Frog Hunting Gone Bad or Me and Red Meet the Sasquatch

Bullie · #1 06-30-2010, 04:35 PM

My Therapist had me write these events down in an attempt to cleanse me of my PTSD. I think it worked because I am fine now. Thought I would share it with you nice folks. This is the story of Me, Red, and the Sasquatch.

"Never seen one of these tiller handles break like this" said the greasy old mechanic, "this old motor is made of steel. What did the boy do, twist it with a pipe wrench or something?" My father glanced at the old Chrysler outboard he had inherited when my grandfather passed away then at Ready Red and me. He let out an amused snort and replied to the greasy mechanic, "The boys say bigfoot chased them." I looked over at Red in an attempt to avoid the teasing tobacco stained smile of the mechanic. Actually, it had been an Arkansas Sasquatch (we always pronounced it Sask-wah-ch) that chased us, not some common bigfoot. And, I had broken the tiller handle while twisting it in the wrong direction while trying to throttle down as Red and I were very rapidly closing in on the boat landing behind our cabin after our latest frog hunt. "Well," the still smiling outboard repairman said as he wiped the excess tobacco juice from his chin, using his noticeably darker right forearm, "I might not be able to find a new part for this old kicker, but I'll fix her up somehow for ya. Keep them boys away from them bigfoots alright? hehehehe". I heard a partially muted and totally non-humorous "hehehehe" from behind me. I turned to Red and could see by his expression that he was also a little agitated by the mechanic's mirth. At that time, we had not talked much about that fateful night's frog hunt on Mud Lake. And now, nearly 30 years later, I still get chills when I recall the night Red and I almost gave up frog hunting forever.

That frog hunt took place in the summer of '81. I was 12, Ready Red was half past 13. At that carefree time in our lives, we spent ever moment we could at my father's cabin in Arkansas. The cabin is on an oxbow of the White River, deep down in the "flat as a pancake" Mississippi River Delta. In front of the cabin, as far as your eyes can see, are seemingly endless cotton and soybean fields and behind the cabin, miles and miles of rich hardwood bottomland. Lakes are scattered in broken chains throughout the huge expanses of hardwood timber, and at the edge of all that timber lies the White River itself. It was a veritable paradise for Red and me. (This large expanse of timber company land later became the White River National Wildlife Refuge.) In the summertime we would begin fishing at dawn, soon after, the white hot delta sun would begin broiling us. Oppressive heat and humidity baked the smelly gumbo to our jeans or bare legs, the overly abundant mosquitoes raised crimson whelps in every small opening in our coating of mud. It was paradise I tell you! After spending the long summer day not catching fish, Red and I would remove all unnecessary equipment from our jon boat just before dark, leaving only our spotlights and .22 rifles. We would then go inside the cool cabin for supper. I loved suppertime. Supper usually consisted of whatever fish my father and his buddies had caught, french fries we made from real potatoes, and hushpuppies all prepared in the big cast iron pot on the back porch of the cabin. After dinner, Red and I would lounge around waiting for it to get "good and dark". Good and dark was gradually taking on a new meaning for the two of us. That summer marked our 2nd year of frog hunting by ourselves and we considered ourselves to be veterans. So, we were now actually waiting for darkness to arrive to begin our hunt. We had also graduated from the electric trolling motor and paddles we used the previous summer to what we called "the big motor". It was an 8 hp Chrysler outboard passed down from my grandfather. Red and I were now a frog hunting force to be reckoned with!
The outboard was ancient. It was white where paint remained, had no cowl, and looked like it could not possibly run. It would in fact run, if halfheartedly, if you knew the process required to start it. My part of the cranking process consisted of turning the throttle wide open, wrapping a cord with a knot on the end around the flywheel a few times, standing upright on splayed legs in the center of the boat, and giving the cord a stout jerk. Red had commented that there were two stout jerks involved with in the cranking process, but he was always rambling on about one thing or another. It was always a good idea to remember to place the gearshift in neutral BEFORE jerking the cord. It was my experience that even an eight hp engine could accelerate faster than a person could sit down and steer. Since this time manufacturers of outboard engines have taken some of the fun out of fishing by installing a gizmo that keeps people from experimenting with inertia and accidental acceleration in boats.

Red's involvement in starting the engine was a bit more defensive. He would begin muttering threats at about the same time I started winding the cord around the flywheel. He would perch on the outer reaches of the bow, as far from the engine and the soon to be snapping cord as possible. The little 12 foot jon boat we used did not allow him much room to retreat. He had learned early on that starting the engine required me to jerk the cord as hard as I was able which turned the knotted end of the cord into a bullwhip of sorts. On the increasingly rare occasions when he forgot to block or fully retreat from the cord when it arched over my back he was rewarded with a whelp and later with a small, almost perfectly round, bruise. Whenever he was not given enough notice to avoid the knot, Red would gently remind me to let him know before I jerked the cord by screaming out "AAAAAAAAUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!" and charging my end of the boat, his eyes filled with pain and malice. Sometimes I got lucky enough for the engine to start at the same moment the knot made contact with his back and I became quite good at rapidly shifting into reverse to offset his progress towards the rear of the boat. To this day, Red watches me carefully whenever I start an outboard and sometimes even has to be coaxed down from the bow of the boat. Something traumatic must have happened to him before we met to make him so skittish. Poor boy.

