by Gary Striker
Wallagrass is a microscopic settlement 10 miles south of Fort Kent, Maine, on the Canadian Border along Maine State Route-11. There is no post office, gas station, convenience store, Dunkin’ Donuts, nothing, not even a street sign identifying the community. This is common in the rural out reaches, which represents most of the land mass of Maine. The summers are hot and the days are endless. The winters are brutal with temperatures dipping to minus fifty degrees during a normal season. Autumn is a fluorescent collage of endless colors. Springtime is green, abnormally vivid green. The area cannot be described in words, only experienced.
Wallagrass lies next to the vast untouched and unpopulated Allagash Wilderness Area that extends for a hundred miles west to the Saint Lawrence Seaway. It is uninterrupted in its beauty and teaming with water and wildlife. Most ‘Mainers’ have never been to the Allagash. For the few local residents, a hunting trip involves no more than opening the back door. Canoeing, snowmobiling, skiing, and ice fishing are among popular pastimes. One hundred miles of desolate road connects Wallagrass with I-95 at Sherman Mills to the south, the access way to civilization that is still another ninety miles to Bangor. Route 11 is as captivatingly beautiful as it is hazardous. Bear, deer, and moose frequent the roadway along with the most treacherous weather comparable to anywhere on the planet. Songs have been written by and for truckers who have experienced the dangers, which are nestled behind the endearing beauty of the landscape. Pie-plate snowflakes, as the locals call them, are as memorable as they are uncommon. Once you get hit with one of these gigantic pie-sized ice crystal formations, you never forget the force of beauty. In the Allagash, moonless nights are black. There is no light pollution. It is not possible for an owl to see his own nose during these phases. The Northern Lights put on evening shows. Encountering ice on the two-lane highway is totally unpredictable, whether it be on the road or falling from the sky. The windshield can go from perfect visibility to completely obscured in seconds, fast enough to cause a driver to lose control before the vehicle can be slowed to a stop. It is common to drive thirty to fifty miles at night and not see a single car. This is the gateway to the Allagash Wilderness Area.
The tiny building that houses the Wallagrass Town Hall cleared out within minutes. Mike and Jim were left with the investigators staring blindly at each other. Jim broke the silence.
“What say we all head over to the Swamp Buck for lunch? The treat’s on me.” Nobody objected to the one sane suggestion of the day.
The Swamp Buck Restaurant sets in the center of the tiny downtown metropolis of Fort Kent. The village lies five miles north of the Wallagrass Town Hall and shares the Canadian border with the Saint Johns River.
The Lonesome Pine Alpine Ski Area is captured through the ‘Buck’s rear windows. The rustic appointments were locally crafted and not trucked in from some city warehouse. Authentic local handmade furnishings greeted the guests and wild game mounts adorned the walls. The chow was unlike anything that would be served at a chain restaurant. Moose Meat Stew was a seasonal regular, which was now. Whatever the menu included was at least a Ten on the Richter Taste Bud Scale. The Swamp Buck was teaming with lunchtime regulars.
After the formalities of ordering from the menu selection, Jim focused on the events of the day.
“Boys, we have a problem! We have nothing going for us. The Feds are out to skin us and we could be looking at jail time for Obstruction of Justice”.
Mike added, “They have us branded as some kind of psychotic space nuts. I don’t believe that defense would do well in court”.
The two investigators, Jake and Elliot, stared at each other waiting for the other to speak. Nothing happened.
“I have to head to Augusta next week”, Mike said, breaking the impasse, “Let me see if I can get a read on the climate down there. I know that we aren’t the first ones in the constituency to claim weird occurrences in the Allagash”.
“That’s right”, Jake added, “Remember those paranormal investigators that showed up when things went crazy around here? It wasn’t their first visit to Maine. They were on TV with all their goofy scientific equipment trying to catch a ghost”.
