by Matthew Cody
Jet Skis?
“Someone trashed those, too,” Asma explained. “It’s nuts.”
As Marcie led Butch away, Asma and I went to get a look at Walter’s cabin. It was worse than I’d feared. Someone, or something, had nearly ripped the door off its hinges. Ginger and Manuel were standing a few yards away, near the trees. Ginger quickly waved us over.
She was holding a pair of thick black glasses with a single smashed lens. “These are Walter’s! I found them here in the dirt. Without them, he’s half-blind. What if he wandered off into the forest?”
“Walter could be hurt,” I said. “For all we know he could be really close by, but no one’s even searching for him.”
Asma nodded. “Marcie’s got her hands full here.”
“I say we look for him,” said Ginger. “Because if I stay here much longer, I’m going to punch Butch in his red face.”
“We’ll need to grab our hiking gear.” Asma started making a list: “Rations, canteens, first aid…”
Manuel, however, hesitated as he stared at his video game. “Uh, guys, I’m down to 3 percent power here. I need time to recharge the battery.”
“We’re talking about a human being who’s gone missing!” said Asma.
“Technically, two,” I said. I mean, Spitzer was human. Going by the textbook definition, anyway.
Ginger glared at Manuel. “Put down the game for a bit, jeez.”
Manuel looked like we’d just suggested he flush his goldfish down a toilet. “Are…are you guys nuts? What if I lose my save point? There’s no wireless out here!”
Manuel looked at us. He looked toward the cabins. He looked back at us.
Ding! A red light started to blink on his video game. Manuel blanched and started sweating. His eyes darted this way and that, like a trapped animal’s. (Seriously, he was superdramatic.)
“Fine!” shouted Manuel, and he stuffed his dying game into his backpack. “But let’s find that old dude and get back ASAP. This scouting thing is worse than Space Force Seven on nightmare mode.”
It was one thing to talk about searching for Walter in those lonely mountain woods but another to actually do it. The four of us weren’t exactly what you’d call master trackers. Fortunately, we didn’t have to be because it wasn’t long before we stumbled across a trail that was impossible to miss.
There were footprints in the soggy forest floor. Big footprints, like the one I’d seen outside Troop C’s cabin, only these led deeper into the forest.
“Whoa,” said Manuel, placing his own foot inside one of the prints. “Some raccoons, huh?”
But no sooner had Manuel stepped into the footprint than we heard nearby cries for help.
We broke through the trees, expecting to find Walter hurt or in danger. Instead, we found Scoutmaster Spitzer trapped atop a lone tree perched on a cliff. On one side of the tree, the cliff ended in a steep drop. On the other was a giant, hairy beast.
He shook the tree as he roared. Bigfoot was real, all right. And boy did he look mad.
“BUURRUUP!” Bigfoot let out an enormous belch as he rubbed his stomach.
“See?” Ginger called to Spitzer. “That’s no burping moose!”
“Uh, Ginger,” I said. “I don’t think Spitzer cares about that right now.”
The tiny girl shrugged. “When I’m right, I’m right, is all.”
“What do we do?” asked Manuel. “If Bigfoot keeps shaking that tree, Spitzer might fall over the cliff!”
He was right. We needed to act—fast. I reached into my backpack to see if I had some food or something we could lure Bigfoot away with, but I found the old handbook instead. I’d forgotten all about it!
“Eww!” said Asma, as she watched me flip through the moldy pages. “What is that?”
“It’s the scout handbook, the original one, I think. Look, I’ll explain later.” I was hoping the handbook had some useful advice on dealing with gassy monsters. I flipped to the chapter on Bigfoot and skimmed the page. Habitat…Avoidance (too late)…Care of…
“Here’s something,” I said. “An extremely agitated Bigfoot can be calmed down by the presence of others of its kind.” I looked up. “Anyone see any more Bigfeet around here?”
“Nope,” said everyone.
“Thought so. Okay, so…it says that in the absence of additional Bigfeet, a simple Bigfoot call will sometimes calm the creature…and it gives instructions on making the call right here. Looks complicated.”
