Creepy Travel Stories: When Nature Adds a Plot Twist

The flashlight slowly scanned the top of the water, although I could barely see any actual water.  There was a marshy scent in the warm summer air as I carefully scanned the thick lily pads sporting the occasional white and yellow flowers. The white flowers were beautiful water lilies and the others reminded me of little yellow teapots.  Both usually had little gnat-like bugs swarming them, but that wasn’t what I was carefully searching for. 

It was summertime and I was on break in elementary school where we returned to camp every summer with our boat.  We always reserved the same site because my father had built a dock from logs he’d sawed lengthwise, a kind of rustic masterpiece that made tying up the boat feel official. But we weren’t looking for fish. 

It was dark and the only light that surveyed the densely populated lily pads was from my flashlight.

I was hunting bullfrogs.

As night fell across our campsite, the soundscape shifted. Instead of quiet, the deep resonate call of bullfrogs began to entice their mates.  I was determined to find the biggest bullfrog I could because this year, I was going to win the grand prize.

My sweet bullfrog was the first to hit the water every time we let them go from higher on the beach. It made it through several heats, thanks to the adults in the water who would scoop them into their nets, ready to compete in the next round.

I was the grand prize winner!

My summers spent camping in Ontario, introduced me to all kinds of slimy creatures and creepy bugs. Although, at the time, I was too busy being in the moment to consider these things in any light other than fascinating. Even when swarms of mosquitoes and black flies left dried chunks of blood in my scalp making it close to impossible to pull a brush through my hair.

But when I began to travel… I found a whole new world of creepiness that would leave me just as fascinated as I was disgusted. So rather than keep these unsettling stories to myself, I thought I’d share them with you!

I’m writing now from Cancun, where I’m visiting my son and daughter-in-law who live in Mexican suburbia.  A gated community that is reminiscent of the neighborhoods I grew up in, but the streets have facades that are Disney-like.  It’s clean, pretty, and feels safe.  Home interiors are similar to the southern states with lots of tile and natural light. Even the metal bars on the lower-level windows and doors are reminiscent of ones my grandfather installed in Canada after experiencing a break and enter.

Scorpions: Cancún Bathroom Surprise

Living in this home is comfortable.  So when we came across a mama scorpion and her nursery—seven babies riding on her back—in my bathroom, it was a shock. Even the locals were surprised that this creepy little family had made it all the way to the second floor.

I’d used the bathroom minutes before, but since I was sitting, I didn’t see them.  When my son went in after me… he found them lounging at the base of the toilet like they were vacationing at an all-inclusive!

I suppose you’re wondering what we did next?

The truth is, scorpions don’t go looking for trouble, they sting mainly in self-defense, so we weren’t worried about mama chasing us out of the bathroom. And my son has loved bugs and creepy things since he could walk. He married a vegan, and she made that choice because she loves living things too.

In all honesty, I probably would have squished the entire family… but my son carefully relocated them to a garden outside.

I’m still left wondering where Papa may be.

And if anyone’s wondering what the little ‘pebble’ is in the photo… it’s a stray lentil from tossing them in the air at midnight on New Year’s Eve… a tradition for abundance (food, money, prosperity) in the year ahead. We just didn’t mean abundant scorpions… but apparently the universe has a sense of humor.

Cicadas: Columbus Takeover

This experience reminded me of our time living in Columbus, Ohio, when the news outlets shared that summer 2004 would be a Brood X emergence and warned we might need an umbrella to make it from our door to our cars.

The umbrellas weren’t required, but it gave my young sons plenty to do. They caught cicadas, examined them like tiny scientists, and peeled cicada exoskeletons off the trees in our yard as if they were collecting treasure.

I thought it was gross.

They loved every minute of it.

Termites: Thailand Shower Buddies

That story leads me into another run-in with a bug with an exoskeleton.  Actually, it was a brush with more bugs than I cared to encounter. 

While at a small resort in Koh Phangan we discovered a termite mound… in our shower!  The first day, we requested the management remove it, so they did. We went to bed relaxed and satisfied.

In the morning, the mound had been fully restored.

