Condemned

            The tent used when the kids were little was a two-room monstrosity. Zipping together a partition could separate the two sides of the tent. This served our purpose for a number of years, but I guess even camping gear has a life expectancy which seems to run out at the most inopportune moments.

            The kids would sleep toward the back of the tent while we would sleep near the front. Over time, a small hole started at the seam near the ground in one of the back corners. Of course, the kids could not leave it alone. One of them would always pick at it a little more as they fought sleep gradually making it bigger.

            Late one night as we slept, the weather made a turn for the worst. Clouds rolled in accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder and lightning flashed on the horizon. The wind rustled leaves as it brushed the treetops. The sounds of the approaching storm stirred us somewhat but did not really concern us. This was not to be the first rain weathered in a tent nor the last, but it would become one of the most memorable.                                      

            The breeze stiffened to gusts of wind. Trees swayed and our tarps snapped sharply above the tent. Drizzle at first, the rain soon poured from the sky in blowing sheets through the campground. Bright flashes danced across the sky illuminating the forest for moments at a time. Thunder echoed endlessly off the mountains.

            During this deluge, it happened. A strong gust grabbed the hole just right and ripped it all the way across the back of the tent. Rain poured in and the wind caused the tent to come alive. The sides and top would blow outwards and then back in. When I awoke, the tent appeared to be coming down on me. A startled cry escaped my lips as I jerked to a sitting position and looked around. It was a terrible way to wake up.

            Hurriedly, I threw shoes on and ventured outside into the lashing storm to see if anything could be done about the tent. In no time, I was drenched and it was not looking good for the tent either. There was no way to fasten any stakes or line to the ripped canvas. My only option was to move the tarp over the tent down to cover more of the exposed rear. To do this, I had to untie the ropes holding it. The wind thoroughly enjoyed itself at this point making it no easy task getting the tarp situated again. The tarp was whipping around like a canvas sail torn from its mast.

            Finally accomplishing what had temporarily seemed impossible, I sloshed back inside. My ex-wife had faired little better than I. The rain had created puddles that joined together to form a small lake within the tent. She now had all the driest blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows piled in the center of the tent. On this pile, we all huddled for the remainder of the mostly sleepless night.

            The next morning dawned with clear skies. Besides the tent, the only evidence of Mother Nature’s fury the night before was small tree limbs littering the campsite and a few things blown off the picnic tables. After a close inspection of the damage, it was decided this tent had made its last trip. We could stand at the front and look straight through out the back. I think it took most of the day for the sun to dry our soaked gear. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was free from rain.

Attempting to find humor in the whole situation, I tore a piece of cardboard from a box for a sign to hang over the front entrance.

It said just one word, “Condemned”.

Nocturnal Aviators

           The campfire had been burning for some time evident by the large mound of glowing embers under the flaming logs. Dinner long over and smores demolished, we sat in chairs around the fire talking and laughing. I do not remember the exact topic of conversation, but with kids it usually jumped around quite often. One of their favorites was trying to come up with scary stories or retell ones they could remember.

            The difference this night would be something seen vaguely in my peripheral vision. It was a sudden and momentary movement just beyond the light cast by the fire. For just a second, something was there and gone. A few minutes later, I saw it again appearing to move in a different direction. I soon began to suspect it was not my imagination. Something alive and elusive was toying with me knowingly or not. Through the laughter and boisterous talk of the kids I picked up another sound seeming to occur immediately after each appearance. It was similar to the noise created by lightly slapping an open hand on a picnic table.

            Interrupting the conversation circling the fire, I asked if anyone else had seen or heard anything. When prompted, I described it in more detail resulting in a reaction not altogether unexpected. Convinced I was making it up in an attempt to get them spooked, the kids did not believe me and returned to their youthful laughter. For the next hour or so, I kept seeing it – almost – and hearing that faint slapping noise. With my flashlight, I looked and looked, straining the beam into the nearby trees where I could have sworn I just saw it.

Remaining elusive, I was about to wonder if indeed I was losing my mind when the faint sound broke through during a momentary break in everyone’s voices. All eyes looked at me and then peered into the darkness. Almost in unison, there was a mad scramble as flashlights were scooped up and beams of light resembling searchlights quickly illuminated the woods around us.

