craig mitchell
19th April 2015, 02:06
"Does anyone have any monster type stories to share from personal experience?"
@OMG, How 'bout this one. I posted it today on Silkie's thread "The little beige people" (very interesting experience of hers!) but it probably fits here also.
So, ok, a bit long for a post but backstory is important. Excerpt from chapter 1 of my book that's in process. This is how my encounter actually happened.
:eyebrows:
Reversing my way along the edge of Texadas’ southeastern shore, (the wildmost side), where along the entire length only a few seasonal cabins adhere tenaciously like unhandsome blobs of bannock, visited apparently darned little by their human “owners”. In reality it was the mould, mice, coons, civet cats, and pack rats who actually resided therein, on, or under these rough quaint structures. Dwellings such as these few loners can be surprising as they appear out of an intensely forested seclusion, seemingly begrudged a purchase on slope, hollow, or petite promontory.
The water was nearly flat and the outboard, a 25 horse Nissan converted into a 30 horse by taking a tiny spacer out of the tiller’s twist grip throttle, allowing an important additional rotation and thereby an extra 5 horse boost, hummed along in that sweet spot of just up on plane but backed off enough to maintain an agreeable vibration that from long use assures me the best efficiency. At these times of calm surface, the hiss of water passing the inflated keel and hull, whispered non-verbal messages that I felt privileged to hear. Pressure was periodically maintained by a small foot pump with attachment to the inflation points, six in all. With this system, a rupture in one area, God forbid, wouldn’t send you straight to Mr. Davey.....Jones that is, as you could still float and limp, with diminished capacity, toward landfall if one were near. The red Hypalon skin of the Zodiac felt pubescently ridged yet yielding as I sat on the port tube obliquely angled to the bow, right hand on the tiller, instinctive to any correction needed to avoid the not infrequent log escaped from some boom, or an entire tree, branch and root, a half submerged leviathan giving only seconds warning if my continuous scanning picked it out in time.
I knew that the long slow advance of dusk at this latitude,would provide time for a leisurely perusal of the convoluted shoreline while looking for a proper landing and camping spot. The landing requires an approachable shore, free from the danger of drying rocks. I’ve watched boats run aground abruptly against rocks just under the water that become “dry” at low tide. Also I would need a proper place to temporarily beach the Zodiac unmolested by fallen trees or jagged stumps huge, old, and tangled. For loading and unloading at the waters' edge, oyster beds with their very sharp shells, the bane of soft sided hulls like mine, were a constant nuisance; if sliced along a side air chamber, you’d have real trouble. I understand that oysters are a delicacy for many, but as for me, I don't give a fig.
It’s a fact that I’ve long been particular, even picky, concerning the location of “camp”. In my view camp has a feminine nature and can be nothing more than a one night’s stand of comfort and convenience, or a week or two requiring more commitment, subtly, and satisfying features. It always needs to feel right, the location chosen, after all it is home for however short a time. There is nothing wrong with being picky, just don’t inflict it on someone else…unless of course they aren’t the discerning kind. In that case, you may as well step up and do the picking. Is this arrogance, or much worse, male privilege? Oh, well! I actually grok that, even agree that there’s a real and crippling truth there that binds male and female in a nasty unequal embrace. I digress and etc. but time spent in these waters does cause the mind to drift like a tree off tether across the deep.
My god, this Texada Island has an unmistakable beauty and strange energy to it. Yes, I was feeling it again, as usual, especially whenever I neared the southern end. What was it?…the land mass wasn’t much: fourteen miles stretched North to South and two to three miles in width, it dwindled to a roughed and rangy southern end escarped by vertical cliffs strewn in laterals from a couple hundred yards to perhaps a half mile long. Ah, just there, I believe marks the quarry. This place may do well. Small concavity of shore surrounded, even crowded, by a thick mixture of surprisingly tall alder, maple, and even cherry, closely backed to the base of steep, convoluted cliffs rising another 50 feet above the tree tops. Squeezed between the cliffs and sea, these trees grew thick and tall competing for the sun, and reminded me of baseball fans standing with arms waving in the air, vying to catch a long hit foul ball.
