Tuesday, February 28, 2017
I, Linda Newton-Perry, have been writing about Bigfoot since 2009. With each passing day we see more silly, trying to be funny, people blogging and videoing on the subject. I will say there is NOTHING funny about this animal. When I was on the Oregon Caves trail with my son, I believe if I'd seen one of these things following us down the mountain, I or my son would have been hurt trying to get away from it. (We believe we smelled and heard it.)
I am simply a writer. I am not an expert on animals or the environment. However, the subject does intrigue me.
This last week I placed information in our local visitor's center about bigfoot sighting spots within easy driving distance of the center.
I wish to be known as a SERIOUS writer on this subject. I'll stop for now. Please do comment. I wish readers of this site would comment. The best to you all, ... Linda Newton-Perry
Friday, February 24, 2017
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
|Photos from Dale Saxton or Bill Emery, and or their research teams.|
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Sunday, February 19, 2017
The header bigfoot is about 14 inches high and I made it for our local visitor's center in Oregon.
I've noticed that on Youtube several local TV stations have been contacted and are covering different bigfoot conferences across the states. During Rick Dyer's hoaxing career, I spoke to a local TV personality. She came to my home and recorded a great segment for the local news. (At the time we didn't know whether he had a bigfoot body or not!) I believe if more information was given to the local news we would have better coverage when a sighting happens in an area. What do you think? ... Linda Newton-Perry
Friday, February 17, 2017
“Werdna, come here!”
“Old Mother, what is it you require?” Werdna asked, as he danced on the hot sand of the river bank.
“Werdna, listen to me. I’m hearing human noises. You must be quiet. Go quick, behind that blackberry thicket.”
“You’ll come too?”
“I’ll follow.… Go now.” Old Mother shoved her daughter’s male offspring hard to the shoulder, for he kept standing, looking down at her.
“Come on! Come on!” Werdna demanded. He felt strongly that something was wrong with his relative and kept to the spot. Then he saw it. There were long ribbons of bright-red blood swirling in the current of the river. “Mother you’re hurt!”
“Listen to me. It’s nothing. I’ll be along soon. Go now.” Old Mother hissed at him while she twisted and tried to pry the boulders apart to free her huge big foot. It was wedged tightly between two shiny, submerged boulders.
Werdna knelt, sniffing the blood and watching his Old Mother’s hairy hands work at freeing her foot. He now could smell the humans as well as see them. Three of them were across the river, laughing loudly while launching an inflatable orange boat.
Thoughts raced fast through the young bigfoot’s keen mind. A blackberry bush waved gently in the river breeze, not too many feet away. Instantly it came to him that the bush would make a good blind to shield them from the humans. On all fours he slowly, as if in slow motion, worked his way over sharp river rocks to the bush and yanked with a mighty tug. With prickly stemmed bush firmly in hand, still in slow motion, he plunked it down on top of Old Mother’s foot that was still caught tightly. They put their heads down and huddled close behind the blackberry bush. They kept as still as still can be; sure they wouldn’t be seen by the intruders.
Once launched into the swift river, the orange boat would travel within a few feet of them.
They pressed tightly together behind the blind. Werdna reached for the bush for it was floating and not staying where he’d wedged it. He had no time to affix it properly. Carefully he extended his arm, bent low and grabbed hold of the roots of the bush. It was an awkward position that he was forced to hold. His arm burned from the strain of it.
The inflatable boat with its laughing humans was now on the river. One of them spied a fish. They anchored and were now fishing, close to the bank where they’d just put in the orange boat.
Werdna’s arm was so fatigued it shook. It hurt fiercely from the constant stretch to keep his hand latched to the roots of their shield.
The annoying humans were only twenty bigfoot strides away from them. He was becoming lightheaded. Old Mother bent, huffing in low puffs, trying with all her ancient might to reach the bush and help her brave grandson.
