The Hogzilla of Florida
Gigantic Feral Hogs and the Thin Line Between Exaggeration and Reality
Feral Hog
Every place has a creature people swear they’ve seen.
In Florida, it’s not always a skunk ape or a swamp monster. Sometimes it’s something more familiar. Too familiar.
A hog.
Only bigger than it should be.
Smarter than expected.
And always just out of sight.
They call it Hogzilla.
Where the Story Starts
You hear about Hogzilla inland. On backroads.
At feed stores. Leaning against tailgates while the sun sinks low and the mosquitoes get bold.
Someone says they saw it crossing a dirt road at dusk. Another swears it flattened a fence like it was made of twigs.
A third claims it stood eye-to-eye with a truck hood before disappearing into the trees.
The details change. The size grows. The distance shrinks.
But everyone agrees on one thing.
That wasn’t a normal hog.
Florida’s Very Real Hog Problem
Here’s where the Tall Tale gets complicated.
Florida does have feral hogs. A lot of them.
Descendants of pigs brought over by early explorers and settlers, they’ve gone wild in the most literal sense.
They breed fast. They adapt faster. They tear up land, destroy crops, and vanish into palmetto and pine like smoke.
A full-grown feral hog can weigh 200 to 300 pounds.
Some grow bigger.
Much bigger.
So when someone says they saw a hog the size of a small car, the room goes quiet.
Because everyone knows how fast stories grow. But everyone also knows what hogs are capable of.
That’s where Hogzilla lives. In the gap between exaggeration and reality.
Sightings Along the Backroads
Hogzilla is rarely seen in daylight.
It shows up at dawn and dusk. Crossing narrow roads where headlights catch only pieces of it.
A shoulder. A bristled back. Tusks that seem too long.
Farmers talk about fields rooted overnight. Deep trenches carved through the soil.
Corn stalks snapped like matchsticks. Fences bent outward, not broken in.
Hunters tell stories they never finish.
Tracks wider than expected. Sounds in the brush that didn’t move like deer.
And then there are the ones who won’t hunt hogs at all anymore.
They say some things are better left alone.
How Big Is Too Big?
Every Hogzilla story comes with numbers. None of them agrees.
Seven hundred pounds.
Eight feet long.
Tall as a man’s chest.
Someone always laughs. Someone always nods.
Because exaggeration is part of the ritual. But so is experience.
Florida hogs don’t live easy lives. They survive floods, heat, predators,
and pressure. The ones that make it to old age are tough. Scarred. Mean. Built like something ancient.
And once in a while, one grows into a shape that doesn’t match expectations.
That’s all Hogzilla needs.
Large feral hog on a rural Florida backroad at dusk
Why Hogs Feel Different at Night
There’s something about hogs that unsettles people more than other wildlife.
They’re not sleek. They don’t flee gracefully. They don’t look curious or cautious.
They look deliberate.
Hogs watch. They test. They stand their ground longer than they should.
At night, with eyes reflecting light and bodies half-hidden in brush, size becomes hard to judge. Fear fills in the gaps. Memory stretches edges.
By morning, a large hog becomes a legendary one.
The Florida Way of Telling It
Nobody in Florida says they believe in Hogzilla.
They say things like:
“I’m not saying it was that big, but…”
“I didn’t see it clear, but what I saw was enough.”
“That thing wasn’t scared of me at all.”
The story is never told straight. It’s told sideways. With pauses. With raised eyebrows. With a laugh that doesn’t quite land.
That’s how you know it matters.
A Creature Born From Landscape
Hogzilla belongs to inland Florida.
To pine woods thick enough to hide anything.
To swamps that swallow sound.
To land that’s flat enough to distort distance.
In places like this, scale is deceptive. Shadows stretch. Silence amplifies.
The imagination fills what the eye can’t confirm.
Hogzilla doesn’t need to be one animal. It can be many. Or one that keeps surviving long enough to grow a myth around its tracks.
Why We Keep the Story Alive
Tall Tales aren’t about truth. They’re about meaning.
Hogzilla represents something real. The wildness Florida hasn’t paved over. The reminder that not everything out here belongs to us.
It’s a warning story. A campfire story. A backroad story.
It tells us:
Stay alert.
Respect the land.
Don’t assume you’re the biggest thing in the woods.
And maybe don’t drive too fast after dark.
The Thin Line Between Legend and Reality
Could there be a massive feral hog roaming Florida’s backroads?
Absolutely.
Is every Hogzilla story true?
Probably not.
But in a place where animals adapt fast, landscapes hide well, and stories grow roots overnight,
The line between exaggeration and reality stays thin for a reason.
Hogzilla lives there.
Right where Florida likes it.
Just believable enough.
“Florida Unwritten runs on stories, sunburn, and caffeine.
If you enjoyed this, you can buy me a coffee. No pressure.
Earl Lee
Florida Unwritten
