Stories of loose tigers hiding in the Boise foothills had been circulating for decades. Much like the legend of Forrest Fenn’s mystery gold hidden somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, the story captured the public’s attention and slightly improved the economy of any burned-out mill and mining town in the region. Catering to modern gold-rushers, one-pump gas stations stocked treasure maps, bottled water, Laura Bars, and toilet paper as well as clerks with “insider information” sure to help solve the riddle so many others had failed to muster. Thus, the story of Siberian tigers prowling through the mountains above Boise created a similar economic opportunity but took the form of tiger repellent and live ammo.
***
As the story went, a circus train traveling through the Treasure Valley jumped the rails when a silver mine collapsed, causing a landslide. Circus performers, freaks, and all the animals tumbled out of the overturned rail cars. The story in the Idaho Statesman the following day warned citizens to shoot any unnatural beasts on site, lest they wreak havoc in the community. Packs of armed pioneers spread out across the valley, hoping to bag a rare and exotic pelt or headpiece for their mantle. A clown and bearded lady were taken down, a trapeze artist accepted a proposal of marriage, but all the animals were recovered, save for three Siberian tigers. These oversized predators supposedly populated the hills and mountains around Boise with generations of hungry offspring. The wily cats prowled by night and slept in deep dens or nested high in the trees by day so were rarely seen. Reports of pawprint and scat sightings circulated occasionally, sometimes including plaster-casts or desiccated specimens to prove the tale. According to the legend the giant felines collected the bones of their dead and buried them like elephants gathering remains in a graveyard.
Like the famed Chinese tunnels of Boise, the legend of the Siberian tigers was introduced to children in grade school or junior high by some friend who had heard about from an elder sibling or a trusted uncle.
“Why is it such a secret?” the line of questioning would begin.
“Because they don’t want you to know.”
“But why?”
“If they admitted tigers are prowling around they’d have to do something about it. But if they deny it and cover it up, problem solved.”
“Do they eat people?”
“All the time. Hiker gets lost, but the body is never recovered. Skier disappears off the trail, but no bones turn up in the Spring. Happens every day.” And so the legend was passed from one generation to the next.
***
Puggler Smelt couldn’t sleep for a week after hearing about the Treasure Valley Tigers. He imagined them prowling his neighborhood at night, dogs barking in the distance to warn their owners. He learned everything about them he could. Grainy film and phone footage of shadowy objects floated around YouTube, and near-victims told their story to earnest podcasters. Joggers posted tales of spotting the beasts perched on an overlook, or a mountain biker might claim to hear a hair-raising roar. Basque sheepherders told stories of seeing “Tigres del Diablo” stalking wolves for sport. Like a four-footed Sasquatch, the tigers were everywhere and nowhere, but Puggler felt he had figured out how to catch him. He learned of tiger pits filled with wooden spikes used to capture both man and beast. He had even seen it done in the movie First Blood as Rambo rampaged through a Northwest forest springing traps and taking names.
Puggler worked at Target, and his co-workers grew weary of his tiger-tracking theories and plan to capture one, “dead or alive!” In the break room, the stock room, and the parking lot he was ignored and avoided. Making eye contact gave him the opening he needed to rant about how “it’s so obvious what to do! But I’m the only one that’s ever thought of it. And I’m going to get a tiger.” The only Target worker unable to shake Puggler was Stewart. Although much larger, stronger, and smarter than Puggler, Stewart was sensitive and underconfident, which Puggler exploited. He bullied Stewart, turning the frustration over his misunderstood genius out on the shy giant. Puggler even had Stewart help him dig a tiger pit.
Down a dirt road just beyond Bogus Basin, Puggler and Stewart worked on the tiger trap. Puggler decided putting it in the middle of a game trail was the way to go. Despite what many people told him, Puggler was certain this spectacularly obvious idea had never occurred to anyone else. Stewart feared a confrontation if he pointed out the weakness in Puggler’s plan, so he kept quiet. Instead of helping to dig the pit, Stewart wanted to be home working on his Mr. Rogers fan fiction. He didn’t reveal this secret to Puggler, instead telling him he wrote fan fiction for The Bob Ross Painting show.
