Classic Bigfoot Tales
November 8, 1879
A STRANGE CREATURE.
Two Hunters Chased by a Wild Man in the Antelope Mountains.
William Shegan, who came in from Antelope valley last evening with a load of produce, tells a Leader reporter a very strange and startling story of the experience of two men who were hunting in Antelope valley last week. He says that Peter Simons and John Gore had been out all day hunting ducks and such other game as came in their way, and as evening came on they took a short cut across the mountains on their way back to the ranch. The mountain over which the trail led them was a very rugged one – in fact, the wildest place in the Antelope range of mountains – and a few years ago used to be infested with the larger species of wild animals. As they were slowly picking their way around the edge of a large chasm, they heard a slight noise near a rugged cliff, and saw a huge, hairy object, apparently half man and half beast, spring from behind a cliff and start for the other side of the mountain, running with the speed of the wind. Mistaking it for a wild animal, one of the hunters, Gore, fired at it. The shot appeared to take effect in the arm, for, with a scream of pain, the creature halted, tapped the wound, and, turning, charged its pursuers, who, with empty guns in hand, dared not measure strength with such a foe. Dropping their guns, both sought safety in flight, and stopped only when compelled to do so from lack of ability to run further. The men say that they are positive that the creature resembled a man in general appearance. It was wild-eyed, and very fierce in its disposition, judging from the short time they saw it. Mr. Shegan’s story revives a long-forgotten but now distinctly-recalled yarn, to the effect that many years ago a lunatic, then a young man, escaped from his keepers in California and gained the fastnesses of the Sierra Nevada, where he evaded pursuit, and, it is thought, subsisted on the flesh of small animals killed through some means best known to himself. Several months ago, says Shegan, a strange creature answering the description of the being recently seen, with the exception of the grizzly beard, was discovered by a party of men who were hunting on the mountain some fifteen miles from Antelope, and it is thought that this may be the same. The hunters say they are positive that it was no optical illusion, but a genuine wild man, and a very fierce one at that. The creature’s arms, they say, were long and hairy, and it looked very much like a full-grown gorilla. They aver that it ran with remarkable swiftness, all the time uttering loud cries, as though in pain and enraged. They declare that it was only by their utmost exertion that they escaped their pursuer, and they say that there is not money enough in Nevada to hire them to again venture across its path. Mr. Shegan says there is talk of organizing an armed force in Antelope valley to go in search of this creature. – [Eureka (Nev.) Leader, November 1st, 1879]
A STRANGE CREATURE.
Two Hunters Chased by a Wild Man in the Antelope Mountains.
William Shegan, who came in from Antelope valley last evening with a load of produce, tells a Leader reporter a very strange and startling story of the experience of two men who were hunting in Antelope valley last week. He says that Peter Simons and John Gore had been out all day hunting ducks and such other game as came in their way, and as evening came on they took a short cut across the mountains on their way back to the ranch. The mountain over which the trail led them was a very rugged one – in fact, the wildest place in the Antelope range of mountains – and a few years ago used to be infested with the larger species of wild animals. As they were slowly picking their way around the edge of a large chasm, they heard a slight noise near a rugged cliff, and saw a huge, hairy object, apparently half man and half beast, spring from behind a cliff and start for the other side of the mountain, running with the speed of the wind. Mistaking it for a wild animal, one of the hunters, Gore, fired at it. The shot appeared to take effect in the arm, for, with a scream of pain, the creature halted, tapped the wound, and, turning, charged its pursuers, who, with empty guns in hand, dared not measure strength with such a foe. Dropping their guns, both sought safety in flight, and stopped only when compelled to do so from lack of ability to run further. The men say that they are positive that the creature resembled a man in general appearance. It was wild-eyed, and very fierce in its disposition, judging from the short time they saw it. Mr. Shegan’s story revives a long-forgotten but now distinctly-recalled yarn, to the effect that many years ago a lunatic, then a young man, escaped from his keepers in California and gained the fastnesses of the Sierra Nevada, where he evaded pursuit, and, it is thought, subsisted on the flesh of small animals killed through some means best known to himself. Several months ago, says Shegan, a strange creature answering the description of the being recently seen, with the exception of the grizzly beard, was discovered by a party of men who were hunting on the mountain some fifteen miles from Antelope, and it is thought that this may be the same. The hunters say they are positive that it was no optical illusion, but a genuine wild man, and a very fierce one at that. The creature’s arms, they say, were long and hairy, and it looked very much like a full-grown gorilla. They aver that it ran with remarkable swiftness, all the time uttering loud cries, as though in pain and enraged. They declare that it was only by their utmost exertion that they escaped their pursuer, and they say that there is not money enough in Nevada to hire them to again venture across its path. Mr. Shegan says there is talk of organizing an armed force in Antelope valley to go in search of this creature. – [Eureka (Nev.) Leader, November 1st, 1879]
 | Strange Howls
Early American Stories of Animal Encounters and Other Oddities Noted for their possible relation to Sasquatch Collected by Scott McClean 
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I FOUGHT THE APEMEN OF MOUNT ST. HELENS, WA.
To avoid embarrassment to the relatives of the other four men involved in the 1924 incident, I have not directly mentioned their names. The name, Hank, is a pseudonym of one of the main characters in the incident.
The Attack First of all, I wish to give an account of the attack and tell of the famous incident of July, 1924, when the "Hairy Apes" attacked our cabin. We had been prospecting for six years in the Mt. St. Helens and Lewis River area in Southwest Washington. We had, from time to time, come across large tracks by creek beds and springs. In 1924 I and four other miners were working our gold claim, the Vander White. It was two miles east of Mt. St. Helens near a deep canyon now named "Ape Canyon" — which was so named after an account of the incident reached the newspapers. Hank, a great hunter and good woodsman, was always a little apprehensive after seeing the tracks. The tracks were large and we knew that no known animal could have made them: the largest measured nineteen inches long. It was in the middle of July, and we had received a good assay on our claim, and everyone was excited. I remember I had a tooth that was aching, and I suggested to Hank that he should take me to town to see a dentist; but he was so enthused in the prospects of the gold mine, he barely took time to answer me. He replied that "God or the Devil" could not get him away from there. We had all come up in his Ford, and I had no way to get to town unless he took me. So when we went back to our cabin, on the north side of the canyon, I had a nagging tooth ache and little appetite for our evening meal of beans and hotcakes. Hank, though apprehensive, was still determined. We had been hearing noises in the evening for about a week. We heard a shrill, peculiar whistling each evening. We would hear it coming from one ridge, and then hear an answering whistling from another ridge. We also heard a sound which I could best describe as a booming, thumping sound — just like something was hitting its self on its chest. Hank asked me to accompany him to the spring, about a hundred yards from our cabin, to get some water, and suggested we take our rifles — to be on the safe side. We walked to the spring, and then, Hank yelled and raised his rifle, and at that instant, I saw it. It was a hairy creature, and he was about a hundred yards away, on the other side of a little canyon, standing by a pine tree. It dodged behind the tree, and poked its head out from the side of the tree. And at the same time, Hank shot. I could see the bark fly out from the tree from each of his three shots. Someone may say that that was quite a distance to see the bark fly, but I saw it. The creature I judged to have been about seven feet tall with blackish-brown hair. It disappeared from our view for a short time, but then we saw it, running fast and upright, about two hundred yards down the little canyon. I shot three times before it disappeared from view. We took the water back to the cabin, and explained the affair to the rest of the party; and we all agreed, including Hank, to go home the next morning as it would be dark before we could get to the car. We agreed it would be unsound to be caught by darkness on the way out. Nightfall found us in our pine-log cabin. We had built the cabin ourselves, and had made it very sturdy. It stood for years afterward, and was visited by many sight seers until a few years ago when it was burned to the ground — the circumstances of the fire, I do not recall. In the cabin, we had a long bunk bed in which two could sleep, feet to feet — the rest of us sleeping on pine boughs on the floor. At one end of the cabin, we had a fireplace, fashioned out of rocks. There were no windows in the cabin. So darkness found all of us in the cabin, more calm now (and my tooth was better, somehow the excitement seemed to work a temporary cure on it). We were sitting around, puffing on pipes, and talking about the trip home the next day. Each of us settled down in his crude, but welcomed bed, and soon fell asleep. About midnight, we were all awakened. Hank, who was sleeping on the floor was yelling and kicking. But the noise that had awakened us was a tremendous thud against the cabin wall. Some of the chinking had been knocked loose from between the logs and had fell across Hank's chest. He had his rifle in his hand and was waving it back and forth as he kicked and yelled. (Hank always slept with his gun near by — it was a Remington automatic, my gun being a 30-30 Winchester, which I still have). I helped to get the chinking off him, and he jumped to his feet. Then, we heard a great commotion outside: it sounded like a great number of feet trampling and rattling over a pile of our unused shakes. We grabbed our guns. Hank squinted through the space left by the chinking. By actual count, we saw only three of the creatures together at one time, but it sounded like there were many more. This was the start of the famous attack, of which so much has been written in Washington and Oregon papers through out the years. Most accounts tell of giant boulders being hurled against the cabin, and say some even fell through the roof, but this was not quite the case. There were very few large rocks around in that area. It is true that many smaller ones were hurled at the cabin, but they did not break through the roof, but hit with a bang, and rolled off. Some did fall through the chimney of the fireplace. Some accounts state I was hit in the head by a rock and knocked unconscious. This is not true. The only time we shot our guns that night was when the creatures were attacking our cabin. When they would quiet down for a few minutes, we would quit shooting. I told the rest of the party, that maybe if they saw we were only shooting when they attacked, they might realize we were only defending ourselves. We could have had clear shots at them through the opening left by the chinking had we chosen to shoot. We did shoot, however, when they climbed up on our roof. We shot round after round through the roof. We had to brace the hewed-logged door with a long pole taken from the bunk bed. The creatures were pushing against it and the whole door vibrated from the impact. We responded by firing many more rounds through the door. They pushed against the walls of the cabin as if trying to push the cabin over, but this was pretty much an impossibility, as previously stated the cabin was a sturdy made building. Hank and I did most of the shooting — the rest of the party crowded to the far end of the cabin, guns in their hands. One had a pistol, which still is in my family's possession, the others clutched their rifles. They seemed stunned and incredulous. The attack continued the remainder of the night, with only short intervals between. A most profound and frightening experience occurred when one of the creatures, being close to the cabin, reached an arm through the chinking space and seized one of our axes by the handle (a much written about incident and a true one). Before the thing could pull the axe out, I swiftly turned the head of the axe upright, so that it caught on the logs; and at the same time Hank shot, barely missing my hand. The creature let go, and I pulled the handle back in, and put the axe in a safe place. A humorous thing I well remember was Hank singing: "If you leave us alone, we'll leave you alone, and we'll all go home in the morning." He did not mean it to be humorous, for Hank was dead serious, and sang under the impression that the "Mountain Devils" as he called them, might understand and go away. The attack ended just before daylight. Just as soon as we were sure it was light enough to see, we came cautiously out of the cabin. It was not long before I saw one of the apelike creatures, standing about eighty yards away near the edge of Ape Canyon. I shot three times, and it toppled over the cliff, down into the gorge, some four hundred feet below. Then Hank said that we should get out of there as soon as possible; and not bother to pack our supplies or equipment out; "After all," he said, "it's better to lose them, than our lives." We were all only too glad to agree. We brought out only that which we could get in our packsacks. We left about two hundred dollars in supplies, powder, and drilling equipment behind. I tried to persuade everyone not to relate the happenings to anyone, and they agreed, but Hank soon let the cat out of the bag. We made our way to Spirit Lake, and Hank went in to the ranger station. He had told the ranger earlier about the tracks, and the ranger had replied, "Let me know if you find out what they are." That was just what Hank did, to the puzzlement of the ranger. When we were back home in Kelso, Washington, he told some of his friends, and somehow the story leaked out to the papers, and the Great Hairy Ape Hunt of 1924 was on. Local reporters interviewed us. They came from Portland and Seattle — even a big game hunter from England came asking questions, and he had a large gun with him that must have been an elephant gun. Many people flocked to the Mt. St. Helen's area looking for the "Great Hairy Apes", or "Mountain Devils." I, myself, went back with two reporters and a detective from Portland, Oregon. We found large tracks, and they photographed them. We did not see any of the Apemen then, nor could we find the ones we had shot. So people were asking questions: Was it true? Or was it just a wild tale? I can assure you it is true. Are they human? animal? or devils? I will answer that question in this book. That was a great "Apehunt" in 1924, and the last few years, more and more people have reported seeing them. There is an Apehunt being revived again, and another man has written a book on the subject and has formed a club whose purpose is to find evidence to prove what they already believe: that abominable snowmen of America do exist. A wealthy person has offered a large sum of money for anyone that can capture one alive. Sightings have been reported in Canada, Washington, Oregon, and northern California. But the purpose of this book, is not only to relate my experiences, but also to bring to light my knowledge about the Abominable Snowmen. I do not wish to embark upon an expedition, but I wish to tell what these beings are.