After the engine was started, it had to be kept at almost its highest rpm to remain running, it would not idle. So, if you attempting to motor along at a slow speed every stump or other underwater obstruction caused the engine to sputter and die. Then the whole cranking process had to be repeated. Maybe not the most convenient setup ever, but it was great step up from the trolling motor we had used the summer before.

On this fateful night, Red and I had managed to wait an hour or so after dark to begin our hunt. We pushed the boat out into Green Lake and started the engine. Red kept his spotlight pointed fully into my face until he was satisfied that he would not be receiving another stripe on his back from the starting cord. We motored slowly down the narrow oxbow, searching the bank for the huge bullfrogs on the delta can grow. When we located a frog, I would turn the boat toward the bank and line the bow up with our target. Red would lay on his stomach across the front seat of the boat, one hand directing the spotlight into the frog's eyes while the hand remained poised to the side waiting for the precise instant to shoot his hand forward to grab the frog before jumped into the water or was run over by the boat. The engine would die the moment I released the throttle. Red would pull the frog from the muck as I quickly paddled away from the bank. We tried to avoid tarrying near the bank due to the large population of copperheaded water rattlers that call the lake banks home. Red would then smile and hold the big, mottled, smelly frog by its middle for me to admire while I readied the outboard for a restart. We always had a cooler full of ice and drinks in the center of the boat and Red would toss the frog into the cooler and slam the lid down quickly. The frog would bump and thump against the lid for a few minutes until cold in the cooler sapped his energy. We were proud of this process and we considered ourselves the originators of frog catch and release. If we did not have a good night froggin' we would let our sluggish but very much alive frogs go when we returned to the cabin. We followed had followed the winding lake bank for a mile or two, long past the last cabin, when we decided to drink a soda and feed the local population of mosquitoes. We switched off the spotlights and total darkness surrounded us. We drifted about on the lake for a few minutes swatting bugs and discussing our strategy for the rest of the hunt. "Red," I said, "Green Lake is hunted out. We only have 3 or 4 big ones. What cha say we paddle through the run-out and into Mud Lake?" We had never been into Mud Lake at night before and getting there involved traveling down a very narrow winding channel between the two lakes. The channel was filled with cypress knees and stumps, rotting logs, and other obstructions. Being relatively new at operating the outboard, I was not confident enough to motor through this area even during the daylight hours. Red was just as nervous as I about being so far away from the cabin and our traditional hunting area, but also wanted to bring in a few more frogs if possible so he said "ok".

We paddle slowly down the channel, a bit unnerved by the confining ditch and the towering cypress trees crowding around us. We heard animals running away from the channel and deeper into the woods. We would look at each other, laugh nervously, and say "deer" or "coon" and then paddle a little faster. We used the paddles as push poles to get over the cypress knees that were just below the surface of the dark water until we finally made it out into the open water of Mud Lake.

I fired up the engine and we took out. We immediately started seeing frogs! One after another, Red plunked the big stinky frogs into the cooler. We turned off the engine and the spotlights and drifted for a moment to celebrate our success and drink another soda. We dipped the cans down into the warm dark waters of the lake to rinse off the frog slime. Barred owls sang their slightly spooky songs back and forth to each other from each side of the lake. We were enjoying ourselves immensely, laughing and talking about our good fortune when we heard the first screech.

EEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! Echoed across the river bottom. Soda shot out of Red's nose in great Nehi grape rush. Again, EEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! was heard from the near shore. A huge gar splashed on the surface of the lake close enough to throw water into the boat, thus adding dampness to our terror. Damp terror is one of the worst kinds. "Wha ,wha , what was that?" Red stammered. "I donno" I whispered as I switched on my spotlight and began sweeping the bank with it. Red soon followed suit. We had the bank lit up like the opening of a Broadway show, checking out every shadow and every cranny on the lake side. We had both homed in on the reflective eyes at about the same time. EEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!! The third squeal almost caused us to drop our lights. We stared at the shore then at each other for a moment. We could make out tufts of long brown fur around the trunk of a cypress as the creature peered at us. Its wide spaced eyes were a menacing red glow approximately 8 feet off the ground. Another of the piercing screams echoed the woods. Red had dipped his paddle into the water and was moving us away from shore, his hand still in a white knuckled clutch on the spotlight that he had trained over my shoulder, its harsh light illuminating the woods and the creature behind the cypress tree. Red mumbled, "I , I think it's a Sasquatch (Sask-wah-ch)! I heard they got em over here." I looked over my shoulder one more time to see where the creature was, and then began looking in the bottom of the boat for the starting cord. I quickly looped the cord around the flywheel, stood up, spread my legs out wide, and as I was jerking the cord, asked Red "Is it coming?" From the front of the boat I heard a loud AAAAAAAAUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!! and his light quickly changed directions, hitting me full in the face. I was blinded and the Sasquatch was coming for us!!!! The engine hadn't started so I quickly wrapped the cord around the flywheel for another pull. I pulled the cord as hard as I could this time arching it over my back so hard it cracked like a whip. AAAAAAAAUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!! again from the front of the boat!!! "On no!" I thought, the creature must be getting closer for Red to be that scared. The engine sputtered and caught on that pull and revved loudly. Blue smoke billowed into the air as the little motor hit its maximum rpm. I turned my light back to the front of the boat, Red's eyes were wild and darting from me to the woods and back again. The sasquatch must be getting close! I heard a loud splash near shore as I throttled down slightly to shift into gear. The boat lurched forward just as another scream filled the delta air with more terror. I twisted the throttle as far as it would go and the boat sped up the lake and soon planed off, cutting a white line through the dark water. As I neared the run-out between the two lakes I remembered that I had never motored through this stretch of water, even in the daylight. Another equally terrifying thought entered my mind, while in this channel the boat would be mere inches from either bank. It was the perfect Sasquatch ambush point!

"I'm gonna try it!" I yelled to Red over the straining engine. He had a look of terror and malice (?) in his eyes. He still had his paddle clutched in one knuckled fist, his spotlight in the other. He trained his light up the narrow channel as we entered our dark gloomy escape route. The sides of boat were very close to banks, too close. The Sasquatch could be waiting up there anywhere! I was hoping he would attack the front of the boat. Suddenly, the boat lurched sideways then the engine sputtered and died. The Sasquatch had us! I saw that we had only hit a submerged stump just as Red's paddle began thrashing the water into a froth. Red had turned his back to me and was down on his knees stroking alternately down each side of the boat. And, the boat did not seem to have slowed down. We were possibly even picking up a little speed. "The engine is dead!" I yelled up to Red. "Crank it, Stupid!" he yelled back. His arms and shoulders were a side-to-side swaying blur as he stroked the paddle. And that's when I smelled it. I had always heard that Sasquatches had an offensive odor and now I had one close enough to smell it! That stench had to be coming from something as scary and disgusting as a Sasquatch. From the intensity of the smell I thought that there might be more than one of the creatures closing in on us. I wrapped the cord around the flywheel as quickly as I could. My back was to Red when I jerked the cord with all my strength. AAAAAAAAUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!! Red screamed from the front of the boat. As I whirled around to sit down and shift the outboard into gear I yelled, "Do you see him?". Red stared back at me, that strange look in his eyes again. I figured he was still scared so I twisted the throttle up as fast as it would go. We shot out of the ditch and into the openness of Green Lake again. I made for the cabin at full throttle. Water splashed up the sides of the boat, adding to the dampness the gar had left there. I realized I could still smell the Sasquatch and guessed that they must hunt in packs and had somehow surrounded us. How else could I still smell them? I twisted the throttle a little harder.

We covered the mile or so back to the cabin quickly. Red looked over his shoulder at me every once in awhile and his eyes had a funny look to them. He was obviously terrified. When I made the turn toward the cabin I could see the lights inside and their light made the shore look so inviting. I tried to twist the throttle to slow down. It wouldn't turn!! It must have become stuck wide open because I was holding it so tightly. I turned the handle with all of my 12 year old strength and yet another terrible thought seized me. We were going to hit the shore at full speed! I twisted again and felt something in the tiller handle break away, but we still did not slow. I tried turning the handle to the opposite direction to loosen whatever was holding it and the engine slowed just before we slammed into the bank. Red timed the boat hitting the bank perfectly and jumped several yards up the slope. He sprinted up to the cabin with me on his heels. I skidded to a stop when I entered the cabin. Red continued on to the bathroom, to further hide from the Sasquatch I guessed. I stopped and caught my breath, then told my father and his friends about our adventure and the Sasquatch. I didn't mention the broken outboard until the next day.

Years later, when Red and I could finally discuss the happenings of that night without our voices quavering, I asked him if he smelled anything unusual on our speedy trip back to the cabin from Mud Lake. He denied smelling anything. And, he said that he only rushed to the bathroom because of the gar and something about clean clothes helping him to relax after a scare.

Skull13 · #2 07-08-2010, 04:31 PM

Reminds me of Pat McManus, best outdoor stories ever.

Chief RID · #3 07-10-2010, 02:31 AM

Great tale. Well done!

Bullie · #4 07-11-2010, 08:49 AM

Thanks guys. True story............................................. ............... pretty much.