With the bonus of a small sand spit shaped a bit like Texas, forming in the lee its own miniature gulf, we’ve shelter from prevailing wave patterns. Caspar has already figured out we’re landing and is all aquiver, his whip-like tail in action. He jumped up onto the short bow hatch where I stow our gear, ready to leap to land at first opportunity. Throttling back, we settle comfortably deeper into the clear, now shallow water. I cut the engine, pulled it up, and locked it in place with only the blades of the prop carving a small wake. My usual routine is to sit on the soft bow, dangling the feet of my hip waders, while the boat drifts in until I can ease myself onto the bottom, buffering the hulls’ impact to a soft crunch.
Turning to give Caspar the o.k. sign, he has already shot past my shoulder and is on a run of inspection…dog business. The tide, at mid point, neither here nor there, will be fine for the temporary work of unloading the bare necessities for a modicum of comfort. In my mid forties, unlike Caspar, I need a few niceties to sleep out here, like my small self- inflating air mattress, light sleeping bag, and above all mosquito netting to insure against nightly deprivations by mosquitoes, black flies, no-see’ums, and other n’er-do-wells. With a glance around I’m already seeing bear sign on the ground, and deep fresh scratches in the soft bark of a birch about as high as I can reach.
There apparently aren’t grizzly in this area, but black bear are common. The public, due to graphic press stories have learned to add. Dog and man stories can be so heart warming. Dog plus man on a walk: dog runs into bush and encounters bear, dog runs back to man closely followed by bear, dog runs behind man, man plus bear equals pain. Our moral here is that dogs with no manners can be a pain, but ill mannered bears even more so. But I carry no firearm and have never needed one’s assistance, neither from man nor beastie bruin.
After beaching the Zodiac a little more surely, I started a short scouting trip. A word here about routines, check lists, habituals, or perhaps call them protocols: One of life’s bug-a-boos, they can free a person or wrap us too tightly. When used in moderation, (and this is not a drug lecture) protocols, once intelligently created, are a boon of organization, the necessary corralling of minutia, and for myself, an aid to multitasking. And so, I’m off on my brief scouting trip to find a small rise with view for the night’s bivouac. Even a moderate elevation will catch what breeze is available and help keep the winged varmints at bay. Add in a flattish spot, enough to just stretch out on, and you’ve wrapped the bun.
While sneaking through the woods, an old habit learned at my fathers knee, (The Old Sneak we called him), protocols or routines may keep tabs on important clues such as firewood and their particular properties, fresh water, the ripening of berries, the inconvenience of widow makers, the droppings of animals and their species, local gnarly vegetation such as Stinging Nettles, or the aptly named Devil’s Club to illustrate a point. (An inside joke for those familiar with this plant. It is singular in its irascible, contusion causing, cantankerous attitude, with thorns at stalk, limb, and leaf; a fit of flora and friend to none.) Ah, there, just off to the left, the thing perfected, my Paradise Lost; I have found it! If this sounds almost giddy, well hey, it had been a long day, and hunger is stalking and stabbing. Following downhill my faint track through the undergrowth toward where the boat was beached, I stepped so as to quash the thick grass and ferns to make the path more discernable. After several trips packing gear upslope for the nights stay, a spasmodic path was carved out in the low growth, and I was then able to whip together a fine campsite.
I’m very visual, and to tolerate a merely average camp site, with the whole of the Georgia Straight and Inside Passage available for perusal is just not my style. I worked my camp routine: Made the fire ring, cached firewood nearby, laid out the sleeping area, boiled water for tea, cooked some surprisingly good growlies, and yes I fed the dog first. Now for the evening’s amusement I ensconced myself on a hillock, a copse of devils club at my back, and got quiet. Dogface circled himself three times and lay nearby as if he knew what was going down. You’ve got to admire the little smart-ass.
