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Night Of the Swamp Creature
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It was the long hot summer of '81. On our annual field trip we camped at Boggy Creek State Park down Boggy Creek road, route 134, south of Fouke, Arkansas. My name is Charlie Vickers, I attend Kilpatrick Elementary school in Texarkana, Arkansas. The teacher, Mrs. Bonner, calls me a class' clown.
Farm folks flock to this legendary state park by the bushel. Nature hikers, bikers and explorers navigate these creeks and foggy bogs searching for the elusive beast. The legend of Boggy Creek stories are told around girl and cub scout campfires. American natives say that it's a shape-shifting creature.
Somewhere in them dismal swamps and woods his clan coexists. Locals call this land the Lost Forest. It's full of mossy cypress trees and weeping willows. The Swamp Thing eats beaver, cattle, goats, domestic pig, wild boar, sheep and gator.
There has been an epidemic of mysterious vanishings. People and livestock have disappeared in this region for centuries. What sort of mythical beasts lurk in these mossy swamps and bottoms? Most likely, you have heard about the 'Legend Of Boggy Creek' or seen it at a drive-in movie during the 80's..
Hello, I'm the the narrator. I'm the non-typical six grader viewed as a nerd and menace. I bought prescription eyeglasses from Woolworth, on sale. My kindred migrated from Sweden and the Netherlands. My hair is golden blonde and my eyes are blue. The girls poke fun at my indigenous cow-lick. I got a limited edition Red Ryder BB gun last Christmas. Please don't tell Saint Nick that I was a naughty boy this year.
You see, I burned down the neighbor's barn last Fourth of July. A bottle rocket landed in the loft haystack. Tina Tucker skedaddled home, fast an antelope. Snitch! I had a few choice words for her -- snobby self. She told her father, old man, Bob Tucker. I got a lashing with the cat o' nine tails and grounded fer weeks. Labored the rest of the summer helping farmer Bob rebuild his stinking barn.
For sport, I shoot bothersome crow perched on corn stalks and sickle fields. Forgot to mention, papa bull-whipped me fer shooting the neighbor's cat, Jezebel. I rang her bell. The BB ricocheted off a corn stalk and lanced her neck after she pounced on a wounded crow midst the corn polder.
Oh, I picked up some jargon from my pa. Polder is a Dutch word that means river delta. We make homemade Edam cheeses from a hickory barrel. The milk comes from cows on our dairy farm. Uncle Elbert gave us the cheese recipe, he resides in Freisland, Netherlands. He carved me some Dutch shoes from driftwood. His other hobby is making Gnomes. Father thinks collecting Gnomes is queer.775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnsOQCCiJXA
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Well, I pleaded my innocence for shooting that fat cat. I claimed it to be a freak accident. My 4 power Tasco scope needed zeroed-in. It was my intention to shoot that cat, it jumped three feet high. Scarecrows are crow magnets. Dead crow attract cats, coyotes and turkey buzzards. They're a nuisance and always squawking.
Birds carry pestilences and plagues. Papa frowned upon me shooting Jezebel. He tanned me hide in the smokehouse. I grabbed my ankles as he swung. Good grief, I was shades of blue but I looked patriotic. That night, I was sent to bed without supper. Pa was obligated to pay for Jezebels veterinarian bills.
I labored in the polders from dawn to dusk. Papa was a dirt-poor farmer and Mason down at the Moose-head & Elk masonic lodge. Listen to my tale of the Boggy Creek monster.
“In the heat of the night, we camped along the muddy banks of Boggy Creek. Silhouettes of mayflies, moth, gallinippers, bats, lightning bugs, locusts, and June bugs eclipsed the full moon. Coyotes howled, bullfrogs croaked, snakes slithered, gators bellowed, beavers slapped the water, and crickets chirped. Luckily, we had mosquito repellent and zip-up mosquito nets.
The Texarkana Cub Scouts Of America donated tents and sleeping bags to Kilpatrick Elementary. Students slept in two-man tents; the scoutmasters, cooks, bus drivers, and school faculty received the deluxe models that could hold six people.