Elliot broke his silence. “You all sound like you should be put in a cage! Strange visitors from another planet! Wooooo”, as he mimicked a Halloween greeting. “Ya’all need to stop drinking your sewage. I am not going to lose my job over this idiocy. When you catch one of those space men, call me. Make sure you put it in a cage where I can poke it with a stick. Then we’ll have something to discuss”.
Lunch arrived in fine fashion and everyone shifted gears. Not another word was said about space invaders for the duration of the meal. The guys finished lunch and then headed back to the Wallagrass Town Office.
The afternoon wore on without a reasonable course of action to pursue. The State Attorney’s Office wasn’t too sympathetic to a gang of neurotic public officials who appeared to have lost their minds. Jake and Elliot departed back to their beautiful hostel a few miles away in Soldier Pond. Jim and Mike were left staring speechless at each other, until Jim broke the silence.
“Mike, we don’t have too many choices. Unless we do something sane, you and I are going to end up in a rubber room.”
Mike thought about this fact of life.
“Jim, we need to go back in to Ben Lake and have a look around. Just us and a few of the boys, without the inspectors. We have to do this before the lake freezes and the snow sets in.”
Jim leaned back and looked out the window at the ominous Friday afternoon September clouds.
“It won’t be long, for sure”, Jim concurred. “How about tomorrow morning”, Mike asked? “Jake and Elliot are going down to Caribou and wouldn’t likely be stopping in here on a Saturday”.
Jim returned with a voice of confidence. “Let me call Gary and Bob and see if they can join us”.
“Mike was quick to disagree on his choice of team mates. “Bob said he was never going back in there again”.
“He’s a deputy with the Border Patrol”, Jim added, “I’ll make it a special courtesy request”.
Saturday morning was brisk with the cooling trend settling in for the season. The first frost had passed and the vegetation was preparing for winter. The autumn leaves were at peak color and the wildlife was preparing for the onslaught of winter. Even the chipmunks were extra busy gathering and storing their rations.
Jim and Mike were waiting at the Striker residence a few miles south of the Wallagrass Town Office. The Strikers had the most direct and safest route back into Ben Lake from their property, about five miles into the deer watering area around the lake. A means to cut and move downed trees and other obstructions on a non-maintained old logging road would be necessary.
“Here comes Gary, and it looks like Bob behind him”, Mike observed as he and Jim prepared to unload their ATVs.
Jim added, “Yeah, and I can hear Bob squawking already. Something scared the be-Jesus out of him when he was back there on that rescue mission”.
Mike raised his voice in a questioning manner.
“What the hell was wrong with him, Jim? Bob wasn’t right for weeks. That’s not like him. He laughed after a mama bear chased him out of her den. He claimed that something grabbed him and it wouldn’t let go. He screamed so loud that his wife could hear him back home.”
Gary Voisine was of Acadian descent, born and raised in ‘the County’, and a local proprietor in Fort Kent. He supplied the town with hunting and fishing supplies, kerosene, camping equipment, and more tales of the Allagash than anyone in Aroostook County. His pilot credentials were often used by hunters. He brought his truck and trailer loaded with two ATV’s to a halt in the Striker’s vast parking area in front of their house. Bob followed in line with his own pickup truck. It was a beautiful setting overlooking the northern end of Eagle Lake and a couple of trout ponds near the house, all nestled in the woods.
Everyone shook hands and glanced at each other ominously. Jim noticed the intrepid demeanor of
his mates.
“We’re just headed to the Lake on a curiosity mission, boys. We’ll go in, look around, and see if we missed anything from the time of the incident, no big deal.”
Bob was quick to counter as he unloaded two high power rifles, boxes of ammunition, and a handgun.
“No big deal? Are you nuts? We don’t have a clue as to who or what the hell is back there. But whatever it is, if it lays a hand on me again, its dead meat”!
Jim attempted to cool him down as Bob proceeded to load all of his weapons.
“Let’s not get trigger happy, Bob. We don’t want to be carrying one of us out of there by mistake”.