“No! Old Mother, don’t.” The bush bobbed, for a certainty exposing the tops of their fuzzy heads. “I can manage,” Werdna cautioned. But it was not true. He felt any minute he was going to topple into the water atop his Old Mother’s lodged foot and the bobbing berry bush.
And still the blood ribbons continued flowing from the injured foot. Werdna could not make his nose stop twitching, for the odor of blood excited his senses, he being a fit wild animal.
The voices seemed to be coming closer. Werdna couldn’t make himself peek over the top of the blackberry bush. And, of course, his Old Mother would not allow him even if he did muster the courage.
Oh, but do not let these words prevent you from believing Werdna’s true nature, for he is a very brave little bigfoot. And he has stories to prove it. His relative sitting here is quite content to be in his presence. She knows his worth, and she knows he is already stronger than she.
Werdna is her favorite youngling of all her children’s offspring. But the sad truth is Werdna is the only close kin that she ever sees. Werdna’s mother, Old Mother’s daughter, has journeyed over the mountains with her oldest son to help establish him in his own territory. This took place two snow seasons ago.
Often Old Mother thinks about her daughter. And she is sad. She does miss her and routinely she stares into the distance, hoping to see her coming down from the high mountain to the west.
The hair on Werdna’s arms glistens in the sun, as he holds the bush with two hands. He’s now on his belly. If only the men in the orange boat would drift down the river and out of sight, so they could work with vigor at freeing the caught foot.
Old Mother is giving her foot a rest from trying to work it free. She is daydreaming while running her hand across Werdna’s shoulders. He grunts, to let her know it feels good. He has turned his head to the side, resting his hair-covered cheek on the warm rock under his chest and head. He’d love to slip into a deep sleep, here with his Old Mother rubbing his back.
Next thing the young bigfoot knows, Old Mother’s weight is pressing into his arm and side. What’s happening? Sleep. He’d fallen asleep! The ankle bone snapped just inches from Werdna’s ear. The blackberry bush had fallen forward into the river. Old Mother had tried to catch it before it dropped, exposing them to the sight of the laughing men. The bush was already out of sight at a near turn in the river’s channel.
The noise of the bush falling into the river was slight. When Werdna drifted off, the top-heavy bush gradually leaned until it was just inches from the water and then Old Mother dove for it, breaking her ankle. Instantly, the two huddled close and kept very still. It was not easy being still, the foot throbbed. The blood still flowed from the injured foot. It was still firmly caught between the grey and black speckled rocks.
One of the men noticed the bush and wondered aloud at the dark splotches on the far bank. He was sure, he said to his companions in over loud voice, that they were not there earlier.
“Come on, let’s go downriver,” one of them shouted.
Another said, “I want to swing by the bank over there and get a look.”
“I still haven’t filled my bear tag.” He patted the huge handgun attached to his belt.
Werdna heard the word gun, as the three continued to argue about how difficult it would be to get the animal home, if it were a bear. He’d heard the word gun before and knew what it was.
Grandmother and grandson sprang into action. Werdna got to his knees and grasped the broken ankle. He jerked and pulled with all his might. Mother gritted her teeth. She tried hard, but couldn’t help but utter a wail of pain. The foot was freed, but a tuft of fur and a patch of skin were now going the way of the blackberry bush, down the river.
“Shoot! Shoot ‘em!” the two men yelled at their companion with the large gun.
Excited at the men’s shouts to fire at the “bears,” he fumbled the gun, then forgot to take off the safety as he pointed it at Werdna and Old Mother. He cursed continually.
The sound of the river flowing, the geese flying overhead and the soft breeze were not noticed by the pair of bigfoot. Any other time these sounds would soothe, but in both their minds now no sound did they recognize but the warning voice within, that shouted, “Get from this place and make your way to the cover of the tall trees!”
Werdna fought the urge to whimper. He was scared. He knew first hand what a “gun” could do to his kind. One of his older brothers had been shot several times and finally after many agonizing days, he lost movement and had to be put under the ground.
