Considering the significant amount of time I’ve spent in the wilderness, it would be rather unusual if I hadn’t encountered attacks from wild animals.

Indeed, I have been attacked on multiple occasions by various creatures.

During my excursions at Salmon Creek in late summers, while hunting for unique finds, I would consistently face relentless assaults from squadrons of malicious mosquitos just before dusk. Despite my valiant efforts, even resorting to chemical warfare, I would always be driven away from the water’s edge, away from prime hunting grounds, nursing my wounds and cursing those malevolent insects.

On more than one occasion, I found myself viciously attacked by angry crawdads while wading through the water in broad daylight. I consider myself lucky to have escaped with all my toes intact.

There was an unwarranted and unprovoked attack by what seemed to be a swarm of ‘killer’ bees atop Cave Ridge one summer. They launched relentless assaults, displaying irrational aggression. It was like facing a wave of meanness set on self-destruction. They refused to negotiate, and our team suffered heavy losses, except for Bait, who remained in his tent giggling like a schoolgirl.

I vividly remember an encounter with a pair of remarkably intelligent hornets, or perhaps they were Yellowjackets, chasing me across unexplored lava flows at Mount St. Helens. They relentlessly inflicted wounds, pursuing me for what seemed like miles, or at least a hundred feet, until I impulsively leaped into a collapsed sinkhole measuring about 10 feet across and 4 or 5 feet deep.

I managed to elude them by stumbling into an opening just behind where I had jumped. It led to a passage into what would later be known as the ‘Udotube,’ a previously undiscovered lava cave. It was an unexpected stroke of luck.

I engaged in a heated battle with a Hobo spider, which felt like I was wrestling with a small dog, or perhaps a puppy. Okay, maybe not that big, but it was genuinely vicious. It bit me on the hand, the little rascal. In response, I swiftly smashed it with a piece of firewood. Surprisingly, it stood up on its hind legs, posing as if it had little boxing gloves. To my astonishment, the creature charged at me, scurrying up inside my pants leg. As I frantically swiped at it, performing an unintentional chicken dance, the pesky spider bit me again, this time on the leg. Thankfully, a buddy of mine came to my rescue armed with a Louisville Slugger and a WWII German Officer’s sword. Together, we managed to overpower the spider, although not without some casualties.

I’ve also had the displeasure of being attacked (and bitten) by more than one goose. One incident involved a Canadian goose at Lake Fenwick, Washington (probably an illegal immigrant, eh?), and another encounter took place with a Nene, the state bird of Hawaii, on the Big Island. The Nene attack was particularly disheartening, considering I was simply trying to share my lunch with the ungrateful miscreant.

During a visit to Waikiki Beach, I was ruthlessly clawed by a small sand crab. It had initially surrendered after a fierce battle but apparently took offense when I attempted to fasten a leash on it, intending to keep it as part of my beach display. The tenacious creature pinched my finger and held on tightly. In my frantic attempts to shake it loose, I inadvertently flung it farther than anticipated, causing it to escape into the surf.

On another occasion in Hanauma Bay, Hawaii, I was fiercely bitten by an evidently feral fish. The bay is home to a variety of fish, including the colorful Tangs, Parrotfish, and Angelfish. Now, I’d love to claim that it was a rogue Humuhumunukunukuapua’a (the State Fish), as it would sound more exotic, but truth be told, it was just an ordinary, plain silver-colored fish.

You see, at the bay, they sell fish food pellets, but the fish aren’t particularly fond of them. They reluctantly eat the pellets, casting disapproving glances our way. However, if you head to the parking lot around 1:00 PM when the Japanese tourist buses arrive, you’ll find that they serve lunches on the buses, and most of the tourists discard the fish first thing, without even touching it. By rummaging through the trash, you can have a feast.

After gathering all the leftover fish, I returned to the bay, becoming the center of attention for all the marine life. The fish abandoned the hapless tourists and swarmed around me for the good stuff. It was a sight to behold, like Indians encircling a wagon train. As I fed them, they formed mesmerizing circles, making for fantastic video footage. In fact, I managed to capture a shot of my wife with fish swirling around her, holding a chunk of food in the air for a daring fish to jump and snatch it.