“Don’t worry about me”, Bob said, “but if I see one of them space rangers, he gets it!” Jim, Mike, and Gary focused on their own weapons.
The ATVs were being off-loaded, checked out, and made ready for adventure. Gary paused, turned, and alerted the gang.
“Hey, look, here comes Cheyenne”!
“Oh shit”, Jim exclaimed, “not him”?
Cheyenne pulled up in his own rig with Max, his gorgeous German Shepard, which was the size of an SUV, and just as friendly and gentle.
Cheyenne was the former owner of the Striker residence and third generation native of the ‘County’. Cheyenne, aka Don Charette, was the most notorious member of the local French Connection. If there was a problem in the ‘county’, Don was most certainly at the middle of it. To Don, it was an addictive form of entertainment. He was sought by every law enforcement agency in the State of Maine at one time or other. Improprieties included poaching, illegal importation of Brook Trout and alcohol, mainly vodka, and fishing and hunting infractions too numerous to catalog.
Don hid in the ceiling of the local Fort Kent supermarket after hours one night with a few bottles of Popov, his favorite vodka. He fell out of the ceiling, then found himself locked in with no way out and nothing to do but sample the liquor. The entire event was considered to be a security system malfunction. There was no customer complaint filed!
Cheyenne was as friendly as he was notorious. Every law enforcement officer and judge in the ‘county’ had a soft spot for Cheyenne. His actions were always questionable, and were as entertaining as he was as much an outlaw. Cheyenne had a streak of generosity as big as his smile for everybody. He had an inbred sense of religious obligation as deep as his hitch in Marine Corps would allow. Cheyenne would never tell a lie. It was not in his breeding. However, that did not prohibit him from, shall we say, discoloring the truth a bit. Cheyenne never confused bullshit with a lie. He always said bullshit was fun and a lie was repulsive.
Cheyenne opened with his usual banter.
“What’s up fellas”, he asked? “I heard there was a lynchin’ party back at Ben Lake today. Anybody figgerin’ on stringin’ up a Martian”?
A look of disgust overcame the faces staring at Cheyenne as they pondered the leak in their security system.
“All right Cheyenne, who was Puss talking to? Oh hell, it doesn’t matter”, Jim resigned with a shrug.
Puss was Cheyenne’s longtime girlfriend, who stood in when Cheyenne’s hired help ran off with his wife.
“You gonna join us, Cheyenne”?
“Here comes Puss now”, Jim noted.
“Yeah”, Cheyenne said, “She’s going to take Max over to the Vet for his checkup”.
“Hi Boys”, Puss greeted them without getting out of the car. “Don’t get lost and have a good time”, she said sarcastically.
“Cheyenne, bring Max over here and put him in the back seat”, she ordered.
“Get with it, honey-do”, Gary added with a laugh.
“Ah, shut up! Why do I always put up with your dumb ass”? Cheyenne said with a smirk.
He loaded big Max and Puss disappeared down the drive.
Nobody knew the Allagash like Cheyenne, or would ever claim to possess the survival skills that Don had demonstrated. Don got disoriented and disappeared into the Allagash for four days while on a routine hunting trip by himself. Don would never hunt with anybody. He said they scared the game. Cheyenne survived in bitter cold weather with nothing more than his rifle and a few candy bars. When Search and Rescue found him, he was encamped within a beautifully constructed pine tree shelter and cover, a latrine area, a blazing fire, stacks of firewood, a deer hanging from the trees, while hand-feeding several red squirrels with the peanuts he had stashed in his pocket. When asked why he was giving his meager survival rations away, he said that the little guys were hungry.
“I wanna go catch me a Martian”, Cheyenne said as he proceeded to unload his SUV. He had already installed snow tracks in place of the wheels for the season. It looked like a mini-tank loaded with so much gear that he had to squeeze into the driver’s seat.
“Ok, Cheyenne”, Jim answered, “Let’s take inventory of what we have”. We’re planning to go in, spend whatever time we need, and come out. No big deal”!