Manuel leaned over my shoulder. “Nah, it’s just following directions, dude. Like cracking a new game! Lemme try.”
He read over the page, mumbling to himself as he bent his fingers into a crazy knot. “Let’s see, then you hold them up and blow like this…” Manuel blew into his fingers. “AAAUUURRAAAGGH!”
Whoa! It really sounded like a Bigfoot! Bigfoot must’ve thought so, too, because he stopped shaking the tree and listened.
“Do it again!” I whispered.
Manuel put his hands to his lips. “AAAAUUGGRRAGGH!”
This time he definitely got Bigfoot’s attention.
“Uh, guys?” said Asma. “He’s coming this way.”
“What are we gonna do now?” asked Manuel.
Uh, let’s not panic,” I said, while frantically flipping the pages of the handbook. If we ran, we’d be abandoning Spitzer, plus I doubted we’d be able to outrun Bigfoot. If I couldn’t find a better solution, we were all going to end up as toe jam. It was then that I spotted something scrawled in the margin next to “Bigfoot Calls.” The mysterious W. S. had written a bit of advice.
“Okay, I think we should try a…lullaby?”
“ARRROUUAGARRH!” Bigfoot roared. He was almost on top of us.
“I don’t think ‘Rock-a-Bye Baby’ is going to help!” shouted Ginger.
“No, there are more instructions. Do as I do.” I put my hands up to my mouth, just like Manuel had, only instead of a loud call, I made a soft buzzing sound. Kind of like a hum. “Just a little air. Don’t blow too hard.”
Manuel, Asma, and Ginger did the same, and soon we’d created a little chorus of gentle humming. I have to admit—it even made me a little drowsy.
Slowly but surely, Bigfoot calmed down. The big creature plopped down on the uneven dirt, grabbed a large rock to use as a pillow, and drifted off to sleep.
I couldn’t believe it. I mean, how many of you can say you’ve put a Bigfoot down for his nap?
Asma beamed. “Wow, we did…good. Didn’t we?”
“No! You kids are going to get yourselves hurt!”
Spitzer had finally climbed down from his tree. He was still freaked out, but I guess I can’t blame him. Bigfoot looked gentle enough now that he was snoozing, but a minute ago he was trying to shake the poor scoutmaster off a cliff.
“A-all right, scouts,” Spitzer said, as he hurried over to us. “Time to head back to camp. It’s not safe up here.”
“But what about Walter,” said Manuel.
“Yeah,” said Ginger. “We weren’t even looking for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Spitzer let out a frustrated sigh. “Right now Walter’s not my responsibility, but you are…” His sentence drifted off as he got a good look at the handbook clutched in my fingers. “Billingsley! Where did you get that?”
“Uh, I found it.”
Before I could stop him, Spitzer snatched the handbook away from me.
“Hey! Give that back!”
“You have no idea how dangerous this is, young man!”
“Says you! Without it, we’d be Bigfoot pancakes.” I grabbed for my book, but Spitzer lifted it out of reach.
“Uh, guys?” said Manuel, but I ignored him. Spitzer was as bad a bully as Butch. Worse.
“Give it back! Give it back!”
“Uh, guys!”
�
��What?” Spitzer and I said at the same time. Asma and Ginger were slowly backing away as Manuel pointed to something directly behind me.
Slowly, Spitzer and I turned around. I was staring directly into a round, furry belly.
With all the shouting, we’d woken up Bigfoot.
O-okay kids,” said Spitzer. “Get behind me.” The scoutmaster dropped the handbook and put himself between us and Bigfoot, even though his knees were literally shaking. Bigfoot, on the other hand, looked totally calm. No roaring. No stomping.
“Hey, look,” said Asma. “He’s not getting all growly this time.”
“He’s probably just deciding which of us to squish first,” whispered Spitzer.
But then a bent, ragged shape stepped out of the trees. “Nah, I’m sure that if push came to shove, he’d definitely choose you, Spitzer.”
