Steve Miller

I heard raindrops making popping sounds on the canopy of leaves above. The drops would collect into a single large drop on a leaf, until the leaf no longer could bear the weight. Then the bloated drop would fall to the earth. Drops together fell onto leaves accumulated over decades; the damp leaves decaying smelled like mulch filled with earthworms. I looked out on the scene once from my tent but stayed in.

I had wanted to be alone. My last year of college would begin in a few weeks and I wanted to pull away for a while. I had wanted time to myself , time to reflect, to think, to rest without interruption or diversion. I had found a place after months of studying maps, an uninhabited area of a national forest in the far north of Michigan.

I had headed north thinking I might find adventure in addition to the solitude. In hiking a couple of miles into the woods, I found both. The topographical map of the area had said my water source flowed east, but the stream chuckled happily toward the south, bending now and then to the west. I had wanted to scout about and find a landmark, but daylight had begun to fade, and I heard the popping of rain. I had been forced to set up camp, letting the laughing stream confound me.

The drops fell all morning but finally scattered at midday, allowing the sun to warm the damp. Released from my confines, I roamed south and found the river. From there, I determined my true location. As soon as I had done this, gray blankets again returned to separate earth from sun. I pulled my last, dry, hooded sweatshirt over my head and headed back to camp.

I decided not to hang my backpack in a tree again. Bears were reported to live in the area, but I had not seen an animal all day, so I left it leaning against the truck of a tree. Not seeing the need for my glasses or the flashlight, I left them in the backpack. I resigned myself to my tent and waited for the day to end.

Darkness cam slowly, imperceptibly, permeating all sight, diffusing light. The fading of the light could not be perceived. I tried to watch if vanish, could not, then found that it had gone. The roof of the tent alone glowed blue, but cast no light. It looked as though it were suspended in black liquid.

I heard it. Never did I see it.

I heard the sound of an animal in the woods. This was nothing unusual; I had once laughed at experienced woodsmen who spooked at sounds in the night. Bu this one stayed around awhile. It walked the length of the tent, brushing against the wall with its side, as though it wanted in. It brushed another side, then a third. Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. The zipper of the door was broken, and I could not see. If it pushed against the fourth side, the front, the thing would be at my feet Doubt chased its tail in my head. What would happen if it found me in the tent?

It headed for the backpack, and I momentarily forgot my fear. Driving the thing away from the backpack while sightless was not possible, but I determined it would not get my food. I groped for the first aid kit, in which was packed a whistle, found it, tore open the velcro fastener, and felt metal. I put the whistle to my mouth, took a deep breath, and shattered the stillness with a blow. The thing paused, then continued toward the backpack. I blew again. It was if I called it. The thing turned around and came back toward the tent. It felt around the entry and found the opening. Then it squeezed in.

Terror pinned me in my sleeping bag. I breathed hard; clammy sweat covered my skin. What was this thing in my tent? Where was it? What was it going to do with me?

Moments passed. Or was it only moments? Since it entered, how long had it been?

With the remaining courage I had, I searched around for it with my foot. My toes found the weight of the thing on the end of my sleeping bag. Fear gripped my skull  like a hawk crushing a rodent. My mind screamed, "GET IT OUT, GET OUT, GET IT OUT!..." At once I was pushing, kicking, blowing the whistle my mind screaming, "GET IT OUT!" It backed, hesitated at the door, then fled.

I laid back in the bag, knowing nothing. At some point reason returned. I tried to relax, then began waiting for sleep to take me.

Morning dawned slowly. I awoke. Almost at once the memory of what happened the night before seized me. I looked around to see if anything else ventured the night with me, but I saw only my clothes. I dressed and checked the backpack. Maybe the thing was a raccoon, a thief which came back alter while I slept to pilfer items in the pack. Everything was there.

I found my glasses and returned to the tent to check around for anything that might tell me what the thing was. I understood all when I entered the tent. Six quills stuck out of the end of the sleeping bag, like an old man's whiskers. The thing was a porcupine. It had wanted shelter from the rain and had found a warm, dry, place. I had pushed it out in fear.

I can only imagine what would have happened if I had let the animal stay inside. More than likely I would have made a friend. I would have liked that, rather than pushing him out. The porcupine probably would have liked that too.

© S. A. Miller, April 1991. Published in Michigan Out-of Doors, Vol. 44, Number 4, p. 32.