Positioned center of the campgrounds, picnic tables and toilet stalls was a large canopy awning. It was a shady oasis and retreat used for social group gatherings, picnics and daily events. A bronze cow bell dangled from a cypress tree branch. The school cafeteria staff rang it at dinnertime. Faculty staff rung it at reveille, taps, muster, and daily events.
There were numerous cabins scattered in the campgrounds, but the school budget deemed it too expensive for field trips. The scoutmasters and staff relived their childhood memories through the children. The Boy Scout troop leaders acted gun-ho! 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUihC06JMFH
Honestly, if ranger Randy calls me slugger one more time, I will run him through the wood chipper. He rants about Father's Day, how lame. I'm not whistling Dixie.775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXAhblvzAxV
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You would think that we were enlisted in the marines. We had to muster at red-dawn and dusk and do roll call beneath the Big Top tent. That canopy tarp read Big Top Circus. If Pee Wee Herman shows up, I'm out of here! If, frog had wings he would not bump his ass on the ground. Probably, they squandered the canopy from gypsies in a traveling circus. The fee probably, cost the price of a fat lady side show. Once upon a time, I peeped under a carnival tent tarp.
I lost my innocence that night. 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBGLFjbbsf5
The lion tamer was in a cage but not with a lion? Some freaky chick tattooed like a cat was lashing the lion tamer with a whip. She purred like a kitten and said some naughty words that I wish not to repeat. She was nude but covered in animal tattoos. 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGnFg8KbbG7
That ended my Big Top days that summer. I do not understood what mother meant by the birds and bees?
Taps commenced at 2200 Zulu. Twelve pup tents were divided, according to gender. There were three mascot teams: the red, blue and green team. The green team was nicknamed the woodchucks, the red team was called the otters and the blue team was the beavers. Officially, I'm a woodchuck. The creek flourished with bullfrogs, beaver, otter, crawdads, mollusk and muscle. Dams and dikes provided bridges to cross the creek. Fish would school up near the dams and critters knew this.
Squads competed in sportsmen events which included archery, axes throwing, apple bobbing, canoeing, exploring, and frontier survival. We constructed fish nets from Yuka plants using the roots for soap and the thorns for sewing needles.
Also, we learned how to make snares, pits and start fires using friction. My favorite event was the canoe race. Poison oak and ivy was not my friend. I broke out in hives and itched. When nature calls... well, I accidentally, used oak leaves to remove fecal matter from my rectum. It did not work too good, I left a Dag.
Yep, I got the pages mixed up in my Trailblazers survivors guide. Guess, the wind flipped the page. Simply, a case of mistaken identity but my butt itched like sin! No way, was I gonna visit the field medic. Butch showed me a cactus plant called Aloe-vi. He said that it would sooth the itch and burn. Ha, he wanted me to drop my briefs in front of him? Flashbacks of that circus side-show raced through my mind. Doubt that I will ever attend another social school function.
This wilderness is for the birds and bees. I'm no Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone. Hark, I see white smoke rising from them thar' woods. Could it be Cajuns cooking up a batch of white lightning? All required is a drum, burner, copper tubing, worm coil, condenser, thumper, corn, sugar, and yeast. Fer my school project I made a still on our farm. 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4ttSdV7WRx
Nobody told me that it was illegal.
Mr. Waits, the biology teacher, sampled the goods. His face turned beet-red and he hollered. He told me to see him after school, I sure did make a heap of doubloon with that still. Basically, I volunteered to come on this here -- field trip. I'm gonna scare the living daylights out of them city slickers. My Halloween costume is crammed inside grandpa Vicker's WWII olive-green sea-bag.775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnYN4pLeScT
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Two yellow school buses took us to Boggy Creek State Park. One bus for the girls and one for the boys. There was plenty empty seats to store your gear. Nine girls rode on the other bus that followed us to camp-hell roadside state park. Golly! This is gonna be real fun scaring the bloomers off them nitwits. OK, lets skip to the night of the swamp creature
After reveille we boiled some creek water in an iron kettle & tripod assembly. The hot cocoa rejuvenated my sapped body and gave me a spring to my step. Bobby Brower fetched the creek water. 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOiDQmjqFWr
Superstitious Sasquatch folklore don't frighten me, betcha them tall tales are a bunch of bologna. Probably, some old timers drinking too much moonshine. I hope that Bigfoot shows his fury face, I will kick him in the pills and piss on his big feet.775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS8p9nCqux1
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The day started OK, but things dramatically changed that sweltering summer night. We huddled around the campfire as embers popped like popcorn and glowed like zillions of fireflies. Troop leader, Randy Turman, broke out his acoustic guitar. He played some ole' classic song called 'American Pie'.