As dusk deepened to almost dark, from behind her veil, with her hidden hand, serendipity gestures. Scheduled as if from above (and no argument here) a large sleek cruise ship out of Vancouver, bound for Alaska, slid from behind an island a mile and a half mile further out. The air was so clear I could make out passengers on deck silhouetted by soft light and barely discernable music. “Ain’t life grand”, I muttered to…well, myself, ......you know, the one who’s always listening. After what I call “filling the well” with images of the softening beauty of nightfall, then fumbling by starlight, Hairsuit and I made the short return to camp. And stars, let me say, that the Milky Way looked more like buttermilk that night, so thick and chunky and bright. The dark of the moon, best for sleeping out, and the stars subtle light when I get up at night to pee, is my endearing favorite.
From the stash of firewood, I replenished the now feeble fire. Crouching and poking embers longer than necessary, unmindful of the closeness of the thick variegated bush, my mind began to take stock. Mentally going over the anchorage, I’m soon satisfied it’s properly done. Working out the method for these waters with their sixteen foot tides required, naturally, “field testing”, a euphuism for little **** ups, and that’s fine so long as they’re not too serious…but that’s another story or two, (o.k. perhaps three) though not for now, but maybe later if you’re good.
The method is interesting, I think, so in brief here goes. When anchoring by myself I first drop an anchor with buoy attached of appropriate size and shape in exactly the right place and depth. Why is exactness so important? Correct placement insures that with the ebb and flood of tides occurring twice per day the vessel is neither stranded on the bottom at ebb, (which is a big drag for everyone) nor is it raised beyond the length of the tether to the anchor, causing the craft to be slowly upended and sunk by its own bow line. (Which again is a drag since you lose boat, motor, gear and your return home!) Lastly, the anchor can drag across the bottom, seriously shifting the location of the boat. Now, a yacht will have a “tender”, a small dingy thing with which you can communicate to land by oar or small motor. In our case I devised a loop of line snap-swiveled to the buoy, so that from shore I can draw the boat to me across the water from the anchoring buoy. Or, reversing this procedure, I can slowly pull the Zodiac from shore out to the anchorage and buoy where it remains in its safety zone. Then simply tie the shore end of the loop to an immoveable object and not something that will be dislodged by flood tide.
At fireside, I felt a vague discomfort and passed it off as a residue of mentally taking stock, but when the dog growled his way into my consciousness, discomfort turned to mild alarm. He probably smelled bear, though he hadn’t growled before. Tiredness made me impatient, I didn’t need a bear encounter. I watch Mr. Blakenwhite pace, doubling back on himself a few times. Something must be moving but not too close. Caspar appeared to be focusing away across the far side of the firelight, toward the trees near the base of the cliff.
A loud “THUD-CRACK” startled dog and man and I recall how we both riveted our eyes upward and outward. Immediately I knew that a large rock had hit high in a tree breaking a large limb, and then tumbled downward in several loud consecutive concussions, ending in silence. Caspar was immediately more animated in sound and stance. A large rock? This did not make sense. I have spent a fair amount of time in places not unlike this and know there is a randomness to nature where things happen just because it’s time. A limb cracks off a tree from age, rot, or injury, a rock rolls after months of teetering due to erosion, a deer stumbles and falls. (It happens!) But this was unprecedented. I have heaved rocks the size of a bowling ball from a cliff into the top of close standing trees below and I know what sound it makes.
O.K, probably it was loosed in some natural process and pitched over on its own. I put it down to that….except Caspar was growling beforehand. O.K…, a deer dislodged a large rock while circumventing the ledge above and the dogs’ acute hearing picked up it’s light step. Yes, a chain of events both logical and not too far fetched….I accepted that. However, dogface is still growling which was unusual for him because he’s been trained to respond only if something warrants, not for his own amusement. Given the circumstances, it was appropriate behavior. “Caspar, come” I called and tapped the side of my leg. He returned to my side and leaned against my knee while I told him that it was O.K. and stroked his flank. “It’s O.K.” is one of a handful of handy expressions any dog should have in their vocabulary; immediately they’ll know they’re doing right. At least this eliminates pesky bears and a night spent alternately waking and sleeping. And then, THUD-KRACK!!!! Another one!! Holy ****, that startled me more than before! Breaking limb, tumbling rock, and the heavy deep thump of a large object hitting the ground at the cliff's base. A repeat, except in the details, takes this unlikely event a step beyond logic.
