Eric and Tim go Camping

Ida is a village of less than three-hundred people that is located in Louisiana a few miles south of Miller County, Arkansas. It is about seven kilometers from an attraction known to locals as the Ida Hills. The Hills are a destination for campers and picnickers because of the scenic and distant vista from their steep bluffs. The bluffs rise more than one-hundred-forty feet above the ancient peneplaned course of the Red River.

Years ago my friend Tim and I camped out one night at the top of one of the bluffs. The area is heavily forested, the hills no exception. Tim’s large German shepherd, whose name escapes me, but I’ll call him Shep, accompanied us. Before it grew dark we could see all the way to the Red River and hear the horns of semis as they crossed the high bridge over the river.

Interminable forest in the valley below us nestled a small wooden church rumored to host voodoo ceremonies on occasion. There were also rumors of a crazed logger that wandered the hills, murdering anyone he encountered. We knew it was only a contrived story told around campfires, but it still caused us some apprehension when we finally turned off the lantern and darkness draped the spooky forest around us.

“No one will surprise us with ol’ Shep here protecting us,” Tim said. “Shepherds have the best hearing and sense of smell of any dog.”

The presence of Shep did give me lots of comfort as night sounds quickly engulfed us and I petted his big head before closing my eyes. I awoke sometime later, disturbed by movement in the vegetation surrounding us. I wasn’t the only one that heard it.

“What’s that?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know but it’s coming toward us.”

Shep apparently didn’t hear what Tim and I were hearing, or smell it. He remained asleep, breathing blissfully in the throes of some doggy dream. It didn’t matter because something was making lots of racket as it bulled its way through the underbrush towards us.

Oh shit! I thought. It’s the deranged logger and it must be a ghost or something or else the dog would hear it too. The only weapons either of us remotely had were our geologic pick hammers. We wielded them, shaking with fright – at least I was - and waiting for whatever was moving toward us to show itself in the tiny clearing where we had pitched camp. Finally it did.

The ugly marsupial head of an opossum suddenly appeared and the beast lumbered right up to us before Tim switched on his flashlight and shined it into the fiery red of his beady eyes. The startled creature took a step backward, then turned and hurried away through the pine forest.

Tim and I were relieved that we hadn’t had to defend ourselves against a ghost logger or voodoo deity. Shep never woke up. So much for the honed senses of German shepherds. Needless to say neither of us got much sleep the remainder of the night after realizing that we were protecting the dog rather than the other way around.

Fiction South