Posts

Showing posts from October, 2022

The Other Side of the River

High Strangeness was afoot in Jasper County... It was the week of Halloween in the mid 1970s and the full moon sat menacingly in the cold night sky. The lighted orb seemed to be moving, but it was actually an optical illusion created by the wind and clouds in motion. My brother, who was about 10 years old, stood on the east end of the  bridge, feeling brave as he watched the car he had been riding in only a few minutes earlier drive away from him. 

The driver was my father. My mother was riding shotgun, and I, along with my sister was sitting in the back seat. Moments earlier, my brother had bravely exclaimed "I'm not afraid to get out of the car!" My father graciously accepted this challenge, and pulled the car over. My brother did get out, and my dad in full Halloween spirit, hit the gas and drove 400 feet across the bridge to the other side of the river. 

I immediately turned around in the back seat and leered out the back window. I was shocked that A. My brother would actually exit the car, and B. That my dad would drive away to the other side of the bridge, leaving him alone to fend for himself. I mean what the actual heck? My dad knew all too well that there was a beast of a hulking... something out there that would probably eat my brother before my brother even knew that he was being attacked. 

I half expected to see him get snatched away from whatever unseen horror was lurking in the brush at the side of the bridge, but the other part of me marveled at my brother's incredible act of bravery. This wasn't some defiant show of bravado dreamt up by a group of kids underneath street lights in a local neighborhood... This was GROUND ZERO for everything I knew to be evil and terrifying. 

At 8 years old, and already very aware of the Metz Mudman and the legend that was attached to him and the Skunk River bottoms in Southern Jasper County. 

In the late '60s into the mid '70s, my father had a part time job as the janitor at the Capitol Theater, located on the east side of the square in Newton. He would go into this job early in the morning, seven days a week, and on days it pertained, he'd finish up in time to go to his regular full time job at 8:00. He kept this schedule for several years. The only reason I'm bringing it up is, one of the perks he got from this job was that he and (and us) were given unlimited free passes to  movies. I remember seeing a lot of Saturday afternoon matinees, but maybe none as memorable as when I sat and watched The Legend of Boggy Creek on the big screen when it hit the theaters late in the summer of 1972. 

This movie's impact has lasted me a lifetime, but it was especially prevalent when I was a child, because as a child, I spent a LOT of time in the woods. My family camped often, and if we weren't camping, we were mushroom hunting, or exploring state and county parks. If we weren't exploring campground woodlands, we were running through the woods adjacent to our neighborhood.

When I was about 9 years old, my family was hiking trails in Stephen's State Forest and came across a tick-infested dog. We actually heard it before we saw it, and of course my brother and I knew for sure that it was Bigfoot coming to get us. But it was just a mangy dog, one that had clearly been abandoned, wandering aimlessly through the thousand-acre forest. It was in such bad shape that my parents didn't think twice about whether or not we could bring it home. Instantly, we named it Bigfoot. My mother babied that dog like it was her own child, pulling ticks out of it and filling it with love and nourishment. After a few days and after the dog began to regain it's health, it became apparent that mom and dad wasn't going to let us keep Bigfoot. My father knew a farmer that had land and my mother convinced us that a farm was much more suited to care for and allow freedom for a renegade dog. Reluctantly, we accepted this notion and as a family we took the dog to the farmer so he could "adopt" it. 

As far as I know, he continued to call it Bigfoot. 

A favorite activity while camping was, my brother and I would hike the trails through the forest. We developed a sure-fire way to know if we were being stalked by Bigfoot - we'd simply plant a stick in the center of the trail and then move on. When we would eventually make our way back to that spot, if the stick had been knocked over, then we knew that Bigfoot was lurking close by. Of course we also considered that it could have been done by a human, but it was more fun to think it was a bi-pedal cryptid stalking in the shadows. We were kids and we had adventurous imaginations. The mere act of being in the forest took us to Bigfoot fantasyland. Even at night, while sleeping together in an old canvas cub scout style pup tent, we were keyed into the sounds of the forest and the noises around us.

By the time I was 10, I had  read every Bigfoot book I could get my hands on from the school library, the public library and the RIF (Reading Is Fun) program. I had seen the Patterson/Gimlin footage on TV, and watched Leonard Nimoy on In Search Of as he made the case for Bigfoot and the Yeti's existence. I remember watching Andre the Giant costumed as Bigfoot as he fought the 6 Million Dollar Man on primetime TV. It was a MAJOR television event. I knew who Jerry Crew was, and Rene Dahinden. I knew all about the Ape Canyon incident and the alleged kidnapping of Albert Ostman. The Legend of Boggy Creek, especially the scene where the monster punched his hand through the window of the cabin, was forever engrained in my childhood psyche.  

I was also fascinated by the Bermuda Triangle, UFOs and the Lochness Monster. My mother had a pretty good stack of Edgar Cayce books that she had borrowed from my grandfather's book shelf. Plus we had Time Life books featuring the likes of Uri Gellar, the statues of Easter Island and the monuments of Stonehenge. Werewolves were still quite possibly very real, as were vampires, giants, gnomes, elves, fairies and sea creatures.

High strangeness was already in my blood. My mother wasn't shy about pumping us full of Boogeyman stories to keep us on our toes and minding our manners. The Boogeyman was at least as real as Santa Claus was in our world, maybe even more so. In our household, there wasn't much recited scripture. Instead, we learned right and wrong from Fairy Tales, Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes and Aesop's Fables. But in October, when Halloween was approaching, the stories became more frightening. As a kid, I remember when my parents would load us up in the old Mercury and take us on our semi-annual Halloween trip to the South Skunk River in Metz, Iowa.. My Mama would play the part so well - the part of narrator. She would tell us stories all the way down to Metz, each one a bit more chilling than the previous one. As kids we believed every word she told us. We didn't make this trip every single year, but  we did it often enough that it still felt like tradition. 

With the red glow of brake lights illuminating his body, my brother began to stride across the bridge towards us. My father shifted the car into park, and we climbed out. Now my father, my mother, my sister and I were standing on the bridge watching my brother approach. The cool wind whipped through our hair and the autumn smell of river water wafted up to our noses. My brother maintained his bravery, walking - not running - towards us. But suddenly there was a loud splash from the river below. My brother channeled bionic legs as he sprinted to the safety and comfort of our family car. I was already inside as he arrived, as was the rest of my family. The old Mercury spit gravel as it tore away from the old Metz Bridge onto the gravel road at the other side of the river. Again I leered out the back window and watched shadows shift as lights from our car faded and collapsed into the darkness. The Metz Bridge and the darkness stood alone... Or did they? I couldn't be sure but I thought I saw a looming figure standing on the bridge as we drove away.. 
Post a Comment
Read more