it was a Chupacabra.

With a 13-megapixel camera on my BlackBerry, one might think I'd've gotten a crisper capture than this one that looks like the thousands of questionable blurry paranormal sightings photos where if you squint right you kinda, sorta see it.

And just like those hazy photos of sasquatches, ghosts, and unidentified flying objects, I just barely got this:

I'm not a photographer, I'm a writer. You can definitely tell from this and from most of the other self-provided photos I've posted. So here's the writing to back this up:

On Sunday, March 19th, 2017 at 2:24p, my mother-in-law Joyce and my wife Michelle, beckon me over to the kitchen window at my parents' house. Outside my mother has a rock island xeriscaped garden which includes a very small fountain and pool that the local wildlife comes to nibble and drink at. The house is located on the slope of Tucson's local landmark, "A" Mountain, which puts it near a large area of desert park, so animals wandering through are common enough.

This was not a normal animal.

When I got to the window, a medium-sized hairless quadruped with blue skin, maybe a few shades darker than a painted Hindu god, was lapping up water from the pool. It had a uniform blue skin colour, no birthmark blotches like on most hairless dogs, or random remaining tufts of hair like on dogs with mange.

The other most likely suspect in Tucson would be a coyote, whom often scavenge edibles from suburban trashbins and random litter. I grew up in the northwestern outskirts of Tucson in the 1970s on a 3-acre desert lot, where I saw hundreds of coyotes, and it was many a night their yipping choruses and howls woke a young boy up, so I know a coyote when I spot one. This was not a coyote.

Unlike the photo, my first glimpse was plain as day, through a clear glass window, a mere 35 feet away. Neither Michelle or Joyce had a cameraphone on them, so I turned and went to the other side of the kitchen to get mine. In the short time that took, the chupacabra began to walk away north, our line of sight passing to the screened part of the window, which is the moire/grainy texture you're seeing in the image above. I tried moving to another window to get another shot, but I barely saw it leaving the driveway, so that's the only picture.

The above is fact. What follows from here forward are my thoughts, cryptid comparisons, and my associative speculations.

You may ask if it was a goatsucker, why wasn't it instead busy drinking blood? While my parents might live near a big swatch of desert, they're still in the city not so far from downtown, and rural farm animals aren't common in their neighborhood. Also, it was a rather warm day, and the chupacabra was probably very thirsty from all the sun. They're not undead, despite the hemophagic similarities, so like any living thing, it needs water to live. Other animals do come there to drink, so it may have been stalking before deciding to go for the water.

My sighting & photo capture matches the ones seen by Dr. Phylis Canion, a rancher in Cuero, TX, who had the xenomorphic body in her freezer, and after some inexact DNA testing (semi-concluded as a wolf-coyote hybrid), had the remains taxidermied, which exhibits some distinct anatomical variants upon closer examination.

A long time ago, my sixth-grade teacher, Mr Ramon Martinez, a very wise man, took a moment in class to bring up the 1972 B-film "Gargoyles". The premise included the idea that a winged humanoid species underwent a long-term hibernation under a mountain, emerging long after the accounts of their appearances had been dismissed (which is probably where the "Jeepers Creepers" films got their premise, and possibly inspired "The Descent" films partly as well). Then Ramon said that his mother once witnessed a group of winged humanoids launch themselves from "A" Mountain.

[Sentinel Peak, more commonly known as "A" Mountain.]

This account begs the questions: Why did the University of Arizona stop quarrying rock on conveniently located "A" Mountain? And aren't there tunnels going from the U of A, to Tucson High, to Roskruge Bilingual School, to possibly elsewhere? My wife once went through a tunnel system extending from behind Park Place to the McDonald's east of the mall and across the street, which has many, many branches leading to gods know where.

If there's a little-known subterranean network under the Tucson valley, why couldn't there be a population of chupacabras somewhere under the mountains concealed in a vaulted den? And if what's called the "Texas Blue Dog" variety of chupacabra could live there, why couldn't the related Puerto Riqueno & South American humanoid chupacabra spotted by my teacher's mother in the 1960s share the same Svartalfheimian space?

People have carved out shrines on the hard to reach upper southern face of "A" Mountain, risking life & limb to make small alcoves with statues of the Virgen de Guadalupe. It seems more than a little trouble to show religious dedication on a steep mountainside as opposed to a more easily constructed yard/bathtub shrine, unless there are perhaps other protective/warding reasons to pick this particular mountain.

In 2014, this oddity was captured in Texas. While it doesn't match dimensions or posture of the creature I saw, this curious variation only expands the types of chupacabra.

Many are the accounts of Huldrefolk, the hidden people, living within the hollow hills. Trolls, kobolds, alfar, dwarves, landvættir. There's a persistence to the idea.

If you allow the possibility of species of things yet to be discovered in the rainforest canopies, or in a darker corner of the Mariana Trench, or surviving from prehistoric times on a South American tepui, then anything could be down there underground. Anything. Realize that our credulous perception of the world is a fragile thing, mutable, and subject to change & expansion. 

There's room enough in the world for some, or even many, monsters. You don't have to believe my very real picture. It's grainy, far from definitive, only backed up by three witnesses, but I offer its evident truth to you with these words.

I know what I saw.

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While
a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo
Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals
for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan,
airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a
craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally
interesting endeavours, do contact him.

and then we went to Monster Camp.

Some would insist that marriage is about compromise, but in that subtractive equation one of two people always get chafed under the yoke of the other. No, if you've married correctly, the operating principle is compliment, like two pieces of a puzzle that make something greater that itself, or liquid to a bottle, things that fulfill each other's purpose.