            After much searching of branches and dark recesses of possible thick–leaved havens, lights slowly went off as things returned to normal. Nothing else odd was seen or heard that evening. I believe whatever it had been was scared off by the “Fourth of July” illumination of its dark world. Its night vision was probably screaming in agony.   

            Cup of coffee in hand in the early morning light, I looked through a couple of my field guides in order to explain the previous evening’s visitor. I knew what I had seen was not my imagination running rampant and wanted to prove it as best I could.

The answer discovered was a little known or thought of creature. It did not come to mind because I had never seen one before. In fact, guess I never really saw this one either, just a glimpse of it’s flight.

            I came to the conclusion it was a Southern or Northern flying squirrel. Though both are less than fifteen inches long, the latter is the largest of the two. They do not really fly but can glide nearly 80 feet by using the flap of skin between the fore and hind legs. Alighting lightly, they immediately dart around to the opposite side of the tree in case their landing was followed by a predator. This would explain why we saw nothing, no matter how many times I thought we were shining the light on the correct tree.

The former is more common in the lower 48 states with its range extending from Oklahoma and Texas up to Minnesota and east across the country from Florida to New England. The Northern species is found mostly in Canada but also in the extreme northwestern states, Great Lakes area, New England, and a long finger extending down into the Smokies along the Appalachian Mountains. Both species eat mostly nuts, acorns, seeds, berries, and some insects though they have also been known to eat smaller animals. Their call is faint and quite often mistaken for birds.

Next time darkness creeps upon you and sounds of something lightly slapping trees is heard, do not let fear get the best of you. Remember it is more than likely one of the nocturnal aviators of the wild.

Skunk Hill

             After crossing Abrams Creek near the western end of the Cove, there is a gravel turnoff to the right leading to the parking area for the Abrams Falls trailhead. The slope to the right of the parking area has for several years been referred to affectionately as Skunk Hill. Quite often near dusk, skunks had been seen waddling around on this hill as we drove through the Cove looking for wildlife.

We decided to stop and walk around on the hill looking for possible holes they would use as burrows. Before thinking we were crazy to be looking for the homes of skunks, keep in mind it was mid-afternoon. From everything we had read and heard, skunks were nocturnal. They would definitely not be out with the sun blazing overhead.

            My memory fails me as to why, but my mom elected to stay by the car. So, my dad, sister, and I set off into the calf-high grass armed with cameras and binoculars. It seems we never went anywhere in the mountains without them.

            Near the top of the small hill, we found a hole about a foot in diameter. There could have been more, but this was the first one we came across. At close inspection, this could indeed be the entrance to a burrow. The grass around the hole showed signs of being worn recently and claw marks could be seen around the edges. The difficult part was knowing whether or not the resident was a skunk. We could not be exactly sure.

            Being a young boy, I poked at the opening and threw things in it. My sister was saying I was going to get us all “skunked”. While chastising me for my actions and telling me to “cease and desist”, my dad kept reminding us that skunks did not come out during the day. We had nothing to worry about. Or did we ?

            As we stood there looking around at the scenery, sudden movement in our peripheral vision jerked our attention back to the ground near our feet. We were startled to see a dark nose sniffing around just at the edge of sight in the hole. Moments later, a dark head appeared with eyes black as coal. Temporarily frozen in place, we realized the head was not just dark. It was black and we could see the start of a white stripe behind the ears.

            “SKUNK !!!!!!”

            I am not sure if any of us actually screamed this word, but it was reverberating in my own mind. A brief pause of shock was followed by simultaneous action as we ran and stumbled back down the slope. I remember looking back once and seeing the skunk bounding along behind us. My imagination gave the little mammal the speed of a cheetah just knowing he would be upon us at any moment permeating the air with an awful smell. 

            To my mom standing by the car, it was quite comical. The three of us were running like a mountain lion was after us, but the only thing she saw was a little black mass in the grass. If it was chasing us, it definitely was not gaining ground. It dawned on her what it was and the humor of the situation sank in. We were being run off the hill by a skunk. Bursting into the parking area, she insisted we stop right where we were. She feared we had already been sprayed, but we assured her that was not the case.

            Breathless with hearts racing, we looked back up the hill. The skunk was now wandering aimlessly around. Other things had attracted his attention and we were completely forgotten. From that point on, we never took anything for granted in the wild. Even in the wilderness, there are exceptions to the rule.

Excerpt from Under the Smoke