The Attack First of all, I wish to give an account of the attack and tell of the famous incident of July, 1924, when the "Hairy Apes" attacked our cabin. We had been prospecting for six years in the Mt. St. Helens and Lewis River area in Southwest Washington. We had, from time to time, come across large tracks by creek beds and springs. In 1924 I and four other miners were working our gold claim, the Vander White. It was two miles east of Mt. St. Helens near a deep canyon now named "Ape Canyon" — which was so named after an account of the incident reached the newspapers. Hank, a great hunter and good woodsman, was always a little apprehensive after seeing the tracks. The tracks were large and we knew that no known animal could have made them: the largest measured nineteen inches long. It was in the middle of July, and we had received a good assay on our claim, and everyone was excited. I remember I had a tooth that was aching, and I suggested to Hank that he should take me to town to see a dentist; but he was so enthused in the prospects of the gold mine, he barely took time to answer me. He replied that "God or the Devil" could not get him away from there. We had all come up in his Ford, and I had no way to get to town unless he took me. So when we went back to our cabin, on the north side of the canyon, I had a nagging tooth ache and little appetite for our evening meal of beans and hotcakes. Hank, though apprehensive, was still determined. We had been hearing noises in the evening for about a week. We heard a shrill, peculiar whistling each evening. We would hear it coming from one ridge, and then hear an answering whistling from another ridge. We also heard a sound which I could best describe as a booming, thumping sound — just like something was hitting its self on its chest. Hank asked me to accompany him to the spring, about a hundred yards from our cabin, to get some water, and suggested we take our rifles — to be on the safe side. We walked to the spring, and then, Hank yelled and raised his rifle, and at that instant, I saw it. It was a hairy creature, and he was about a hundred yards away, on the other side of a little canyon, standing by a pine tree. It dodged behind the tree, and poked its head out from the side of the tree. And at the same time, Hank shot. I could see the bark fly out from the tree from each of his three shots. Someone may say that that was quite a distance to see the bark fly, but I saw it. The creature I judged to have been about seven feet tall with blackish-brown hair. It disappeared from our view for a short time, but then we saw it, running fast and upright, about two hundred yards down the little canyon. I shot three times before it disappeared from view. We took the water back to the cabin, and explained the affair to the rest of the party; and we all agreed, including Hank, to go home the next morning as it would be dark before we could get to the car. We agreed it would be unsound to be caught by darkness on the way out. Nightfall found us in our pine-log cabin. We had built the cabin ourselves, and had made it very sturdy. It stood for years afterward, and was visited by many sight seers until a few years ago when it was burned to the ground — the circumstances of the fire, I do not recall. In the cabin, we had a long bunk bed in which two could sleep, feet to feet — the rest of us sleeping on pine boughs on the floor. At one end of the cabin, we had a fireplace, fashioned out of rocks. There were no windows in the cabin. So darkness found all of us in the cabin, more calm now (and my tooth was better, somehow the excitement seemed to work a temporary cure on it). We were sitting around, puffing on pipes, and talking about the trip home the next day. Each of us settled down in his crude, but welcomed bed, and soon fell asleep. About midnight, we were all awakened. Hank, who was sleeping on the floor was yelling and kicking. But the noise that had awakened us was a tremendous thud against the cabin wall. Some of the chinking had been knocked loose from between the logs and had fell across Hank's chest. He had his rifle in his hand and was waving it back and forth as he kicked and yelled. (Hank always slept with his gun near by — it was a Remington automatic, my gun being a 30-30 Winchester, which I still have). I helped to get the chinking off him, and he jumped to his feet. Then, we heard a great commotion outside: it sounded like a great number of feet trampling and rattling over a pile of our unused shakes. We grabbed our guns. Hank squinted through the space left by the chinking. By actual count, we saw only three of the creatures together at one time, but it sounded like there were many more. This was the start of the famous attack, of which so much has been written in Washington and Oregon papers through out the years. Most accounts tell of giant boulders being hurled against the cabin, and say some even fell through the roof, but this was not quite the case. There were very few large rocks around in that area. It is true that many smaller ones were hurled at the cabin, but they did not break through the roof, but hit with a bang, and rolled off. Some did fall through the chimney of the fireplace. Some accounts state I was hit in the head by a rock and knocked unconscious. This is not true. The only time we shot our guns that night was when the creatures were attacking our cabin. When they would quiet down for a few minutes, we would quit shooting. I told the rest of the party, that maybe if they saw we were only shooting when they attacked, they might realize we were only defending ourselves. We could have had clear shots at them through the opening left by the chinking had we chosen to shoot. We did shoot, however, when they climbed up on our roof. We shot round after round through the roof. We had to brace the hewed-logged door with a long pole taken from the bunk bed. The creatures were pushing against it and the whole door vibrated from the impact. We responded by firing many more rounds through the door. They pushed against the walls of the cabin as if trying to push the cabin over, but this was pretty much an impossibility, as previously stated the cabin was a sturdy made building. Hank and I did most of the shooting — the rest of the party crowded to the far end of the cabin, guns in their hands. One had a pistol, which still is in my family's possession, the others clutched their rifles. They seemed stunned and incredulous. The attack continued the remainder of the night, with only short intervals between. A most profound and frightening experience occurred when one of the creatures, being close to the cabin, reached an arm through the chinking space and seized one of our axes by the handle (a much written about incident and a true one). Before the thing could pull the axe out, I swiftly turned the head of the axe upright, so that it caught on the logs; and at the same time Hank shot, barely missing my hand. The creature let go, and I pulled the handle back in, and put the axe in a safe place. A humorous thing I well remember was Hank singing: "If you leave us alone, we'll leave you alone, and we'll all go home in the morning." He did not mean it to be humorous, for Hank was dead serious, and sang under the impression that the "Mountain Devils" as he called them, might understand and go away. The attack ended just before daylight. Just as soon as we were sure it was light enough to see, we came cautiously out of the cabin. It was not long before I saw one of the apelike creatures, standing about eighty yards away near the edge of Ape Canyon. I shot three times, and it toppled over the cliff, down into the gorge, some four hundred feet below. Then Hank said that we should get out of there as soon as possible; and not bother to pack our supplies or equipment out; "After all," he said, "it's better to lose them, than our lives." We were all only too glad to agree. We brought out only that which we could get in our packsacks. We left about two hundred dollars in supplies, powder, and drilling equipment behind. I tried to persuade everyone not to relate the happenings to anyone, and they agreed, but Hank soon let the cat out of the bag. We made our way to Spirit Lake, and Hank went in to the ranger station. He had told the ranger earlier about the tracks, and the ranger had replied, "Let me know if you find out what they are." That was just what Hank did, to the puzzlement of the ranger. When we were back home in Kelso, Washington, he told some of his friends, and somehow the story leaked out to the papers, and the Great Hairy Ape Hunt of 1924 was on. Local reporters interviewed us. They came from Portland and Seattle — even a big game hunter from England came asking questions, and he had a large gun with him that must have been an elephant gun. Many people flocked to the Mt. St. Helen's area looking for the "Great Hairy Apes", or "Mountain Devils." I, myself, went back with two reporters and a detective from Portland, Oregon. We found large tracks, and they photographed them. We did not see any of the Apemen then, nor could we find the ones we had shot. So people were asking questions: Was it true? Or was it just a wild tale? I can assure you it is true. Are they human? animal? or devils? I will answer that question in this book. That was a great "Apehunt" in 1924, and the last few years, more and more people have reported seeing them. There is an Apehunt being revived again, and another man has written a book on the subject and has formed a club whose purpose is to find evidence to prove what they already believe: that abominable snowmen of America do exist. A wealthy person has offered a large sum of money for anyone that can capture one alive. Sightings have been reported in Canada, Washington, Oregon, and northern California. But the purpose of this book, is not only to relate my experiences, but also to bring to light my knowledge about the Abominable Snowmen. I do not wish to embark upon an expedition, but I wish to tell what these beings are.
Bluff Creek
In August of 1958 — on the morning of the 27th to be precise — a very sane and sober citizen by the name of Mr. Jerald Crew, of Salyer township, Humboldt County, northwest Califonia, an active member of the Baptist Church, a teetotaler and a man with a reputation in his community that can only be described as heroic in face of certain almost unique pensonal tragedy, went to his work with heavy-duty equipment at the head of this new lumber access road being pushed into uninhabited and only roughly surveyed territory near the borders of Humboldt and Del Norte Counties. This huge block of territory is crossed kitty-corner from the south at Willow Creek to the northeast by a winding blacktop road, and from east to west by only four other roads of lower grade. Logging trails and some "jeep-roads" now finger into it from these roads and from the main arteries that enclose it to north, west, south, and east, but these are of very limited extent and are hardly used at all. Jerry Crew's crawler-tractor had been left overnight at the head of the new road about 20 miles north of its digression from the narrow blacktop that runs north through the Hoopa (as it is on maps) Amerindian Reservation from Willow Creek to a place with the delightful name of Happy Camp up near the Oregon border.
Jerry was an older member of a crew bulldozing this new road into virtually unexplored territory for one Mr. Bay Wallace, subcontractor to Messrs. Block and Company who had, in turn, contracted with the National Parks Service to carry out the work. He is a local man. His fellow workers were for the most part also local men and included a nephew, James Crew, a very level-headed young chap, others whom I shall mention by name in a minute, and two experienced loggers of Huppa Indian origin. The crew had considerable heavy equipment at the scene of operations and had started work in late May as soon as what little snow there is in this area had melted and the much more deadly mud had firmed up. The road had been under construction for two seasons already. The country is mountainous; though this is the understatement of the year, being to most intents and everywhere almost vertical so that you can only go up on all fours or down on your bottom. Unless you make an exaggerated and exhausting climb you cannot see more than about four square miles of the country because you are always on the side of something going either straight up or almost straight down and unless a tree has fallen or been cut out, you can't see anything because bare rock is confined to the uppermost summits of the peaks and ridges. The road crawls laboriously up the face of the western wall that encloses a stream known as Bluff Creek. It is still unsurfaced and when I visited it in 1959 was ankle-deep in ultra-fine dust that surpasses anything the deserts of Arizona can produce at their damnedest. All along this mountainous trail there are the stumps of vast trees cut and hauled out, and great slides of friable shales, gray, brown, blue, or even green that have been sliced out of the sheer valley side. The great dozers and crawlers clank and roar in the hot summer sunlight as they gnaw their relentless way into this timeless land. The great trees seem to recoil a little from their mechanical jangling and screeching, but day by day these bright yellow and red monsters munch away ever deeper into one of the last of America's real wildernesses.
Those employed on this work lived during the work-week in camp near this road- head. They had trailers or tents or prefabricated houses and some of them had their families with them and stayed there all week. Others with families resident in nearby communities normally went home on Friday night and returned on the following Monday morning. The younger fellows usually did likewise, for the drive to Willow Creek took only about 2 hours for those who knew the road. Jerry Crew's practice was to return to his family over the week end, leaving his machine parked at the scene of current operations. He had been on this job for 3 months that year before the eventful morning which blew up the storm that literally rocked Humboldt County, California and made the pages of the world press but which then sort of folded in upon itself and was heard of no more for a year.
What Jerry Crew discovered when he went to start up his "cat" was that somebody had inspected it rather thoroughly during the previous night, as could be plainly seen by a series of footprints that formed a track to, all around, and then away from the machine. Such tracks would not have aroused his curiosity under normal circumstances because there were three dozen men at that road-head and the newly scraped roadbed was covered with soft mud areas alternating with patches of loose shale. What did startle him was that these footprints were of a shoeless or naked foot of distinctly human shape and proportions but by actual measurement just 17 inches long!
Of these, Jerry Crew took an extremely dim view. He had heard tell of similar tracks having been seen by another road gang working 8 miles north of a place called Korbel on the Mad River earlier that year and his nephew, Jim Crew, had also mentioned having come across something similar in this area. Being a pragmatic family man he felt, he told me, some considerable annoyance that some "outsider" should try to pull such a silly stunt on him. He at first stressed an outsider because, although his fellow workers liked a harmless joke as much as any man, he knew they were far too tired to go clomping around in the dark after the sort of working day they put in on that job, making silly lootprints around the equipment. Then, he tells me, he got to thinking about this outsider and wondered just how he had got there without passing the camps farther down the road and being spotted, and how he had gotten out again, or where he had gone over these precipitous mountains clothed in tangled undergrowth. He followed the tracks up. And that is where he got his second shock.
Going backward he found that they came almost strain down an incline of about 75 degrees on to the road ahead the parked "cat", then proceeded down the road on one side, circled the machine, and then went on down the road toward the camp. Before getting there, however, they cut across the road and went straight down an even steeper incline and continued into the forest with measured stride varying only when an obstacle had to be stepped over or the bank was so steep purchase could be obtained by digging in the heels. The stride was enormous and proved on measurement to be from 46 to 60 inches and to average about 50 inches or almost twice that of his own. Jerald Crew was not only mystified; he was considerably peeved. He went to fetch some of his colleagues. Then he received his third shock that morning.
The majority of them, stout fellows and good friends that they were, refused to even go and look at this preposterous phenomenon that he told them he had found and he had a hard time persuading any of them that even the tracks were there. Eventually, some of the men, who had in any case to go that way to their work, agreed to go along with him and take a look. Then they got their shocks and, Jerry told me, some of them "looked at me real queer." But there were others who reacted differently, and it then transpired that all of them had either seen something similar thereabouts or elsewhere, or had heard of them from friends and acquaintances whom they regarded as totally reliable. The only Amerinds present said nothing at that time. Then they all went back to work.