This time my son tracked down the maintenance man and got caulk. He cleared out the mound, sealed the affected tiles, and we dusted off our hands like we’d solved the problem for good.

Done.

Or so we thought.

The next morning they were building again—slower, yes, but unmistakably determined. After that, we gave up and started showering with our new buddies. Fortunately, the shower was large enough that we could wash without getting too close to their ever-growing… home.

 Cobras: Doesn’t Taste Like Chicken on Koh Phangan

By this point, we’d become friendly with the maintenance man, so one day when we stepped outside our lodging and saw him standing with another employee, both of them looking strangely suspicious, we took a closer look.

They were trying to hide a very large snake.

He insisted it was fake, but I’m not easily fooled. He finally admitted he’d found—and killed—a king cobra outside our room. I was sad it was dead… and ecstatic we hadn’t stepped outside minutes earlier.

The next day I ran into him on one of the walkways. He extended a Ziploc bag filled with one-inch squares and asked if I wanted to try a dish he’d cooked overnight.

Yes, I tasted cooked king cobra.

And if you’re wondering, it didn’t taste like chicken. It tasted strongly of pepper and had a rubbery texture.

That night I woke up, headed to the bathroom, and found a giant cockroach sitting on the toilet seat. My startled scream shook my son awake, only to discover it was a plastic toy. The maintenance man and my son had conspired to “get me.”

They thought it was hysterical.

My nerves were rubbed raw at that point… but I still had to laugh with them.

Copperheads: Virginia Photo Shoot

Speaking of snakes… when I first moved to the Richmond, Virginia area, I used to walk in a local suburban park. Paved trails winding through the woods, the kind of place that feels safe and ordinary with lots of people taking advantage of nature.

One fall day, I saw a snake slowly crossing the path. I assumed the cooler temperatures had made it sluggish and lethargic, and I worried it might get run over by a cyclist.

So I did what any well-meaning person with questionable instincts would do: I got closer.

It stopped—fully aware of me—and I took a photo. I even told it (politely) to get off the path before another bike came along, then continued my walk.

When I got home, I proudly showed my (now) husband the cool snake I’d seen.

Turns out I’d gotten up close and personal with a copperhead.

Yes, I got a lecture, especially about the cost of antivenom. And yes, I learned that copperheads are perfectly at home in Virginia… even in the backyards of suburbia.

Perhaps my joy of being in the moment requires a tad more discernment!

Iguanas: Boquerón’s Little Dinosaurs

While touring the island of Puerto Rico, it wasn’t unusual to see the occasional giant iguana… but only in Boquerón was I truly intimidated by these freakishly large lizards. We stayed at a resort (an Airbnb), and every time we wandered over the canal toward the main historic area, we came across what felt like an entire population of iguanas as long as my leg, blocking paths, lounging on rocks, and generally acting like they owned the place.

Carefully passing them was uneventful, but there were enough of them for a small army should they ever choose to take over the world.

Alligators: Everglades Stare + Kayak Near-Miss

Another prehistoric creature I’ve had unintentional run-ins with are alligators. When my kids were young, we took a trip to the Florida Everglades, and of course we had to take them on an airboat ride.

While waiting to board, I wandered around with my camera, snapping photos here and there. It wasn’t until I was already past it that it registered: I had just walked within feet of a massive alligator pulled up on shore to rest. It was my first wild alligator sighting, and I spent a few minutes thanking the powers that be that this stoic gator must have had a full belly.

Because the one we saw from the airboat? That one took one look at our small children and came closer for a better view. Or a taste. We quickly moved them to the “inside” seats.

Now… what kind of people get into a kayak to paddle through the narrow waterways of North Carolina’s Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge? The name itself suggests an abundance of these scary creatures. At first, I was a tad nervous. But I relaxed after hearing the wolves respond in kind to our howls. And honestly, if visitors were regularly attacked, this wouldn’t be a popular tour… right?

I found myself slowly paddling, enjoying the peace and solitude. Okay—truthfully, I was trying to get away from that one tourist who loves the sound of their own voice. Trying to put as much space between myself and her, I fell behind the guide.

So I ended up the last kayak coming out of a channel, and everyone ahead of me started trying to quietly warn me—madly waving and gesturing in that “don’t panic, but also PANIC” way.