So when my wife wanted to camp, something I'd not ever really had on my to do list, we decided it had to be something more engaging than the chore of roughing it, more than man versus nature, greater than just the great outdoors: We went to Monster Camp!

[Mini-totem in front of Camp Spirit's ramada.]

Monster Camp's the brainchild of Daniel & Dawna Davis of Steam Crow, a husband & wife graphic design team (see the compliment there?) out of Phoenix, AZ. Their outfit's been making monster-based books, stickers, postcards (my favourite), posters, t-shirts, and other sundries since 2005. The Monster Camp is attended by Monster Rangers, Steam Crow's fan-based scouting group, who participate in pursuit of good times, the eco-paranormal motto of "Believe, Study, Protect"-ion of Monsters, and the pursuit of superneat knowledge & achievement badges.

[The Marrow Totem at campground center. Put together with aluminum pipes and toggles made of elastic and wooden dowels, it's a sterling example of Monster Ranger ingenuity.]

Having been a huge admirer of Steam Crow's work since the first Tucson Comic-Con, we went not only for the camping, but to see how such a sociological construct would even come together. Having noticed that the focus at conventions seems to be acquisition, self-adornment, and photographic aggrandizement, how do a group of strangers taken out of that context and placed into the wild form community?

[Trophy heads posted outside of a gothic Skull Ranger's tent as an offering to the undead monsters they especially care for.]

Imagination is the key. Given the alt-scouting context, there's a mutual feeling generated that one belongs to something special with its own cult-like mores, a subversion of the protestant-based 1950s American youth groups with individual creativity replacing communal conformity as an ideal, a shared aesthetic that celebrates a steampunkesque inventiveness coupled with an attraction to the outré with the monster as its totem.

[Our fearless leader, Master Ranger Daniel Davis. Note the Goblin Post delivery man at bottom left, busy handing out missions and coded messages to members.]

There's a mythology complete with origin story, specialty scouting subdivisions if you feel like pursuing a niche, non-required uniforms with accessories, and an online forum with a patch-for-points registry if one wanted to get competitive about it, all which provide the glue that binds the Monster Rangers together.

[Hand sewn stitch witchery taught by hexcasting seamstress Dawna, who has a grimoire full of patterns of magickal intent for the Conjure Guard ranger branch.]

The annual Shindig (2017 being the second of these, with five happening up and down the western US) is the ultimate real world manifestation of the Monster Rangers. An exclusive patch for coming aside, it's three days of camping, with crafting workshops, monster-related lectures & presentations, secret missions, optional hikes, gaming, a musical performance, potluck dinners, and shared geekery with campfires, marshmallows and heavy social drinking. Like a cult, it takes you outside of your comfort zone where a tribal group dynamic then takes over. There's a special greeting in place of a handshake, and an even more special otherworldly artifact each scout is entrusted with that allows for a connection with any other Ranger at the camp.

[At our Camp Cucuy, my wife turned a chair into a working solar defroster after the dry ice solidified our fancy cheeses for the potluck charcuterie into impossible tooth-breaking bricks.]

Yet, unlike a cult, there's no peer pressure to do anything besides have a good time. Usually featuring two activities each hour outside of mealtimes, one at each ramada (either Camp Spooky or Camp Spirit) at each end of the camp, everything was optional, so if you needed tent time, you just took it, no questions.

[My smartly dressed wife sports her newly constructed Medic Scout themed nametag.]

Everyone we met in and outside of activity was congenial. People gave us bacon (!), lent us an extra portable gas stove to finish cooking our first night's potluck dish of red potato chili cheese fries, offered us middle shelf booze at the campfire, and everyone listened nicely to everyone else. We brought Jenga, and totally owned people, for which I know I deserve a patch. And as we talked to others, we found out many Rangers drove in from as far away as the West Coast to come, so it definitely wasn't just us 'Zonies making up the subculture.

[Late into the second night, Marrow showed up for a revealing Q & A with a monster.]

[At the stroke of midnight, a real Krampus sauntered out of the darkness, into the campfire's light to have his entourage hand out really, really good gingerbread cookies.]

Then there was a point where fantasy crossed into reality. One of the imperative skills of the Monster Rangers is to "Imaginate!", which allows one to see monsters. Reality's a consensual construct. When we frame what we see a certain way, it then excludes being able to see it in different ways, and we blind ourselves to the possibilities. The ancients saw monsters, gods, and creatures of all stripes & shades, recording them in legendary histories we learn about and enjoy today, whether we choose to investigate their truths or not. But nothing really separates the ancient mind from the modern one except how we construct our perception of reality. If we can reframe how we think about the world around us, we can see things as well as or even grander than the ancients did, and enrich ourselves in the process. This is probably the most subtle lesson the Monster Rangers has to teach us. While the manifestation of monsters in the pictures above may be a bit of low theatre, it also challenges what you see everyday by providing a solid sensory representation of the extraordinary right in front of us, and by forcing a broadening of our reality, that initiation ritual effectively allows us to witness them around us everyday.

[Rival Monsterologists showed up in top hats to present their counterpoint that monsters are dangerous and must be hunted to protect mankind. What short-sighted cretins!]

[My supercool aggregate of Monster Ranger badges. The hammers are wicked.]

While maybe it might be all about the sweet badges, there's alot more at play among the Monster Ranger Shindig experience than you might see at first. We're glad we went because it was all of the above and more. Thanks, Steam Crow!

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him via LinkedIn or G+.