Nothing further happened for almost a month, then once again these monstrous Bigfeet appeared again overnight around the equipment and farther down the road toward the valley, notably around a spring. About that time, Mr. Bay Wallace, the contractor, returned from a business trip. He had heard rumors on his way in that either his men were pulling some kind of stunt up in the hills or that some "outsider" was pulling one on them. He paid little attention to these reports but he was, he told me, somewhat apprehensive because the job was a tough one, skilled and reliable workers were not plentiful, and the location was not conducive to the staying power of anyone. When he reached the camp and heard the details of the Bigfeet he was more than just skeptical. He was downright angry. Moreover, all he encountered was more talk which he at that time suspected was some sort of prank but just possibly one prompted by more than mere high spirits or boredom.
The matter was until then and for a further 3 weeks a purely local affair known only to the men working on the road, and their immediate families for they did not care to speak about it to casual acquaintances or even friends. Then, in the middle of September a Mrs. Jess Bemis, wife of one of the men working on the road and one of the skeptics among the crew, wrote a letter to the leading local newspaper, the Humboldt Times of Eureka, which said in part "A rumor started among the men, at once, of the existence of a Wild Man. We regarded it as a joke. It was only yesterday that my husband became convinced that the existence of such a person (?) is a fact. Have you heard of this wild man?" Mr. Andrew Genzoli of that paper told me that he regarded this letter with a thoroughly jaundiced eye but that the longer he saw it about his desk the brighter grew the clear blue light of his built-in news-sense, until he could restrain himself no longer and ran the letter in a daily column that he writes.
Jerry Crew with one of the footprint casts (from The Province newspaper, 6 October 1958)
There was little response where he had expected a near storm of derision; instead a trickle of tentatively confirmatory correspondence began to come in from the Willow Creek area. This was continuing sub rosa when, on October 2, the maker of the tracks appeared again on his apparently rather regular round leaving tracks for 3 nights in succession and then vanishing again for about 5 days. This time Jerry Crew had prepared for his advent with a supply of plaster of Paris and made a series of casts of both right and left feet early one morning. Two days later he took a couple of days off to drive to Eureka on personal business and carried the casts along with him to show to a friend. While there somebody mentioned to Andrew Genzoli that a man was in town who had made casts of the prints and he was persuaded to go and fetch Jerry. Andrew Genzoli is an old newshand but of the new school; he can sense a good story as fast as any man but he is properly averse to too good a story. When he met Jerry Crew and saw his trophies he realized he had some real live news, not just a "story," on his hands, and he ran a front-pager on it with photographs the next day. Then the balloon went up.
The wire services picked it up and almost every paper in the country printed it while cables of inquiry flooded in from abroad. The first I heard of it was a cable from a friend in London: he seemed to be slightly hysterical. I get a lot of esoteric cables during the year about sea monsters, two-headed calves, reincarnated Indian girls, and so forth, the majority of which I am constrained to do something about because the world is, after all, a large place and we don't know much about a lot of it as yet, but this one I frankly refused to accept mostly because I rather naturally assumed that the location as given (California) must be a complete error or a misquote. I wracked my brains for any place name in Eurasia or Africa that might have nine letters, begin with "K" and end in "ia." The best we could come up with was Corinthia but this was even more unlikely. Then somebody suggested Carpathia, the country of Dracula and other humanoid unpleasantnesses, and we actually spent 6 dollars on a follow-up. There are few people interested enough in such abstruse matters as to spend that sum in pursuit of truth but I fancy there were many on the morning of October 6, 1958 who doubted what they read in their morning papers just as fervently as I did this cable.
The point I want to make is that this whole bit did sound quite absurd even to us, who became immune to such shocks years ago. It is all very well for abominable creatures to be pounding over snow-covered passes in Nepal and Tibet; after all giant pandas and yaks, and an antelope with a nose like Jimmy Durante, and other unlikely things come from thereabouts; and it is even conceivable that there might be little hairy men in the vast forests of Mozambique in view of the almost equally unlikely more or less hairless pigmies of the eastern Congo which are there for all tourists to see, but a uild man with a 17-inch foot and a 50-inch stride tromping around California was then a little too much to ask even us to stomach, especially as we had not yet got the news-stories. The amazing thing in this case was that the world press took it seriously enough even to carry it as a news item.
Not so the rest of humanity. One and all, apart from a few ardent mystics and professional crackpots, and including even the citizens of Humboldt County itself rose up in one concerted howl of righteous indignation. Everybody connected with the business, and notably poor Mr. Genzoli, was immediately almost smothered in brickbats. In the meantime however, a number of other things had happened. Most notable among these was the reappearance of "Bigfoot" as he was called one night before Ray Wallace returned to his operationans. Now it so happened that a brother of the contractor, Wilbur Wallace, was working on this job and he, besides seeing the foot-tracks many times, witnessed three other annoying and to him most startling occurrences, which he had reported to his brother. I will repeat these roughly in his own words which appeared to me not only straightforward but most convincing.
First, it was reported to him by one of his men that a nearly full 55-gallon drum of diesel fuel which had been left standing beside the road was missing and that Bigfoot tracks led do the road from a steep bank to this spot where it had stood, then crossed the road, continued on down the hill and finally went over the lower bank and away into the bush. Will Wallace went to inspect and found the tracks exactly as the men had stated. He also found the oil drum at the bottom of steep bank about 175 feet from the road. It had rolled down this bank and had apparently been thrown from the top. What is more, it had been lifted from its original resting place and apparently carried to this point, for there were no marks in the soft mud of its having been either rolled or dragged all that distance. Second, a length of 18-inch galvanized steel culvert disappeared from a dump overnight and was found at the bottom of another bank some distance away. Third, he reported a wheel with tire for a "carry-all" earth-mover, weighing over 700 pounds, had likewise been in part lifted and in part rolled a quarter of a mile down the road and hurled into a deep ravine. Ray Wallace, however, still remained skeptical even after hearing this from his own brother. However, on his first morning at the location he stopped for a drink at a spring on the way down the hill and stepped right into a mass of the big prints in the soft mud around the outflow. Then, I gather from him, though he is a man with a wonderfully good humor, he got "good and mad." There was for him no longer any question about the existence of these monstrous human-like tracks but there remained the question as to who was perpetrating them, and why. Ray Wallace is a hard-boiled and pragmatic man and he was already experiencing trouble keeping men on the job. Handpicked as they were not a few had just had to leave for one apparently good reason or another. Only later did he learn that almost all of them did so not because they were scared by the Bigfoot, but either because their wives were or because of the ribbing they had to take when they went back to civilization, even for the evening to nearby Willow Creek.
Ray Wallace said he at first thought somebody was deliberately trying to wreck his contract and he was not alone. However, the local representative of the Humboldt Times, Mrs. Elizabeth (Betty) Allen, set about to investigate the possibility on her own, and discovered beyond a doubt that neither good nor bad publicity, nor any kind of "scare" actually made any difference to Mr. Wallace's contract. First he was a subcontractor; second he was more than up to schedule; third there was no time set on the job; and fourth, it was basically contracted by Messrs. Block and Company with the Forest Service on a performance, not a time, basis. Ray Wallace got so angry he brought in a man named Ray Kerr, who had read of the matter in the press and asked for a job in order to be able to spend his spare time trying to track the culprit. Kerr brought with him a friend by the name of Bob Breazele, who had hunted professionally in Mexico, owned four good dogs, and a British-made gun of enormous caliber which considerably impressed the locals. Kerr, an experienced equipment operator, did a full daily job: Breazele did not take a job but hunted.
Tracks were seen and followed by them. Then one night in late October, these two were driving down the new road after dark and state that they came upon a gigantic humanoid or human-shaped creature, covered with 6-inch brown fur, squatting by the road. They said it sprang up in their headlights and crossed the road in two strides to vanish into the undergrowth. They went after it with a flashlight but the underbrush was too thick to see anything. They measured the road and found it to be exactly 20 feet wide from the place where the creature had squatted to the little ditch where it had landed after those two strides. Spurred by this encounter they redoubled their hunting forays but their dogs disappeared a few days later when they were following Bigfoot's tracks some distance from the road-head. They were never seen again though story was told — but later denied by its teller — that their skins and bones were found spattered about some trees. Though this story was denied, there is as much reason to believe that this was done to obviate ridicule as to clear a conscience.
All this was, of course, taken with hoots of derision by everybody even in Willow Creek who bad not seen any tracks — but with one notable exception. This was Andrew Genzoli and he sent his newspaper's senior staff photographer to Bluff Creek. The party saw fresh tracks at night and photographed them. They also found something else; as did Ray Wallace later. (I have this first hand from these professional skeptics.) At first, the photographer told me, he was more than just skeptical but when he found the tracks and inspected them he not only was convinced that they were not a hoax or a publicity stunt but, as he put it, "I got the most awful feeling that I can't really describe, but it was nearer fright than anything I ever felt when in service." But worse was in store for the newsmen for, in following the tracks down the road, they came across a pile of faeces of typically human form but, as they put it, "of absolutely monumental proportions." He then added, "I can only describe it as a 2-ton bear with chronic constipation."
They contemplated going to fetch a shovel and some container and taking this back to Eureka for analysis but it was a hot night and a 5-hour drive over a dangerous road and also, as they readily admitted, that strange laziness that so often intervenes in offbeat and rather alarming cases of this nature took over and cast the die. Press coverage had gone far enough, and they were not ecologists. Later, Ray Wallace stumbled upon a similar enormous mass of human-shaped droppings. He shoveled them into a can and found that they occupied exactly the same volume as a single evacuation of a 1200-pound horse.
Further foot-tracks and other incidents continued all that fall and throughout the winter until the spring of 1959 ending in February. However, later in the spring, two fliers, a husband and wife in a private plane, were flying over the Bluff Creek area. It was April and there was still snow on the mountain-tops some of which are bare of trees. It is alleged that they spotted great tracks in the snow and that on following them up they sighted the creature that had made them. It was enormous, humanoid, and covered with brown fur, according to secondhand accounts. I tried, and am still trying to locate this couple, with the co-operation of local fliers, several of them having heard of the report, and despite the praiseworthy clannishness of fliers and their willing offers to help, I have not at the time of writing been able to identify this couple. The story may be a rumor or wishful thinking. So also may, three other recent and a whole host of past, old, and even ancient reports of actual meetings with one or more Bigfeet in this area.
Among these are alleged statements by two doctors of having met one on Route 299 earlier in 1958; and of a lady of much probity who with her daughter saw two, one smaller by far than the other, feeding on a hillside above the Hoopa Valley. This lady, to whom a partner of mine talked but who does not wish her name publicized, also stated that when she was a young girl, people used to see these creatures from time to time when they went fishing up certain creeks, and she once saw one swimming Bluff Creek when it was in flood. She also stated that in the olden days people did not go above certain points up the side valleys, due to the presence of these creatures.
More important was a positive flood of further alleged discoveries of similar foot-tracks by all manner of local citizenry over a wide area and extending back for many years that came to light as soon as the local press began to take this whole matter seriously. But as these came in, public resentment and ridicule mounted so that the reporters became ever more cagey. Finally, Betty Allen, who as an old-time resident with experience as an Assistant U.S. Commissioner in Alaska, started talking to the Huppa and Yurok Amerinds about these matters and, little by little, an amazing picture emerged.
Jerry was an older member of a crew bulldozing this new road into virtually unexplored territory for one Mr. Bay Wallace, subcontractor to Messrs. Block and Company who had, in turn, contracted with the National Parks Service to carry out the work. He is a local man. His fellow workers were for the most part also local men and included a nephew, James Crew, a very level-headed young chap, others whom I shall mention by name in a minute, and two experienced loggers of Huppa Indian origin. The crew had considerable heavy equipment at the scene of operations and had started work in late May as soon as what little snow there is in this area had melted and the much more deadly mud had firmed up. The road had been under construction for two seasons already. The country is mountainous; though this is the understatement of the year, being to most intents and everywhere almost vertical so that you can only go up on all fours or down on your bottom. Unless you make an exaggerated and exhausting climb you cannot see more than about four square miles of the country because you are always on the side of something going either straight up or almost straight down and unless a tree has fallen or been cut out, you can't see anything because bare rock is confined to the uppermost summits of the peaks and ridges. The road crawls laboriously up the face of the western wall that encloses a stream known as Bluff Creek. It is still unsurfaced and when I visited it in 1959 was ankle-deep in ultra-fine dust that surpasses anything the deserts of Arizona can produce at their damnedest. All along this mountainous trail there are the stumps of vast trees cut and hauled out, and great slides of friable shales, gray, brown, blue, or even green that have been sliced out of the sheer valley side. The great dozers and crawlers clank and roar in the hot summer sunlight as they gnaw their relentless way into this timeless land. The great trees seem to recoil a little from their mechanical jangling and screeching, but day by day these bright yellow and red monsters munch away ever deeper into one of the last of America's real wildernesses.