“I don’t think so”, I said out loud. 'Not twice in 5 minutes, not a REAL clumsy deer, not a bear digging a den, not Wiley the friggin’ Coyote', I thought. “No Way!” was my next eloquent retort. Caspar left off his growling to stare at my outburst, then back at the….the…This is out of line, beyond probabilities, though I’m still hanging on to logic. Logic is grand; it solves problems, analyzes, and keeps us out of trouble in so many ways. The problem with logic is twofold. Firstly, one clings to it when it’s clearly not working, though at the time how would we know that? Secondly, it can deal only with the known. Logic is linear thinking , sequential, a step by step reductionist approach to problem solving performed in left brain mode. It is actually a great tactic when repeatedly applied like a battering ram until the barrier falls, the logical connection is revealed, and the mind races straight away to the conclusion. This is typicaly left brain domaine; left hemisphere function allows analysis with sequential pattern recognition. It also relates to visual acuity, having to do with the eyes receptors of the cones and rod structure. The cones in our eyes (a left brain corollary) allow for a concentrated intensity of one pointedness, and in that sense; it is the hunter within. Rods allow for field vision, allowing more difused perception and admit the maximum amount of light in the typical right hemisphere wholeness; it is the being within. In evolutionay necessity, women have more rods and men have more cones. Within the context of the barrage from above, I was being forced to switch alternately from left to right hemisphere understanding, from outward to inward, jumping perceptual systems constantly in my attempt to grasp what was happening. Fortunately, we have it all, this Male-Female self. And as William Blake's poetry states, "Time and Space are real Beings, Time is a Man, and Space is a Woman". But, how can logic be applied to things outside of the known, the agreed on parameters that enclose the apparent reality? Not every eventuality gets covered, like a blanket pulled up to the chin, by the tidiness of logic.
On the other hand, (to make a hemispherical harlequinade) right brain thinking is wholistic, synthesizing multiplicity in a field-awareeness approach to knowing . It defies the the rules of conventionality, allowing us to know in an all-at-once authenticity. It is there for us in an over-arching way, ready if we can access it's intuitive leap. And yes, there are rules we are not privy to, dimensions beyond, strange organisms at the bottom of the sea, new planets found in space. (Don’t worry they weren’t lost after all, we just sharpened our perceptions a wee bit) All this said, I pursued logic still.
Still….it is still again……the dog also….minutes passed and no sound. Thank Heavens it’s over, and I realize that I really need to sleep now. But then a few hundred feet to the left, same altitude, another big THUD!!! A larger rock slams into a tree trunk, not breaking it but striking heavily, and then again, before its weighty ground impact. The concussion was strong enough to make me imagine the whole tree shivering with the blow. O.K.… location change, same type of event, this can only mean some thing has moved laterally on the precipice and has resumed throwing large heavy rocks. A small grasp at this likelihood doesn’t last me long. Though possible, it is not at all plausible: in the dark, no moon, only starlight, no habitation anywhere near, someone with a flashlight (I’m allowing for that), is purposely doing this idiotic behavior in very coarse terrain, at great and immediate risk? Rather far out I think.
