Chinook
by George Hosier II  - July 4

Chimeras

Ancient mythology tells us that chimeras once stalked the earth. Well, maybe not stalked, but kind of wriggled and flew and galumphed all at the same time. Evidently these chimeras were hybrid monsters made of the parts of multiple creatures—sort of like my brother’s car. Homer described, "a thing of immortal make, not human, lion-fronted and snake behind, a goat in the middle, and snorting out the breath of the terrible flame of bright fire".

The reports of weird hodge-podge animals aren’t restricted to the ravings of one old blind Greek poet. These critters pop up all over the ancient art and literature of Greece, Rome, Japan, Persia, India, China, Egypt the Etruscans, etc. Fascinatingly, chimeras still seem to have a loyal fan base as evidenced by the creatures inhabiting such media as The Island, Blade Runner, Spy Kids 2, Lord of the Rings, and Rudy Giuliani’s campaign ads.

I used to think the whole concept of chimeras was ludicrous, partly because the Good Book says that the Creator made all species to reproduce “after their kind”, and partly because I had never seen one. That was before I visited San Francisco. Now I’m not so sure. In fact I sometimes lay awake at night imagining what kind of chimera might be lurking under my bed, waiting to gobble me up.

As fertile as my imagination is, however, it remains tempered by pragmatism. I don’t honestly expect to meet a pegasus or a gryphon or a faun or a minotaur. After all, I live in Alaska. Any chimeras I might encounter would logically have to be hybrids of indigenous Alaskan wildlife. In my wee hours of sleeplessness, I have compiled a list of several of the most probable Alaskan chimeras to take up residence under my bed.

The Porcusquito. This flying parasitic pincushion is a cross between a mosquito and a porcupine. It eats woodsheds and outhouses and axe handles and loves to land on anything warm in order to suck blood through a massive hollow quill protruding from its face. When it’s done feeding on pets and livestock, it leaves an agonizing thicket of quills bristling from its victim’s muzzle. Perhaps the most demoralizing thing about the porcusquito is that when it lands on you to feast, you can’t smack it! Well…you can, but you’ll really, really regret it.

The Moogle. When you put the head of a bull moose onto the body of a bald eagle, the resultant chimera has a significant aerodynamic problem. Although moogles have wings, they cannot fly. This is because the weight of their head prevents them from lifting it from the ground. Their entire life is spent upside down in one spot. Their impressive rack and long, bulbous nose serve as a sort of a tripod, anchoring them to the tundra. Their feathered body sort of dangles in the air above their head, supported by their flimsy eagle neck.

The moogle feeds by flapping its wings powerfully enough to create a windstorm that knocks leaves and twigs from nearby trees, which it then collects with its long tongue and prehensile lips. Because of its inability to flee, the Moogle also must rely on its wind generating capabilities to blow away predators that may be tempted to sample the tantalizing poultry lollipop so conveniently planted at fang level.

The lifespan of the moogle can vary widely depending on where it happens to be born. For instance, moogles who are born in dips, boggy areas or low spots typically drown as soon as the first rain puddle rises high enough to trickle into their nostrils. Likewise, moogles born in open areas with a high annual snowfall do not survive the hard packed snowdrifts that quickly form around their heads.

The Prospecterine. This chimera has the body of a wolverine and the weather-beaten head of a man. The head typically displays a flowing white beard growing from the bottom of it and a ragged floppy-brimmed felt hat mashed on top of it. This creature is fearless and aggressively territorial. It has been reported that an enraged prospecterine once disemboweled a grizzly bear that had accidentally spilled a bag of coffee, and broke a jar of sourdough starter.

The prospecterine has a keen nose for gold nuggets, which it apparently consumes in large quantities to sustain its high-energy metabolic rate. The creature is relentless in its search for gold. Legend has it that the Grand Canyon was actually dug in one afternoon by an Alaskan prospecterine who, while on vacation, smelled a single gold nugget deeply buried beneath what was at the time a broad, daisy strewn meadow in Arizona.

