It Lurks Among the Pine

As I write this, the mountains seem so dark and damp from the freshly fallen snow; too early in the season to settle on the forest floor. Incandescent yellows and fiery orange leaves climb the mountainside in broad strokes among the primarily piney wood.

Sprinkled in white, the dew of the now melting snow creates a glistening effect on all it touches, bringing each warm autumn color to vivid life yet darkening the shadows of the forest depths to a blackened abyss. As I look from the window into the darkness of the moss-covered pine, I can't help but fantasize about what creatures lurk here.

There are the typical beasts; sleeping bears, stalking cougars, a doe, and fawn treading gently through the mercilessly loud crackling of the dried brush. There are also the less common creatures, so few and far between, that proclaiming to have spotted one of these fabled monsters would bring the witness's sanity into question. I must admit that the latter is what ignites the fire of my passionate curiosity. It has also been the cause of my lifelong misery.

I constantly find myself in pursuit of a truth only I seem to seek. But the vivid color of this glorious late autumn day reminds me of my purpose and why I've chosen to isolate myself so deep in the wilderness of the Kootenays. Teetering on the brink of winter, back when I was barely old enough to form a sentence, I had the most extraordinary encounter with a dragon in the Rocky Mountains.

I was four years old. It was November 2nd, the day after our first heavy snowfall of the season. Low-hanging clouds floated lazily through the mountain-scape, and the dew of the melting snow highlighted the vibrancy of every color in the wood beyond our small log cabin. I remember the colors fascinated me. The vivid reds of the mountain ash berries in the backyard, the beauty of the fiery orange leaves falling delicately from the trees, and the mysterious pine still sugar-dusted with the remains of the first snowfall. The late autumn foliage was a perfect addition to my collection of childhood treasures.

I can't recall how I was able to wander so far into the property without my parent's knowledge. Evidently, neither could they. The next thing I do remember is being near a little creek buried in the wood. With my focus on collecting the choicest leaves, crystalline rocks, and fallen pinecones, I had completely lost track of where I was or how to get home. I was lost and paralyzed with fear. Then I heard the weak cry of a small child in distress.

I looked all around but couldn't find the source until my eyes finally came to a small mound of snow floating in the creek. Only it wasn't snow, as I soon discovered, but the head of a woolly mountain goat that was desperately trying to keep itself from submerging in the icy cold water.

It had a bony white face, black beady eyes, and was gulping for air, tongue hanging to the side in exhaustion. So weak it seemed that it floated in place, not even bothering to attempt freeing itself any longer. I vividly remember feeling intense compassion for the creature and fearing it would drown if I didn't try to help it, but I stood no chance. There was nothing a small child could do.

I carefully approached the animal but kept my distance until I saw the source of its entanglement; wrapped around its horns were a few pieces of stubborn weed. The goat hadn't enough sway to free itself, and the water appeared too deep for it to find its footing to climb out. From my angle, as childish as it seemed, I thought I'd be able to tear the weed out, and the animal would then be able to swim away to more shallow waters.

I grabbed a fallen branch and twisted it into the strands, eventually causing it to tear and fall into the water. The goat was free, but my efforts were in vain. It had exhausted itself beyond repair and had not even moved an inch before it began to sink. Then I noticed something else move in the murky water that did not appear to be the mountain goat. It was long, spiny, with bright white hair. It breached the surface and twisted and splashed all about the animal. In an instant, the mountain goat let out a spurt of bubbles as its head submerged under the surface. Its wild eyes stared at me as both it and the white serpent sank out of sight.

What unearthly creature had I just discovered in the water? And what fate had I just condemned this poor mountain goat too? I had been hanging over the edge of the shoreline, staring blankly into the creek, hoping the woolly goat might remerge. I stood up to leave when it seemed all was lost.

Then I felt a tug on the cuff of my pant leg.

Thinking I had snagged myself on the weed, I shook my foot but only became further ensnared, causing me to fall and slip back toward the water. I grabbed the weed along the shore and clung desperately to it. For a moment, I could turn my head to see the source of the snare.

There it was in all its horrific glory. What I had thought was a helpless drowning animal was something else entirely. One long, monstrous claw with talons like a snowy white owl had reached up and caught the fabric of my pant leg. Attached was the hulking torso of a white mountain lion. Attached to that was a thick, elongated neck that shot straight up and hooked downward to reveal the face of the woolly mountain goat. Its eyes, once wild with fear, were now ravenous with hunger. Its mouth agape and snarling revealed rows upon rows of daggered teeth, its tongue licked about its lips in anticipation. This creature did not want to be saved; its pathetic cry was simply a lure to draw me in with curiosity. I was now its prey.

Just as I felt it might be the end, my body rose and thrust into a pair of strong arms, which gripped me tightly, and with the most agonized, unearthly scream, the body threw its whole force forward to kick the beast away. It was my father.

He kicked again, but when he did so, the pulling sensation on my leg turned into a sharp, excruciating pain. I shut my eyes and screamed out in agony. He struck the beast again, but it would not let go.

It happened all at once. With one final blow to the creature, I felt a painful release, heard groaning and snarling as the creature splashed about, then all sound faded away, and the whole world went black.

When I awoke, I had to come to a grim realization. My left leg had been completely torn off just below the knee. I had escaped the beast's clutches but only just. If not for my father, I certainly would have fallen prey, and there would be no one to tell the story.

When I recounted my memory of the incident, no one would believe me. Not even my father would accept the truth of the attack.

"It was a cougar," he'd say... or a bear... or a badger... or a lynx. He had listed nearly every type of predator in the Canadian wilderness before he would dare admit the truth. This was no common beast. He felt an extraordinary amount of guilt, no doubt, and deep denial about what had transpired that fateful day.

Life changed drastically after the incident. Relearning how to walk was excruciating, but the scars on my family's hearts caused even more pain. We moved from our tiny cabin back into a little townhouse in the city's core, away from nature and all its wonders.

My father drank to dull his senses, and my mother scarcely left the house. It was a look filled with shame and despair whenever they glanced at me. Guilt for having let me out of their sight. It left a permanent mark on our once joyous household.

When I was thirteen, my parents divorced. My mother eventually remarried, and my half-brothers and sisters brought back a bit of peace, at least for her. It was a welcome distraction from the pain my presence caused. My father eventually passed away due to hard living.

All of this misery, and yet I still can't regret the childish mistake of wandering too far from home. In all my life, not one legitimate claimant has come forth to make an accurate account of the beast I saw that day. I am the only one.

I have lost many. Family, friends, and lovers. But none of them know what I know, the truth I've dedicated my life to revealing to the unbelieving world. I'm an old man, they say, delusional, but I have never had such clarity of mind as I do now.

This will be my last trip into the wild. I will only return if I have the head of this white-water dragon, or it will leave with mine.

If you're reading this, my story has either made it to a global stage, (or more likely) I have succumbed to my adventure, and you are the lucky individual tasked with finding my remains.

If you choose, take all I have collected and continue the work. You'll find my current findings in the cabinet near the fireplace. It is a noble profession to seek the truth of life's mysteries, and it is necessary, especially in the face of willful ignorance.

If I fail in my mission of uncovering the truth about this beast, I pray that I have created a strong enough foundation so that you can discover, and destroy it, yourself.

May God keep you and protect you.

P.S: Mind your feet along the creek.