“That’s stupid. Nothing happens on the show. The guy with the afro talks while he paints a picture. That’s it. Same show every time. You’re an idiot. What you should be doing is fan fiction for Cops. That’d be cool.”
Puggler browbeat Stewart throughout the project, mocking his digging speed, his whittling skills, his intelligence, his self-confidence, his size, and his strength. Stewart mostly looked at the ground as he worked, wishing Puggler would stop. In the end, the pit was eight feet wide and ten feet deep with a floor of pine branches whittled to sharp points. To disguise pit, they crisscrossed small branches over the top.
They returned to the pit several times a week, Puggler always running ahead, fully expecting to find a tiger waiting for him. Stewart lagged, not wanted to see an insured animal. During one of these visits, heavy rains had softened the ground around the pit, causing small cave-ins around the rim disrupting the pit’s camouflaged cover. They could see that many of the sharpened sticks had fallen over in the mud.
“Goddamnit! I told you to put those spikes in deeper! Get in there and fix it, you moron!”
As he berated Stewart, Puggler’s gesticulations disturbed the loamy soil. It gave way under his feet and as he flailed, he overcorrected and fell into the trap. One of the still standing spikes punched through a rib, grazed his right lung, and reappeared just under his nipple like a bloody knitting needle. Puggler cried out in pain and tried to curse, but could utter no words—only guttural sounds, and a little bloody foam. Stewart looked at Puggler for a moment, then turned and walked back to the road, catching a ride from some mountain bikers headed back into town. Watching Stewart disappear from view, a furious Puggler struggled to free himself, causing the spike to twist inside his chest. He passed out from the pain.
It was night when Puggler woke. The broken ends of his cankered rib rubbed together with every breath, as if a cheese grater was loose inside him. He saw the Milky Way through the branches still over the pit, but the moon had waned. He heard crickets, frogs and a few owls hooting and then something else — a snuffling sound, like a large dog trying to find a lost bit of kibble. Then low grunting, like interrupted growls as the animal pondered what it smelled. Puggler felt vindicated he had found one of the tigers but terrified it may wander into the pit. Despite the lancing pain in his side, Puggler yelled out, shouting obscenities to frighten the beast into retreat. Puggler didn’t realize that as he yelled, the blood slowly filling his lung aerosolized with each holler, creating an invisible and iron-rich mist that wafted into the nostrils of the animal above. It hit like two sirloin steaks to the pleasure center. Fresh blood. Living blood. The grunts grew louder. The animal was snapping twigs and splashing mud as it wildly swept the breeze for a directional clue. Standing on the edge of the pit, raising its nose high, the wet dirt gave way, and the beast tumbled into the hole. It bellowed as a spike punctured its back leg. Puggler couldn’t look. He curled into a ball, covering his head, and begged to be anywhere but in the soggy hole. He heard the animal claw and struggle and growl in anger and hoped it had a fatal injury and it would all end soon. But the spike passed clean through the leg, leaving the creature angry but virtually uninjured. It approached Puggler, and he felt its hot breath in his hair as it took in the measure of him. The beast pawed Puggler, trying to roll him over for a better look. Puggler let out yips of pain as it pushed him around as easily as a Nerf toy. The creature’s claws punctured Puggler’s back and legs and buttock. Finally, in agony, Puggler yelled out, “Just eat me! Just fucking eat me!” and started sobbing.
The beast retreated. Puggler could hear its muddy paws on the far side of the pit. He decided he had to take a look, to finally see a Treasure Valley Tiger even if it might be the last thing he ever saw. Puggler peeked one eye up through his fingers and saw a grizzly bear crouching, then leaping right at him. Puggler’s scream ended abruptly when the bear landed on him with its full weight, driving him deeper into the mud and breaking six more of his ribs. With Puggler as its springboard, the bear jumped out of the pit and lumbered into the night in search of better fare. The broken ribs pierced Puggler’s lungs, drowning him in a mix of mud and blood. More rain fell, causing a mudslide that passed over the pit, filling it like it was never there. Weeks later, some hikers found Puggler’s car and a brief search was organized.
Puggler achieved the notoriety he was seeking, as his name became part of the legendary list of victims lost to the Treasure Valley Tigers.