Those employed on this work lived during the work-week in camp near this road- head. They had trailers or tents or prefabricated houses and some of them had their families with them and stayed there all week. Others with families resident in nearby communities normally went home on Friday night and returned on the following Monday morning. The younger fellows usually did likewise, for the drive to Willow Creek took only about 2 hours for those who knew the road. Jerry Crew's practice was to return to his family over the week end, leaving his machine parked at the scene of current operations. He had been on this job for 3 months that year before the eventful morning which blew up the storm that literally rocked Humboldt County, California and made the pages of the world press but which then sort of folded in upon itself and was heard of no more for a year.
What Jerry Crew discovered when he went to start up his "cat" was that somebody had inspected it rather thoroughly during the previous night, as could be plainly seen by a series of footprints that formed a track to, all around, and then away from the machine. Such tracks would not have aroused his curiosity under normal circumstances because there were three dozen men at that road-head and the newly scraped roadbed was covered with soft mud areas alternating with patches of loose shale. What did startle him was that these footprints were of a shoeless or naked foot of distinctly human shape and proportions but by actual measurement just 17 inches long!
Of these, Jerry Crew took an extremely dim view. He had heard tell of similar tracks having been seen by another road gang working 8 miles north of a place called Korbel on the Mad River earlier that year and his nephew, Jim Crew, had also mentioned having come across something similar in this area. Being a pragmatic family man he felt, he told me, some considerable annoyance that some "outsider" should try to pull such a silly stunt on him. He at first stressed an outsider because, although his fellow workers liked a harmless joke as much as any man, he knew they were far too tired to go clomping around in the dark after the sort of working day they put in on that job, making silly lootprints around the equipment. Then, he tells me, he got to thinking about this outsider and wondered just how he had got there without passing the camps farther down the road and being spotted, and how he had gotten out again, or where he had gone over these precipitous mountains clothed in tangled undergrowth. He followed the tracks up. And that is where he got his second shock.
Going backward he found that they came almost strain down an incline of about 75 degrees on to the road ahead the parked "cat", then proceeded down the road on one side, circled the machine, and then went on down the road toward the camp. Before getting there, however, they cut across the road and went straight down an even steeper incline and continued into the forest with measured stride varying only when an obstacle had to be stepped over or the bank was so steep purchase could be obtained by digging in the heels. The stride was enormous and proved on measurement to be from 46 to 60 inches and to average about 50 inches or almost twice that of his own. Jerald Crew was not only mystified; he was considerably peeved. He went to fetch some of his colleagues. Then he received his third shock that morning.
The majority of them, stout fellows and good friends that they were, refused to even go and look at this preposterous phenomenon that he told them he had found and he had a hard time persuading any of them that even the tracks were there. Eventually, some of the men, who had in any case to go that way to their work, agreed to go along with him and take a look. Then they got their shocks and, Jerry told me, some of them "looked at me real queer." But there were others who reacted differently, and it then transpired that all of them had either seen something similar thereabouts or elsewhere, or had heard of them from friends and acquaintances whom they regarded as totally reliable. The only Amerinds present said nothing at that time. Then they all went back to work.
Nothing further happened for almost a month, then once again these monstrous Bigfeet appeared again overnight around the equipment and farther down the road toward the valley, notably around a spring. About that time, Mr. Bay Wallace, the contractor, returned from a business trip. He had heard rumors on his way in that either his men were pulling some kind of stunt up in the hills or that some "outsider" was pulling one on them. He paid little attention to these reports but he was, he told me, somewhat apprehensive because the job was a tough one, skilled and reliable workers were not plentiful, and the location was not conducive to the staying power of anyone. When he reached the camp and heard the details of the Bigfeet he was more than just skeptical. He was downright angry. Moreover, all he encountered was more talk which he at that time suspected was some sort of prank but just possibly one prompted by more than mere high spirits or boredom.
The matter was until then and for a further 3 weeks a purely local affair known only to the men working on the road, and their immediate families for they did not care to speak about it to casual acquaintances or even friends. Then, in the middle of September a Mrs. Jess Bemis, wife of one of the men working on the road and one of the skeptics among the crew, wrote a letter to the leading local newspaper, the Humboldt Times of Eureka, which said in part "A rumor started among the men, at once, of the existence of a Wild Man. We regarded it as a joke. It was only yesterday that my husband became convinced that the existence of such a person (?) is a fact. Have you heard of this wild man?" Mr. Andrew Genzoli of that paper told me that he regarded this letter with a thoroughly jaundiced eye but that the longer he saw it about his desk the brighter grew the clear blue light of his built-in news-sense, until he could restrain himself no longer and ran the letter in a daily column that he writes.
Jerry Crew with one of the footprint casts (from The Province newspaper, 6 October 1958)
There was little response where he had expected a near storm of derision; instead a trickle of tentatively confirmatory correspondence began to come in from the Willow Creek area. This was continuing sub rosa when, on October 2, the maker of the tracks appeared again on his apparently rather regular round leaving tracks for 3 nights in succession and then vanishing again for about 5 days. This time Jerry Crew had prepared for his advent with a supply of plaster of Paris and made a series of casts of both right and left feet early one morning. Two days later he took a couple of days off to drive to Eureka on personal business and carried the casts along with him to show to a friend. While there somebody mentioned to Andrew Genzoli that a man was in town who had made casts of the prints and he was persuaded to go and fetch Jerry. Andrew Genzoli is an old newshand but of the new school; he can sense a good story as fast as any man but he is properly averse to too good a story. When he met Jerry Crew and saw his trophies he realized he had some real live news, not just a "story," on his hands, and he ran a front-pager on it with photographs the next day. Then the balloon went up.
The wire services picked it up and almost every paper in the country printed it while cables of inquiry flooded in from abroad. The first I heard of it was a cable from a friend in London: he seemed to be slightly hysterical. I get a lot of esoteric cables during the year about sea monsters, two-headed calves, reincarnated Indian girls, and so forth, the majority of which I am constrained to do something about because the world is, after all, a large place and we don't know much about a lot of it as yet, but this one I frankly refused to accept mostly because I rather naturally assumed that the location as given (California) must be a complete error or a misquote. I wracked my brains for any place name in Eurasia or Africa that might have nine letters, begin with "K" and end in "ia." The best we could come up with was Corinthia but this was even more unlikely. Then somebody suggested Carpathia, the country of Dracula and other humanoid unpleasantnesses, and we actually spent 6 dollars on a follow-up. There are few people interested enough in such abstruse matters as to spend that sum in pursuit of truth but I fancy there were many on the morning of October 6, 1958 who doubted what they read in their morning papers just as fervently as I did this cable.
The point I want to make is that this whole bit did sound quite absurd even to us, who became immune to such shocks years ago. It is all very well for abominable creatures to be pounding over snow-covered passes in Nepal and Tibet; after all giant pandas and yaks, and an antelope with a nose like Jimmy Durante, and other unlikely things come from thereabouts; and it is even conceivable that there might be little hairy men in the vast forests of Mozambique in view of the almost equally unlikely more or less hairless pigmies of the eastern Congo which are there for all tourists to see, but a uild man with a 17-inch foot and a 50-inch stride tromping around California was then a little too much to ask even us to stomach, especially as we had not yet got the news-stories. The amazing thing in this case was that the world press took it seriously enough even to carry it as a news item.
Not so the rest of humanity. One and all, apart from a few ardent mystics and professional crackpots, and including even the citizens of Humboldt County itself rose up in one concerted howl of righteous indignation. Everybody connected with the business, and notably poor Mr. Genzoli, was immediately almost smothered in brickbats. In the meantime however, a number of other things had happened. Most notable among these was the reappearance of "Bigfoot" as he was called one night before Ray Wallace returned to his operationans. Now it so happened that a brother of the contractor, Wilbur Wallace, was working on this job and he, besides seeing the foot-tracks many times, witnessed three other annoying and to him most startling occurrences, which he had reported to his brother. I will repeat these roughly in his own words which appeared to me not only straightforward but most convincing.
First, it was reported to him by one of his men that a nearly full 55-gallon drum of diesel fuel which had been left standing beside the road was missing and that Bigfoot tracks led do the road from a steep bank to this spot where it had stood, then crossed the road, continued on down the hill and finally went over the lower bank and away into the bush. Will Wallace went to inspect and found the tracks exactly as the men had stated. He also found the oil drum at the bottom of steep bank about 175 feet from the road. It had rolled down this bank and had apparently been thrown from the top. What is more, it had been lifted from its original resting place and apparently carried to this point, for there were no marks in the soft mud of its having been either rolled or dragged all that distance. Second, a length of 18-inch galvanized steel culvert disappeared from a dump overnight and was found at the bottom of another bank some distance away. Third, he reported a wheel with tire for a "carry-all" earth-mover, weighing over 700 pounds, had likewise been in part lifted and in part rolled a quarter of a mile down the road and hurled into a deep ravine. Ray Wallace, however, still remained skeptical even after hearing this from his own brother. However, on his first morning at the location he stopped for a drink at a spring on the way down the hill and stepped right into a mass of the big prints in the soft mud around the outflow. Then, I gather from him, though he is a man with a wonderfully good humor, he got "good and mad." There was for him no longer any question about the existence of these monstrous human-like tracks but there remained the question as to who was perpetrating them, and why. Ray Wallace is a hard-boiled and pragmatic man and he was already experiencing trouble keeping men on the job. Handpicked as they were not a few had just had to leave for one apparently good reason or another. Only later did he learn that almost all of them did so not because they were scared by the Bigfoot, but either because their wives were or because of the ribbing they had to take when they went back to civilization, even for the evening to nearby Willow Creek.
Ray Wallace said he at first thought somebody was deliberately trying to wreck his contract and he was not alone. However, the local representative of the Humboldt Times, Mrs. Elizabeth (Betty) Allen, set about to investigate the possibility on her own, and discovered beyond a doubt that neither good nor bad publicity, nor any kind of "scare" actually made any difference to Mr. Wallace's contract. First he was a subcontractor; second he was more than up to schedule; third there was no time set on the job; and fourth, it was basically contracted by Messrs. Block and Company with the Forest Service on a performance, not a time, basis. Ray Wallace got so angry he brought in a man named Ray Kerr, who had read of the matter in the press and asked for a job in order to be able to spend his spare time trying to track the culprit. Kerr brought with him a friend by the name of Bob Breazele, who had hunted professionally in Mexico, owned four good dogs, and a British-made gun of enormous caliber which considerably impressed the locals. Kerr, an experienced equipment operator, did a full daily job: Breazele did not take a job but hunted.
Tracks were seen and followed by them. Then one night in late October, these two were driving down the new road after dark and state that they came upon a gigantic humanoid or human-shaped creature, covered with 6-inch brown fur, squatting by the road. They said it sprang up in their headlights and crossed the road in two strides to vanish into the undergrowth. They went after it with a flashlight but the underbrush was too thick to see anything. They measured the road and found it to be exactly 20 feet wide from the place where the creature had squatted to the little ditch where it had landed after those two strides. Spurred by this encounter they redoubled their hunting forays but their dogs disappeared a few days later when they were following Bigfoot's tracks some distance from the road-head. They were never seen again though story was told — but later denied by its teller — that their skins and bones were found spattered about some trees. Though this story was denied, there is as much reason to believe that this was done to obviate ridicule as to clear a conscience.
All this was, of course, taken with hoots of derision by everybody even in Willow Creek who bad not seen any tracks — but with one notable exception. This was Andrew Genzoli and he sent his newspaper's senior staff photographer to Bluff Creek. The party saw fresh tracks at night and photographed them. They also found something else; as did Ray Wallace later. (I have this first hand from these professional skeptics.) At first, the photographer told me, he was more than just skeptical but when he found the tracks and inspected them he not only was convinced that they were not a hoax or a publicity stunt but, as he put it, "I got the most awful feeling that I can't really describe, but it was nearer fright than anything I ever felt when in service." But worse was in store for the newsmen for, in following the tracks down the road, they came across a pile of faeces of typically human form but, as they put it, "of absolutely monumental proportions." He then added, "I can only describe it as a 2-ton bear with chronic constipation."
They contemplated going to fetch a shovel and some container and taking this back to Eureka for analysis but it was a hot night and a 5-hour drive over a dangerous road and also, as they readily admitted, that strange laziness that so often intervenes in offbeat and rather alarming cases of this nature took over and cast the die. Press coverage had gone far enough, and they were not ecologists. Later, Ray Wallace stumbled upon a similar enormous mass of human-shaped droppings. He shoveled them into a can and found that they occupied exactly the same volume as a single evacuation of a 1200-pound horse.
Further foot-tracks and other incidents continued all that fall and throughout the winter until the spring of 1959 ending in February. However, later in the spring, two fliers, a husband and wife in a private plane, were flying over the Bluff Creek area. It was April and there was still snow on the mountain-tops some of which are bare of trees. It is alleged that they spotted great tracks in the snow and that on following them up they sighted the creature that had made them. It was enormous, humanoid, and covered with brown fur, according to secondhand accounts. I tried, and am still trying to locate this couple, with the co-operation of local fliers, several of them having heard of the report, and despite the praiseworthy clannishness of fliers and their willing offers to help, I have not at the time of writing been able to identify this couple. The story may be a rumor or wishful thinking. So also may, three other recent and a whole host of past, old, and even ancient reports of actual meetings with one or more Bigfeet in this area.
