Bigfoots Don't Fail Me Now Part 2

My eyes fl ick open. I’m drenched in sweat. It is 3:07a.m. according to the digital clock on my nightstand. I fell asleep with the TV on; a commercial for Jack’s Links beef jerky is just ending, part of their laugh-out-loud “Messin’ with Sasquatch” campaign. That putrid poop smell, which added an extra dose of realism, was courtesy of my Boston terrier; he’s asleep on the pillow beside my face, ass a few inches from my nose. TV commercial aside, the dark dream is no coincidence — in less than six hours I’m fl ying to Spokane, Washington for my third “offi cial” Sasquatch safari, although this one is about as unof- fi cial as it could possibly get. Still, I’ve got Bigfoot on the brain and the nightmare probably would have occurred without my subconscious locking on to that goofy, Roger Patterson/Bob Gimlin fi lm-inspired, product-pitching creature on the screen.

What can I say? I’m hopelessly addicted to the pursuit of all things mythological and mysterious. Bigfoot, Nessie, Ogo-Pogo, Chupacabra, sea monsters, ice dragons, UFOs… If it (supposedly) hides in the wilderness, lurks in the depths, or engages in interstellar travel, I want to investigate it. My secondary degree — a B.S. in Cryptozoology from the ever-popular University of Haiti in Port Au Prince; okay, it’s not your average “fall-back-on career,” but so what? — has forever locked me into an In Search Of mindset. So, whenever the opportunity presents itself to seek out the hidden, I get as jacked up as an amphetaminepopping fox in a henhouse full of comatose chickens.

However, my searches have been far from fruitful — although some of the whack-jobs I’ve gone exploring with were defi nitely fruitcakes! To be perfectly honest, in all my years of “monster hunting” I’ve never seen a goddamn thing — not one sign of the unusual beasties I was scouting for. No tracks, no scrapings, no spoor, no dwelling remnants… Nothing. And if I ever did see one of those aforementioned creatures live and in the fl esh (or the fur), yet somehow (or conveniently!) failed to secure any physical, photographic, or video proof of the encounter, and I was summoned to appear before a congressional committee to recount my tale, I would be forced to admit under oath that I have, in fact, sampled the mushrooms and Kool-Aid at more than a few Grateful Dead concerts. Does that make me any less credible, my story less believable? Man, I hope not, but then again, I wouldn’t be the one judging my encounter, now would I?

And that, my fellow BLUFF-ers, is exactly what was so intriguing about this latest Bigfoot blitz; the parties involved could give a werewolf’s ass about photos and video footage. In lieu of cameras and camcorders, these folks were bringing serious weaponry — big bore hunting rifl es and a hard target interdiction piece, a .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifl e. I’m certain they would have taken an M95 fi eld mortar and a Lahti anti-tank rifl e as well, given the chance. They knew any evidence they uncovered would be dissected ad nauseam by a wide array of so-called experts, undoubtedly yielding a broad spectrum of conclusions, none of which would be defi nitive. So they fi gured, why bother? Desperate times call for desperate measures and they were hell-bent on proving once and for all that Bigfoot really exists – at least, that it did until they blew away the humongous beast and brought the carcass back for show ’n’ tell!

Whether or not you agree with their methodology is irrelevant; in today’s overly cynical “Show me the money!” society, you’d be hard pressed to fi nd fault with their intentions. They fi gured it’d be much easier to simply bag a Bigfoot and deal with the legal ramifi cations afterward; the unlawful killing of a Cryptid is highly illegal (at both the state and federal levels), punishable by severe fi nes and up to fi ve years in prison. To that effect, they brought on a silent partner of sorts — a well-known, ridiculously wealthy software mogul who agreed to step out of the shadows and bankroll the legal defenses of the hunting party’s members — citing the obvious scientifi c importance, of course — if and when the stalk proved successful. If no creatures were discovered and subsequently gunned down, the billionaire benefactor gets to keep his cash and his anonymity. It’s win-win all around.

As I mentioned in last month’s installment, I allowed myself to be goaded into joining the sojourn. Granted, whenever a new Bigfoot quest is taking place, I usually try to attach myself to the expedition, but this one reeked of amateurism — no recognizable names on the masthead; no anthropological experts or storied cryptozoologists along for the ride — and it was shoving off in mid-December, destined for the wilds of northeastern Washington. Nasty wet and frigid weather was expected. This should have been a trip to pass on. Should have been.

But as I’ve said before and I’m saying it again, I’m simply not that smart.

Now, I probably should have taken a gun with me, too, if for no other reason than I was heading into the woods with a bunch of strangers; but I didn’t want to be linked in any way, shape, or form with the intentional wounding or killing of a Yeti — if we actually saw one. Sure, there could be some guilt by association, but without an actual fi rearm on my person, refuting that charge would be a piece of cake. I was going strictly for the story. Normally, I won’t play the role of Switzerland in any of my participatory journalistic pieces, but this gig was different. I did bring along a hardy survival knife, however. Sly Stallone survived his First Blood ordeal courtesy of a blade — if the proverbial shit hit the fan, hopefully my TOPS Air Wolfe, www.topsknives.com, one of the fi ercest blades on the planet you can buy for under $200, would save my ass like the Jimmy Lile blade saved Rambo’s!

