Before the lowcountry of South Carolina got to be a destination in and of itself and a culinary tourism area, there were a few of us slipping around the swamps of the Savannah and Coosawatchie Rivers, eating at small, Gullah-owned restaurants, barbecue joints, and gas stations that specialized in fried chicken livers and gizzards, mullet and pork jowl.  

I started bowhunting the lowcountry in 1999, and man it was something back then. No limits on bucks, more hogs than even the good Lord would care to count; turkeys at every bend, and lots of land that was still available at an affordable price. The area was filled then with characters. People that were hewn out of the massive live oaks and Spanish moss. They were hunting guides, timber barons, charter boat captains, smugglers and financiers. You never knew who was with you or whom you were sitting next to.   

The first time I ever saw a wild hog in the woods was on a hunt with my buddy, Craig Everetts, over on some land owned by Andrew Harper. Andrew was a man from a different era. He pronounced Harper as if it had three As and no R in it. He told stories of his family from the area around Garnett, Scotia and Estill that dated back to before the Revolution and a King’s grant, if I remember right. Craig is a long-haired transplanted country boy from Ohio I think invited me up to hunt with him on some land he had leased from Andrew. Now, this was the middle of July about a month before deer season opened in the Lowcountry and it was hot. I mean so hot your sunglasses fogged just looking outside much less getting out in it. Snakes even waited till it got cooler to move. Satan got air conditioning hot… 

We met one afternoon right before dinner at an old barbecue and meat and three place that used to be in Estill called Gators. Man, the hash and rice there was to die for! In any case, after a small dinner and a bunch of sweet tea, we headed off towards the property. I think it was a little more than 500 acres that ended up on the Savannah River around the famous Groton Plantation. If you don’t know Groton buy a copy of Jim Kilgo’s book, “Deep Enough for Ivory Bills.”

Craig dropped me off at a barely hanging on to a water oak deer stand which was above a corn feeder that looked the swamp. It was about 2 hours before dark. This was before bug tamer suits or thermacells so the mosquitos were thick as a wool blanket and just as suffocating. You could cut holes in the clouds with your broadheads. His last words to me were “shoot as many as you want!” So, when three fat little porkers came in 5 minutes later, two of them didn’t leave. By dark that night I had four down and I was out of arrows.

When Craig came back to pick me up that evening with the frogs croaking, the gators splashing, the mosquitos buzzing he gazed in wonder at the carnage. His only comment was “well, why did you stop?”

There was nothing like the freedom of the swamp back then. 

—Outdoors columnist James Pressley can be reached at pressleyoutdoors@gmail.com