Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (28 page)

That being said, our oceans are proving to be a nearly limitless source of undiscovered creatures. Advances in deepwater exploration are opening the door to an unseen world, and literally thousands of new species are being documented each year. Is it possible that a population of large sea monsters is living in the deepest regions of our oceans? Perhaps. It’s unquestionably more likely than the existence of Slimy Slim in Payette Lake, Idaho.

21: What the Monsters Taught Me

As this goes to print, I’ve filmed four and a half seasons of
Destination Truth
and investigated more than eighty individual stories, a fact that sneaks up and surprises me even now. I’m within a stone’s throw of traveling to a hundred countries, and I’ve broken bread with individuals from more cultures than I can count. It seems like I should have something to say for myself, some epiphanic revelations after four years of professional monster hunting.

I’ve certainly learned how to be a better traveler. I can pass through an airport security line like a ghost (in case you’re interested, the correct order of objects on the X-ray belt is shoes, accessories, bag, then computer). I’ve learned to sit tight and be the last person off an airplane, since baggage claim carousels are a tiny circle of hell. I’ve learned that the
Thousand Places to See Before You Die
book is a great read unless you travel for a living, in which case it only serves to remind you that you’re just about ready to die. I am now a frequent-flyer program savant, a packing guru, and a connoisseur of questionable roadside bathrooms. Oh, and I’ve also learned how to drive in reverse while ducking from arrows.

Hunting monsters has also provided me with a hard-knocks education in television hosting and producing. Since I began working on
Destination Truth
, the Syfy Channel has generously seen fit to utilize me in other, varied capacities. In 2007, I began my now four-year tenure as the host of
Ghost Hunters Live
on Halloween night. Then, in 2010, I was fortunate enough to host the one hundredth episode of
Ghost Hunters
from historic Studio 8H in 30 Rockefeller Center. The key to hosting live television, I’ve come to know, is that the only way to make it look easy is to remember that it isn’t and to prepare accordingly.

But much more important, I’ve learned that most of us are a lot luckier than we acknowledge. To see children suffering from malnutrition or to visit countries where personal liberties are few is to know gratitude for whatever cosmic fluke granted many of us brighter circumstances.

I’m often asked if I think that the people we interview are crazy. Almost universally, I do not. Are there crazy people out there associated with the types of stories we investigate? Sure, although most of them don’t know they’re crazy. You think Norman Bates knew he was crazy? No, of course not. He just cleaned up that shower, put on his mother’s nightgown, and made himself a pot roast. I’ve learned that it’s best not to engage with people who peddle conspiracy theories, hawk Chupacabra key chains, or believe that
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
is an allegory for immigration reform. Instead, we stick to earnest accounts and try to tell people’s stories fairly, with humor and enthusiasm.

The frequent question of whether the creatures we look for are real is also frustrating, since I’ve come to believe it misses the point. The salient fact is that the
stories
about the creatures are real. Many of them are the continuations of oral traditions stretching back thousands of years. Between the lines of these legends is a code, a subtle language that informs us about beliefs, values, and the social psychology of a group of people. And in some cases, yes, they just might point us toward an undiscovered creature or a legitimate phenomenon.

Take the Cyclops. It would be easy to dismiss this visually challenged cave dweller as merely a character of ancient fiction, nothing more. In reality, it may well be that the legend, included in Homer’s epic
The Odyssey
, has roots in reality. The ancients encountered fossilized pygmy elephant bones in caves throughout the Mediterranean. Intriguingly, the nasal cavity of the skulls looks alarmingly like a single eye socket. In an effort to make sense of these unsettlingly large bones (and with no knowledge of elephants), it’s possible that locals interpreted the remains as a race of giant, single-eyed humanoids. The notion that some of the most enduring creature stories of all time may be an early version of archaeology is fascinating stuff. It goes to show that even the most outlandish of legends is worth consideration.

This speaks to something universal in the human condition. We all want to understand the world around us. Man has an undeniable desire to explore and an inherent need to rationalize. The ancients crafted poetic myths to bring order and context to the universe, and the tradition continues to this day with every Bigfoot sighting or paranormal encounter. We cannot bear for our most mysterious experiences to remain unexplained. I’ve therefore learned, above all, that every story has worth, since a person takes the time to tell it. The key is to listen.

22: Home

Somewhere Above the Pacific, 34,000 Feet, 2010

Everything feels sore. I slip off my boots, stretch out my toes, and let out a deep sigh. My arms are sunburned and dry, there’s a gash on my finger that needs rewrapping, and I can’t wait to change this shirt. I’ve been wearing it for days. Somewhere in the luggage hold below, my pack is stuffed with damp socks, muddy cargo pants, and various other distressed pieces of my wardrobe, which probably stink to high hell.

Outside the window I see nothing but clouds and moonlight. I glance at the map on the seat-back screen in front of me. We’re cruising at 34,000 feet, more than six hundred miles per hour. It’s hard to believe. Just inches beyond the cozy silence of this Boeing 747 jet, the thin and frigid air is screaming by. From here, though, just across the threshold, the silent majesty of it all is simply meditative. I’ve studied this lunar view a thousand times. It usually means I’m going somewhere new. I instinctively associate it with anticipation of the unknown. But tonight I’m going home.