So 48-year-old “Paul” met me in the Spokane International Airport’s baggage claim. A successful bank manager from Seattle, Paul — he was freakishly large, heavy-bearded, and wore a red and black flannel shirt; a dead ringer for fabled axe-man, Paul Bunyan, hence the nickname had been a Bigfoot buff since he was a kid. He used to accompany his dad on hunting trips throughout Washington and Idaho; nights around the campfi re were always capped with a new Sasquatch story.

"It didn't matter that we never saw one, or any sign of one for that matter,” Paul explained. “Just the possibility that they existed was enough for me. And as I got older, I went looking every chance I got. On many of my hunting trips, I spent more time searching for Bigfoot than big game.”

Although he resides in Seattle, Paul owns a cabin just outside Kettle Falls, a small city 80 miles northwest of Spokane, roughly 30 miles south of the Canadian border. It is the perfect launching point for his hobbyist expeditions, not to mention a restful escape from the rigors of work and marriage. Not long ago, he and his friends started referring to the cabin as “Chateau Sasquatch.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time up there,” Paul admitted. “A couple years back, the wife and I went through a rough patch, so I took a fourteen-day “medical leave” from the bank and went straight to the cabin. Best two weeks of my life. Besides searching for Bigfoot, the hours in the woods really helped put things into perspective, made me realize everything I’ve got to be thankful for. Hell, if I didn’t really enjoy wearing a suit and tie during the week and going to strip clubs on the weekends, I’d be content living up there.”

Paul’s eyes did a wild dance when he mentioned the strip clubs, causing me to wonder if he had a deviant side I should be worried about. After all, I was heading into unknown territory with this guy. What the hell was I thinking? I made a mental note that if I returned to civilization alive, I would give serious thought to abandoning my oddball journalism career to pursue a safer literary profession, perhaps that of a greeting card writer. Fortunately, my duffel fi nally appeared on the baggage conveyor, otherwise that conversation may very well have eroded into a spooky Dr. Phil Show meets Grizzly Adams diatribe — defi nitely NOT the story I had in mind!

I reached for my duffel, but Paul good-naturedly pushed me aside, plucked it off the carousel, and hefted it over his mountainous shoulder as if he were lifting a small satchel, not an extra-large nylon sack over-stuffed with cold weather clothes and gear. “Allow me,” he said cordially. “You’re my guest.”

We headed into the parking lot. I fully expected to see a monstrous, crew-cabbed, diesel-powered pick-up truck or some other hardcore vehicle befi tting Paul’s rough-and-tumble, mountain man persona. The Range Rover HSE he unlocked via remote, in Tonga green metallic of all colors, took me by surprise. “You don’t approve?” he said in response to my curious look. “I fi gured you for something a little more, uh, butch.” Paul gave a hearty laugh, a hickish guffaw that perfectly conveyed his easy-going demeanor. It was a laugh I would become all too familiar with over the next few days as he did it quite frequently, often for no apparent reason. “I like luxury,” he declared. “It’s got nav, satellite radio, heated seats, and permanent all-wheel drive. But my wife’s got an F250 with tires bigger than my balls — and my balls are pretty friggin’ big.” Ohhkay… defi nitely more information than I needed. I contemplated racing back into the terminal, hoping to catch an early fl ight home, but before I could make a run for it Paul tossed my duffel into the Range Rover’s rear cargo area atop his gear and motioned to the passenger door. “Let’s go smoke a Bigfoot.”

On the trip to Kettle Falls, Paul brought me up to speed on the latest Sasquatch evidence. “Jerry, whom you’ll soon meet, was scouting for elk a week before hunting season when he noticed a fresh game trail heading deep into the timber. A hundred or so yards along, he spotted deep tracks, obviously from something large and heavy. But they weren’t paw prints, more like footprints — in twos, not fours. And no claw marks, either. They were more rounded at the top, like toes.” Now understand, I’ve heard innumerable stories of so-called Bigfoot prints over the years, to the point that I’m more skeptical than an atheist at a church picnic — but I still believe. Paul continued: “Jerry’s been hunting and tracking game since he was a toddler. Look up ‘redneck’ in the dictionary and you’ll fi nd his picture. If he says the tracks are from something big that walked upright that’s — a bear, I believe him.” “No photos?” I queried. “He wasn’t scouting for Field & Stream Magazine,” Paul retorted sarcastically. I nodded quietly, not sure what to think. “Skepticism is a good thing,” Paul added. “That way, when you’re confronted with proof, it’ll be much more satisfying.”

Makes sense. But again, I’ve heard that sentiment before. Every Bigfoot hunter — including yours truly — wants to believe that the next sample of proof they’re presented with is the real McCoy. So much, in fact, that they often blur the lines — unintentionally, of course — between what is legitimate and what is questionable. Still, who’s to say that the next sighting, or picture, or cast of prints, or swatch of fur won’t be the gospel? That’s what keeps us coming back for more.

