An almost true tale of terror

Scout is an adventurous dog. She’s first out the door, first to pee in the driveway, first to pee in the woods (I’ll let you decide who’s second – in the woods, not the driveway…) and really, not too much fazes her. Sensibly enough, she’s irritated by flat earthers, election deniers, liars, folks of that ilk. Don’t get her started on Brexit, Braverman, Boris and all that nonsense – life’s too short, though not as short as Sunak’s time left in No. 10, teehee…

So, she’s adventurous enough. Got snow? Yes please! Mud? Why, let her at it. Sandy beaches? Let’s run and run! More snow? Yippee! Water? Screech of brakes sound. Er, no. Nope. Absolutely not.

Not even a shallow puddle? Let’s find the long way round. Incoming tides? Forget about it. Backyard sprinkler? Nooooo. All that time on the island, loving the beaches but never the water.

Our local woods have a few damp places, and in some spots along the trail there are ankle to knee deep puddles after prolonged rain, but we (mostly Scout) always find the detours. Now the woods have opened up after most of the leafy undergrowth has died back, we’re discovering different trails, perfect for Scout to get into expert snow tracker mode.

Her new favourite story – thanks, Bob – is The Wendigo by Algernon Blackwood. She likes an old fashioned tale of terror, where things are so indescribably horrific the author/narrator almost cannot describe them. Now that’s scary. Almost as disturbing as me liking the name Algernon.

The Wendigo takes place more than a century ago, in the north woods in late fall as the first snow is coming. A hunting party falls prey to something. There are strange tracks, unpleasant odours, and frightening sounds. People disappear. What’s out there? Is it the Wendigo? Highly recommended, a hugely enjoyable read, but not one to think about too much in the late fall at dusk in the woods.

But Scout will think about this tale, wagging her tail, just as the sun starts to set and just as we’re as far from home as we like to get. She’ll start at the sound of a squirrel – or was it?! – scrabbling in the undergrowth. If she wore them, she’d have wet her pants when a grouse or similar did it’s exploding out of the shrubs thing, startling me (just a little, don’t believe her…)

So when she stopped dead in her tracks and stared intently ahead, into the woods with the trail going up a steep incline and out of sight, was I bothered? In Wendigo country? As darkness falls? No, no, not this close to home. Right?

We stood still, and the woods stood still with us. The squirrel was long gone, and there wasn’t even a breath of wind to rustle the last of the leaves. All was quiet. No, wait, what was that thumping sound, faint but quite insistent? Wendigo footsteps on a steady and stealthy approach?

Nope, just my heart, finding a more normal beat after the double whammy of the steep slope and that damned grouse thing…

We got going again, deciding not to tell any more woods based ghostly tales until we got home. Ignoring the chill and totally not faking how brave we were, on we went, up over the rise and then picking our way down the slope, taking care not to slip on the combination of partially frozen leaves and icy snow. Scout did stop to point out the stone house where the troll lives, but they weren’t home and we weren’t hanging around.

Then we came to the worst part, so horrific it’s almost indescribable – Scout doesn’t want me to go there, but I will. This new terror? An even bigger squirrel? Two grouse? Grouses? Grice?! (A terrifying new plural?) No, bad as the grouses can be, this was much, much worse. It was a raging torrent! Treacherous looking icy banks and deathly cold black water gushing downstream.

Did Scout want to cross it? Nope. We debated retracing our steps, but knowing the horrors we’d already almost encountered, how could we go back? The troll might be home. The squirrel might be hungry. I can’t (and possibly shouldn’t) even write about the grouses. Instead, Scout scouted up and down stream, looking for a place to cross, knowing she’d have to face her worse fears and dip a toe in the water.

And then, just as I wasn’t ready, she stepped back then leapt forward to clear the raging torrent in one mighty bound! I was so happy she made it across, and even happier that the short leash she was on wasn’t any shorter as I narrowly avoided falling in. Now that would have been horrific – I can’t even begin to imagine the grousing had that happened. Disaster averted, I took a short step (Scout here – he meant to write “giant leap”) and followed Scout over.

Somehow we made it home. Somehow, I managed to open a beer and drink it. Somehow, I’ve managed to recount this tale of terror. And somehow you’re still here reading…

So there you have it, a tale that isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s one that (no doubt about it or you can call me Algernon) will be whispered and retold around many a winter campfire in years to come.

To be fair, the scariest stuff here this week is in the first paragraph. We do love scary woodsy tales but that isn’t how we find our local forest – not even the streams faze us, do they Scout?!

Thanks for reading, and I hope you have a wonderful weekend!