Campfire Cats

by Jack Vondell

a Colorado camping short story,  about 1497 words

On a late Friday afternoon in mid September, Dennis Brandson put the last piece of crown moulding on a kitchen cabinetry remodeling job before departing for what would be his strangest weekend camping trip.

He intended to be out of Denver and halfway up the Colorado mountain to his favorite campsite in the Arapahoe National Forest by now. But the job took longer than he’d hoped. He loaded his tools into his Ford F-150 four wheel drive pickup truck and hurried back to his apartment to exchange them for his camping gear. He always left his KA-BAR WWII combat styled sheath knife in his truck door pocket. It was his preferred tool for cutting open the cardboard boxes that cabinets came in. But it was also the best outdoor camping knife for everything including cutting his steak. His heavy wooden four foot carpenter’s level remained in the rifle rack in the two-door cab’s back window. He forgot to put it back once, and wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Following a quick shower and change of clothes, he was on his way. He made a brief stop at his familiar grocery market for a steak, a can of asparagus, a bag of ice, and a package of sweet rolls for morning. He didn’t forget a few cans of beer and coke to drop into my ice chest. It was now past 6 o’clock and he was already annoyed about his late start.

He camped a lot, even before he got his truck. He was a rustic sort and eschewed fancy camping accessories even though he cold afford them. At five feet, nine inches tall, he could easily sleep crosswise  his camper-topped truck bed and was comfortable with no more than a foam mattress and a couple old quilts. He build a box to contain his camping cookware, lanterns, and gas can, for his aged two burner Coleman stove. As a carpenter, he never lacked for firewood. But he always stopped along the way to gather an armload of dead bristlecone pine wood that lay along the roads above eight thousand feet altitude. This wood burned readily and smelled great. One of his favorite things, after eating, was watching the campfire flames far into the night. He usually avoided the commercially established camping areas. National forests allowed free camping anywhere. Stone rimmed campfire pits were abundant and sometimes the scenery was spectacular.

He arrived at the jeep trail leading to his favorite site. He got out of the truck to lock his front wheel hubs into four wheel drive before driving up the rugged trail. The arrangement of bungee cords kept his camp box, water jug, ice chest, and other items in their place in the truck bed. Arriving at his favored spot, he found it already occupied. He had to find anther. It was already twilight and he wanted to get his steak on the fire. He had never been further up this trail before, but decided to chance it. The trail was even more rugged and bumpy. After fifteen more minutes of rock crawling, he came to a small clearing surrounded by shrubbery and fir trees. He saw a fire pit and decided this was good enough for one night. There was no one else in sight. He would find another site tomorrow. He usually cruised and explored rather than stay in one place.

He parked by the fire pit and opened the camper top and tailgate. He checked the fire pit and rearranged a couple stones so he could set his grill grate on them. He pulled a couple bristlecone pine logs out to get his fire started, moving the others out of the way in the truck bed. He then lit his kerosene lantern while he still had some twilight. After setting the lantern on a nearby tree stump, he placed the logs and  kindling in the fire pit, gave it a shot of lighter fluid to speed things up, dropped the match and watched the flames come to life. The fire looked good, but it had to burn down a bit before it was ready for cooking. The tailgate was a good place for his camp stove. Its little gas tank was full enough; it just needed to be pumped up. He lit the burners and adjusted the flames low for now.

He got his coffee pot from his camp box and prepared it to percolate. He got his two-pronged fork and his military knife for the steak. He got out a sauce pan and opened the can of asparagus. When the coffee and sauce pan were on the stove, the fire was ready for cooking. He pulled his steak from the cooler, unwrapped it, and put it on the fire grill. With the steak beginning to sizzle, Dennis turned his attention to the ice chest again to grab a cold beer. The coffee was almost ready. He was finally feeling less irritated at his late start.

By the moonlight and fire glow, just as he was settling into his folding lawn chair to enjoy his nicely burning campfire, he thought he saw something wiggle in the nearby bushes. He stood up to get a better look. In the dark, a pair of yellow eyes glowed back at him.

Oh, no! It must be ghost story time, he thought. The eyes didn’t blink or move for a long time. By now the coffee had stopped percolating. Dennis checked his steak and turned it over with his two-pronged fork. Still watching the eyes, he turned the stove flames down, took his last swig of beer, and poured a cup of coffee.

Then the eyes moved. A young, half grown mountain lion crept out from behind the bush, lay down, carefully watching first the steak and then Dennis. Dennis’ better self told him to get inside the truck cab and wait for the lion to go away. he walked to the truck. Like most western good old boys, he owned a couple guns. He would have liked to lay hands on his .3030 Winchester lever action rifle and his Ruger Redhawk .357 Magnum revolver right then, but he was not in the habit of toting them around for a simple weekend of camping, cruising, and sight-seeing.

But at that moment, he was too infuriated to listen to his better self. It was late, he was hungry, and no damn campfire cat was gonna steal his steak tonight. He grabbed his four foot carpenter's level from the rifle rack and walked back toward the campfire. The lion had moved a little closer, still looking at the steak and then at Dennis, who stood his ground, the carpenter's level on his shoulder, his rage overshadowing his nerves.

The cat was either cautious or timid. It slowly crept a little closer and lay down. Dennis took his two-pronged fork and visualized how he might stick it into the cat’s throat while hoping wouldn’t have to try, while the cat and he stared at each other. In the bright moonlight, he saw the cat slowly creep a little closer to the fire. Dennis stuck his big fork in his now very well done steak, carried it to the truck tailgate and dropped it onto his plate. The cat seemed to get brave, stood up and very slowly began sauntering toward Dennis.

The decisive moment arrived. With his crazy adrenaline pumping, Dennis stepped toward the cat, let loose his loudest, throaty roar, swung his carpenter level in an overhead arc, and brought it down hard on the cat’s head.

Dennis’s heart stopped. His eyes widened. The level had gone right though the now translucent cat and hit the ground. He swung again and the wooden level went through the lion and hit the ground as the cat stood there looking at him. Shaken beyond fright, Dennis felt it was time to scram—to get the hell outta Dodge—and away from this campsite. As he loaded the last pieces of equipment and began to close the tailgate, he saw two full grown mountain lions in the truck bed, their yellow eyes staring at him. Looking right through their bodies, he slammed the tailgate shut and ran to the cab and jumped in.

“Hiss!”he heard.

He turned to see a large mountain lion sitting beside him.

He leaped out of the cab and tried to run. Then he felt claws in his back and a terrible pain in his neck. With a mighty effort, he jumped to the top of truck. As he turned to look, he saw five mountain lions tearing his body apart as it lay on the ground. The younger lion leaped onto the top of the truck and put its translucent paw on Dennis’ shoulder. Dennis Brandson would not be cruising forest roads this weekend. He sat, watching his body parts disappear as his blood soaked into his campsite.

THE END