We arrived in Kettle Falls, “population 1,550 friendly people and one grouch,” according to the Chamber of Commerce. Beautiful, remote little city, as picturesque as they come. The kind of place you live if outdoor pursuits such as hunting and fi shing and bird watching and hiking are tops on your recreational list. Or the kind of place they send you if you’re in the Witness Protection Program. Nobody will look for you up there. After picking up some last-minute provisions from the Barstow General Store, we headed for “Chateau Sasquatch.”

When we arrived at Paul’s cabin — a rustic, mid-sized, three-room dwelling complete with a wood stove and a host of modern conveniences (including electricity and running water), and heavily decorated with memorabilia from Seattle’s professional sports teams — the other two members of the expeditionary team were already there.

Jerry, an orthopedic surgeon, didn’t look anything like the seasoned woodsman I was expecting. He was in his early fi fties, stood about fi ve and a half feet tall, and was very thin, almost meek. But when it came to hunting, Paul said he was the best.

“Jerry’s hunted on every continent, for every kind of animal,” Paul had said of his good friend and fellow Sasquatch seeker. “Put a rifl e in his hands, whatever he’s aiming at is toast.” Carl, the third member of their triumvirate, a credit analyst at Paul’s bank — a tall African American with a shaved head and a diamond stud in his left ear lobe — didn’t resemble the “typical” Bigfoot hunter, if there even was such a thing. “When we fi rst met, Carl didn’t know Bigfoot from Big Ethel,” Paul explained during our introduction. “But after joining us on one search, all because he lost a bet, he was hooked.” “It’s a great way for me to suck up to the boss,” Carl said with an ivory white-toothed smile.

Paul let loose with one of his trademark belly laughs. That’s when the smell hit me, and I was soon treated to a luncheon feast — enough Bratwurst, braised red cabbage, and in-state brewed Boundary Bay Imperial Oatmeal Stout to feed a small army, let alone the four of us. If they were planning on going Bigfoot hunting any time soon, I’d have bet everything I owned that we wouldn’t see one; any creature with a nose would smell us coming from miles away.

After lunch, the guys showed me their guns. I’m talking fi rearms, people. The only sausage I like is on my pizza! Paul had a Remington Model 700 Extreme Conditions Rifl e (stainless steel barrel, synthetic stock, corrosion-resistant fi nish), topped with a variable scope, and chambered for the potent .375 Remington Ultra Mag. The gun was brand-spankin’ new, not a scratch on it. I hoped he had taken the time to sight it in. You never want to go into the fi eld with an untested weapon, especially after a creature as potentially dangerous as a Bigfoot. Veteran big game hunter Jerry had a true African safari rifl e, a brutal .460 Weatherby Magnum, complete with a hefty muzzle brake to lessen recoil, and iron sights for expedient aiming. The wood stock had myriad nicks and chips, and the bluing had a nice aged patina. Jerry said he had taken elephants, Cape buffalo, and grizzly bears with that rifl e and never felt under-gunned. And then there was Carl’s cannon — he owned the aforementioned .50-caliber Barrett, a semiauto variant with a ten-round clip. These guys weren’t just loaded for Bigfoot — they were loaded for a platoon of Bigfoots. All I had was a bad-assed survival knife and my common sense, the latter of which I was seriously beginning to question.

Since I’m running low on word count and high on story, please allow me to summarize the trip: TOTAL WASTE OF MY FREAKIN’ TIME! What’s more, it was a VERY COLD total waste of my time. At night, we played $5/$10 Limit Hold’em — I won about $700 over the four days — and I listened as they recounted previous Bigfoot expeditions, none of which yielded anything more than speculation.

Each morning, we headed out at approximately 4am and would spend the next ten hours or so checking areas that they believed a Bigfoot would be sure to occupy. Multi-day missions that journey deep into a specifi c territory have always made more sense to me, but they were convinced this creature was staying closer to civilization. Why? I don’t know. It was their charter, so I just kept my mouth shut and remained cold, bored, and miserable. It rained, it snowed, my fl ashlight didn’t work in the icy weather, my boots gave me blisters, I would sweat and then I would freeze, I tweaked a muscle in my hamstring and pinched a nerve in my neck and whenever I had to go, my Johnson nearly froze. On the upside, the beer was tasty and free and Carl was one of the best “camp cooks” I had ever met, even if all he could prepare was bratwurst or burgers. Still, the grub was pretty damn good, bordering on exceptional.

Moral of the story: Hell, there really isn’t one. Would I have had a much better time staying home to fi nish my Christmas shopping properly? Yup. Or watching paint dry? Affi rmative to that one, too. But what would that have said about my zest for life, my ceaseless quest for adventure? The only thing I can say defi nitively, to the extent that I’d bet my testicles on it — well, maybe just one of them — is that Bigfoot DOES NOT reside in the vicinity of Kettle Falls, Washington!