My focus remained fixed on her, determined not to miss the shot, but little did I anticipate the comedic turn of events that followed. As a silver fish leaped from the water, it clamped onto her finger, causing her to scream and shake, inadvertently sending her bag of fish flying. Amidst the chaos, she cried for help, while I desperately tried to grab the fish without diverting my attention from the viewfinder. It was quite a challenging task.

Eventually, the fish let go, and my wife headed to shore with a small scratch and a deep scowl. Meanwhile, I continued feeding the fish, ensuring I didn’t hold the food for too long before dropping it. As I reached into the bag to retrieve another piece, a large, belligerent fish with silver jaws and menacing fins managed to snag both the bag and my fingers.

Earlier, the situation had been rather amusing with a small, playful fish, but now I found myself in a serious life-and-death struggle with what felt like a Great White shark or perhaps a Barracuda, a true denizen of the deep. I twirled around, flinging my bag of fish, causing a frenzy among all the other fish in the bay. The water churned as they swarmed and splashed, reminiscent of a piranha feeding frenzy. Onlookers found it amusing, laughing, pointing, and capturing the spectacle with their cameras. Those darn tourists!

Finally, I managed to pry the sea monster off my hand, just as my wife reached the shore and turned around to witness the commotion. With my bloody hand concealed behind my back, I gave her a nonchalant look, as if to say, “What’s the big deal?” Unfortunately, she didn’t catch on, although I did confess later, recounting the full story to cheer her up.

I’ve had my fair share of encounters with wildlife, including a disgruntled Grouse that took offense to my presence in its territory while en route to raid the crystal claims at Spruce Ridge, Washington. This determined little creature harassed me for what felt like miles, okay, maybe just 200 yards, or over 100 feet. It persistently nipped at my ankles, fluttering away before running up from behind to mount another attack. This absurd chase went on for far longer than necessary. Although I managed to land a couple of solid kicks, the grouse would not be deterred. Quite the tenacious little creature, I must say.

I’ve also been swooped by bats on several occasions, although I’ve always seen it as a training exercise during cave exploration rather than a genuine attack. However, there was that one time in Powerline Caves, St. Helens when both my wife (at the time) and I were physically assaulted by these demonic flying creatures. It was truly unsettling. We were eventually driven out, with my wife frantically flailing at her hair for the rest of the evening.

Now, while I can’t claim that I’ve been attacked by a bear myself, I did have an incident where a bear attacked my campsite. The furry intruder dragged my tent, which I had left there the previous week, ripping it to shreds. To add insult to injury, the bear knocked over a rock totem I had built and left a massive pile of bear excrement covering its base. If I ever come across that bear, I’ll make sure it knows how displeased I am. Grrr!

Lastly, I must share one hair-raising survival story from Blue Lake, Mt. St. Helens, where I had a terrifying encounter with a beaver. Now, don’t let the word “beaver” fool you. These creatures can be enormous, and their teeth are sharp and intimidating. As my friend and I stood at the end of two fallen trees floating on the lake, observing the fish through the clear water and enjoying a pipe of Afghani Kush, we spotted something swimming across the lake directly towards us.

As it drew nearer, we realized that this beaver was abnormally large, and its teeth looked menacingly sharp. Its eyes seemed to glow red with rage, and it accelerated, showing no signs of stopping. It was clear that this crazed creature intended to attack us!

In our panicked state, we envisioned it tearing flesh from bone, snapping bones in its powerful jaws, and dragging us down into the depths of the lake in a death grip. Of course, it was a ludicrous thought, reminiscent of a crocodile attack, but panic doesn’t always allow for clear thinking.

We stumbled and bumbled, shoving and grabbing, slipping along the two logs as we desperately tried to make it back to shore. “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!” was our panicked mantra. The battle-hardened beaver maneuvered under the logs at the last second, slapping its tail on the water with a sound like a gunshot, echoing across the lake.

We stood on the shore, dazed and bewildered. “Did you see that?!!” we exclaimed. Upon returning to the campsite, excitedly recounting our adventure, we were met with laughter and dismissive remarks. “Hahaha, just a bleepin’ beaver, dude!”

But no, it was more than that to us. It was an evil spawn, enormous and rabid, with a thirst for horrific carnage. We believed it was a man-eating beaver, an infamous predator of Blue Lake!