The Haunting at Barr Camp

When I wake up in the dead of the night, I hear a door slam shut in the lodge house. I shoot up in bed. My hair is damp with sweat. Floorboards creak. Or is it just the groaning of the lodge in the winter storm? Lights flicker in the foyer, then the bunkhouse. Could it just be a surge?  I struggle to swallow and clench my jaw as I hear the hinge of a cabinet. I forget to breathe and hold my breath until my face grows warm. Maybe it is just my imagination. 

Then I hear the scrape of cans being pulled off the shelf and taken to the kitchen table. The unmistakable sound of a can opener prying open the aluminum lid of a can of beans—the scrape and pop of metal peeling off of metal. This is undeniable evidence. It is an inhabitation. Just like Pinot predicted. This is how my spells always start. I must not lose control. The blood drains from my face. I start pacing back and forth, with heavy footsteps. What do I do?

Pinot had warned me about them. She told me the legend of the Frozen Five who set up Barr Camp. They hauled all the wood up on pack horses. They ran the original search and rescue on Pike’s Peak. They ushered many souls off this mountain. And they are still coming here, plaguing these mountain hovels. 

I have a good track record of finding missing children in these woods. This is why Pinot and Mutton sent me ahead, so I could look for the missing boy—Logan—at first light, God-willing before the little guy succumbs to exposure. He has been missing nine days. The bloodhounds were called back because their paws were torn and cut by rocks. The search party had dwindled down to just five men, and the President had given a special evening address to the nation, praising their resilience, and urging them not to lose heart, but to continue searching for the missing boy. Pinot and I had been watching the news, and she had said, “You have to go out and look for him. We all do.” And she had insisted I go ahead and stay in the cabin and prepare provisions to leave along the trail for them. 

But now my back is to the wall, and I haven’t even covered a single mile yet. I scarcely know if I will make it through the night.

As my mind races, I am chewing on my index finger and there is some flesh and hair in my mouth. Pinot always tells me not to chew on my fingers.

An icy rain taps on the tin roof of the cabin. Tit-er-tat, tit-er-tat, tat-at. A shrill wind wails and hisses—stayyhhh ahhwayhhh. But these intrepid lost souls do not heed the warning. They enter unannounced. The cliffs pull a low mist over their shoulders like a blanket and huddle beneath it, peering into the cabin windows with yellow, murderous eyes. The cabin is perched on a ridge that faces the moon. The moon shoots irritated glances in on the intruders hovering in the kitchen as snow clouds pass quickly by in the rhythm of the blinking of eyes.

Silvery light ricochets back and forth among the white aspens. Dappled beams shake and bend. The boughs rumble in the wet wind and cut the darkness into ribbons. A pall of wet, black darkness hangs over the ridge like an icy, dripping shroud. In the shadows, every stick that snaps and every thud from a thrashing evergreen is a lurking monster bent on devouring me if I stumble. Every howl in the night is pregnant with mischief and treachery. The creak of every cabinet or door swarms with malintent.

I head out onto the porch in the moonlight and tiptoe toward the lodge. My bare feet are cold on the gravel path. My broad shoulders scrape against low-hanging branches as I go. There is a musky odor in the pines. As I approach the main lodge—I hear their voices! Peering in the kitchen window, I see them—three of them—standing around an island, hovering over a can of beans. I am frozen in terror.

The female looks toward where I am standing and points. I duck and huddle by the side of the building. I cover my face with my big, clunky hands and clasp my hair. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Just breathe Wookie. Use your breathing techniques. It is just anxiety. The feeling in my chest is like hardened cement, and my veins burn, as if full of sludge. I need to get to safety.

I make a break for it and rush through the brambles, holing up inside one of the outhouses. I pull hard and slam the outhouse door shut. The stone floor is cold on my bare feet. I can smell my wet, dank hair. I know that I am safe, but only for a moment. 

The blizzard is wailing against the walls of the wooden shelter and fresh snow is glazing the hills with a frosting of fresh powder.

* * *

In the cabin, the three intruders hover over the kitchen island.

“The blizzard is here,” Shawn says. “You gotta love it. Perfect weather for a trek.” Shawn’s pale face is slate gray in the muffled light of the lodge house.

“It is going to be a long night,” Meghan replies. The whisps of her blonde hair look white in the drawn-wet winter air and her breath flows out in an icy vapor as the temperature drops.

“You know there’s a boy lost out there,” Shawn says. “Going on nine days now.”

A thermometer on the refrigerator shows that it is now well below freezing.

“Poor kid. The black bears are still roaming—they aren’t hibernating just yet,” Andrew chimes in as the howl of a coyote—ow-oww-oww-ooohhhh—cracks through the storm sounds and the wind and the snow. 