The lyrics sounded something like this, “I Drove my Chevy to the levy -- but the levy was dry.” That tune stuck in my head all night. Not to mention, he sang several John Denver songs over the campfire.They seemed lame to me but the chicks dug it.
We bonded over the campfire roasting hot dogs, marsh-mellows and listening to lullabies. Good grief. Luckily, he spared us some misery by not singing Mr. Rodgers neighborhood.
Next thing I remember, Randy conjured up some spooky story about the 'Legend Of Boggy Creek'. And, we were camped along the creek banks? It was time to make my move, as Randy told campfire stories about the swamp creature. I sat on a hollow stump infested with grubs near the campfire. My thoughts took me elsewhere, as I plotted to break away from the group.775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmhYnS2ycPQ
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Suddenly, the woods got an eerie calm, even the crickets stopped chirping. I got a frog in my throat, as I fantasized about the swamp thing. What if, the legend is true? Fear overcame me, I had second thoughts about taking a brisk walk-about into the outback. I'm no Steve Irwin. But the powerful urge to pull a prank nullified my fears of the creature lurking in them mossy swamp bottoms and creeks.
Faces were illuminated like jack-o-lanterns. A hoot owl hoots from the ceders bringing chills down my spine. Scoutmaster Turman has told Sasquatch stories before. Randy struck me as a slime-ball creep, but his campfire story sure spooked the tar out of me!
Assuming the crouched position, I wormed my way to my pop tent. The glow of the campfire flicking against the zephyr was a postcard moment. The crickets began to chirp. I fumbled for my flashlight inside my deep pockets. With flashlight in hand, I unzipped the mosquitoes net and entered.
I dug inside my sea bag and donned my costume that I wore last Halloween. Surely, the gang would think that I was a baby Bigfoot. Beware of the mother, parents carry their siblings on their back. I did my research on Bigfoot.
Playing in the sickle & rye fields, I honed my Bigfoot skills. I found a big stick to do some wood knocks when I collected drift-wood near the creek. My stick was concealed inside my sleeping bag. Exiting the tent, I zipped up the mosquito net. My pockets bulged with rocks. Everybody knows that Sasquatches throw rocks.
Like a swamp panther, I stalked the group as I navigated though dense sagebrush, mesquite and thorn thickets. Standing upon a ridge, I sized up my prey. Randy continued to rant about the Boggy Creek monster. Crickets chirped once again. Did they notice that they stopped chirping? Most likely, they were too scared to notice.
I waited patiently, like coyotes circling a steer. Scoutmaster Turman finished his campfire story. Now, it was time for some fun, to scare the dickens out of Randy and the gang. My expression resembled the, 'The Grinch That Stole Christmas,' that look. Methodically, I dug into my cargo britches and retrieved three big rocks. Taking careful aim, I targeted the campfire girls and boys.
I winded up like Brandon Backe and hurled a stone, it impacted the campfire with G-force. A bulls eye! Kids sneered at each other. Cleverly, I monitored their corny conversations from behind the bush.
“Bobby, did you see that?” Becky said. Bobby exhibits a blank stare.
“Yes, I saw and heard it, Becky,” remarked Bobby Tubbs.
“OK, gang, what caused that? If somebody is playing a joke -- it ain't funny,” said Becky.
There was a heap of rubbernecking going on, as I snickered from behind the sagebrush and timber. Next, I took aim at Randy's Gibson guitar. Suddenly, scoutmaster Butch appears, this time, I wind up like Nolan Ryan and add a little spit to the rock. "Inbound!" A hollow thump follows, guitar strings twang!
“Oh, no, look at my guitar, it's busted!" bellowed Randy. "John Denver autographed this guitar."
