Clawed
A Wild Animal Attack in Western Maryland
A Tamias striatus moves gracefully through the Savage River State Forest in Western Maryland. Capable of speeds in excess of 20 miles per hour, the creature, usually diurnal, is likely slowed by the darkness. Ahead is a lone two-story log cabin, built apart and isolated from the other seventeen that compose the Savage River Lodge. As the animal approaches the cabin, the only sound is from its clawed feet crossing the fall leaves scattered across the lodge grounds.
Inside, on a king-sized bed under a warm, white, down comforter, I am asleep alongside my wife, Barb. We are spent. The day’s weather had been beautiful and crisp — the autumn air seemed to have more oxygen than that around our home in the Baltimore/Washington corridor. We had taken advantage of both a weekend away from the kids and the weather by hiking a small portion of the 700 acres of the surrounding woods.
After our hike, we relaxed on wooden rocking chairs outside the main lodge, reading the Saturday New York Times. We watched as the Sun set behind the trees that were decked out in their best fall colors of orange, red, brown, and yellow. Eventually, we returned to our cabin, but not before working a puzzle while being gently nudged by the lodge dog, Bodhi.
Now it is Barb giving me a nudge and it is not so gentle.
“Did you hear that?” she says.
I wait, listening. Finally, I hear it:
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The noise is coming from outside the cabin. The scratching is not constant, but whatever is making the sound is not going away. We will never get back to sleep until it stops.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I get out of bed and make my way to the first floor of the cabin. After slipping on my hiking boots, I grab one of our flashlights. The authors of the Savage River Lodge information booklet had made a strong point in suggesting we bring our own. The tall trees surrounding the secluded cabin were like the walls of a cathedral, blocking any stray light, with the only natural illumination provided by a ceiling composed of the small, visible portion of the moonless, starry sky.
Upon opening the door, I shiver slightly on being met by the midnight air. The smell of the forest — cedar, pine, and the scent of countless other trees and plants of the Savage River State Forest — surrounds me as I step down onto the cool soil. I turn to the left and then take another left to head toward the back of the building.
As I shine the flashlight along the corner of the cabin, I see the animal. Somehow it has made its way to near the top of the building. I imagine it is as startled as I am. Whether being a “city boy” or because my mind was still clouded by sleep, I foolishly grab a rock and fling it in the animal’s direction to scare it away, David up against Goliath.
I do not get the reaction I want. Instead, the animal leaps down from its perch, spread eagle, as if sailing the beam of my flashlight. The creature lands on my chest, its claws finding exposed skin just above the collar of my buttoned pajamas.
I yell, pushing the animal away while turning to dash back into the cabin. My boots crush the branches and twigs along the side of the building and then scrape along the pebbles strewn as a pathway in front of the cabin. The wooden planks of the building steps respond with booming sounds as I race inside. I open the door, enter the cabin, and slam the door shut. For the first time, I look back for the animal, peering through the glass panes of the front windows.
Swinging the flashlight beam back and forth like a searchlight, I do not see the creature. As Barb calls down to me to make sure I am OK, I think to myself, I’ll never look at a chipmunk the same way again.