“You think a bear will get to him first,” Shawn says. Then tapping his index finger on his lips, he says, “He’s safe for the night—if they haven’t gotten him yet. The bears won’t be out until daylight. Plus, the bears are pretty used to people up on these mountains.”

“I heard he was only about seventy-five pounds when he went missing—he can’t be more than fifty-five by now. Hardly even a snack for Smokey,” Meghan said.

“Grrrrrrr,” Andrew says, waving his hands dramatically, “lions, tigers, and bears!!!! Ahhh—”

“—Oh my,” Meghan says, looking out the window into the cold rain and mist, “I think I see something in the woods—or someone—we have to make sure they haven’t seen us, Shawn.”

* * *

I am panicking. I hear their voices. The beam of a flashlight darting back and forth. The unmistakable stench. Just do as Pinot told you. Remember your training, Wookie. Blend. Blend. Blend. I know I have to leave this outhouse. But it is too late.

The door creaks open. The three of them stand there. All white and pale. Staring at me. 

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh” they say.

“AHHHhhhHAHHHHHHhhhhh,” I say.

Then I hear the female one say, “It’s, it’s Bigfoot!”

I stand up to my full height of 8’6” and storm out of the outhouse, making a mad break for the main lodge. I tear the door nearly off its hinges as I lumber across the bunkhouse, climb the ladder up to the loft beds, grab all the comforters, and make an igloo out of the sheets. 

The hair on my face has little bits of frozen snow and ice in it. My yellow eyes glow in the dark. My orange stripes burn with fear. I try to remember all of my training. The art of invisibility. Blending. The ability to skin-walk and adorn myself in the aspect of a man. Using nature to hide. But I can’t stop trembling.

* * *

We were the only Sasquatch family in Manitou Springs. We must have been living here for at least a hundred years now since the days of the Frozen Five. Fred Barr was actually the first man that Mutton befriended, and he was the one who helped us assume fake names and get the title work dealt with to place the cabin in our name. Even though I am over a hundred years old, I am still just a boy in Sasquatch years. Pinot is nearly twice my age, and she would be considered a middle schooler by human standards. 

Mutton is an Abominable – which is to say he is a White Yeti. White Yeti are especially comfortable in the freezing cold and are said to possess the ability to freeze time itself. Although, all I’ve ever seen Mutton freeze is a baby sheep. Father has quite the taste for lamb, after all. Everyone knows that. 

As for Pinot, she is a Smoke Wolf – which means she has those signature red eyes. She also has the loveliest Pinot-colored purple fur, but it flames yellow and orange when she unleashes her powers. Pinot can marshal the power of fire and send out flames on command, creating small forest fires. She also can leave a trail of smoke to cover her tracks. If she really concentrates, she can turn the dirt into glass. In fact, if you hike the Manitou Incline, you will see some spots where she has done just that.

And as for me, Wookie, I am a Chuti, meaning that I have stripes like a tiger and have the powers of invisibility. I can “blend” into my surroundings, but it takes intense concentration. I also have the power to harness the power of plants and trees and command them. Great for hiding in the forest. Chuti’s can also skin-walk and become a man for a time, although I have not yet learned how to do it, and don’t know if I ever will. It is an ancient skill so we can interact without scaring men to death. Which would be bad.

We live in a beautiful cabin off of I-25, right in between the Garden of the Gods, just before you turn off to the Manitou Incline. Pinot and I love to run off into those stone gardens and admire all of God’s handiwork. But, on this day we are training, and preparing me for my journey to find Logan.

“Steady, steady. Now you must blend, Wookie. Close your eyes,” Pinot says.

I focus my breathing and do the breathing exercises my older sister taught me. 

“Like the chameleon absorbs the colors around him you must fade and blend, allow your sensory cells in your fur to activate,” Pinot says. 

I can feel myself turning plaid like our old worn hand-me-down sofa.

“Good, good! You are blending into your surroundings Wookie,” Pinot says, clapping. “Your arms and legs are gone. Only your torso and head remain. Calm your feelings. Keep blending,” Pinot says.

I just hope that I can call on these powers when I really need them the most.

* * *

Logan is trembling. He is trapped on a switchback on a high ridge. Portions of the trail scrambled off over a sheer drop in the high winds, leaving him completely helpless. After being lost for days, he tried to ascend the pass and find the trail back, only to get stuck here on the switchbacks, well over 13,000 feet. The altitude sickness and hypoxia are so bad his hands are completely swollen and there is a constant ringing in his ears. His eyes feel sore and achy as if they will pop right out of his skull. 

He clutches his Canada Goose jacket and holds it tight. He drinks the last of his water from the liter bottle in his bag.

