The call of nature

Ah, the joys of camping; sitting around a campfire, relaxing amongst close friends, pooping in the woods. This is how I and about fifteen friends spent the first weekend in June.

Actually, I quite enjoy camping. There's nothing as refreshing as getting back to nature, even if that consists only of carrying several large coolers and camp stoves from your car about 100 yards to a patch of dirt in the middle of the woods. The whole experience makes you appreciate the little conveniences in life, such as countertops, dishwashing machines and mattresses.

And of course, there's interacting with wildlife. Hearing the call of the Whippoorwill echo through the trees as night descends is truly a spiritual experience, as is saying quietly as you drift off into the most uncomfortable sleep you've had in ages, "God, please don't let a bear maul me in my tent tonight." Deep stuff.

Then there's the wildlife that you don't expect to encounter.

As a group of us trekked up a steep steppe to the ridge of one of the countless mountaintops of the Shenandoah National Park, I took the lead in a time of crisis, being the manly man that I am. Several of my fellow hikers had grown weary of ascending the slope, and I forged on ahead to see if a nice view was just around the bend.

I donned my Super Hiker cape and blasted up the mountain. Upon reaching the crest of Mount Whereverthehellweare, there appeared not a scenic view of the valley below, as we had all hoped, but another trail disappearing in either direction along the ridgeline with thick woods enveloping me from all sides. It didn't look good, and it was starting to get dark.

Throwing caution to the wind, I whistled loudly (fingers-in-mouth style) to the group below, who were waiting several hundreds yards down the path for my shrill signal to keep traipsing upward and onward. It would be at least ten minutes before they arrived at the summit, so I decided to pick a direction and jog until a contemplative clearing could be found. But I found instead was the kind of pure hell I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

I soon came upon a large tree, felled along the path, and the voice of the Black Knight on Monty Python's The Holy Grail popped into my head: "NONE SHALL PASS!" A warning I should have heeded. This was beginning to look like a scene from another, more recent movie - The Blair Witch Project.

But since when have I ever let a downed tree get in the way of an adventure? I surmised that this was the proper challenging obstacle that would soon give way to the payoff of the splendid sunset view we all were envisioning. So I hopped over the tree and kept on, intrepid as ever.

After about a minute or two, there was a hint of the horror to come.

It began with an unfamiliar rustling in the think woods to my right. I glanced over, my heart rate picking up a bit. What the hell was that? It did not sound like the sprint of a squirrel or the flutter a bird, from what I could ascertain. The fear of being over a quarter mile away form the nearest human was playing tricks on me, or so I thought. I continued jogging.

Wait! There it was again!

Now I know there's something in the woods with which I am not familiar. The noise is louder now. I've got company.

The sound sent a chill through my bones. If I didn't know better, I would have thought it was October, and I was standing next to a curbside, raked leaf pile with several small children frolicking in the heap. But there were no children, of course, and the leaves covered the forest floor in every direction. My enemy was stalking me now; I could feel it.

Should I turn back? Probably - except I don't see anything. But then again, there are uprooted trees everywhere I look, and its twilight now. My predator could be twenty feet away and I would never know it.

Just as I was contemplating these questions, the angry beast showed itself.

I saw the eyes first, and only the instincts ingrained in me from my hearty Anglo-Saxon stock kept me from soiling myself then and there, as many a lesser man surely would have done. But hear this when I say to you; those fierce, piercing eyes are a sight I will take to my grave.

It darted out from behind the cover it knew so well, its steely orbs trained totally on yours truly. It was gunning for me; of this there was no doubt. As I stood there, a million thoughts raced through my mind, but none as horrifying as this; I was seconds from meeting my creator.

For there, gracefully stalking its prey like that of the tenacious Velociraptor, was the biggest, meanest, scariest turkey the earth has ever known.

Laugh if you must, but you ... you do NOT know fear if you have not seen the "I want you dead" eyes of a wild turkey as it darts from side to side, closing the distance in utterly sublime fashion. Perhaps it was a mother hen protecting her chicks nearby; or, perhaps it was an aggressive tom, and I was seen as a rival suitor to the object of his desire. Whatever the scenario, it meant business and was not backing down.

I'm telling you, that frickin' bird was totally going to peck me to death.

You may wonder now, what action did I take in the face of such wonton aggression? I tell you what I did. I let out an "Aaayeee!" and started to run.

And then, predictably, I tripped over some rocks that jutted out in the path and fell hard on the stony ground.

Again, it seemed just like a movie. I was being chased, and I fell, like some cute teenage girl in her panties as her masked, chainsaw-wielding attacker pursued. And instead of getting up and running again, I turned my head back, belly still down, and looked to see if the Turkey From Hell was still chasing me. Dammit if he wasn't right on top of me now, within striking distance. Those eyes seemed more determined than ever. I scurried to my feet and continued to run, gimpy now, bleeding from several places along my left leg.

After about a minute, I stopped and turned to see if he was still chasing me. Apparently, I had distanced myself sufficiently enough, and my adversary had gone back to his business.

My fellow campers listened in disbelief as a recounted the story, blood flowing steadily now from below my left patella. With adrenaline still fresh in my veins, I felt nothing, except the sweet sensation of being granted another chance at life. Nothing is taken for granted now.

All I can say is this: Just wait until Thanksgiving, you fowl little bastard.

Evan Redmon is a freelance writer and editor. He has lived in Washington, DC for most of his life, with seven years of college down the drain in Madison, WI and four and a half years of doing nothing in particular in Boulder, CO. He has visited 39 of the 50 states in the Union (excluding Alaska and Hawaii) and can be reached at evanredmon@yahoo.com.