Cheyenne called out the check list. Everything from chow, extra fuel, a utility tent that he provided with a wood stove, chain saw, first aid kits, cameras, and anything else imaginable. However, the most common items in the inventory were firearms.
“Well, golly gee, fellas! Are you planning to attack Fort Kent”, Cheyenne asked in his Gomer-like manner? “We could take Omaha Beach! Five guys with eleven rifles, six handguns, and enough ammunition for a three month campaign. Anybody bring a knife”?
Cheyenne unsheathed his old military KBar Combat Knife for inspection.
“I believe we are just about ready for departure, gentlemen”, he said with twang of impatience.
The mood was tense as the SUVs were inspected and loaded. Once in the Wilderness, there was no one to call, no tow trucks, cell phones didn’t work, nothing. You were on your own. The guys were comfortable with that, having spent their lives traversing through the Allagash. They all had stories. No one was able to separate fact from fiction, so all the tales took on a proclamation of truth. Who knew? Everybody accepted legend as fact.
Jim took command.
“Cheyenne, you lead. I’ll bring up the rear. Let’s take it easy and be safe”.
Nobody argued with that comment.
Cheyenne gave the convoy order, “Gentlemen, start your engines”!
Mike, Gary, and Bob lined up between Cheyenne and Jim.
Cheyenne looked back and with the wave of his hand said, “Let’s ride”!
Aliens in the Allagash
Chapter 5
The Mission
The convoy set course due west and proceeded up through a vast cleared area to the trailhead leading back to Ben Lake, a five mile ride on old unmaintained logging trails. The view from the top was spectacular. Cheyenne stopped at the wood line where the trail began.
“Everybody good to go”, he asked while circling back to inspect the parade? All of the ATV’s were loaded with so much gear that the driver’s seat was barely visible, not to mention the rifle scabbards and racks.
“You boys planning to stay a while, like maybe a year”, Cheyenne taunted with his sarcastic smile? “Let’s do it”!
Contending with problems in the Allagash was an easy way to make life very difficult. There is no cell phone coverage or radio communications. Snowmobiles would often get abandoned and not be seen again until after the snow melt in May. September is seasonal transition time. The colors were intoxicating. Summer was over. All bets were off on the weather. Any combination of warm sunny conditions, brisk Nor’easters, rain, ice, or snow could be expected on any given day and turn hostile within minutes. By mid-October, all water is frozen. This was the way of life in the North Country. The Allagash Wilderness routinely swallows up the unaware visitor, never to be seen again. A mixture of disorientation, hungry wildlife, exposure and panic becomes an ideal recipe for disaster. ‘Mainers’ know the risks and always have ingenious ways to avoid trouble.
The ride transitioned to the logging trail and proceeded a mile before encountering the first major obstacle. Cheyenne bro
ught the riders to a halt and exited his ATV.
“Jim, hand me your chainsaw. We have a bunch of trees down here. It looks like they were uprooted”.
Everyone climbed out and joined Cheyenne at the front of the convoy.
“Here, Cheyenne”, Jim directed as he handed over his chainsaw.
“What the…”, Gary began as he surveyed the woods ahead, “What brought these trees down? Everything looks like the Jolly Green Giant stepped on it”.
The guys stood transfixed in their own thoughts trying to make sense out of the scene. The trees appeared to be smashed. The guys moved about the damaged area surveying the extent of destruction.
“Look here, fellas”, Bob summoned, “Take a look at this”.
The guys assembled with Bob and stared under the pile of deadfall.
“It looks like what’s left of a wolf. It’s too big to be a coyote”, Mike offered. “Can’t be certain, Bob”, Mike observed, “There’s not much left besides a pile of busted up bones and some kind of hide. It looks part scaly, like a gigantic brook trout”.
“The thing is shredded or pulverized”, Jim added.
The group stared at each other and then at the remains of the animal, or whatever it was.
Gary broke the silence. “Hey be quiet”. The guys stood motionless and alert.
“What do you hear”?