than perfume. Javelinas have scent glands located near their hind legs. Small herds or clans identify themselves as belonging to each other by smell. Individual javelina will often nuzzle each other’s hindquarters for reassurance. A herd of javelina is comprised mostly of a sorority of sisters, aunts and mothers. A baby javelina can nurse from any female in the herd who is lactating not just the female who birthed her. Javelina do not recognize my children or your children there is only our children. If you have the smell of the herd, you are a member of the clan.
Once a javelina gave birth in arroyo behind the house I was living in. An aggressive and noisy tribe of sisters gathered in a tight bunch around the culvert pipe where the mother hunkered down to give birth. The herd jostled shoulders and grunted, wary of their surroundings. Shortly after darkness fell, I could hear the strains of the mother giving birth. Shortly after that came the howling of coyotes. Late in the night I could hear the pack of coyotes confront the herd of javelina from my bed. It was a brutal sounding battle. In the morning, I saw the mother javelina and three tiny babies. A circling picket of sisters and aunts kept a watchful eye. Mother and children lived in that culvert pipe for a couple more days before the entire herd moved on.
I remember the ferocious sounds of that battle as the herd encircles me, babies scurrying behind their mothers and aunts for protection. I want to make sure the javelinas know they have no need to protect the babies from me. I remain as calm as possible and slip beyond the circle of javelina, continuing on down the trail.
Abbey’s essay too, ended with nothing dramatic happening. I love the way Abbey introduced the javelina in his essay Merry Christmas Pigs, “The pig I’m talking about is the one known also as a peccary or javelina, the wild pig of the Arizona desert; not a true pig exactly, according to zoologists, but a good approximation — a close relation. Close enough for me, and the javelina, commonly defined as a “wild pig-like animal,” is the best kind of pig. Though that definition, come to think of it, is a shade too broad. Some of my best friends qualify as wild pig- like animals without half trying. But that’s another issue. The fault of the permissive social atmosphere, the Bill of Rights, the general weakening of moral fibers everywhere you look.
Back to my topic: Christmas and pigs. Have you ever stood alone under the full moon in the prickly cholla-mesquite desert on the night before Christmas and found yourself surrounded by a herd of hungry, snuffling, anxiety-ridden javelinas? I have, and it’s a problematic situation”
Edward Abbey, environmental activist and anarchist, author of Desert Solitaire and The Monkey Wrench Gang was one of my favorite writers, describing an American southwest I have explored and loved all my life. For three years in a row, before Covid, I wrote a script and co-produced a show about Ed Abbey, his words and ideas. The shows sold out all three years. I guess people still want to hear what the old desert rat wants to say. The third year I typed the entire “Merry Christmas Pigs” essay into the script intending to read it myself as a monologue. Funny thing about that script but it kept running long. I kept cutting and revising, then revising and cutting some more. Every time the monologue kept getting shorter until the only words left in the final script were “Long live the weeds and the wilderness.”
I gave the words to another actor. Still, I can think of no better words to end this essay than with those originally written by Edward Abbey.
“Long Live the weeds and the wilderness!” and “Merry Christmas Pigs”