Logan can feel the aching in his stomach and the hunger is so palpable he could chew on the sand if he only had water to wash it down with.

Logan has lost the ability to call for help. He lost the strength to attempt a climb days ago. Logan is like a deer with a broken leg, completely helpless to do anything to save himself.

Twelve years old is too young to call it quits, but sometimes it isn’t your choice.

He shivers in the cold and waits to die.

* * *

Pinot tells me, “If you want to climb a mountain, begin at the top.” And we talk a long time about the trails and passes of the Rockies. This is to be my first mission where I’d be navigating on my own and I am terrified of getting lost or running into humans.

Mutton comes in and finds us talking by the fireplace over cups of hot cocoa with fluffy white marshmallows and asks, “What is the matter, you two?”

“I don’t know father,” I say, “It’s just that Pinot is not afraid of getting lost. But I almost always get turned around—and I’ll be out there all alone,” I say.

“And why are you so scared of getting lost on the mountain,” Mutton asks.

“Being stuck out there, all night, in the dark, father… it’s terrifying,” I say.

“Let me tell you a story son. It is the story of the mountain in labor. There was a town in the mountain valley called Manitou Springs—the same town where we live now—and it was in a deep recession. Two politicians debated in the public square. ‘We will raise a tax,’ said the one. ‘No, no, we will do a great project and create a railroad that climbs above the mountain—even to the heavens itself,’ said the other. You can guess what the town people chose. Though they were already poor, giving from their scarcity seemed like madness. And though there was nothing but laborers to spare they embarked on the railroad project anyway, never counting the cost. And it will be familiar to you. It is the Cog Railroad to Pikes Peak.” 

“The politician who won the heart of the town was named Zalmon Simmons. Zalmon dreamt of a great railroad into the heavens and for all the residents to see Pikes Peak for themselves, even the old and infirm. One day, after a two-day mule ride, Zalmon reached the top of Pikes Peak. When he got there, the mountain began to shake and rumble. Zalmon yelled into the canyons, ‘What is wrong.’ But only echoes came back. And then a voice said that the mountain was in labor. Zalmon thought this was confirmation that his great project would be a success. He camped out and waited to see what the mountain would give birth to. For three days Zalmon camped out at 14,000 feet, shivering in the alpine climbs; battling hypoxia. And finally, the labor pains stopped. And out of a crag in the mountaintop emerged a freshly born yellow-rumped leaf-eared mouse. It squeaked in delight and scurried up to a disappointed Zalmon. And though Zalmon did eventually build his train route, he learned a valuable lesson. And the moral is that often words that shake the heavens, deliver little.”

“It’s a wonderful story father, but what does it mean for me?” I asked.

“Son, it means that a simple thing done well, is better than grand plans that come to naught in the end,” Mutton said. “And it also means that you should name the thing you fear. Though it barks and shouts with a voice that thunders like the mountains themselves, when you look it in the eye, what you fear may be as small as that little leaf-eared mouse—just a tiny thing after all.”

“So, I shouldn’t worry about getting lost in the mountains,” I ask.

“Worry about one step in the right direction,” he says. “And if you ever lose your way or it gets dark on your travels—head to Barr Camp. I’ve shown you the way many times. It is about seven miles up and six miles from the peak, by the Western Ridge, just above Sheep Creek. Remember, if you breach the tree line, you’ve gone too far.”

“And that is the camp that Fred Barr and his Frozen Five set up?” I ask.

“Yes son. The very same,” Mutton said. Mutton ruffled my hair and said, “You better get some shuteye Wookie, you’ve got a big adventure tomorrow. But you’ve got this, son!”

* * *

It takes hours of climbing above tree line, but finally I see the boy on the ridge. I yell out to him, but he is not moving.

I begin to run. And when I come to where the switch backs have caused the mountain trail to slide off the sheer cliff face, I am left with a dilemma. If I swing down to get the boy, I have just enough wingspan, but I may not be able to hoist myself back.

The boy’s lips are blue and cracked and I know there isn’t much time. I lower myself down supporting my weight on one arm, summon all my strength, grab the boy and hoist him back down the trail.

And then I lose my grip.

* * *

“Look here Meghan,” Shawn says. “It’s an old man.”

“Sir, sir… are you ok,” Meghan asks.

“Get the boy,” I say, pointing a scraped and bloodied arm to where I’d perched him on the ridge.

And then I lose consciousness.

* * *

When my eyes open, the hikers, the same ones that had intruded before are there. I am in the cabin. They’ve brought me and the boy back to Barr Camp on stretchers. It must have taken them hours.

I did it, I think. I skin-walked. And I saved the boy. I cannot wait to tell Pinot what I have done.