Swimming to the surface, the fish bypassed the flies and suddenly launched itself atop the rock upon which I stood, perched with my pointed stick.

And then the damn thing snapped at me!

Backing away, I slammed the sharpened business end of my spear into its slimy back, but it merely bounced off the rubbery hide, the point splitting in half.

The enraged fish unfurled its seventy-pound eel-like body and lashed out again, its pair of twenty-inch barbels independently raking the air—an action that told me the fish was blind, though far from helpless. Jabbing the stick at the foul beast’s mouth, I distracted it long enough to withdraw the steak knife from my jumpsuit pocket. With one slice I hacked off its feelers, then stabbed at the animal’s soft white underbelly, quickly retracting the six-inch blade before the predatory amphibious fish could bite me with its finger-length stiletto-sharp teeth.

Fully engaged, I plunged my weapon repeatedly into the bleeding carcass, ranting my best Melville. “… to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee!”

A dozen or so stabs and Moby Catfish was lying belly up, ready to be filleted.

For the briefest of moments I imagined skewered chunks of catfish cooking over an open fire, then reality hit: any potential firewood was wet. As a Cub Scout, I had been deemed “fire-challenged” by my den leader who joked that I couldn’t ignite a flame using a wad of newspaper and a book of matches.

Screw it. The scent of my fresh kill smoldering on an open spit could lure other predators.

Sushi it was.

Sawing long cuts into the catfish’s belly, I surgically removed a square of meat, washed it off in the stream, then chewed a bite. Despite being raw, the meat was surprisingly tender, but three mouthfuls were all my stomach could …

The sound stifled my mental dictation, my eyes scanning the treetops overhead. I had heard the pan flute acoustics seconds before the killer ants would have filleted me, only then the sound had been more of a diversionary tactic.

What I heard now seemed like a cry for help.

Leaving the stream, I headed off in the perceived direction of the sound, making my way through a grove of redwood trees that easily dwarfed the tallest sequoia of Northern California. Even the underbrush was elephantine, the ferns creating an umbrella effect five feet over my head. The forest floor was padded with rotting foliage, which combined with the massive redwood canopy to mute all sound, save for that of my eight-legged guardian.