The Dallrus. Between its tusks and its set of full curl horns, the front end of an adult rambull dallrus is an intimidating thing to meet. The dallrus carries the bulk of a walrus on its Dall Sheep legs. This tends to remind observers of a yam stuck on four toothpicks. One should not, however by deceived by its ludicrous appearance. One hunter describes seeing a dallrus hurling himself from crag to treacherous crag high on a granite ridge somewhere in the Brooks Range as effortlessly as a sumo wrestler on a trapeze. In the rare event that a dallrus should lose its footing, it simply tucks its tail flipper like a toboggan and rides it to the bottom.

This flipper sledding technique proves invaluable when dallrus herds congregate on the slopes of mountains to snow bathe. There they sprawl out in a giant, jostling, undulating carpet of bodies, barking and bleating and moaning. Unfortunately, snow-blanketed talus slopes are difficult to sprawl on, and the slightest jostle is enough to dislodge half a dozen dallruses from the teetering rocky nubs on which they had been precariously sprawling.

This inevitably precipitates a domino effect, sending dozens if not hundreds of dallruses tobogganing to the bottom of the slope. Often onlookers who witness this event mistakenly assume they are watching an avalanche in progress. This misperception is perhaps excusable due to the dallrus’ pure white pelt and the fact that usually so many dallruses are in motion that it seems like the whole side of the mountain is sliding.

The Great Horned Beaver. Crossing a Great Horned Owl with a beaver results in a chimera that has the wings, eyes and head of an owl, combined with the tail, teeth and legs of a beaver. The great horned beaver or “grover” as it is sometimes called, lives in a huge lodge of sticks built in the top of a sturdy tree. Because grovers often land high in a tree to cut branches for their nest lodge, savvy Alaskans must always be alert to small logs, sharpened like a pencil that could fall from the sky at inconvenient moments. More than a few outdoorsmen have failed to return from a hunting trip deep in grover habitat. When found, their grisly remains appear to have a poplar sapling growing out of the top of their skull.

Nocturnal in its habits, the grover swoops silently over lakes and creeks, snatching up unsuspecting fish who during a fated moonlight swim venture too close to the surface. Once the fish is caught, it is slapped silly with the grover’s tail and then used as a shuttlecock in a playful game of aerial badminton. Once the fish has become thoroughly pulverized by the grover-tail rackets, it is planted at the base of a sapling to fertilize next year’s nest-building material.

Squirling. The smallest and most proliferate of Alaskan chimeras, the squirling, can climb like a squirrel and swim like a grayling. It is easily identifiable by its bushy tail and prominent dorsal fin. The diet of the squirling seems to consist exclusively of fiberglass insulation, which it has an uncanny ability to access in even the best-constructed homes. If it cannot climb to the eaves and chew an access hole, it will dig down to the sewer line, chew a hole in that and then swim houseward until it emerges suddenly from the commode. Being goosed by a cold Squirling nose from the depths of the thunder mug is memorable experience, and one that allegedly provides tremendous entertainment to the goosee’s family.

Equally uncanny is the squirling’s ability to avoid being apprehended by disgruntled homeowners and/or goosees. The most effective method for catching a squirling seems to consist of dangling a #0 Mepps Aglia spinner baited with a twist of pink Owens Corning R-40 in the toilet bowl until one bites. However, extreme discretion must be used, since the danger of being hauled off in a straitjacket to the funny farm outweighs the benefits of preserving your insulation.

I could go on for hours, but I simply do not have space to write about the “mallox” (mallard and musk ox), the “orcer” (orca and sea otter), the “spole” (sperm whale and vole), the “marmon” (marmot and salmon), the “foxly” (fox and grizzly bear), the “haven” (snowshoe hare and raven), the “lynxibou” (lynx and caribou), or the “borough” (rugged individualism and socialistic bureaucracy). I do feel a sense of accomplishment, however that I have been able to contribute to the written documentation of chimera lore.

In doing so, I ask you to witness that I join the ranks of such exalted witers as Homer, Virgil, and Pliny. Did you ever notice that no one calls them crazy? I bet they probably kept a fishing pole in their restroom too…and a grenade under their pillow…and used a spiked mace for a flyswatter. So, there!
 

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