"Games are over, who threw that darn rock? Step forward or else!” Mrs Bonner said.
I chuckled and snickered like a woodchuck chucking wood. They looked like chickens with their head chopped off. They pointed fingers, accused each other of tossing the stones. Mrs Bonner steps forward and speaks, “Children, what on earth is going on, here?
Randy intervenes as mediator, after all, it was his guitar that got smashed. Butch looks like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Mrs Bonner, somebody busted my guitar, see it! John Denver autographed this guitar, see.”
Mrs Bonner cocks her Yankee-doodle head like a rooster, “OK, class, this is serious. Who busted this man's guitar? I expect an answer in five fracking minutes or we will leave at dawn!”
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Continuing with my story... the silence is broken like shattered glass. “Students, stop monkeying around! Roll call, please reply present when your name is called,” said the teacher.
My knees knocked and I experienced vertigo. “I did not toss that rock,” I thought.
I fetched my stick to do some wood knocks, “Thump! Thump! Thump!” Mrs Bonner paused like the tin-man frozen between an axes swing. Charlie Vickers was the last name called, I snicker.
“Did yaw hear that? Butch said.
Randy and the gang resembled granite gargoyle statues on top a medieval castle. Their faces look frozen in fear. They know a wood knock when they hear one. The children of the corn huddled around the campfire like ducklings. They know that Sasquatches fear fire.
“Did yaw hear that?” Becky whispered.
“Yep, that was a wood knock from a Squatch!” Daniel Taylor replied.
Daniel carried a big stick, “lets give her a few whacks against that thar' tree," said Daniel “Whack! Whack! Whack! The tree knocks sends chills up my spine. Opportunity knocks, I decided to do some return tree knocks. Mid swing, I hear three wood knocks. Spooky! Yellow urine dribbled down my leg into my shoe. I'm shameless, the wood knocks petrified the piney forest.
Kids scream. Mrs Bonner addresses the crowd, “Don't panic, children, maybe that was a red-headed woodpecker.”
“Hum, who is she kidding,” I think. My knees knock, my teeth chattered and I sweated like a pig. “The legend about Boggy Creek must be real," I concluded.
“Howl! Howl!” “OK, that does it, I'm out of here,” I think.
The campfire boys and girls scream, they're taunted by terror. Bobby hollers, “I know that--was no coyote.” I snickered one last time before I come crashing through the woods like a wild boar. Guess they figured, I was a Bigfoot. After all, I was dressed in a Sasquatch suit. I tumbled down the hill like Humpty Dumpy. Inertia and momentum took me to the edge of the woods.
I laid there grimacing and grunting like a buck in rut. “Look! Look! A baby Sasquatch,” I heard Sally say. That song, 'Poke Sally Annie,' rekindled my brain. The gang picked up rocks and sticks and confronted me.
“Skedaddle,” yelped scoutmaster Turman. I tried to talk but before I got the words out -- Randy and the gang assaulted me with a hail of stones and clubs. Even Tiger Woods would have been impressed. I bellowed and gritted my teeth after each blow. Wanda Westbrook clubs my skull and rocks my world! I see stars, the blow knocked me unconscious.
Bobby stands on top of my chest suffocating me, an obese boy. I regurgitated my super and gurgled blood, saliva drooled into the dirt. Butch and Randy grabbed my legs and drug me to the fire pit. Quickly, they discovered that it was me, Charlie Vickers, disguised in an ape suit.
They snickered, the joke backfired on me. I told them that I did not make them thar' wood knocks and howls. We decided to evacuate, ASAP! We packed up our tents and gear and got the hell--out of them woods and hay-patch. Pedal to the metal, school buses laid rubber down the yellow brick road and we never looked back.
To this day, I avoid Boggy Creek road. As a Cub Scout leader, I tell about my monster tales around campfires, but I dare not get too damn close to Boggy Creek. Right now, I'm warming me bones near a campfire, these Arkansas bogs are spooky! 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgfXPAIUYZT
"Hush -- what was that noise? It sounded like a screech owl or howl? 775Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFuidbxOsNd
Stay clear of Boggy Creek near Fouke, Arkansas."
