Pico Blanco Boy Scout Camp

When I was 11 or 12 (1970ish) Boy Scout Troop 159 went to camp in Pico Blanco.  Shit got weird.

BSA Troop 159 circa 1974. Different Scoutmaster.

We set up our Army issue pup tents and spent the day hiking, playing capture the flag, tying knots and other Boy Scout shit.  After dinner and a hearty sing along at the campfire we settled in to sleep.  We were briefed that Pico Blanco had not one but two herds of wild pigs in residence.  We were warned not to keep food in our tents lest a pig comes in a roots around.  Trash cans were rigged to be pulled up off the ground to be “pig proof”.


In the middle of the night, I woke up.  I could hear the trash cans being knocked around.  “PIGS!”, I thought.  I could hear grunting and growling.  After a few minutes that seemed like hours, I could hear one shuffling to the tent.  I tried to wake up my tent mate, but he kept sleeping.  I grabbed my sheaf knife and my army issue mess kit knife and waited.  I peeked out of the gap at the bottom of the tent.  My view was then filled with fur.  It stank to High Heaven.  I laid there terrified until I finally fell asleep.  

Our Scoutmaster was an asshole.  Twenty-something he always bragged about his time in the Army.  He’d go on about all the things he’d seen and done.  Like sledding down the Matterhorn on a truck tire.  The ultimate Macho Man, he refused a tent and decided to sleep in a burnt out tree.  

The next morning I was awakened by a clamor.  Everyone was shouting.  There was our fearless Scoutmaster, bare chested.  He was standing with his arms crossed and had a huge black, blue and purple bruise that covered his whole shoulder.  He refused to answer questions, in fact he refused to talk at all.  Apparently, he woke up to investigate the noises.  He was armed with a revolver.  It was cold and he’d crossed his arms for warmth.

Something?  Startled him and he had pulled the trigger.  The pistol did not go off, but the hammer pinched his underarm.  He had stood there all night, afraid to move lest he shoot himself. Afraid to move at all.  We eventually, safely removed the pistol from his hand and underarm.  He quit the Boy Scouts the next day.


Years later and learned about Bigfoot.  Over the years, I’ve never connected Sasquatch to this story.  All I heard were sounds.  All I saw was fur.  We had a pig farm in our town and it kinda smelled like that.  Bad.

This is Pico Blanco today.


What do you think?