This flight, my eighty-first this year, marks the last leg of this season’s overseas production. The crew has scattered to the wind: a few will remain overseas, others are returning to Los Angeles, New York, and small towns in between. I’m fantasizing about a crackling fire and snow falling outside the windows of my family home in Massachusetts. The plane corrects course slightly and momentarily bucks in the strong headwinds outside. I watch the tiny animated plane on the screen in front of me shift direction. I know that by the time the sun breaks up through the clouds, we’ll be landing in Boston. I slip off my wristwatch, adjust the bevel to U.S. Eastern Standard Time, and smile—it’s Christmas Eve.

Despite my cultivating ease with unfamiliar places and an ability to sleep in just about any uncomfortable corner of free space on earth, sometimes my brain forgets that this is my day-to-day life. I wake up sometimes and don’t know where I am. It happens more and more these days. Recently, I came to in an unfamiliar hotel room, suddenly overcome with panic. Clutching for the lamp, I smashed a glass on the bedside table and grasped at the only thing I could find: a notepad with a Chinese letterhead. I stared at the characters in horror, tears in my eyes, unable to recall anything about my circumstances. And then, it hit me. I’m in Beijing. We’re filming
Destination Truth
. All is well.

We all fundamentally crave familiarity. It’s hardwired in us. For me, most days lack this stability. I don’t know much about where I’m headed. Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going to sleep most nights until I walk through the door. But tonight, I have the great comfort of knowing that my father will be picking me up at the airport in his truck, my mother is working on a delectable turkey dinner, and cold ocean waves are crashing methodically outside my childhood bedroom window.

Travel does not exist without home. They are inseparably married. If we never return to the place we started, we would just be wandering, lost. Home is a reflecting surface, a place to measure our growth and enrich us after being infused with the outside world. More than anything, though, it’s a safe haven.

Over the last two seasons I’ve received a steady stream of e-mails, letters, tweets, and Facebook messages from people inquiring about how to get my job. To those interested in becoming a “cryptozoologist,” I would gently redirect you toward study in the sciences of zoology, biology, paleontology, or archaeology. To those who want to know how to become a full-time traveler, the short answer is: Just do it. Exploration and adventure are seldom backed by anything other than curious individuals with a desire to experience the unknown and cast a little light into uncharted corners of the world. Opportunities for employment will follow. I promise.

I never argue with people who tell me that I’ve got “the best job in the world” because I largely agree with them. But there is a price for accepting the position. My closet has been reduced to a single fifty-pound bag, and every night ends on a borrowed bed, or sometimes just a wooden floor. Most important, the job requires a terrible downsizing of family and friends, all of whom are listed at the bottom of a flight itinerary for much of the calendar year.

I read books by other career travelers and discern a sort of conflict that’s familiar to me now. It’s a melancholy felt by all professional pilgrims that simmers just beneath the joy of never having to conform. To live in motion is to always be caught between worlds, a liminal existence. I slow down just long enough to fall in love with a place, yet never long enough to feel like I belong.

But whatever considerations have come with the job, it’s all been unarguably worth it. Along with having the great privilege of globetrotting for a living, I get the unique opportunity to share our many destinations with viewers around the world. One of my great hopes is that the show excites other people to travel. I can assure you that in nearly every country on earth, there are warm, hospitable, and fascinating people who want to share their stories and cultures with anyone who makes the effort to come and listen. And don’t worry: home will be waiting for you right where you left it.

Outside the window I can see nothing but white vapor now. We’ve descended and are flying through the cloud line toward North America. Below me, stretching out for 24,000 miles, is the vast, ephemeral equator of the earth. I feel as though I’ve only scratched the surface down there. I strain my eyes through the mist, eager to make out something below, and wide-eyed at the prospect of adventure on the horizon.

Acknowledgments

I would like to warmly acknowledge the following people: my mother and father for raising me adventurously; Ray Bradbury for sparking a young kid’s imagination; Gloria Tanner and the late Tony Cornish for your mentorship; Neil Mandt for giving me a career in the first place; Brad Kuhlman for keeping it alive; the
D.T.
crew for taking on the hardest job in television; Rob Swartz for nurturing the series in its infancy; Dave Howe, Mark Stern, Alan Seiffert, and everyone from Syfy who encouraged me to take this project on; Hallie Gnatovich for your endless encouragement, patient editing, and driving 2,042 miles round-trip to Santa Fe just so I could type in the passenger seat; Steven Spielberg for every movie you made before 1994 and for four of the movies you’ve made since then; Diet Coke for always being there; Maura Teitelbaum from Abrams Artists and the good people at Simon & Schuster for putting up with my many disappearing acts; and, finally, the loyal fans of
Destination Truth
, who ride along the bumpy roads with us week after week, and without whom my passport would have far fewer stamps.

Cheers.
Josh

At the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. A turning point in my life.