Among these are alleged statements by two doctors of having met one on Route 299 earlier in 1958; and of a lady of much probity who with her daughter saw two, one smaller by far than the other, feeding on a hillside above the Hoopa Valley. This lady, to whom a partner of mine talked but who does not wish her name publicized, also stated that when she was a young girl, people used to see these creatures from time to time when they went fishing up certain creeks, and she once saw one swimming Bluff Creek when it was in flood. She also stated that in the olden days people did not go above certain points up the side valleys, due to the presence of these creatures.
More important was a positive flood of further alleged discoveries of similar foot-tracks by all manner of local citizenry over a wide area and extending back for many years that came to light as soon as the local press began to take this whole matter seriously. But as these came in, public resentment and ridicule mounted so that the reporters became ever more cagey. Finally, Betty Allen, who as an old-time resident with experience as an Assistant U.S. Commissioner in Alaska, started talking to the Huppa and Yurok Amerinds about these matters and, little by little, an amazing picture emerged.
Albert Ostman - Multiple-day encounter with family of Sasquatches
John Green interviews Ostman
I have always followed logging and construction work. This time I had worked for over one year on a construction job and thought a good vacation was in order. B.C. is famous for lost gold mines. One is supposed to be at the head of Toba Inlet—why not look for this mine and have a vacation at the same time? I took the Union Steamship boat to Lund, B.C. From there I hired an old Indian to take me to the head of Toba Inlet.
This old Indian was a very talkative old gentleman. He told me stories about gold brought out by a white man from this lost mine. This white man was a very heavy drinker—spent his money freely in saloons. But he had no trouble getting more money. He would be away a few days, then come back with a bag of gold. But one time he went to his mine and never came back. Some people said a Sasquatch had killed him.
At that time I had never heard of Sasquatch. So I asked what kind of an animal he called a Sasquatch. The Indian said, “They have hair all over their bodies, but they are not animals. They are people. Big people living in the mountains. My uncle saw the tracks of one that were two feet long. One old Indian saw one over eight feet tall.
I told the Indian I didn’t believe in their old fables about mountain giants. It might have been some thousands of years ago, but not nowadays.
The Indian said, “There may not be many, but they still exist.”
We arrived at the head of the inlet at 4:00 p.m. I made camp at the mouth of a creek. The Indian was in no hurry, he had to wait for the high tide to go back. That would be about 7:00 p.m. I tried to catch some trout in the creek, but no luck. The Indian had supper with me, and I told him to look out for me in about three weeks. I would be camping at the same spot when I came back. He promised to tell his friend to look out for me too.
I spent most of the forenoon looking for a trail but found none, except for a hog-back running down to within about a hundred feet of the beach. So I swamped out a trail from there, got back to my camp about 3:00 p.m. that afternoon and made up my pack to be ready in the morning. My equipment consisted of one 30-30 Winchester rifle, I had a special home-made prospecting pick, axe on one end, and pick on the other. I had a leather case for this pick which fastened to my belt, also my sheath knife.
Next morning I took my rifle with me, but left my equipment at the camp. I decided to look around for some deer trail to lead me up into the mountains. On the way up the inlet I had seen a pass in the mountainside that I wanted to go through, to see what was on the other side.
The storekeeper at Lund was co-operative. He gave me some cans for my sugar, salt and matches to keep them dry. My grub consisted mostly of canned stuff, except for a side of bacon, a bag of beans, four pounds of prunes and six packets of macaroni, three pounds of pancake flour, cheese, and six packets Rye King hard tack, three rolls of snuff, one quart sealer of butter and two one-pound cans of milk. I had two boxes of shells for my rifle.
The storekeeper gave me a biscuit tin, I put a few things in that and cached it under a windfall, so I would have it when I came back here waiting for a boat to bring me out. My sleeping bag I rolled up and tied on top of my pack sack—together with my ground sheet, small frying pan, and one aluminum pot that held about a gallon. As my canned food was used, I would get plenty of empty cans to cook with.
The following morning I had an early breakfast, made up my pack, and started up this hogback. My pack must have been at least eighty pounds, besides my rifle. After one hour, I had to rest. I kept resting and climbing all that morning. About 2:00 p.m. I came to a flat place below a rock bluff. There was a bunch of willow in one place. I made a wooden spade and started digging for water. About a foot down I got seepings of water, so I decided to camp here for the
night, and scout around for the best way to get on from here.
I must have been up near a thousand feet. There was a most beautiful view over the islands and the Strait—tugboats with log booms, and fishing boats going in all directions, A lovely spot. I spent the following day prospecting round. But no sign of minerals. I found a deer trail leading towards this pass that I had seen on my way up the inlet.
The following morning I started out early, while it was cool. It was steep climbing with my heavy pack. After a three hours climb, I was tired and stopped to rest. On the other side of a ravine from where I was resting was a yellow spot below some small trees. I moved over there and started digging for water.
I found a small spring and made a small trough from cedar bark and got a small amount of water, had my lunch and rested here till evening. This was not a good camping site, and I wanted to get over the pass. I saved all the water I got from this spring, as I might not find water on the other side of this pass. However, I made it over the pass late that night.
Now I had downhill and good going, but I was hungry and tired, so I camped at the first bunch of trees I came to. I had about a gallon of water so I was good for one day. Of course, I could see rough country ahead of me, and I was trying to size up the terrain—what direction I would take from here. Towards the west would lead to low land and some other inlet, so I decided to go in a northeast direction, but I had to find a good way to get down.
I left my pack and went east along a ledge but came to an abrupt end—was two or three hundred feet straight down. I came back, found a place only about 50 feet down to a ledge that looked like good going for as far as I could see. I got down on this ledge all right and had good going and slight down hill all day—I must have made 10 miles when I came to a small spring and a big black hemlock tree.
This was a lovely campsite. I spent two days here just resting and prospecting. There were some minerals but nothing interesting. The first night here I shot a small deer (buck) so I had plenty of good meat, and good water. The weather was very hot in the daytime, so I was in no hurry, as I had plenty of meat. When I finally left this camp, I got into plenty of trouble. First I got into a box canyon, and had to come back almost where I started this morning, when I found a deer trail down to another ledge, and had about two miles of good going. Then I came to another canyon, and on the other side was a yellow patch of grass that meant water. I made it down into this canyon, and up on the other side, but it was tough climbing. I was tired and when I finally got there I dug a pit for water and got plenty for my needs. I only stayed here one night, it was not a good camping site. Next day I had hard going. I made it over a well timbered ridge into another canyon. This canyon was not so steep on the west side, but the east side was almost plumb. I would have to go down hill to find a way out. I was now well below the timber line.
I found a fair campsite that night, but moved on the next morning. It was a very hot day, not a breath of wind.
Late that day I found an exceptionally good campsite. It was two good-sized cypress trees growing close together and near a rock wall with a nice spring lust below these trees. I intended to make this my permanent camp. I cut lots of brush for my bed between these trees. I rigged up a pole from this rock wall to hang my packsack on, and I arranged some fiat rocks for my fireplace for cooking. I had a really classy setup. I shot a grouse just before I came to this place. Too late to roast that tonight—I would do that tomorrow.
And that’s when things began to happen. I am a heavy sleeper, not much disturbs me after I go to sleep, especially on a good bed like I had now.
Next morning I noticed things had been disturbed during the night. But nothing missing that I could see. I roasted my grouse on a stick for my breakfast—about 9:00 a.m. I started out prospecting. I always carried my rifle with me. Your rifle is the most important part of your equipment.
I started out in a southwest direction below the way I had come in the night before. There were some signs (minerals) but nothing important. I shot a squirrel in the afternoon, and got back to camp at 7:00 p.m. I fried the squirrel on a stick, opened a can of peas and carrots for my supper, and gathered up dry branches from trees. There are always dead branches of fir and hemlock under trees, near the ground. They make good fuel and good heat.
That night I filled up the magazine of my rifle. I still had one full box of 20 shells in my pack, besides a full magazine and six shells in my coat pocket. That night I laid my rifle under the edge of my sleeping bag. I thought a porcupine had visited me the night before and porkies like leather, so I put my shoes in the bottom of my sleeping bag.
Next morning my pack sack had been emptied out. Someone had turned the sack upside down. It was still hanging on the pole from the shoulder straps as I had hung it up. Then I noticed one half-pound package of prunes was missing. Also my pancake flour was missing, but my salt bag was not touched. Porkies always look for salt, so I decided it must be something else than porkies. I looked for tracks but found none. I did not think it was a bear, they always tear up and make a mess of things. I kept close to camp those days in case this visitor would come back.
I climbed up on a big rock where I had a good view of the camp, but nothing showed up. I was hoping it would be a porky so I could get a good porky stew. These visits had now been going on for three nights.
I intended to make a new campsite the following day, but I hated to leave this place. I had fixed it up so nicely, and these two cypress trees were bushy. It would have to be a heavy rain before I would get wet, and I had good spring water and that is hard to find.
This night it was cloudy and looked like it might rain. I took special notice of how everything was arranged. I closed my pack sack, I did not undress, I only took off my shoes, put them in the bottom of my sleeping bag. I drove my prospecting pick into one of the cypress trees so I could reach it from my bed. I also put the rifle alongside me, inside my sleeping bag. I fully intended to stay awake all night to find out who my visitor was, but I must have fallen asleep.
I was awakened by something picking me up. I was half asleep and at first I did not remember where I was. As I began to get my wits together, I remembered I was on this prospecting trip, and in my sleeping bag.
My first thought was—it must be a snow slide, but there was no snow around my camp. Then it felt like I was tossed on horseback, but I could feel whoever it was, was walking.
I tried to reason out what kind of animal this could be, I tried to get at my sheath knife, and cut my way out, but I was in an almost sitting position, and the knife was under me. I could not get hold of it, but the rifle was in front of me, I had a good hold of that, and had no intention to let go of it. At times I could feel my packsack touching me, and could feel the cans in the sack touching my back.
After what seemed like an hour, I could feel we were going up a steep hill. I could feel myself rise for every step. What was carrying me was breathing hard and sometimes gave a slight cough. Now, I knew this must be one of the mountain Sasquatch giants the Indian told me about.
I was in a very uncomfortable position, unable to move. I was sitting on my feet, and one of the boots in the bottom of the bag was crossways with the hobnail sole up across my foot. It hurt me terribly, but I could not move.
It was very hot inside. It was lucky for me this fellow’s hand was not big enough to close up the whole bag when he picked me up--there was a small opening at the top. Otherwise I would have choked to death.
Now he was going downhill, I could feel myself touching the ground at times and at one time he dragged me behind him and I could feel he was below me. Then he seemed to get on level ground and was going at a trot for a long time. By this time, I had cramps in my legs, the pain was terrible. I was wishing he would get to his destination soon. I could not stand this type of transportation much longer.
Now he was going uphill again. It did not hurt me so bad. I tried to estimate distance and directions. As near as I could guess we were about three hours travelling. I had no idea when he started as I was asleep when he picked me up.
Finally he stopped and let me down. Then he dropped my packsack, I could hear the cans rattle. Then I heard chatter—some kind of talk I did not understand. The ground was sloping so when he let go of my sleeping bag, I rolled over head first downhill. I got my head out, and got some air. I tried to straighten my legs and crawl out, but my legs were numb.
It was still dark, I could not see what my captors looked like. I tried to massage my legs to get some life in them, and get my shoes on. I could hear now it was at least four of them. They were standing around me and continuously chattering. I had never heard of Sasquatch before the Indian told me about them. But I knew I was right among them.
But how to get away from them, that was another question. I got to see the outline of them now, as it began to get lighter....
I now had circulation in my legs, but my left foot was very sore on top where it had been resting on my hobnail boots. I got my boots out from the sleeping bag and tried to stand up. I was wobbly on my feet but had a good hold of my rifle.
I asked, “What you fellows warn with me?”
Only some more chatter.
It was getting lighter now, and I could see them quite clearly. I could make out forms of four people. Two big ones and two little ones. They were all covered with hair and no clothes on at all.
I could now make out mountains all around me. I looked at my watch. It was 4:25 a.m. It was getting lighter now and I could see the people clearly.
They look like a family, old man, old lady and two young ones, a boy and a girl. The boy and the girl seem to be scared of me. The old lady did not seem too pleased about what the old man dragged home. But the old man was waving his arms and telling them all what he had in mind. They all left me then.
I had my compass and my prospecting glass on strings around my neck. The compass in my lefthand shirt pocket and my glass in my righthand pocket. I tried to reason our location, and where I was. I could see now that I was in a small valley or basin about eight or ten acres, surrounded by high mountains, on the southeast side there was a V-shaped opening about eight feet wide at the bottom and about twenty feet wide at the highest point—that must be the way I came in. But how will I get out? The old man was now sitting near this opening.
