There’s a place in the desert with incredible ecological diversity, called a “sky island”. Specifically, the sky island is a 9,000 foot mountain surrounded by arid lowlands, and it happens to be the only place in the continental US you can find jaguars. Of all the time I spent looking for animals there, I never thought something would be looking for me.
I would have loved to see a jaguar, but I was primarily there for something else: reptiles. There are more than a dozen rattlesnake species alone, and tons of other snakes and lizards, with varying niches as you climb in elevation. I love them, enough that I spent several days of my limited vacation time driving to a different state in their pursuit.
The drive was relaxing for me, long stretches of dry rocky mountains, dotted with creosote and cacti. Now, I avoid those long empty roads whenever I can, and never drive them at night.
Usually, I’ll try to plan the trip with some of my friends. It was a herpetology professor of mine that first told me about the area, and some old college buddies from that class shared my interest. This year, none of them could make it. I would have liked to see them, but there was something meditative about going alone.
That might have been a factor in what later happened.
The road I was driving was remote, enough so that my car and the stars were the only sources of light. Scraggly creosote bushes dotted the dry desert ground, drifting in and out of my headlights as I cruised the cracked asphalt. I drove slowly to spot any toads or snakes that might be out, and also to avoid hitting any jackrabbits. Periodically, they would dart across the road with their long black-tipped ears pressed down against their skulls, appearing and disappearing in a flash.
During the day the road had some traffic, but it was normal not to see anyone for an hour or two if you happened to be driving in the early AM. That type of isolation lets your mind wander to places it normally avoids. Mundane concerns like your car breaking down are of course part of it, but I was more concerned with what might be in the dark.
I put on the hazards and got out of the car to help a spadefoot toad across the road. I hated to see them get pancaked, which most cars driving 70 miles an hour would do without noticing.
Outside of the car a cool breeze brushed my skin, and I was greeted by the quiet of the desert night. Crickets made their high droning call, completely unaware of my presence. In every direction there was darkness, so deep that I found myself looking over my shoulder if I stood in one place too long. I don’t think anyone had been attacked by a jaguar here, but you would never hear their bated breath, or padded footfalls. I assured myself that it was a statistical impossibility.
Putting on a nitrile glove, I gently scooped up the small toad. The oils in your skin aren’t good for them.
With my phone, I took several pictures. It was the first one of this species that I’d ever found, and I wanted to document it. My friends would be happy to see it. Besides, it was hard to tell exactly what species you’d found if you didn’t actually catch it.
As I made sure the pictures were in focus, I looked into the little creature’s beautiful green eyes, wondering what it thought of this ordeal. I don’t think they have an emotional aspect of fear in the same way we do, but I’m sure that handling them is stressful. I snapped a couple pictures and had it safely on the other side of the road within about twenty seconds. It rapidly took cover in the grass, its camouflage rendering it invisible.
A rustle was barely audible over the idling engine, but I was certain I’d heard it. Something was in the brush on the far side of my car. Being alone in the dark in the desert makes you more perceptive than usual.
I told myself that it was a jackrabbit. That was the most likely explanation. Slowly, I walked back toward my car, wanting the safety within. Part of me was curious; perhaps it was a desert fox, or something interesting. If someone else had been with me, I certainly would have pursued the creature with my headlamp. As it was, I just hopped into the car and rapidly closed the door.
From the bushes a jackrabbit exploded, powerful legs sending it across both lanes in two giant bounds. I jumped in my seat, and a small laugh escaped my lips, making me realize I’d been holding my breath the whole time. It was a bad habit of mine, to hold my breath whenever I was scared or concentrated. I’d almost passed out from it before.
Driving back to the only motel in the area, I found a couple neonate rattlesnakes, hardly bigger around than your finger, and moved them off of the road. Instinctively, they struck at the snake tongs. I didn’t blame them for trying to defend themselves, but I did want to get them off of the road. I’d already seen a few snakes that had been run over.
