Happiness is a Warm Gun - June 20

CC and I jumped into the car on a whim and, after shoveling whatever food we could grab out of the cabinets into our backpacks, drove fast up the canyon. Started hiking at dusk, and got onto the rocky potion of the trail just as the colors started to fade. We used our headlamps, and with a few slips, made the southern camp at the Forks of the Kern at 11:00pm. No moon, but if you let your eyes adjust, you could make out shapes and movement. 

Maybe this is a story better told in person. Around a campfire. Deep in the woods, at night. But the short version is that while turning some circles at the camp deciding where to unload our packs and roll out the sleeping bags, a deafening, chilling, booming shriek echoed in the canyon. Was someone being tortured to death 100 yards from us? No, that howl wasn't nearly human. We killed the lights, dropped the packs, and pulled out our weaponry. Another cry. Another. The sounds didn't seem to convey movement, either nearer or away. Then another, and another, and another - maybe nine in all. The prolonged four-second cries conveyed warning, pain, rage, vengeance. The timbre said larger than a person. Large as a bear, but not bear. Not wolf, coyote, cougar ... not a raven? Not feline, not bird. Something semi-human, feral.

CC asked what is that? It reminds me of that guy we heard. On a previous day hike, we encountered a family on a Sunday drive with their late-teen autistic son. He spent the afternoon filling the otherwise serene woods with incomprehensible growling shouts at top volume. It was unsettling, and annoying, but it lacked something that this sound contained: menace. There was a nuance of evil in tonight's cries that melted the will. 

CC's mind pictured a werewolf. I saw someone taking a branding iron to a witch, and we were hearing screaming harmonies as both she and the demon within her vented their agonies.

Leaning into the dark with ears cupped, hoping not to hear the crunching of nearing footsteps. Five minutes. Nothing. I could see CC trembling in the dark. I reminded her that the barking dog is the the afraid dog - he's trying to scare you because he's scared. It's the silent dog that you need to fear.
This thing is between us and home, and we're not going to get any sleep tonight if we don't get to the bottom of this. We'd found a skillet on our way in at a fire ring, and CC armed herself with that and a knife. 
I told her, "I don't care how big that thing is, if it comes for us it's going to eat 10 hollow points. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil - for I'm the meanest thing in the valley." 

I'm the silent dog. I'm not making any noise and I'm coming for you now.

I got out my ultrabright cycling headlight, and we turned on our headlamps, and moved forward. CC was as courageous as anyone could have asked. I was really proud of her. We scouted the area, looking, stopping and listening, and didn't find anything. Maybe it was on the other side of the river? Maybe it moved off.

We went back and made our beds for the night, all the while stopping and listening. Before bedding down, I went out and listened for another long while. After bedding down, I slept with the Beretta in my hand. The mental echoes of those sounds was simply that unnerving.

That night we prayed, asking God to protect us from whatever that was making those noises, and to protect that creature from us. God, we're just here to enjoy each other and your nature. We don't want to be hurt or killed and we don't want to kill or hurt anyone or anything else. So, keep us and whatever that thing is apart from each other.

There's no answer to this story. The next day, I swam across the river and looked all around for any sign or clue, but didn't find anything. Sasquatch remains an elusive mystery.

Which is good. Because for moment, in the dark, I was prepared to empty a mag into his noisy piehole.