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As we clicked the flashlights on and off, lighting up a barren rock, a dry tussock of grass, a lone twisted tree, we thought about the phenomenon of tiger sightings.

About one official tiger sighting is lodged every month with the Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service. They even have a special form—and we had gotten ourselves a blank copy. At the top, it stated, “Every observation, no matter how trivial it may seem, might prove to be important in the search for the thylacine. All information will be received in strict confidence.”

We pulled the sighting report form out of one of our notebooks and started to fill it out—just in case.

But when we came to the question “activity at time of sighting,” we had to stop. What exactly were we doing? We thought about it for a second and then wrote, “sitting on a dark hilltop, listening for the Tasmanian tiger with our pot-smoking artist friend.”

It didn't sound good. Even if we saw one, no one would believe us.

It was only midnight when we finally cracked.

“I think the marsupial party is elsewhere tonight,” said Alexis.

“Yeah, let's go down.” We clicked off our flashlights.

From far below us—at the start of the trail? on a highway?—we saw a series of flashing lights.

“What's that light?” Alexis whispered. It flashed again. “What the fuck is that?”

“Do you think it's Chris?” we suggested.

“It can't be. He's nowhere near there.”

We weren't sure where Chris was. Probably back at the camp, drinking wine, and clinking glasses with Mangy. But our bearings were screwed up and Alexis's paranoia jangled our nerves.

At night the trail seemed different, complicated and winding. As we illuminated the small space in front of our feet, we drifted into the realm of fantasy. Back in New York, we had imagined countless scenarios in which we encountered the tiger. And we shared one that seemed particularly appropriate for this occasion.

We were camping out in a remote forest, rain dripping down from towering eucalyptus trees. It was 3:00 A.M. We woke up to the sound of snuffling inside the dark tent. We turned on a battery-powered lantern only to see a live Tasmanian tiger hovering over Alexis's prone body. For a moment, we were thrilled, giddy. Then we saw that the creature was dining on Alexis's heart. (In the original fantasy, the tiger was eating Alexis's innards, but we changed it to his heart after James Malley told us that the tiger was a blood feeder.) In the shadowy light, we saw the tiger's powerful stripes rippling against its sandy coat. Then we saw its doglike head and gaping jaw lunging for us, teeth first. Our last words, whispered hoarsely into a conveniently turned-on tape recorder were, “It's alive. It's ALIVE!” (Sometimes, instead of saying “It's alive,” we just screamed “STRI-I-I-IPES!”)

“How come I always die first in your fantasies?” Alexis asked.

“How come I always have to walk in front of you when we're hiking?” Dorothy said.

“Honey, you know I'm afraid of snakes.”

When we got back to the campsite, it was completely silent. Chris was tucked into his tent, and Mangy was nowhere to be seen.

We put on some extra layers against the cold, hopped into our sleeping bags, and got ready for a night on the hard ground—with only the fronds of tree ferns for cushioning. It was cozy to be bundled up, beneath exotic trees, with a friendly pademelon probably sleeping in the forest nearby. But in the middle of the night, we heard some very strange sounds. Around 3:00 A.M.—from the deepest of sleeps—we were roused by bloodcurdling, ululating animal screams. AHHHHHHhhhhhwaaaghhh. AHHHHHHhhhhwaaaaaaghhh. Someone, something, wanted to make its presence known. The cries, which seemed to come from high above us, were followed by a return to total silence. Maybe black cockatoos flying overhead …

Early the next morning, we retraced our steps and took a walk through the rain forest trail next to our camp. To our surprise we saw a pademelon, effortlessly leaping three feet into the air and onto a fallen log. This species