A smile came to my face as I remembered bringing two friends on their first reptile hunt, and one of them incredulously asking “How did you even see that?” when I’d spotted a snake that size. Like I said, most people just pancake them without ever knowing they were there.
Before calling it, I decided to take one last lap around a road in the foothills, just to look. It was nearly 3 AM, but I could only come here once a year, and you never know what you might find.
This road was truly remote, and got no traffic most days, much less at night. A whippoorwill darted off of the pavement, agile wings bearing a distinctive white spot carrying it into the night sky.
My windows were cracked to let in the cool night air, and I was surprised to hear all of the crickets go silent. I listened carefully, not sure what I was listening for.
It was then that my car died.
I found myself in darkness, only able to see the outlines of the mountains because they were blocking the stars. Reaching onto the seat next to me, I fumbled around for my head lamp, clicking the button over and over. Nothing happened. I got my phone out of my pocket, and desperately tried it as well. I couldn’t get it to turn on.
My breath had caught in my throat. I was terrified, not because of the dark, not just because I was alone.
The car was reliable, yet it had died. The headlamp, for the first time ever, had refused to turn on. My phone was unresponsive.
Any of these things alone would have been unlikely but reasonable. All three happening in the same instant was impossible.
Something had happened. Something I couldn’t explain.
With the lights gone, my eyes began to adjust. I could make out pale sand in between the sparse shrubs, just barely. Part of me wanted to keep clicking the buttons on my phone, to try and start the car, but another part of me said it was pointless. Completely still, completely silent, I sat there with my senses on overdrive, every click of the cooling engine sounding as loud as a gunshot.
Each beat of my heart thudded in my ears. I wished it would quiet down, so that I could hear if anything was around.
Movement outside sent a wave of fear through my whole body.
Instead of turning my head I stayed perfectly still, only moving my eyes. My tongue was pressed rigid into the roof my mouth. I was too afraid to breathe. It looked like something had moved on the top of the mountain.
Locking in on the spot, I stared with a focus that I’d never felt. I needed to know what that movement was more than I’d ever needed to know anything. What was it? What was here with me, in the dark?
The engine still clicked, but nothing moved. Each second felt like an eternity. I couldn’t tell you whether I sat there for ten seconds or a minute. The only way I could guess time was that I still held my breath.
The top of the mountain moved again, and this time I saw it.
It was a rounded, domed shape. It looked wrong. Staring frantically, I tried to figure out what it was. When I did, I began to urinate.
It was the top of a head, and the movement wasn’t on the mountain, but a black silhouette standing right next to the car.
Now the head grew higher above the top of the mountain; it was approaching my door. My eyes darted around to the other side; I saw there were more figures there. Completely dark. Walking toward the car.
There was a click. My doors had unlocked.
Instinctively, my hand darted out to lock my door again. I kept it there, holding the small plastic switch in place, as I felt it pulling in the other direction.
Now the figure was just outside the window. It was about the height of a short person, but it didn’t seem human to me.
It pulled at the door handle.
Not angrily, not violently. It pulled as if it was surprised the door was locked, as if it had forgotten to unlock it when loading groceries, as if this was commonplace.
I screamed.
That’s all I can tell you about what happened. I wish there were more to the story, that I saw them fly off in a UFO, or that they looked like some ancient spirits. All I can say for sure is that my first memory was about 45 minutes later, at 4:37 AM, parked at the motel soaked in my own urine.
I do have some speculations on what happened, but they are just guesses.
I think that they turned off the car and anything electrical. I hypothesize that when I opened my mouth to scream, I inhaled something that rendered me unconscious, or at least impaired my memory.
My best guess is that when the crickets went silent and I held my breath, I was meant to inhale whatever gas it was in, to never remember that my car died on that straight desert road. I was meant to never see them.
Other than the memory loss, I was unharmed. I don’t think they wanted to hurt me, because they surely could have. I don’t know what they wanted.
I’m just a human, and can only guess at their motives through a human perspective. I think they just wanted to catch me.