Issue link: https://read.dmtmag.com/i/727617
5 www.thunderpress.net THUNDER PRESS nOctober 2016n Stalking the wild truckadillo (Fade in: On a long straight- away of Interstate 80 east of Battle Mountain, Nevada, a heavily laden tractor-trailer lumbers along. A lone motorcyclist buzzes about the diesel behemoth like a meat-bee buzzing a burger. As the semi rolls down the road, its right rear outside tire begins delaminating and is suddenly slap- ping the pavement with a long wide whip of tread for a sickening second or so before it tears away completely and sails wildly through the air. The motorcyclist zigs expertly to dodge the projectile and then races back down the highway to where the twisted, mangled strip has come to rest on the pavement. He seizes it quickly and dispatches it with a precise blow to its hideous rubber neck. As he examines the hide, he swells with pride for this is a true trophy "truckadillo" (scientifi c name: Recapus Decapitatus), and the savvy hunter of the highway celebrates his success with an atavistic Pagan jig and a jug of Pagan Pink. Fade out.) I fi rst started hunting the high- way about 10 years ago I guess, give or take. I don't recall exactly. I don't recall much of anything exactly. I do remember having wearied of being hunted by all kinds of bizarre high- way creatures and deciding that the best defense is a good offense. I recall having wearied of my role as victim when it became apparent that I wasn't getting any sympathy or government grants for my suffering and I decided to become the aggressor— to seek out my tormentors and best them at their own deadly game. I started out small, initially just bagging chunks of blown-out sidewalls called "rubber skunks" (Vulcanus Kerblooie) which I would display on stringers like large-mouth bass for sportsman photo sessions with pho- tographers who thought I was nuts. I am not nuts. I am not nuts. Instead of dreading the debris of destroyed tires, I sought it out—sometimes tirelessly stalking a wounded specimen for miles and even days until it fi nally blew and darkened the sky with rubber skunks like migrating mallards. In those early days I hunted purely for sport and gen- erally adhered to a strict catch-and-re- lease discipline, gently massaging the defeated rubber skunks after the photo session and then chucking them back on the roadside. It wasn't long before I found myself chasing after open gravel trucks, hunting hives of "rock hornets" (Gravellus Detarpus), and shadowing logging trucks hoping to bag some "bark bats" (Detritus Neglectus). It was while I was hunting bark bats that I fi rst experienced the gut-lust for the larger, rarer game that became my obsession. While hunting along Highway 3 west of Hayfork one cool October morning, I rounded a curve following a particularly profl igate source of my chosen quarry when suddenly an entire slab of bark peeled back from an immense log and I found myself face-to-face with a fully mature "redwood gator" (Deforestus Swervus Ohsweetjesus). The beastie came whis- tling through the autumn air in a fl at spin like the blade of giant Lawn-Boy and only missed me by the grace of the curve in the road. I was upon it as soon as it landed and I wrestled the gnarly bastard into submission, being careful to hold its deadly jaws shut with a fi rm grip until I could secure it with my bungee net. The encounter was so harrowing, and the monster so malevolent, that I said the hell with catch-and-release and mounted the trophy on the side of my shed next to my collection of equally evil "chrome sailcats" (Hubcapus Oddjobus). I'd always considered myself a peaceful man. A loving, caring man. But after I'd experienced the tingling terror and exhilaration of throwing down with the big stuff, there was no turning back. I began obsessing over trophies and spending more and more time and more and more money in the pursuit of the awful and the awe- some. Highway hunting became my very raison d'être. And I was good at it. Real good. ******* A great highway hunter knows that success in all blood and motor sports is somewhat serendipitous, and the real secret to becoming a Bwana of the Blacktop is in becoming intimately familiar with the behavior patterns of your prey and putting yourself in the right place at the right time. To bag the truckadillo you must on some Zen level become the truckadillo. That was certainly the case one early evening on Highway 101 in Santa Rosa when I spotted a Ford Pinto packed with white trash and sporting a cheap aftermarket sunroof. The moron who'd installed it got care- less with the saber saw and the entire apparatus appeared to be secured only by a bead of caulk roughly the width of the Nile. My instincts went on alert and I rode in closer to the vehicle and followed. My patience was rewarded mere minutes later when the entire fi xture broke loose and I was suddenly confronted with a rare and heinous "glass condor" (Roofus Oopsus). The glass condor came straight at me without so much as a howdeedoo and landed with a shatter beside my right boot, sending a spray of tempered beads into my chaps. Having failed to dismount me, the cowardly creature skittered down the pavement and onto the median. I chased it down, stomped it to death, and as I was skinning it the white trash driver pulled up and demanded that I return it to him. He said he had a buddy who might trade See "Blue Dog Diaries" page 54, column 1