I moved my belongings up close to the west wall. There were two small cypress trees there, and this will do for a shelter for the time being. Until I find out what these people want with me, and how to get away from here. I emptied out my packsack to see what I had left in the line of food. All my canned meat and vegetables were intact and I had one can of coffee. Also three small cans of milk—two packages of Rye King hard tack and my butter sealer half full of butter. But my prunes and macaroni were missing. Also my full box of shells for my rifle. I only had six shells beside what I had in the magazine of my rifle, I had my sheath knife but my prospecting pick was missing and my can of matches. I only had my safety box full and that held about a dozen matches. That did not worry me—I can always start a fire with my prospecting glass when shining, if I got dry wood. I wanted hot coffee, but I had no wood, also nothing around here that looked like wood. I had a good look over the valley from where I was—but the boy and the girl were always watching me from behind some juniper bush. I decided there must be some water around here. The ground was leaning towards the opening in the wall. There must be water at the upper end of this valley, there is green grass and moss along the bottom.
All my utensils were left behind. I opened my coffee tin and emptied the coffee in a dish towel and tied it with the metal strip from the can. I took my rifle and the can and went looking for water. Right at the head under a cliff there was a lovely spring that disappeared underground. I got a drink, and a full can of water, When I got back the young boy was looking over my belongings, but did not touch anything. On my way back I noticed where these people were sleeping. On the east side wall of this valley was a shelf in the mountain side, with overhanging rock, looking something like a big undercut in a big tree about 10 feet deep and 30 feet wide. The floor was covered with lots of dry moss, and they had some kind of blankets woven of narrow strips of cedar bark, packed with dry moss. They looked very practical and warm—with no need of washing.
The first day not much happened. I had to eat my food cold. The young fellow was coming nearer me, and seemed curious about me. My one snuff box was empty, so I rolled it towards him. When he saw it coming, he sprang up quick as a cat, and grabbed it. He went over to his sister and showed her. They found out how to open and close it—they spent a long time playing with it—then he trotted over to the old man and showed him. They had a long chatter.
Next morning, I made up my mind to leave this place—if I had to shoot my way out. I could not stay much longer, I had only enough grub to last me till I got back to Toba Inlet. I did not know the direction but I would go down hill and I would come out near civilization some place. I rolled up my sleeping bag, put that inside my packsack—packed the few cans I had—swung the sack on my back, injected a shell in the barrel of my rifle and started for the opening in the wall. The old man got up, held up his hands as though he would push me back.
I pointed to the opening. I wanted to go out. But he stood there pushing towards me—and said something that sounded like “Soka soka.” I backed up to about sixty feet. I did not want to be too close, I thought, if I had to shoot my way out. A 30-30 might not have much effect on this fellow, it might make him mad, I only had six shells so I decided to wait. There must be a better way than killing him, in order to get out from here. I went back to my campsite to figure out some other way to get out.
If I could make friends with the young fellow or the girl, they might help me. If I only could talk to them. Then I thought of a fellow who saved himself from a mad bull by blinding him with snuff in his eyes. But how will I get near enough to this fellow to put the snuff in his eyes? So I decided next time I give the young fellow my snuff box to leave a few grains of snuff in it. He might give the old man a taste of it.
But the question is, in what direction will I go, if I should get out? I must have been near 25 miles northeast of Toba Inlet when I was kidnapped. This fellow must have traveled at least 25 miles in the three hours he carried me. If he went west we would be near salt water—same thing if he went south—therefore he must have gone northeast. If I then keep going south and over two mountains, I must hit salt water someplace between Lund and Vancouver.
The following day I did not see the old lady till about 4:00 p.m. She came home with her arms full of grass and twigs of all kinds from spruce and hemlock as well as some kind of nuts that grow in the ground. I have seen lots of them on Vancouver Island. The young fellow went up the mountain to the east every day, he could climb better than a mountain goat. He picked some kind of grass with long sweet roots. He gave me some one day—they tasted very sweet. I gave him another snuff box with about a teaspoon of snuff in it. He tasted it, then went to the old man--he licked it with his tongue. They had a long chat. I made a dipper from a milk can. I made many dippers—you cut two slits near the top of any can—then cut a limb from any small tree—cut down back of the limb—down the stem of the tree—then taper the part you cut from the stem. Then cut a hole in the tapered part, slide the tapered part into the slit you made in the can, and you have a good handle on your can. I threw one over to the young fellow that was playing near my camp, he picked it up and looked at it then he went to the old man and showed it to him. They had a long chatter. Then he came to me, pointed at the dipper then at his sister. I could see that he wanted one for her too. I had other peas and carrots, so I made one for his sister, He was standing only eight feet away from me. When I had made the dipper, I dipped it in water and drank from it, he was very pleased, almost smiled at me. Then I took a chew of snuff, smacked my lips, said that’s good.
The young fellow pointed to the old man, said something that sounded like “Oook.” I got the idea that the old man liked snuff, and the young fellow wanted a box for the old man. I shook my head. I motioned with my hands for the old man to come to me. I do not think the young fellow understood what I meant. He went to his sister and gave her the dipper I made for her. They did not come near me again that day. I had now been here six days, but I was sure I was making progress. If only I could get the old man to come over to me, get him to eat a full box of snuff that would kill him for sure, and that way kill himself, I wouldn’t be guilty of murder.
The old lady was a meek old thing. The young fellow was by this time quite friendly. The girl would not hurt anybody. Her chest was flat like a boy—no development like young ladies. I am sure if I could get the old man out of the way, I could easily have brought this girl out with me to civilization. But what good would that have been? I would have to keep her in a cage for public display. I don’t think we have any right to force our way of life on other people, and I don’t think they would like it. (The noise and racket in a modern city they would not like any more than I do.)
The young fellow might have been between 11-18 years old about seven feet tall and might weigh about 300 lbs. His chest would be about 50-55 inches, his waist about 36-38 inches. He had wide jaws, narrow forehead that slanted upward round at the back about four or five inches higher than the forehead. The hair on their heads was about six inches long. The hair on the rest of their body was short and thick in places. The women’s hair was a bit longer on their heads and the hair on their forehead had an upward turn like some women have—they call it bangs, among women’s hair-do’s. Nowadays the old lady could have been anything between 40-70 years old. She was over seven feet tall. She would be about 500- 600 pounds.
She had very wide hips, and a gooseIike walk. She was not built for beauty or speed. Some of those lovable brassieres and uplifts would have been a great improvement on her looks and her figure. The man’s eyeteeth were longer than the rest of the teeth, but not long enough to be called tusks. The old man must have been near eight feet tall. Big barrel chest and big hump on his back—powerful shoulders, his biceps on upper arm were enormous and tapered down to his elbows. His forearms were longer than common people have, but well proportioned. His hands were wide, the palm was long and broad and hollow like a scoop. His fingers were short in proportion to the rest of the hand. His fingernails were like chisels. The only place they had no hair was inside their hands and the soles of their feet and upper part of the nose and eyelids. I never did see their ears, they were covered with hair hanging over them.
If the old man were to wear a collar it would have to be at least 30 inches. I have no idea what size shoes they would need. I was watching the young fellow’s foot one day when he was sitting down. The soles of his feet seemed to be padded like a dog’s foot, and the big toes was longer than the rest and very strong. In mountain climbing all he needed was footing for his big toe. They were very agile. To sit down they turned their knees out and came straight down. To rise they came straight up without help of their hands and arms. I don’t think this valley was their permanent home. I think they move from place to place, as food is available in different localities. They might eat meat, but I never saw them eat meat, or do any cooking.
I think this was probably a stopover place and the plants with sweet roots on the mountainside might have been in season this time of the year. They seem to be most interested in them. The roots have a very sweet and satisfying taste, They always seem to do everything for a reason, wasted no time on anything they did not need. When they were not looking for food, the old man and the old lady were resting, but the boy and the girl were always climbing something or some other exercise. His favorite position was to take hold of his feet with his hands and balance on his rump, then bounce forward. The idea seems to be to see how far he could go without his feet or hands touching the ground. Sometimes he made 20 feet.
But what do they want with me? They must understand that I cannot stay here indefinitely. I will soon run out of grub, and so far I have seen no deer or other game. I will soon have to make a break for freedom. Not that I was mistreated in any way. One consolation was that the old man was coming closer each day, and was very interested in my snuff. Watching me when I take a pinch of snuff. He seems to think it is useless to only put it inside my lips, One morning after I had my breakfast both the old man and the boy came and sat down only ten feet away from me. This morning I made coffee. I had saved up all dry branches I found and I had some dry moss and I used all the labels from cans to start a fire.
I got my coffee pot boiling and it was strong coffee too, and the aroma from boiling coffee was what brought them over. I was sitting eating hard-tack with plenty of butter on, and sipping coffee. And it sure tasted good. I was smacking my lips pretending it was better than it really was. I set the can down that was about half full. I intended to warm it up later. I pulled out a full box of snuff, took a big chew. Before I had time to close the box the old man reached for it. I was afraid he would waste it, and only had two more boxes. So I held on to the box intending him to take a pinch like I had just done. Instead he grabbed the box and emptied it in his mouth. Swallowed it in one gulp. Then he licked the box inside with his tongue.
After a few minutes his eyes began to roll over in his head, he was looking straight up. I could see he was sick. Then he grabbed my coffee can that was quite cold by this time, he emptied that in his mouth, grounds and all. That did no good. He stuck his head between his legs and rolled forwards a few times away from me. Then he began to squeal like a stuck pig. I grabbed my rifle. I said to myself, “This is it. If he comes for me I will shoot him plumb between his eyes.” But he started for the spring, he wanted water. I packed my sleeping bag in the pack sack with the few cans I had left. The young fellow ran over to his mother. Then she began to squeal. I started for the opening in the wall— and I just made it. The old lady was right behind me. I fired one shot at the rock over her head.
I guess she had never seen a rifle fired before. She turned and ran inside the wall. I injected another shell in the barrel of my rifle and started downhill, looking back over my shoulder every so often to see if they were coming. I was in a canyon, and good travelling and I made fast time. Must have made three miles in some world record time. I came to a turn in the canyon and I had the sun on my left, that meant I was going south and the canyon turned west. I decided to climb the ridge ahead of me. I knew I must have two mountain ridges between me and salt water and by climbing this ridge I would have a good view of this canyon, so I could see if the Sasquatch were coming after me. I had a light pack and was making good time up this hill. I stopped after to look back to where I came from, but nobody followed me. As I came over the ridge I could see Mount Baker. Then I knew I was going in the right direction.
I was hungry and tired. I opened my pack sack to see what I had to eat. I decided to rest here for a while. I had a good view of the mountainside, and if the old man was coming I had the advantage because I was above him. To get me he would have to come up a steep hill. And that might not be so easy after stopping a few 30-30 bullets. I had made up my mind this was my last chance, and this would be a fight to the finish. I ate some hard tack and I opened my last can of corned beef. I had no butter, I forgot to pick up my butter sealer I had buried near my camp to keep it cold. I did not dare to make a fire. I rested here for two hours. It was 3:00 p.m. when I started down the mountain side. It was nice going, not too steep, and not too much underbrush.
When I got near the bottom I shot a big blue grouse. She was sitting on a windfall, looking right at me, only a hundred feet away. I shot her neck right off.
I made it down to the creek at the bottom of this canyon. I felt I was safe now. I made a fire between two big boulders, roasted the grouse, made some coffee and opened my can of milk. My first good meal for days. I spread out my sleeping bag under a big spruce tree and went to sleep. Next morning when I woke up, I was feeling terrible. My feet were sore from dirty socks. My legs were sore, my stomach was upset from that grouse that I ate the night before. I was not sure I was going to make it up that mountain. It was a cloudy day, no sun, but after some coffee and hard tack I felt a bit better. I started up the mountainside but had no energy. I only wanted to rest. My legs were shaking. I had to rest every hundred feet. I finally made the top, but it took me six hours to get there. It was cloudy, visibility about a mile.
I knew I had to go down hill. After about two hours I got down to the heavy timber and sat down to rest. I could hear a motor running hard at times, then stop. I listened to this for a while and decided the sound was a gas donkey. Someone was logging in the neighborhood. I made for this sound, for if only I can get to that donkey, I will be safe. After a while I hear someone holler “Timber” and a tree go down. Now I knew I was safe. When I came up to the fellows, I guess I was a sorry sight. I hadn’t had a shave since I left Toba Inlet, and no good wash for days. When I came up out of the bushes, they kept staring at me. I asked where the place was and how far to the nearest town. The men said, “You look like a wild man, where did you come from?”
I told them I was a prospector and was lost. I had not had much to eat the last few weeks. I got sick from eating a grouse last night, and I am all in. The bucker called to his partner, “Pete, come over here a minute.” Pete came over and looked at me and said this man is sick. We had better help him down to the landing, put him on a logging truck and send him down to the beach. I did not like to tell them I had been kidnapped by a Sasquatch, as if I had told them, they would probably have said, he is crazy too. They were very helpful and they talked to the truck driver to give me a ride down to the beach. Pete helped me up into the truck cab, and said the First Aid man will fix you up at the camp. The first aid man brought me to the cook and asked “Have you a bowl of soup for this man?” The cook came and looked me over. He asked, “When did you eat last, and where did you come from.” I told him I had been lost in the wood. I ate a grouse last night and it made me sick.
