Another
creature of the night that caused a few surprises was the raccoon. Although usually content with hanging around
just out of sight, ready to go for the garbage once the lights went out,
raccoons have caused some stunning encounters, due almost entirely to bad
timing.
One
snuck up on Danny while he was demonstrating how he could catch a catfish with
his home made spear (read: pointy stick) until it was only a foot away from
him. I casually mentioned, "Dan,
there's a raccoon right behind you.”
This was the last casual thing for quite a while, as Danny suddenly became
Samurai Fisherman, and the masked mammal dove for the swamp amidst the
screaming and swinging.
In
my mother’s youth, her Uncle Ackie used to trap raccoons occasionally, and then
keep them in a cage at the camp for a brief and observation filled couple of days,
before releasing them. One night he not
only caught a raccoon in the trap, but also a skunk.
Yay.
Well,
the only thing less pleased than the skunk was his new roommate, as the raccoon
with impressively poor timing was sprayed continuously the entire evening,
leaving only enough breathable air in the whole campsite for two sparrows and a
cricket. They did try to keep the
raccoon after releasing the skunk, but my Aunt and Grandmother seemed to think
not being nauseous was more important than studying nature, so Stinky had to
go.
During
my youth, an entire family of the little bandits once decided to attack the
owner's dog at the precise moment that an unseen aerosol can blew up in her
campfire yielding an impressive fireball which added greatly to the animal and
human screams which had been occurring.
Again,
yay.
This
created a combined sound like an operating blender full of weasels being
dropped into the middle of the Battle of Gettysburg, bringing everyone running to
add to the general (if mostly normal) levels of confusion.
While
occasionally startling, the wild raccoons never generated as much fear as some
domestic furry friends.
By
far the most feared four legged animal Up the Lake was a dog, but not all
dogs. Due to our frequent walks to the
Three Mile Stand at the end of the dirt road (about three miles away for those
of you not mathematically inclined) we knew all the dogs in the area.
From
Chico, the Chihuahua in his cute little house with his name on it, to the two,
big, furry, indistinguishable sheepdogs, we'd met and pet them all. Most were
very friendly, in fact Red, an Irish Setter who would usually accompany us on
part of the journey, was a little too friendly.
One
night, as a bunch of us guys were conducting a complex, covert, clandestine,
spying mission on the girls on the beach, Red showed up out of nowhere, and
"introduced" himself to one of our crawling soldiers. Sadly, the mission had to be aborted, as the
sounds of someone being molested by a canine companion, and then swatting at
said companion while loudly (and accurately) defining its ancestry, tend to
carry on the crisp cool evening Lake air.
While
this was terrifying for the victim (and pretty dang hysterical to the rest of
us), other dogs inspired true fear in everyone.
Cindy
stopped so fast, that her back legs passed her front in a clumsy little ballet
move, and then trotted back home, leaving us to restart our hearts, and pray we
brought extra underwear that week.
Beastly
though Cindy way, she was no match for the most horrifying dog of all in the
history of Up the Lake: Flash.
Flash
lived across from our entry gate, and was a monstrous, jet black, hound of
hell. As he would come ravenously baying
down his driveway, stunned campers would dive into the little wooden building,
used as a phone booth, and patiently wait until he had finished asserting his
dominance before even peering out.
One
day he trapped upwards of seven hundred and fifty of us in there.
His
reign of terror came to an abrupt and anticlimactic end, however. On this terrifying occasion, the black beast
from the pit came tearing out of his driveway between Nick, and the phone
booth. The dog was in a full charge at
Nick when, either by instinct or sheer blind luck (the element that kept most
of us alive up there) Nick pointed behind Flash and commanded, "GO
HOME!" in a loud, if unconvinced, voice.
Flash,
much to everyone's surprise (especially Nick) turned around and walked quietly
home, hanging his previously feared head.
Once Flash's Kryptonite -to mix super heroic metaphors- was found, he
became much less of a threat.
While
not nearly as dangerous as the dogs, this last animal encounter is so far
beyond strange…
So
far beyond bizarre…
That
it can only be classified as "Up the Lake.”
A
little ways down the dirt road from our gate was a farm. For many years, there were horses there,
which the campers would walk over to, and feed crab apples and such.
Big
thrill, eh?
During
my childhood, the horses left without a good bye or even a forwarding address
and were replaced by sheep. It was to
this farm that the newly teenaged Nick and I walked on that fateful day, along
with two girls who shall not be named to protect the innocent guilty but highly embarrassed. When we reached the farm's gate (the rest is
behind a rock wall), there was the one, lone goat
Hi-Yo
Billy ... never mind.
We
started feeding it some of the ivy leaves from nearby, which it ate, mostly
because, it was a goat.
At this point the girls, who were older than
us and should have "known better" based on later parental review,
decided that because the goat was devouring so many leaves he must be starving
to death. To save this poor little
animal's life, they decided to open the gate and let it get to the ivy.
Honestly,
I thought little lambs eat ivy, according to an old nursery rhyme about goats
and oats that never made much sense.
At
this point, Nick and I decided we wanted no part of this lesson in animal
husbandry, and went to sit at the side of the road up against the rock wall and
pretend we were elsewhere. While the
goat was cheerfully eating every leaf between Bangor and Tallahassee, one of
the ladies asked, "Can't you milk a goat?" and was convincingly
assured by the other that this was so.
As
Nick and I stared at each other in horror with the realization of "One
goat, many sheep,” she reached underneath the soon to be very surprised animal,
grabbed what would have been an udder in a much kinder and gentler world, and
squeezed.
The
suddenly highly uncomfortable male goat made a powerful, loud, and agonizing noise.
A
noise most likely very similar to one I would make under those
circumstances.
Then
he kicked sharply at his new arch enemy, which knocked her over.
At
that point, since common sense wasn't brought to begin with, total abject panic
took over, and we ran away in a cacophony of screaming children and bleating
livestock.
Unfortunately
for us, the farmer saw us run and recognized where we were from.
Unfortunately
for the farmer, the gate was still open.
Finally,
unfortunately for several passing commuters, thirty sheep got out and wandered
the small dirt road, blocking traffic until they helped the farmer lead the
sheep home.
So
with all the dangerous animal encounters up there, it was one stupid goat that
got us into the most trouble, including much yelling, an apology letter, and
general, soiled feeling.
The
farm has long since lost ifs farmitude, becoming a studio for a modern sculptor. With no other information, we always remind
the kids to take a moment of silence at the Injured Goat Memorial.
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