It was Walter. Dirty, with burrs and thorns stuck in his beard, he looked like he had rolled around in a pile of leaves. But he wasn’t hurt.
The old scoutmaster squinted up at Bigfoot. “Thing about Bigfoot is, there’s nothing a little nap won’t cure. You’ll find that on page 334, Ben.”
Me? Oh! I snatched the handbook up off the ground and brushed it off. Bigfoot let out a massive yawn and stretched. Then he broke out in a goofy grin.
Asma handed Walter his lost glasses. “Uh, we found these.”
“There they are!” He put them on and squinted through the one good lens. “It’ll have to do for now, I guess.”
“Walter!” hissed Spitzer. “That creature tried to kill me!”
“Phooey,” said Walter. “He was trying to save you, you nitwit. What were you thinking, climbing a tree like that? You coulda fallen to your death.”
“But he was shaking the tree, we saw him—uh, no offense, Bigfoot,” I added quickly.
But Walter shrugged. “I said he was trying to rescue Spitzer. I didn’t say he was any good at it. Bigfeet aren’t known for thinking more than one step ahead. Shaking him outta the tree probably seemed like a pretty good plan at the time. Didn’t it, big guy?”
Bigfoot grunted.
“If Spitzer hadn’t gone scrambling up that tree like a scared chicken when he saw Bigfoot in the first place—”
Spitzer threw up his hands. “Oh, here we go again. Blame me! I was trying to save you, you old kook.”
Walter pointed a bony finger in Spitzer’s face. “And who told you I needed saving?”
“Your cabin was a wreck! You’re getting too old for this stuff, Walter.”
“Well, if I don’t do it, then who will?”
I glanced at Asma, Ginger, and Manuel, but they looked just as bewildered as I felt. “Um, excuse me? But can one of you please tell us what the heck is going on?!?”
The two grown-ups went silent. Even Bigfoot looked a little taken aback. “Er, sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to raise my voice, but we have like a million questions.”
“Like who wrecked the camp?” asked Asma.
“And what happened to you, Walter?” asked Ginger.
“And when do I get to play my game?” asked Manuel.
I held out the handbook. “Seriously. I found this book under the floor of our cabin. It’s yours, isn’t it? A guidebook for like some kind of…monster scouts?”
Our troop leader looked down at the book and smiled. “Well, don’t ask me. It’s not mine.”
“Then who…”
Walter pointed his thumb at Spitzer, who looked absolutely depressed. “It’s his!”
Wait a minute,” I said to Walter. “This book has to be yours! The initials on the inside are W. S.”
Walter nodded. “Which stands for William Spitzer. Though he prefers Bill these days, don’t you, William?”
Spitzer sighed. “I never wanted to see that thing again. I tried burying it under the floor of that horrible old cabin. I see now I should have burned it.”
“But why? This book saved us!” I opened the book to the Bigfoot chapter. “So this is your handwriting, isn’t it, Spitzer? You’re the one who came up with the lullaby idea!”
“He’s right, William,” said Walter. “You always were good at caring for monsters.”
But Spitzer turned his back on Walter and said nothing.
Ginger, her face getting redder by the second, asked, “Walter, what’s going on?”
The old man scratched his beard. “I thought it would have been obvious by now. Why do you think I handpicked you to be in Troop D? It’s not for everyone, you know. Cream of the crop only.”
“Handpicked for Troop Dweeb?” I asked.
Walter waved his hand. “Pish-posh. You know, back when I was just a young scout, the D stood for something else—danger!”
“But what kind of handbook is that?” asked Asma. “Since when do Nature Scouts learn about monsters and stuff?”
“Since never,” said Spitzer, sullenly. “That’s not a Nature Scouts handbook, that’s a Strange Scouts handbook.”
“Strange Scouts?” I asked.
“See?” said Manuel. “We are dweebs.”
But Walter shook his head. “No, no. Not that kind of strange. Strange as in rare, weird, and wonderful!”