Unfortunately, I didn’t pick up on their cues.

I floated right beside the alligator that was sitting in wait… close enough that I was probably within reach of a long one… maybe four feet away. The only reason I stayed calm is because I didn’t realize what I’d done until I was already way past it.

Which is honestly the best possible order of events.

Monkeys: Kelingking Beach Bullies

Most of these stories involve creepy lizards and bugs, so a sweet little monkey might seem out of place. I wanted to love them. I was excited to see wild monkeys because I’d heard they were mischievous in an entertaining, comedic way.

And at first, they were. I even enjoyed watching them sneak snacks from the canang sari, those Balinese offerings that appear like clockwork throughout the day.

But it didn’t take long to learn that these “cute” little buggers are actually determined… and, at times, downright terrifying.

At Uluwatu Temple, I watched one monkey steal a woman’s prescription glasses right off her head. The temple sits high on a cliff, and the monkey perched just out of reach while her husband tried to negotiate like it was a hostage situation, tempting the little thief with an alternative snack as a trade. All of us onlookers were convinced those glasses were about to be dropped into the sea far below—but the trade eventually worked and she got them back.

So yes, I knew to be careful.

But it wasn’t until I visited the famous Kelingking Beach on Nusa Penida that I decided monkeys were not for me.

While exploring the top of the cliffs, I accidentally stepped over a very large snake, in the kind of moment where your brain catches up about two seconds after your feet do. The snake quickly disappeared into the brush, and once my heart rate returned to something reasonable, I started telling the story to our group leader.

That’s when I made my second mistake.

I caught a monkey’s eye.

Just so you know… don’t look a monkey in the eyes. They can take it as aggression. This one started screaming at me and posturing like it was about to attack. And of course, when you’re afraid for your safety, the natural reaction is to keep your eyes on the threat—which is the exact opposite of what you should do.

My other natural reaction? I jumped behind our guide… basically using her as a human shield.

Eventually I managed to break my gaze, the monkey moved off, and no one was harmed—except my ego. I was terribly embarrassed that my instinct was to put her closer to danger just to save myself. So if I never see another wild monkey again, I’ll be completely fine with that.

Spiders: Black Widow + Tarantula Encounter in Arizona

We can’t have a creepy travel story without a few arachnid encounters and Arizona is basically the bomb in that category.

While living nomadically, I left my camper under a friend’s care when I spent several weeks in Puerto Rico one year. It was safely parked beside him at a campground in Maricopa County. He was a van-lifer with a little motorcycle he towed along for freedom on two wheels.

Shortly after I returned, we were sitting outside enjoying a beverage when he realized a small “friend” had taken up residence under his motorcycle seat.

A black widow.

It’s a good thing she didn’t make her presence known while he was riding. That’s the kind of surprise that could turn a peaceful cruise into a very bad day.

Later, I visited friends in Tucson and did a little dog sitting while I was there. I took their adorable pooch to Tucson Mountain Park for a walk, and in the parking lot I got to see my first wild tarantula.  I studied it for a long time as it moved across the gravel with its late day shadow making it look even larger.

I was so excited.

It was probably a male out looking for a mate, and to this day I’m grateful I got to see him. Tarantulas are creepy… but they’re also incredibly cool. And mostly harmless if you leave them be.

Ticks: A Wisconsin Horror Story

My first stay in Wisconsin was recommended by a fellow traveler I’d crossed paths with near the Michigan border. The campground, close to the Michigan-Wisconsin line, was combined with a marina and came with a view of Lake Superior. It seemed perfect, because who doesn’t love a water view when you’re whiling away the hours behind a screen?

I arrived, set up my workstation, and did what I always do in a new place: I went out exploring as quickly as possible. I like to map out walking routes so I can take physical breaks from work.

The campground office suggested a little loop through the treed tent area, across a bridge to the beach, and back to my site. It sounded harmless enough… until I found myself wading through long, heather-like grass.

And here’s the thing: after finally feeling healthy again following a decade-long health battle that turned out to be chronic Lyme disease, I don’t mess around with ticks.