And again the violent concussions, the crushing and breaking of limbs always ending in the heavy thud or smash at ground level. The incident kept repeating, differing only in location, and again, and again all along the precipices’ boundary. The bizarre attack moved laterally back and forth, and was maintained at the level of the cliff tops, never above nor below. In the dark, the calamitous cascades etched in my mind a detailed sonic map of the varied shape of the escarpment that I had viewed earlier in daylight from the water. Minutes would pass between bouts, with at times even a ten or twenty minute spacing. Being so far outside of the realm of logic it called out for a response in kind. And so, I stood facing the black escarpment and just mentally/emotionally tuned in to whatever was causing the uproar. What I received through the intuitive faculty, was of a being, not quite human, lonely, disturbed by my presence into what it felt was its territory, and striking out to drive the intruder away. Sasquatch, I wondered? Not knowing what else it could be, I pondered between assaults. Surely there could be other explanations for the strange phenomenon but none came to my tired mind. I have talked privately with a professional cruiser, logger, and faller, who described the eerie feeling of being watched from not far away in the thick bush in British Columbia’s interior by something he knew was not human but was certainly there. He was a man I trusted and knew to be a straight shooter and of solid character. Was I experiencing this kind of creature? Caspar never let up his growling watch, stayed always alert, hardly even paused in his watchful pacing. The aerial harassment lasted for hours. The booming crash and break, the thudding cascade through large tree limbs, and then the silence between fusillades, was exhausting on the nerves and psyche. Accumulated fatigue, both emotional and physical, had gutted my reserves. Logic has a hunger to explain, but it fled this starvation. Now, bombardments must finally come to an end, and this one did, though not through normal means.
I’d about had it by this point, exhaustion pressed me hard, frustration knotted to anger, and then a most peculiar creature emerged. One strange character indeed, and not from without, but from within me, an aspect of self I’d almost forgotten. Knowledge and action arrived simultaneously, causing me to “shape” an elemental with my intent and mental energy. Ask me today what this “elemental” is and I could explain it reasonably well, but at the time, I would have been hard pressed to fashion anything but a fumbling answer. I have heard that under exceptional duress we humans are capable of the most curious abilities. I then sent my strongly formed “it” through the blackness and distance to the top of the cliff. “Take care of it” pressed out from my mind with a most potent intention and “its” instruction was complete. In short, (and with hindsight), I was engaging with the elements/ beings as allies to intercede in my behalf with the Sasquatch being. These are real things, the elements and those living on the 2nd dimension, and are entirely willing and pleased to work with us humans. With the help of the 2nd dimensional ones, I was speaking its language in other words, and once it (he) realized I could communicate in this way, the story changed radically. I was no longer perceived as a threat, an outsider, an interloper.
I stood exhausted and just stared, well back from the fire pit, whose light had previously illuminated the comfort of the known, now appeared a barrier to my perceptions. The bashing, crashing in the tree tops left my mind and thoughts blurred, but mostly I just did not care any more. I was just too darn tired. Minutes passed in the smallness of tending the fire, checking the wood supply, pacing the short semi-circle of uneven path trodden in the grass around the fire pit. The enclosed fire and its worry- path so poetically inscribed the zone of the familiar versus the other, the comfort of containment versus ruthless intrusion, consensus reality versus it’s opposite outside the throw of flickered light.
Suddenly the reverie of troubled contemplation broke and I perceived the complete change. Silence. But this silence was more than usual for the wildness, more like an after-the-event kind of quietness that takes some time to dissolve back into the normal muted nightness. I glanced over to my bivouac and found the dog asleep, curled and sidled to the downy puff of my sleeping bag. Quicker than I to let the intensity rest, my canine bell weather was quicker to adapt, and breathing deep and contented in that dog-zen of his complete present, Caspar slept. I took the hint.
Late night, no, early morn now, it was perhaps 3 o’clock in the a.m. Exhausted in the living of a thoroughly varied day, I slipped under the army surplus mosquito netting, (a companion for years on similar outings where its thin barrier makes all the difference), and slid into my light bag. I reach out giving Caspar a pat and stroke, including him in the inner sanctum, tucked the netting under the ground cloth where I had disturbed it, and rested my head on an improvised pillow of boots. It’s in the details, the difference between a fondly remembered outing and chaos turning to disaster. With lessons learned in mind I made my last quick check: a still calmness in the night prevailed, dark of the moon, stars galore, no sounds, not a hint of wind. All good signs. Now quickly before sleep, I programmed the unconscious mind to wake me if conditions merit, and then drifted off to sleep.
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