Hunting the Chupacabra
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It's been almost exactly a year since we began our trip through the south of Chile. A year ago today the two of us were in a tent by the side of a green, green, green lake in a tiny village called Petrohue. A year ago today we hunted the illusive, mythical chupacabra, moving across the lake in the dark, crouching in the shadows of the trees, searching for movement, the flicker of wings. The fishermen who led us through the woods and through the empty fields took us into their superstition like pulling someone into a warm body of water. They said they had seen the chupacabra. They knew it was out there. It's not exactly that we didn't believe, or that we did. But we followed them into the thick trees that spread form the lake to the volcano, creeping, watching, the only light the silent sweep of the yellow beams from their flashlights. And at moments we strained to see through the dark, we turned at the flicker of a shadow. And sometimes, just for a second, we were afraid.