How I Ran From a Wild Boar in the South

We had been drifting south for days, following the kind of roads that feel more like invitations than directions. That morning, we were in north-central Florida, not far from Ocala, and we cut east on FL-40 toward the long, quiet stretch that runs through the edge of Ocala National Forest. 

The drive itself felt like a soft transition, gas stations thinning out, billboards disappearing, and the landscape flattening into pine, palmetto, and sandy shoulder.

I remember the exact kind of morning it was because it looked calm in a way that tricks you. The air already had that humid heaviness Florida carries, even early, but it was still cool enough to keep the van comfortable with the windows cracked. 

The sky was pale and clean, and the sun was low, angled just right to make the tops of the pines glow while the forest floor stayed shadowed.

7 A.M., One of Us Resting, One of Us Wandering

We parked a little after 7 a.m. in a small clearing that felt like it had been used by hunters or locals, no fancy trailhead, no big map board, just space for a few vehicles and the forest pressing in on all sides.

Amanda had slept badly the night before. She’d tossed around, woken up a few times, and by morning she looked drained in the way you get when your body never fully dropped into deep rest. She told me to go ahead without her, that she wanted one more hour with her eyes closed while the van was still quiet.

We’ve done that plenty of times. We hike a lot. We’ve learned how to navigate, how to read terrain, how to keep our bearings. I told her I’d walk in first, scout a bit, and leave a clear marker at the entry point.

Right by the first line of trees, there was a white limestone rock, bright against the dark sand, the kind that looks like it doesn’t belong there. I moved it to a spot that would be easy to notice and told Amanda, half joking, that if she saw the rock she’d know she was on my path.

Then I grabbed a bottle of water, stepped out, and walked into the trees feeling confident in the way you do right before you get humbled.

The Forest at That Hour Felt Like a Secret

The first stretch was honestly beautiful. The trail wasn’t a trail so much as a natural corridor through pine flatwoods, with palmetto fans spread like green hands, and strands of Spanish moss hanging from limbs in a way that made everything look older than it was.

The light came through in broken sheets. Every few steps, the ground changed texture, sand to roots to compact dirt. The air smelled like warm resin and damp earth, and I could hear small movement in the brush that I assumed was birds or squirrels. 

The forest wasn’t silent, but it wasn’t noisy either. It had that early-morning stillness that makes you feel like you’re the only person awake.

About ten minutes in, I climbed over a couple of big rocks that looked like they’d been pushed up from the ground over years, and I remember thinking that I loved this part of travel most. Then the mood changed in one breath.

The Wild Boar Appeared, and My Body Decided Before My Brain Did

I saw movement low in the brush first, not fast, just heavy, the kind of movement that makes the plants shift like something solid is pushing through them. When it stepped into a patch of light, my stomach tightened instantly.

It was a wild boar, or what locals here usually call a feral hog, and it was bigger than I expected in real life. Its body was thick and compact, shoulders high, bristly dark hair along its spine, and a snout that looked built for digging through anything it wanted. 

The tusks weren’t enormous, but they were visible, pale arcs near the mouth, enough to make the danger feel immediate.

It wasn’t making dramatic noise. That was part of what made it scary. It was quiet and purposeful, like it belonged completely to this place, and I was the one trespassing.

For a second, it lowered its head and pushed at the ground, snout moving through leaves, and then it lifted its face slightly. Not a full stare, more like it registered me as a thing that wasn’t supposed to be there.

My heart went from normal to loud in an instant. The kind of pounding you feel in your throat and ears, the kind that makes your hands go cold. My mind tried to pull up all the sensible advice I’d read before, but fear doesn’t wait for instructions.

I Ran, and I’m Not Proud of It

Running is not the smart response to a wild boar, and I knew that, but knowing something and doing something are not always the same when you’re suddenly in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I turned and ran.

My boots kicked sand and leaves behind me, and I heard brush crack as something heavy moved. I didn’t look back because I was afraid of what I’d see, and because the only thought in my mind was the van, the van, the van.

When I reached the clearing, I didn’t stop to breathe or think. I grabbed the roof rack and pulled myself up onto the roof of the van in the least graceful way possible. I ended up crouched there like a scared kid, chest heaving, scanning the tree line.

Amanda was awake instantly, eyes wide, hair messy, trying to open the door before I shouted.

“Don’t open it. Stay inside.”

She froze, then looked where I was looking.

The boar stepped out of the brush at the edge of the clearing, stopped, and held still. It didn’t charge the van. It didn’t come closer. It just stood there long enough to remind me how powerful it was, then turned back into the trees like it had decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

The Part That Saved Me Was Luck, Not Skill

When I finally climbed down, Amanda’s face was pale, and I could tell she was imagining all the ways that moment could have gone wrong. 

That’s the thing about these incidents. Nothing happens, and yet you walk away shaken because you can see the alternate version of the story clearly. I was lucky for a few reasons I didn’t control.

The boar was alone. There were no piglets, no visible group nearby. A feral hog protecting young can become aggressive fast, and I don’t like thinking about how that would have played out ten minutes into the woods.

And the van was close. If I had been deeper in, there would have been no roof to scramble onto and no familiar refuge to sprint toward.

What I Should Have Done, and What I’d Do Now

If I could replay that moment with a calmer brain, I would have created distance without turning it into a chase. I would have backed away slowly, kept my body facing the boar, and used trees and rocks as barriers while I retreated. 

I would have made myself larger, made noise, and avoided quick movements that trigger pursuit. Running can flip a switch in an animal that was otherwise minding its business, and I learned that in the most uncomfortable way possible.

Afterward, the Forest Looked the Same, and That Was the Creepiest Part

The part that stayed with me wasn’t even the boar itself. It was how quickly the forest returned to looking peaceful, as if it hadn’t just scared the life out of me.

The pines still glowed in the sun. The palmettos still rustled lightly. A bird called somewhere deep in the trees like nothing had changed.

Amanda and I sat in the van with our coffee cooling between us, and neither of us rushed to go back in. We talked quietly about spacing, timing, and the mistake we made by splitting up without radios or a stronger plan for quick contact.