I WON’T BORE you, dear reader(s), with the petty details of my ill-fated, underfunded hunt for Bigfoot that’s led to so much trouble.
I could have simply ignored the invasion of these large hairy hominids that have haunted this land since the beginning, but no. In almost no time, the word got out, and a crack team of big-shot Bigfoot hunters took over the lodge.
They gathered around my compost pit that had drawn the creatures into the study area.
This could be the largest open-pit compost pit in the county, but that’s another column.
The crack team of experts measured and collected physical samples of dung and hair, which they preserved in, of all things, alcohol.
As dusk descended in the deep dark woods, the scary sounds began. There was the chest beating, the inhumane shrieking and horrible eating noises coming, not from the surrounding wilderness, but from the buffet back at the lodge.
The Bigfoot hunters were a bottomless pit for smoked salmon and home brew. Expenses soared out of control. I tried to cut costs.
Accidents will happen, like when the plaster of Paris used to make impressions of the creature’s track was dumped into the pancake batter. Or when I siphoned off the alcohol intended to preserve the dung samples to make punch. You should have heard the howls!
The terrifying screams of the Sasquatch seemed tame by comparison. Maybe the pressure got to me.
I have always promised that, in my hunt for Bigfoot, I would never actually find one. It’s no coincidence that many creatures, from the 100-pound salmon to the Olympic Mountain moonshiner, have gone extinct shortly after they were discovered.
I couldn’t live with myself if the discovery of the Sasquatch led to their extinction.
I, and many other right-thinking primate researchers, believe some things are best left alone.
Unfortunately, the creatures wouldn’t leave me alone.
The compost pit was violated. The ‘tater patch was trampled. The smokehouse was knocked off its foundation. The expedition members were revolting.
Before I knew it, with the lack of sleep and greed lust, I would have sold the shrunken head of the Sasquatch to the highest bidder.
I’ve done worse things for money. Are you still reading this?
So, it’s probably a good thing the hunt for Bigfoot fizzled the day after the wine cellar went dry.
It was OK. Nobody got hurt.
The creature was gone. She didn’t write. She didn’t call.
I was left with the mess.
It’s not the first time, when faced with massive piles of housework, I decided to go for a walk.
I don’t know why I was drawn to a certain swamp. It was Halloween. I thought the crab apples would be ripe.
These wild crab apples are a favorite food of the Sasquatch, especially after a hard frost.
A pack of ravens was making a racket. A search through the brush revealed the remains of a dead elk. Not that this was at all strange. There are a lot of cougar kills in these woods, but this one was different. The leg bones of the elk were split open, shattered lengthwise. The marrow within was scraped out.
By then, it was starting to get dark. I heard something walking. It was heavy, one foot slowly after another, circling behind.
Just then, I wondered if these creatures might be dangerous. People have been disappearing in the Olympic Mountains for years.
I turned around to get out of the swamp. I heard a large rock crash into the brush to my left.
It was the best Halloween ever.
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Pat Neal is a Hoh River fishing and rafting guide and “wilderness gossip columnist” whose column appears here every Wednesday.
He can be reached at 360-683-9867 or by email via patnealproductions@gmail.com.
