“There could be gators in there,” said the short round trucker in overalls. “Probably three footers.”

“Oh yeah?” I exclaimed.

Both him and his friend nodded their heads in agreement. The three of us were standing a few short feet from the swampy muck at the back of the truck stop. We had just met after I returned from relieving myself behind my trailer.

I rounded the corner and there they were: two short, oval, middle-aged locals who appeared every bit a stereotype of a southern hillbilly. They were standing next to their flatbed tractor-trailers on this unseasonably warm September evening.

It’s my nature to just start talking. So, I did.

I joked about the possibilities of there being snakes in the swamp, an unruly mixture of disgusting pea green liquid, long grass, garbage and mud. They seemed to be sizing me up for a few short seconds.

The talkative one then pulled out his phone and showed me snapshots of a skinned and mounted python that he’d killed with his shotgun in a town to the nearby south. He mentioned some specific detail about the gun. It meant nothing to me. I tried to look impressed.

Soon came the revelation about gators. The next photo was of a wild boar. They both assured me it was possible to see such a monstrous creature here in the dead of the night.

“They’re mean bastards,” the quieter one said.

I started to rethink my choice of truck stops.

“Sometimes you’ll even see a black bear,” the talkative one added.

“I’m not worried about black bears,” I chimed, enthusiastically. “We have those in Canada. I used to pass near the occasional one at my parents’ cottage. They’re not hard to scare.”

I had the upper hand now that we were discussing animals I knew, instead of creepy ones found primarily in the southeastern U.S.

“I’m only worried about grizzlies and polar bears,” I announced.

“I hear that polar bears are just as deadly as grizzlies,” the talkative one said.

I grumbled something about it being true as I glanced back and forth at both these guys, trying to get a handle on their possible backgrounds.
They weren’t rednecks, in my estimation. I see rednecks as gruff and mean. These two were rural and pleasant, obviously willing to engage me in conversation, however briefly.

Somehow the talk turned back to guns, hardly a surprise to me in these parts, where shooting and blowing up things seems to be an overriding obsession.

“I can’t carry a gun because it’s illegal for me,” I said, unsure if it’s true or not. Yet I continued: “I’d be fired and would lose my licence.”
“Because you’re not a resident,” the talkative one said, nodding.

I nodded back, still unsure if I had a clue about what I said. I was privately ruminating about my hatred of guns. “Plus, I’ve never really understood guns.” Quickly realizing that I might have offended, I added, “I get that you might need them to deal with whatever lives in these areas.” I pointed to the swamp.

The talkative one admitted that he didn’t care for the use of guns for everyday protection. This surprised me a little, and impressed me some. Then he had a good idea for me to protect myself.

“You know what you should get? Wasp and hornet spray,” he said. “That stuff will knock down even the toughest guy.”

“Really?” I asked. I didn’t know about its non-bug applications.

“Yeah. You just put it right inside your door and pull it out whenever you need it. You can get it at any Wal-Mart and it’s totally legal.”

I imagined how quickly I might retrieve it when confronted by a potential attacker. Later, I would contemplate the correct angle for effective spraying, the amount of time it would take to render the attacker immobile, and how I might finish him off with my long unutilized karate skills.

I mentioned the baseball bat that I’ve been keeping inside my passenger door, for arm and shoulder stretches, and possibly, when and if absolutely necessary, for saving my life.

“Is it aluminum?” the quieter one asked.

“Yup,” I said. They quickly agreed it’s a good weapon to have in the arsenal.

As we parted, I said I’d watch out for any and all of these animals when I did my workout later outside my truck. Despite our ‘getting to know you’ session, they looked at me with the strange sense of unknowingness that I’d become familiar with. Whenever I talk to rural white southerners – male or female – I get the sense they think I’m from another planet. I often wonder if it might be true. I’m certainly not from the same stock as them.

I walked away pondering why these guys parked their trucks face first, front ends toward the swamp. Typically, the face-first parking job is employed by latecomers to a packed truck stop. When and if they find an empty parking spot, they forego difficult chore of backing into a tight space in favour of simply driving in cab first.

I imagined these two guys would keep watch all night for a rabid boar, or the rare bear, either of which might somehow cause harm to them or their trucks.

The three of us were parked for the night in the town of Latta, South Carolina. It’s the perfect place to rest if you like a convenient and relatively quiet truck stop experience. There are two large truck stops there on opposite sides of the I-95, both with the Pilot/Flying J chain. Together they offer my favourite refuge in the Carolinas.

Latta is located conveniently within easy reach of freight hubs Charleston, Columbia, Fayetteville, Wilmington, and Charlotte. Plus, it’s a short drive to tourist haven Myrtle Beach. It’s also close to lesser-known places such as Timmonsville, Turbeville and Greeleyville.

Those towns are where you’ll definitely find snakes and gators, apparently without looking too hard. I know they exist even thought I haven’t seen any myself yet. I didn’t know about the hogs and black bears. There are also armadillos. Lamentably, I’ve seen mostly dead ones roadside.

After my long nap in my bunk and a typical ‘on the road’ dinner of smoked salmon and Greek salad, I quickly blew the dust from my cab’s floor with the air blow gun. That’s one kind of gun I can get onboard with. Then I changed my clothes in preparation for my workout.

I finally got outside at about 10:00. I’ve done a few hundred workouts outside my truck in my five-plus years on the road but this is the first time I’ve ever worried about a surprise attack from a wild animal. To this point, I’d only concerned myself with truckers driving too quickly, carelessly and needlessly near me as they searched for a parking spot.

I pondered which creature might emerge from the sewage and descend on me. This worry kept me alert as I proceeded through my warmup, jumping jacks, stretching, push-ups, kettle bell lifting sets, lunges and warm-down.

Nothing; not a sight of anything animalistic. But I did see the non-talkative trucker returning from the truck stop store. I took off my headphones. “I’m ready for the gators,” I mused. “Come at me, you bastards.”

He laughed and returned to his truck, possibly to resume his watch through the wee hours.

I carried on with the workout, determined like usual to complete the entire 45-minute ritual, without getting eaten alive … or shot at mistakenly, killed by accident in some local’s attempt to fell a bear, and hurriedly dumped like common truck trash into the boggy marsh, relegated in the afterlife to be ‘good eatin’’ for a hungry gator.