Walter patted Bigfoot like you would a household pet. “Bigfeet don’t get worked up over nothing. I recognized the signs right away—venturing too close to camp, all that howling business. I tried to calm him down myself, but when this fella gets worked up, he can be a handful. Got a bit roughed up in the process, lost my glasses, and got turned around in the dark.”
He pulled a thistle burr out of his beard. “Ouch! Anyway, poor William—eh, I mean Scoutmaster Spitzer—thought I was in trouble, and he came out here looking for me. He found Bigfoot instead, and well, I guess you can figure out the rest.”
Spitzer snorted. Bigfoot let out another awful belch and immediately started whining.
“That’s okay, big fella, it’ll pass,” said Walter. He patted Bigfoot on the arm. “See, it’s the water in the swimming hole that done it. I told you that little lake was the only clean water for miles around, but all this Jet Ski nonsense…” He shot a look over at Spitzer, who turned a shade darker. “Poor Eugene only ventured into camp looking for clean water to drink.”
Eugene? Still, I felt sorry for the thirsty creature, so I took off my canteen and handed it to Bigfoot, um, I mean Eugene. “Here.”
Eugene downed the contents of my canteen in one gulp and let out a happy sigh.
Walter nodded approvingly. “Well done. But it’s only a temporary fix. C’mon, let’s get back to camp. I promise I’ll make everything clear!”
Eugene the Bigfoot smartly stayed hidden in the woods while we returned to Camp Nature. We told the others half the truth—that Walter had gotten lost in the night without his glasses, and Spitzer had set out to find him. Everyone was so relieved that they didn’t ask too many questions. Then Walter and Spitzer set the whole camp on a new mission: earning our conservation badges by cleaning up the swimming hole. Over the next few days we hauled the wrecked Jet Skis away and skimmed the lake to get it clean.
We even got our very first wildlife sighting as a doe and her fawn crept down the shore to drink.
Well, I guess technically it was Troop D’s second wildlife sighting. Can’t get much wilder than Bigfoot, right?
Speaking of Bigfoot, Walter kept his word. After the cleanup, it was finally time for some real answers.
“The Strange Scouts were founded at the same time as the Nature Scouts,” Walter explained as Troop D gathered back at the cabins. “Though the scouts were kept classified because of their unusual mission. Code name: Troop Danger.”
“What mission?” I asked.
The old scoutmaster gave me a wide grin. “To be protectors of the weird! You see, when President Theodore Roosevelt founded the Nature Scouts, he knew that the world’s
most precious resource is nature—all nature, even the odd bits. There’re all sorts of critters in this world, it’s just that some are odder than others.”
“You’re talking about monsters,” said Manuel.
“Exactly. The Sasquatch, the Chupacabra, the Yeti. Creatures like that got to remain kinda secret or else people will start to panic. And by and large, all monsters want is to be left alone. That’s where the Strange Scouts came in.”
Walter slung a battered old duffel bag onto my bunk. “President Roosevelt came up with the idea of the Strange Scouts as a kind of goodwill organization. A way to educate certain young people about the handling and care of these creatures so that they could pass on what they’d learned and the monsters would continue to thrive. Because if we ruin the monsters’ habitats, we’re ruining our own planet.”
Walter reached inside the duffel bag. “Unfortunately, our numbers kind of dwindled over the years, and I’ve had a hard time finding any young scouts who I felt were up to the challenge. William Spitzer was one of the last.”
“Spitzer was a Strange Scout?” asked Asma.
“Yep. The best.”
“Then why’d he quit?” I asked.
“That’s a long story, but I’m afraid he lost his way somewhere back there. And now all this nonsense with the Jet Skis and vending machines…he forgot what scouting is really about. Rest of his story ain’t mine to tell. Maybe he will someday.”
Walter pulled out a small wooden box. “Anyway, William Spitzer was the last Strange Scout. Until now.”
He flipped open the box lid and revealed four shiny brass badges, each one shaped like a really big foot. “Polished these up special. Ben, would you kindly turn to page 123 of your handbook and read aloud the requirements for the Bigfoot Badge?”