After the cook had given me a first class meal, the first aid man took me to the first aid house. I asked “Can you get me a clean suit of underwear and a pair of socks? I would like a bath, too.” He said, “Sure thing, you take a rest and I will fix all that, I’ll arrange for you to go down to Sechelt when the timekeeper goes down for mail.” After a session in the bathroom the first aid man gave me a shave and a hair trim, and I was back to my normal self. The Bull of the Woods told me I was welcome to stay for a day and rest up if I liked. I told him I accepted his hospitality as I was not feeling any too good yet. I told about my prospecting, but nothing about being kidnapped by a sasquatch.
The following day I went down from this camp on the Salmon Arm Branch of Sechelt Inlet. From there I got the Union Boat back to Vancouver. That was my last prospecting trip, and my only experience with what is known as Sasquatches. I know that in 1924 there were four sasquatches living, it might be only two now. The old man and the old lady might be dead by this time.
This old Indian was a very talkative old gentleman. He told me stories about gold brought out by a white man from this lost mine. This white man was a very heavy drinker—spent his money freely in saloons. But he had no trouble getting more money. He would be away a few days, then come back with a bag of gold. But one time he went to his mine and never came back. Some people said a Sasquatch had killed him.
At that time I had never heard of Sasquatch. So I asked what kind of an animal he called a Sasquatch. The Indian said, “They have hair all over their bodies, but they are not animals. They are people. Big people living in the mountains. My uncle saw the tracks of one that were two feet long. One old Indian saw one over eight feet tall.
I told the Indian I didn’t believe in their old fables about mountain giants. It might have been some thousands of years ago, but not nowadays.
The Indian said, “There may not be many, but they still exist.”
We arrived at the head of the inlet at 4:00 p.m. I made camp at the mouth of a creek. The Indian was in no hurry, he had to wait for the high tide to go back. That would be about 7:00 p.m. I tried to catch some trout in the creek, but no luck. The Indian had supper with me, and I told him to look out for me in about three weeks. I would be camping at the same spot when I came back. He promised to tell his friend to look out for me too.
I spent most of the forenoon looking for a trail but found none, except for a hog-back running down to within about a hundred feet of the beach. So I swamped out a trail from there, got back to my camp about 3:00 p.m. that afternoon and made up my pack to be ready in the morning. My equipment consisted of one 30-30 Winchester rifle, I had a special home-made prospecting pick, axe on one end, and pick on the other. I had a leather case for this pick which fastened to my belt, also my sheath knife.
Next morning I took my rifle with me, but left my equipment at the camp. I decided to look around for some deer trail to lead me up into the mountains. On the way up the inlet I had seen a pass in the mountainside that I wanted to go through, to see what was on the other side.
The storekeeper at Lund was co-operative. He gave me some cans for my sugar, salt and matches to keep them dry. My grub consisted mostly of canned stuff, except for a side of bacon, a bag of beans, four pounds of prunes and six packets of macaroni, three pounds of pancake flour, cheese, and six packets Rye King hard tack, three rolls of snuff, one quart sealer of butter and two one-pound cans of milk. I had two boxes of shells for my rifle.
The storekeeper gave me a biscuit tin, I put a few things in that and cached it under a windfall, so I would have it when I came back here waiting for a boat to bring me out. My sleeping bag I rolled up and tied on top of my pack sack—together with my ground sheet, small frying pan, and one aluminum pot that held about a gallon. As my canned food was used, I would get plenty of empty cans to cook with.
The following morning I had an early breakfast, made up my pack, and started up this hogback. My pack must have been at least eighty pounds, besides my rifle. After one hour, I had to rest. I kept resting and climbing all that morning. About 2:00 p.m. I came to a flat place below a rock bluff. There was a bunch of willow in one place. I made a wooden spade and started digging for water. About a foot down I got seepings of water, so I decided to camp here for the
night, and scout around for the best way to get on from here.
I must have been up near a thousand feet. There was a most beautiful view over the islands and the Strait—tugboats with log booms, and fishing boats going in all directions, A lovely spot. I spent the following day prospecting round. But no sign of minerals. I found a deer trail leading towards this pass that I had seen on my way up the inlet.
The following morning I started out early, while it was cool. It was steep climbing with my heavy pack. After a three hours climb, I was tired and stopped to rest. On the other side of a ravine from where I was resting was a yellow spot below some small trees. I moved over there and started digging for water.
I found a small spring and made a small trough from cedar bark and got a small amount of water, had my lunch and rested here till evening. This was not a good camping site, and I wanted to get over the pass. I saved all the water I got from this spring, as I might not find water on the other side of this pass. However, I made it over the pass late that night.
Now I had downhill and good going, but I was hungry and tired, so I camped at the first bunch of trees I came to. I had about a gallon of water so I was good for one day. Of course, I could see rough country ahead of me, and I was trying to size up the terrain—what direction I would take from here. Towards the west would lead to low land and some other inlet, so I decided to go in a northeast direction, but I had to find a good way to get down.
I left my pack and went east along a ledge but came to an abrupt end—was two or three hundred feet straight down. I came back, found a place only about 50 feet down to a ledge that looked like good going for as far as I could see. I got down on this ledge all right and had good going and slight down hill all day—I must have made 10 miles when I came to a small spring and a big black hemlock tree.
This was a lovely campsite. I spent two days here just resting and prospecting. There were some minerals but nothing interesting. The first night here I shot a small deer (buck) so I had plenty of good meat, and good water. The weather was very hot in the daytime, so I was in no hurry, as I had plenty of meat. When I finally left this camp, I got into plenty of trouble. First I got into a box canyon, and had to come back almost where I started this morning, when I found a deer trail down to another ledge, and had about two miles of good going. Then I came to another canyon, and on the other side was a yellow patch of grass that meant water. I made it down into this canyon, and up on the other side, but it was tough climbing. I was tired and when I finally got there I dug a pit for water and got plenty for my needs. I only stayed here one night, it was not a good camping site. Next day I had hard going. I made it over a well timbered ridge into another canyon. This canyon was not so steep on the west side, but the east side was almost plumb. I would have to go down hill to find a way out. I was now well below the timber line.
I found a fair campsite that night, but moved on the next morning. It was a very hot day, not a breath of wind.
Late that day I found an exceptionally good campsite. It was two good-sized cypress trees growing close together and near a rock wall with a nice spring lust below these trees. I intended to make this my permanent camp. I cut lots of brush for my bed between these trees. I rigged up a pole from this rock wall to hang my packsack on, and I arranged some fiat rocks for my fireplace for cooking. I had a really classy setup. I shot a grouse just before I came to this place. Too late to roast that tonight—I would do that tomorrow.
And that’s when things began to happen. I am a heavy sleeper, not much disturbs me after I go to sleep, especially on a good bed like I had now.
Next morning I noticed things had been disturbed during the night. But nothing missing that I could see. I roasted my grouse on a stick for my breakfast—about 9:00 a.m. I started out prospecting. I always carried my rifle with me. Your rifle is the most important part of your equipment.
I started out in a southwest direction below the way I had come in the night before. There were some signs (minerals) but nothing important. I shot a squirrel in the afternoon, and got back to camp at 7:00 p.m. I fried the squirrel on a stick, opened a can of peas and carrots for my supper, and gathered up dry branches from trees. There are always dead branches of fir and hemlock under trees, near the ground. They make good fuel and good heat.
That night I filled up the magazine of my rifle. I still had one full box of 20 shells in my pack, besides a full magazine and six shells in my coat pocket. That night I laid my rifle under the edge of my sleeping bag. I thought a porcupine had visited me the night before and porkies like leather, so I put my shoes in the bottom of my sleeping bag.
Next morning my pack sack had been emptied out. Someone had turned the sack upside down. It was still hanging on the pole from the shoulder straps as I had hung it up. Then I noticed one half-pound package of prunes was missing. Also my pancake flour was missing, but my salt bag was not touched. Porkies always look for salt, so I decided it must be something else than porkies. I looked for tracks but found none. I did not think it was a bear, they always tear up and make a mess of things. I kept close to camp those days in case this visitor would come back.
I climbed up on a big rock where I had a good view of the camp, but nothing showed up. I was hoping it would be a porky so I could get a good porky stew. These visits had now been going on for three nights.
I intended to make a new campsite the following day, but I hated to leave this place. I had fixed it up so nicely, and these two cypress trees were bushy. It would have to be a heavy rain before I would get wet, and I had good spring water and that is hard to find.
This night it was cloudy and looked like it might rain. I took special notice of how everything was arranged. I closed my pack sack, I did not undress, I only took off my shoes, put them in the bottom of my sleeping bag. I drove my prospecting pick into one of the cypress trees so I could reach it from my bed. I also put the rifle alongside me, inside my sleeping bag. I fully intended to stay awake all night to find out who my visitor was, but I must have fallen asleep.
I was awakened by something picking me up. I was half asleep and at first I did not remember where I was. As I began to get my wits together, I remembered I was on this prospecting trip, and in my sleeping bag.
My first thought was—it must be a snow slide, but there was no snow around my camp. Then it felt like I was tossed on horseback, but I could feel whoever it was, was walking.
I tried to reason out what kind of animal this could be, I tried to get at my sheath knife, and cut my way out, but I was in an almost sitting position, and the knife was under me. I could not get hold of it, but the rifle was in front of me, I had a good hold of that, and had no intention to let go of it. At times I could feel my packsack touching me, and could feel the cans in the sack touching my back.
After what seemed like an hour, I could feel we were going up a steep hill. I could feel myself rise for every step. What was carrying me was breathing hard and sometimes gave a slight cough. Now, I knew this must be one of the mountain Sasquatch giants the Indian told me about.
I was in a very uncomfortable position, unable to move. I was sitting on my feet, and one of the boots in the bottom of the bag was crossways with the hobnail sole up across my foot. It hurt me terribly, but I could not move.
It was very hot inside. It was lucky for me this fellow’s hand was not big enough to close up the whole bag when he picked me up--there was a small opening at the top. Otherwise I would have choked to death.
Now he was going downhill, I could feel myself touching the ground at times and at one time he dragged me behind him and I could feel he was below me. Then he seemed to get on level ground and was going at a trot for a long time. By this time, I had cramps in my legs, the pain was terrible. I was wishing he would get to his destination soon. I could not stand this type of transportation much longer.
Now he was going uphill again. It did not hurt me so bad. I tried to estimate distance and directions. As near as I could guess we were about three hours travelling. I had no idea when he started as I was asleep when he picked me up.
Finally he stopped and let me down. Then he dropped my packsack, I could hear the cans rattle. Then I heard chatter—some kind of talk I did not understand. The ground was sloping so when he let go of my sleeping bag, I rolled over head first downhill. I got my head out, and got some air. I tried to straighten my legs and crawl out, but my legs were numb.
It was still dark, I could not see what my captors looked like. I tried to massage my legs to get some life in them, and get my shoes on. I could hear now it was at least four of them. They were standing around me and continuously chattering. I had never heard of Sasquatch before the Indian told me about them. But I knew I was right among them.
But how to get away from them, that was another question. I got to see the outline of them now, as it began to get lighter....
I now had circulation in my legs, but my left foot was very sore on top where it had been resting on my hobnail boots. I got my boots out from the sleeping bag and tried to stand up. I was wobbly on my feet but had a good hold of my rifle.
I asked, “What you fellows warn with me?”
Only some more chatter.
It was getting lighter now, and I could see them quite clearly. I could make out forms of four people. Two big ones and two little ones. They were all covered with hair and no clothes on at all.
I could now make out mountains all around me. I looked at my watch. It was 4:25 a.m. It was getting lighter now and I could see the people clearly.
They look like a family, old man, old lady and two young ones, a boy and a girl. The boy and the girl seem to be scared of me. The old lady did not seem too pleased about what the old man dragged home. But the old man was waving his arms and telling them all what he had in mind. They all left me then.
I had my compass and my prospecting glass on strings around my neck. The compass in my lefthand shirt pocket and my glass in my righthand pocket. I tried to reason our location, and where I was. I could see now that I was in a small valley or basin about eight or ten acres, surrounded by high mountains, on the southeast side there was a V-shaped opening about eight feet wide at the bottom and about twenty feet wide at the highest point—that must be the way I came in. But how will I get out? The old man was now sitting near this opening.
I moved my belongings up close to the west wall. There were two small cypress trees there, and this will do for a shelter for the time being. Until I find out what these people want with me, and how to get away from here. I emptied out my packsack to see what I had left in the line of food. All my canned meat and vegetables were intact and I had one can of coffee. Also three small cans of milk—two packages of Rye King hard tack and my butter sealer half full of butter. But my prunes and macaroni were missing. Also my full box of shells for my rifle. I only had six shells beside what I had in the magazine of my rifle, I had my sheath knife but my prospecting pick was missing and my can of matches. I only had my safety box full and that held about a dozen matches. That did not worry me—I can always start a fire with my prospecting glass when shining, if I got dry wood. I wanted hot coffee, but I had no wood, also nothing around here that looked like wood. I had a good look over the valley from where I was—but the boy and the girl were always watching me from behind some juniper bush. I decided there must be some water around here. The ground was leaning towards the opening in the wall. There must be water at the upper end of this valley, there is green grass and moss along the bottom.