I’d been smart enough to wear long pants—but not smart enough to spray myself with tick deterrent first. I beat it out of there and across the bridge, immediately deciding I would not be returning to that section of the campground.

The fact that several families were camping nearby gave me a strange sense of comfort. If ticks were truly bad, surely they wouldn’t be sitting peacefully outside their tents, right?

I explored the rocky beach, headed back to my camper, and decided to shower.

While standing in the public bathroom, I felt something scurry across my neck.

I instinctively grabbed it and threw it into the sink.

It was an American dog tick.

Shortly after, I spotted a tiny black speck on my body—a deer tick. The carrier of Lyme. At that point, I was completely panicked. I shook out my clothes, showered, and went back to the camper telling myself I’d handled the crisis.

That night, I found another American dog tick attached to me. In a rush, panicky motion, I pulled it off the wrong way and realized I’d left part of it behind. I Googled how to remove a tick properly and learned what I already knew but had ignored in the moment: this is a slow, careful pull—not the frantic yank I’d done.

The next day, I called my doctor and had him call antibiotics into a nearby pharmacy. I wasn’t taking any chances. I knew what the long game looks like if Lyme takes hold again—and I still hadn’t even paid off the medical bills from my first ten-year fight.

And then things got worse.

Over the next five days, I was bitten multiple times per day. And let me tell you—dog ticks hurt. You don’t have to wonder if something’s there. You know. The bites started waking me up at night. I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t focus. And I couldn’t figure out where they were coming from.

Surely I hadn’t carried this many ticks back on my pants… right?

Finally, I went to the office and asked for a refund for my remaining days. I was in tears. I needed to leave, buy a carpet cleaner, find a laundromat, and scour the entire camper like I was trying to exorcise it.

When you pull out of a campsite, the last task is always the same: grab the molded plastic leveling blocks from under the tires and pack them away.

I reached down to pick them up… and realized they were covered in dog ticks.

Covered.

WTH?

Ticks are supposed to be in tall grass—not on plastic sitting on gravel. I honestly felt like the star of some weird science-gone-wrong horror flick.

I cleaned them off, packed up, and left.

And here’s the strangest part: for the rest of my time in Wisconsin—and the rest of the entire trip—I never saw another tick again.

Turns out my oblivious optimism has limits—and Wisconsin found them.

Mosquitoes: The Original Villains Resurface in Virginia

When you travel long enough, you eventually learn which creatures deserve a healthy amount of respect. In some places, mosquitoes aren’t just annoying—they’re a real health concern. Depending on where you are in the world, you might be taking antimalarial medication and still doing everything you can to avoid bites. Even here in the U.S., mosquitoes can spread illnesses, so “they’re just itchy” isn’t always the whole story.

And yet… in the United States, I’ve often been embarrassingly nonchalant about repellent. Partly because I hate the smell, and partly because I don’t love the idea of slathering poison on my skin (my largest organ, thank you very much). DEET is the one that works best for me, but I tend to treat it like a last resort.

Which brings me to Chincoteague.

We went to see the wild horses and decided to take a walk along the beach. Based on where we parked, it started with a short trek through a wooded area before we’d hit the sand.

We took about five steps into the trees and got absolutely covered.

Swarmed.

It was unlike anything I’d experienced even in the backwoods of Ontario—at least up there the mosquitoes seem to follow a turn system. These were organized. Motivated. Personal. Like hundreds of incoming dive-bombers focused on doing damage.

We ran out of the woods as if we’d activated a mosquito hex, drove straight into town, and bought repellent before we dared to continue exploring.

And honestly? It felt fitting. Because before the scorpions, before the termites, before the snakes and the ticks… mosquitoes were my first introduction to the wild reality that nature doesn’t care about your plans.

And in the End…

If there’s a thread tying all of these creepy travel stories together, it’s not that I’m fearless.

It’s that I’m usually busy enjoying the moment—watching prairie dogs, taking photos, chasing sunsets, following a trail—until something makes my skin crawl and reminds me I’m not the only one out there living my best life.

Travel has given me wonder, perspective, and some truly ridiculous stories… but it has also taught me a strange kind of courage: the kind that keeps you curious even when you’re scared.

Next trip, I’m packing a blacklight for my shoes.