Four Toes
In the fading light of a November sunset, dirty water swirled inside a four-toed footprint. It lay in the soft mud of a hunting trail, twice the size of my boot. Another squishy impression rested within the shadows of palmettos and pines. “Hey, Dale! Look at this.” I fixed my stare on the weird shape in the muck.
“Hold on a sec.” The sound of a closing zipper came from behind a longleaf pine.
A flight of doves screamed out of a distant grove. My gaze darted to the place from where they had fled.
Dale ambled out of the brush. He tucked his shirttails into his jeans. “What’s up, Junior?”
I rubbed my eyes, still searching for movement in the wilderness. “Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry, J. P.” Dale smirked. “There are worse things than being named after your father.”
“Screw you,” I replied, but with no heat in my voice, because he wasn’t wrong. “You’re the wildlife expert. What kind of track is that? Bear?”
Dale rubbed his blond goatee. “Not a bear. They’ve got five toes.”
“Panther?” I asked.
“Too big to be a panther, and the heel pad isn’t right.” He squatted beside the print to get a closer look. “Well, unless there’s a boy scout troupe pranking us, it must be a skunk ape.”
“A what?”
“Skunk ape. Bigfoot.”
“Baloney.” I guffawed. “There isn’t a gorilla living in this swamp.”
“Not a gorilla, dipshit. Bigfoot. Folks call them sasquatch in the Pacific Northwest. Here, they’re called skunk ape because they stink.”
“Bull.” I shook my head, but curiosity got the better of me. “Why do they stink?”
“Poor hygiene.” Dale nodded. “They live underground in stolen gator dens. Methane gets trapped in the den.”
I hesitated. Dale seemed certain about his conclusion. “How old is the print?”
Dale squished his hand in the mud. “Fresh. Compare it to my handprint. See the sharp edges around both?”
“Yeah.”
“An old print has round edges. It rained earlier, which would’ve ruined it.”
“So, this print . . .”
“A few hours old at most. Might’ve happened right before I stopped to take a leak.”
“Okay. Now I’m freaking out.”
Dale stood, wiped his hand on the thigh of his jeans, and leered. “People get lost in Big Cypress. Never seen again. Maybe a skunk ape got them.” He pointed his chin at his ATV. “But we’re safe. Got a hog gun.”
“How come nobody’s recorded one on video?” I pulled my phone out of my pocket to take some photos.
“Oh, there are videos. Most folks think they’re fake, just like the snapshots you’re taking.” Dale strolled back to his four-wheeler. “And nobody wants to find a new endangered species. It would mess with the money flowing into Everglades restoration.”
“You’re crazy. Nothing that big can live out here.”
“That’s what most people say about panthers.” Dale shrugged. “Come on. It’s still a couple of miles before we make camp.”
The autumn light cast long silhouettes along the path. A gust of wind laden with the funk of swamp gas whipped through the pines. I shuddered with the sense of something watching me. “Yeah, let’s find some shelter.”
Dale sniggered. “Shelter? Out here?” He pushed the starter, and the ATV growled to life. “There’s no cabin. Got a tent, but the ground will be too wet. We’ll string some hammocks to keep dry.”
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I couldn’t tell if it was me or my ATV that snarled in response. We rode for a good half hour before we reached a spot where the pinelands transitioned into a prairie dotted with foraging marsh rabbits. True to Dale’s prediction, we couldn’t pitch our tent.
“How about a fire?” I swatted a mosquito. “To keep from getting eaten alive.”
“Smart folks in our line of work don’t attract attention.” Dale grunted. “Use the bug spray, genius.”
By the time Dale had strung our hammocks, I set up our cooler and camp chairs. We dined on cold Cuban sandwiches and Budweiser and talked for an hour before crashing for the night.
* * *
I woke under the setting moon, my brain fuzzy from sleep, but sensing that something was wrong. A cicada song thrummed, a pulsating call and answer across the prairie. A swirl of stars formed an ethereal canopy, the Milky Way Cluster a streak in the sky.
Swamp gas mugged my nostrils, a fetid, nauseating reek. A beast emitted a low-pitched growl. I turned too quick toward the sound, fell out of the hammock, and landed on my side, the fall stealing my breath. Squinting in dark, I could barely see a hairy behemoth caught pawing through our cooler.
My heartbeat pounded in my throat. A skunk ape stared at me, a snarl on its mud-streaked face. Long, lanky brown hair hung off its hide, like a wilted chia pet. It yanked its arm, trying to free its hand from where it had become stuck.
I spent several breaths lying on the soft ground, water seeping into my shirt and jeans. My brain kick-started into action. “Dale!” I scrambled upright.
“I’m awake.” Dale’s LED lantern bloomed, bathing our camp in light. He stood behind his ATV with his rifle. The creature growled, shying away.
“Holy crap.” I leaned against a tree. “We caught a skunk ape stealing our food.”
Dale harrumphed. “Not food. Beer.”
A dozen empties lay in the mud. “No way.”
“He went back for one too many. Got stuck.”
“How?”
Dale shrugged. “Caught in a bungee cord.”
“What do we do?” I asked.
“Depends. Want me to shoot him?”
A lump stuck in my throat. We couldn’t kill a helpless animal. “No, I guess not.”
Dale smirked. “Want to take him home?”
I shook my head. “Get real.”
“You’re right. No pets over six hundred pounds in your apartment. Guess that leaves one option. Stroll over there and set his drunk ass loose.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? You cut him loose.”
“I’ve got the gun.”
My face fell. “Fine. How do I do it?”
“With kid gloves?”
“Thanks for your help.” With cautious steps, I approached our captive guest. “Easy, big fella.”
The sasquatch’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. His stench was an outhouse in August.
I crept to the ATV, keeping its bulk between us. Shock cords entangled a wrist thicker than an oak limb. Without thinking, I reached into the trailer, yanked the cord toward me, and unhooked it from its anchor.
The skunk ape shook off the cord and bolted. It staggered, bounced off a tree, and zigzagged into the brush. Within seconds, it disappeared. A beer belch echoed through the woods.
Dale lowered his rifle. “Good job, Junior.”
My hands trembled. “I’m done camping. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Dale chuckled. “Yeah, if we don’t leave, he might come back for the dope.”
