Up Close, They Are Monsters

It was my own fault. I brought it on myself. Serves me right. I started telling spooky campfire tales. I told 'em tall and terrifying, hoping to scare Susan, the young lady I was backpacking with, into my sleeping bag.

The campfire flickered. The small light was a safe place to huddle and tell stories about crazy things that happen in the woods at night. We were camped in a tree-choked gully in the Santa Ynez mountains. Live Oak branches formed a canopy that shut out much of the moonlight. The ground was carpeted with brittle, dry spiny leaves that crunched underfoot. Outside, beyond the light, lurked the beasts of the night.

"Anything could wander into our camp. Some say big cats escaped the Hearst Castle zoo and are still here. Leopards, lions, and bears, the food odors bring 'em in. They take what they want. The cats could eat you. Even a small brown bear can toss a big man like a rag doll. So you better hope you're not between a beast and what it wants."  

But my stories didn't scare Susan. 

"These are remote mountains. Not many backpackers up here; it's mainly hunters. Folks get lost forever in these mountains. In 1942 a B24 Liberator disappeared off Big Sur. When hikers found the wreck, the mummified bodies of the airmen were still strapped to their seats. Only the captain's body was missing. Some say he still walks these woods."

Coyotes yipped and barked in the distance. Susan shivered, arms folded, huddling inside her down jacket. She smiled but moved no closer. She wasn't buying my half-baked Jack London/Stephen King routine. Even my most lurid lies about hog wild deep woods crazies failed to move her. Susan was a sophisticated audience. She laughed and rolled her eyes in all the right places. She had a Master's degree in English and seriously appreciated the structure of my stories.

But Susan didn't budge.

I exhausted myself telling yarns. We spread our ground cloths on opposite sides of the dwindling campfire, far enough back to keep sparks off the down sleeping bags. My purple prose failed to lure Susan into even a snuggle. I resigned to sleeping alone.

I watched the galaxies slide above the oak branches, looking for shooting stars and satellites. A breeze blew rustling leaves. "If I told her the one about..."  I drifted into sleep.

Hideous! The monster's foul breath is wet on my face. Hair bristling, the fiend's slavering mouth is stuffed with massive crooked tusks. I can't breathe. The ogre's lethal red eyes radiate fury. This swollen evil creature will destroy me. I'm paralyzed, trapped, suffocating. I try to scream, but I can't hear my voice. I explode.

Suddenly I'm awake. The grotesque face remains in my mind. My fists are clenched, my back is arched, my legs are tensed to run, but I'm frozen in fear.

Nightmare!

I spooked myself. My skin crawls. I look at Susan asleep in her bag. I feel ashamed. The mighty woodsman, the big-time climber, the all-knowing backpacker has scared himself shitless.

But the nightmare gargoyle's grin was so real. I'm ready to fight for my life. Trembling, stabbed by the claw of an adrenal rush, I can't shake it.

Back in my bag, twitching at every breeze-pushed sound, berating myself for a fool, time crawls. I'm scared to look into the darkness, scared not to. My mind plays a litany of reassurances. "The woods are safe; it's people who are dangerous. It was just a dream. The woods are safe." Finally, I fall into a jittery half-sleep and doze until dawn.

Up at first light, I build a fire and warm my back. Then I notice something odd about the ground near my sleeping bag. The dark earth is gouged like it was tossed with a shovel. There are deep tracks in the dirt.

Oh God, it wasn't a nightmare; it was a wild boar!

Domestic hogs escaped the Hearst menagerie at San Simeon in the 30s. Hogs go feral in two generations. Now the whole Santa Ynez range was haunted by giant wild boars, some reaching 800 pounds. They're mean, stubborn, unpredictable, and deadly. Wild swine with razor tusks will charge, slash, and even kill.

I remembered the story of hikers chased up an oak by a wild boar. The beast circled the tree, ramming the trunk and slashing the bark all day and night. The treed hikers were in agony with thirst and cramps. 

Eventually, the damned pig just forgot about it and wandered away.

Closing my eyes, I saw the demonic brute's face drooling over me. 

Why didn't it maul me? Why did it run?

I said nothing to Susan. 

I didn't want her to know I was scared.