All my utensils were left behind. I opened my coffee tin and emptied the coffee in a dish towel and tied it with the metal strip from the can. I took my rifle and the can and went looking for water. Right at the head under a cliff there was a lovely spring that disappeared underground. I got a drink, and a full can of water, When I got back the young boy was looking over my belongings, but did not touch anything. On my way back I noticed where these people were sleeping. On the east side wall of this valley was a shelf in the mountain side, with overhanging rock, looking something like a big undercut in a big tree about 10 feet deep and 30 feet wide. The floor was covered with lots of dry moss, and they had some kind of blankets woven of narrow strips of cedar bark, packed with dry moss. They looked very practical and warm—with no need of washing.
The first day not much happened. I had to eat my food cold. The young fellow was coming nearer me, and seemed curious about me. My one snuff box was empty, so I rolled it towards him. When he saw it coming, he sprang up quick as a cat, and grabbed it. He went over to his sister and showed her. They found out how to open and close it—they spent a long time playing with it—then he trotted over to the old man and showed him. They had a long chatter.
Next morning, I made up my mind to leave this place—if I had to shoot my way out. I could not stay much longer, I had only enough grub to last me till I got back to Toba Inlet. I did not know the direction but I would go down hill and I would come out near civilization some place. I rolled up my sleeping bag, put that inside my packsack—packed the few cans I had—swung the sack on my back, injected a shell in the barrel of my rifle and started for the opening in the wall. The old man got up, held up his hands as though he would push me back.
I pointed to the opening. I wanted to go out. But he stood there pushing towards me—and said something that sounded like “Soka soka.” I backed up to about sixty feet. I did not want to be too close, I thought, if I had to shoot my way out. A 30-30 might not have much effect on this fellow, it might make him mad, I only had six shells so I decided to wait. There must be a better way than killing him, in order to get out from here. I went back to my campsite to figure out some other way to get out.
If I could make friends with the young fellow or the girl, they might help me. If I only could talk to them. Then I thought of a fellow who saved himself from a mad bull by blinding him with snuff in his eyes. But how will I get near enough to this fellow to put the snuff in his eyes? So I decided next time I give the young fellow my snuff box to leave a few grains of snuff in it. He might give the old man a taste of it.
But the question is, in what direction will I go, if I should get out? I must have been near 25 miles northeast of Toba Inlet when I was kidnapped. This fellow must have traveled at least 25 miles in the three hours he carried me. If he went west we would be near salt water—same thing if he went south—therefore he must have gone northeast. If I then keep going south and over two mountains, I must hit salt water someplace between Lund and Vancouver.
The following day I did not see the old lady till about 4:00 p.m. She came home with her arms full of grass and twigs of all kinds from spruce and hemlock as well as some kind of nuts that grow in the ground. I have seen lots of them on Vancouver Island. The young fellow went up the mountain to the east every day, he could climb better than a mountain goat. He picked some kind of grass with long sweet roots. He gave me some one day—they tasted very sweet. I gave him another snuff box with about a teaspoon of snuff in it. He tasted it, then went to the old man--he licked it with his tongue. They had a long chat. I made a dipper from a milk can. I made many dippers—you cut two slits near the top of any can—then cut a limb from any small tree—cut down back of the limb—down the stem of the tree—then taper the part you cut from the stem. Then cut a hole in the tapered part, slide the tapered part into the slit you made in the can, and you have a good handle on your can. I threw one over to the young fellow that was playing near my camp, he picked it up and looked at it then he went to the old man and showed it to him. They had a long chatter. Then he came to me, pointed at the dipper then at his sister. I could see that he wanted one for her too. I had other peas and carrots, so I made one for his sister, He was standing only eight feet away from me. When I had made the dipper, I dipped it in water and drank from it, he was very pleased, almost smiled at me. Then I took a chew of snuff, smacked my lips, said that’s good.
The young fellow pointed to the old man, said something that sounded like “Oook.” I got the idea that the old man liked snuff, and the young fellow wanted a box for the old man. I shook my head. I motioned with my hands for the old man to come to me. I do not think the young fellow understood what I meant. He went to his sister and gave her the dipper I made for her. They did not come near me again that day. I had now been here six days, but I was sure I was making progress. If only I could get the old man to come over to me, get him to eat a full box of snuff that would kill him for sure, and that way kill himself, I wouldn’t be guilty of murder.
The old lady was a meek old thing. The young fellow was by this time quite friendly. The girl would not hurt anybody. Her chest was flat like a boy—no development like young ladies. I am sure if I could get the old man out of the way, I could easily have brought this girl out with me to civilization. But what good would that have been? I would have to keep her in a cage for public display. I don’t think we have any right to force our way of life on other people, and I don’t think they would like it. (The noise and racket in a modern city they would not like any more than I do.)
The young fellow might have been between 11-18 years old about seven feet tall and might weigh about 300 lbs. His chest would be about 50-55 inches, his waist about 36-38 inches. He had wide jaws, narrow forehead that slanted upward round at the back about four or five inches higher than the forehead. The hair on their heads was about six inches long. The hair on the rest of their body was short and thick in places. The women’s hair was a bit longer on their heads and the hair on their forehead had an upward turn like some women have—they call it bangs, among women’s hair-do’s. Nowadays the old lady could have been anything between 40-70 years old. She was over seven feet tall. She would be about 500- 600 pounds.
She had very wide hips, and a gooseIike walk. She was not built for beauty or speed. Some of those lovable brassieres and uplifts would have been a great improvement on her looks and her figure. The man’s eyeteeth were longer than the rest of the teeth, but not long enough to be called tusks. The old man must have been near eight feet tall. Big barrel chest and big hump on his back—powerful shoulders, his biceps on upper arm were enormous and tapered down to his elbows. His forearms were longer than common people have, but well proportioned. His hands were wide, the palm was long and broad and hollow like a scoop. His fingers were short in proportion to the rest of the hand. His fingernails were like chisels. The only place they had no hair was inside their hands and the soles of their feet and upper part of the nose and eyelids. I never did see their ears, they were covered with hair hanging over them.
If the old man were to wear a collar it would have to be at least 30 inches. I have no idea what size shoes they would need. I was watching the young fellow’s foot one day when he was sitting down. The soles of his feet seemed to be padded like a dog’s foot, and the big toes was longer than the rest and very strong. In mountain climbing all he needed was footing for his big toe. They were very agile. To sit down they turned their knees out and came straight down. To rise they came straight up without help of their hands and arms. I don’t think this valley was their permanent home. I think they move from place to place, as food is available in different localities. They might eat meat, but I never saw them eat meat, or do any cooking.
I think this was probably a stopover place and the plants with sweet roots on the mountainside might have been in season this time of the year. They seem to be most interested in them. The roots have a very sweet and satisfying taste, They always seem to do everything for a reason, wasted no time on anything they did not need. When they were not looking for food, the old man and the old lady were resting, but the boy and the girl were always climbing something or some other exercise. His favorite position was to take hold of his feet with his hands and balance on his rump, then bounce forward. The idea seems to be to see how far he could go without his feet or hands touching the ground. Sometimes he made 20 feet.
But what do they want with me? They must understand that I cannot stay here indefinitely. I will soon run out of grub, and so far I have seen no deer or other game. I will soon have to make a break for freedom. Not that I was mistreated in any way. One consolation was that the old man was coming closer each day, and was very interested in my snuff. Watching me when I take a pinch of snuff. He seems to think it is useless to only put it inside my lips, One morning after I had my breakfast both the old man and the boy came and sat down only ten feet away from me. This morning I made coffee. I had saved up all dry branches I found and I had some dry moss and I used all the labels from cans to start a fire.
I got my coffee pot boiling and it was strong coffee too, and the aroma from boiling coffee was what brought them over. I was sitting eating hard-tack with plenty of butter on, and sipping coffee. And it sure tasted good. I was smacking my lips pretending it was better than it really was. I set the can down that was about half full. I intended to warm it up later. I pulled out a full box of snuff, took a big chew. Before I had time to close the box the old man reached for it. I was afraid he would waste it, and only had two more boxes. So I held on to the box intending him to take a pinch like I had just done. Instead he grabbed the box and emptied it in his mouth. Swallowed it in one gulp. Then he licked the box inside with his tongue.
After a few minutes his eyes began to roll over in his head, he was looking straight up. I could see he was sick. Then he grabbed my coffee can that was quite cold by this time, he emptied that in his mouth, grounds and all. That did no good. He stuck his head between his legs and rolled forwards a few times away from me. Then he began to squeal like a stuck pig. I grabbed my rifle. I said to myself, “This is it. If he comes for me I will shoot him plumb between his eyes.” But he started for the spring, he wanted water. I packed my sleeping bag in the pack sack with the few cans I had left. The young fellow ran over to his mother. Then she began to squeal. I started for the opening in the wall— and I just made it. The old lady was right behind me. I fired one shot at the rock over her head.
I guess she had never seen a rifle fired before. She turned and ran inside the wall. I injected another shell in the barrel of my rifle and started downhill, looking back over my shoulder every so often to see if they were coming. I was in a canyon, and good travelling and I made fast time. Must have made three miles in some world record time. I came to a turn in the canyon and I had the sun on my left, that meant I was going south and the canyon turned west. I decided to climb the ridge ahead of me. I knew I must have two mountain ridges between me and salt water and by climbing this ridge I would have a good view of this canyon, so I could see if the Sasquatch were coming after me. I had a light pack and was making good time up this hill. I stopped after to look back to where I came from, but nobody followed me. As I came over the ridge I could see Mount Baker. Then I knew I was going in the right direction.
I was hungry and tired. I opened my pack sack to see what I had to eat. I decided to rest here for a while. I had a good view of the mountainside, and if the old man was coming I had the advantage because I was above him. To get me he would have to come up a steep hill. And that might not be so easy after stopping a few 30-30 bullets. I had made up my mind this was my last chance, and this would be a fight to the finish. I ate some hard tack and I opened my last can of corned beef. I had no butter, I forgot to pick up my butter sealer I had buried near my camp to keep it cold. I did not dare to make a fire. I rested here for two hours. It was 3:00 p.m. when I started down the mountain side. It was nice going, not too steep, and not too much underbrush.
When I got near the bottom I shot a big blue grouse. She was sitting on a windfall, looking right at me, only a hundred feet away. I shot her neck right off.
I made it down to the creek at the bottom of this canyon. I felt I was safe now. I made a fire between two big boulders, roasted the grouse, made some coffee and opened my can of milk. My first good meal for days. I spread out my sleeping bag under a big spruce tree and went to sleep. Next morning when I woke up, I was feeling terrible. My feet were sore from dirty socks. My legs were sore, my stomach was upset from that grouse that I ate the night before. I was not sure I was going to make it up that mountain. It was a cloudy day, no sun, but after some coffee and hard tack I felt a bit better. I started up the mountainside but had no energy. I only wanted to rest. My legs were shaking. I had to rest every hundred feet. I finally made the top, but it took me six hours to get there. It was cloudy, visibility about a mile.
I knew I had to go down hill. After about two hours I got down to the heavy timber and sat down to rest. I could hear a motor running hard at times, then stop. I listened to this for a while and decided the sound was a gas donkey. Someone was logging in the neighborhood. I made for this sound, for if only I can get to that donkey, I will be safe. After a while I hear someone holler “Timber” and a tree go down. Now I knew I was safe. When I came up to the fellows, I guess I was a sorry sight. I hadn’t had a shave since I left Toba Inlet, and no good wash for days. When I came up out of the bushes, they kept staring at me. I asked where the place was and how far to the nearest town. The men said, “You look like a wild man, where did you come from?”
I told them I was a prospector and was lost. I had not had much to eat the last few weeks. I got sick from eating a grouse last night, and I am all in. The bucker called to his partner, “Pete, come over here a minute.” Pete came over and looked at me and said this man is sick. We had better help him down to the landing, put him on a logging truck and send him down to the beach. I did not like to tell them I had been kidnapped by a Sasquatch, as if I had told them, they would probably have said, he is crazy too. They were very helpful and they talked to the truck driver to give me a ride down to the beach. Pete helped me up into the truck cab, and said the First Aid man will fix you up at the camp. The first aid man brought me to the cook and asked “Have you a bowl of soup for this man?” The cook came and looked me over. He asked, “When did you eat last, and where did you come from.” I told him I had been lost in the wood. I ate a grouse last night and it made me sick.
After the cook had given me a first class meal, the first aid man took me to the first aid house. I asked “Can you get me a clean suit of underwear and a pair of socks? I would like a bath, too.” He said, “Sure thing, you take a rest and I will fix all that, I’ll arrange for you to go down to Sechelt when the timekeeper goes down for mail.” After a session in the bathroom the first aid man gave me a shave and a hair trim, and I was back to my normal self. The Bull of the Woods told me I was welcome to stay for a day and rest up if I liked. I told him I accepted his hospitality as I was not feeling any too good yet. I told about my prospecting, but nothing about being kidnapped by a sasquatch.
The following day I went down from this camp on the Salmon Arm Branch of Sechelt Inlet. From there I got the Union Boat back to Vancouver. That was my last prospecting trip, and my only experience with what is known as Sasquatches. I know that in 1924 there were four sasquatches living, it might be only two now. The old man and the old lady might be dead by this time.