In the river at their feet, huge boulders touched shoulders, leaving a deep pool. Any second now “stones” from the gun could come their way. Mother shoved Werdna into the water telling him the while to get into the pool between the rocks. She followed.
Ping, Ping, the stones shattered the boulder inches above their heads. The stones finally stopped pinging off the rocks. The river sloshed in their ears making it hard to hear the men in the boat. Were they coming closer? Would they be on them any second now?
Old Mother growled, as Werdna peeked cautiously between the two tallest rocks. Good, the men were still in the exact spot as always. One was reeling in a large fish.
“We’ve got to go. They’re busy with a fish,” Werdna said to his kin. “I see no gun.”
“Werdna, child, listen to me, we must keep close to the earth, down on all fours. We want them to believe we are bear-kind.”
“I understand, Mother.” Werdna required, danger or no, to get from the water. It was becoming filled with his Old Mother’s blood.
Old Mother was also becoming aware of the smell of it, and recognized the natural agitation the blood was causing her grandson. She too was inhaling deeply. Yes, they needed to get from this place.
“Are you ready?” Werdna asked.
“I am.” Old Mother tested the injured foot by pressing it into the boulder she clung to. She was sure she would be hopping and crawling in her escape, the pain was so great. “Listen to me, Werdna,” she gripped tight his strong shoulder, “no matter how slow I limp along, make for the trees as quickly as you can. I will not have you injured by that gun.”
“Mother, don’t you think it would be best for us to huddle together, to fool the men?”
“You would be right, if I were not injured. I want you to survive. This is all my fault. I was careless in getting my foot caught.”
“Mother,” Werdna interrupted, “I will not leave you.”
“You will listen to me. Go from this place now. Go on. Once you’re safely in the trees, I’ll follow.” She bobbed in the deep water, the faint smell and taste of blood in her mouth. For a certainty she was being selfish, for the ankle didn’t feel too painful here in the water. But, she was sure it would hurt beyond measure on hard ground.
Werdna whimpered now. He was not afraid for himself. He was sure he could sprint into the trees in a flash, even bent to his knuckles. His concern was for Old Mother.
“Go now. Watch from the trees. Stay safe, live to a long age.” She now tangled her stout black hands in his fur around his thighs and shoved him toward a moss covered rock at the bank. He slipped back into the water. “Go now! Go around the rock, stay down. Pretend to be bear-kind, but go quickly,” she hissed. Again she grabbed hold his fur, hoisting him out of the water.
Exposed now, he had no choice but flee. He glanced toward the men. One of them had the big glistening fish held high so they could all admire it.
“There goes the bear! Get the gun!” Little did they know what awaited.
All of a sudden, the orange inflated boat rocked crazily and the bow came up so high that the three men toppled into the swift, cold water.
Old Mother ran her nails across the supple material of the boat, leaving a long gash.
The men, instead of laughing were now yelling and cursing. They could not touch the river’s bottom. They were swimming as hard as they could to get to shore.
Old Mother swam again underwater to the near bank where trees were right to the water’s edge. Crawling into them, she glanced back. Not one of the men noticed her escape. She quickly hid herself. Later she would swim back across the river and join her grandson.
Old Mother’s foot was permanently deformed from being caught between the river rocks. And for a long age, men would make comment when they happened upon the deformed tracks of this brave bigfoot.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
SEARCH FOR BIGFOOT?
If so, you are in the right place. Bigfoots/Sasquatchs have been spotted in Douglas County many times over the years. The animal is known to be a night creature but most of the sightings have been in the daytime. And if you do not feel like hiking, you can stay in your car, scanning the areas listed below.
Number 1: From Sutherlin take hwy 138 west until you come to Elkton and hwy 38. Turn right on 38 and travel a few miles to the Elkton tunnel. The animal was seen here crossing the road a few years ago. Look for footprints. Chances are you will not see the animal but it is fun knowing you are where one was spotted.
Number 2: At Weatherly Creek a bigfoot was seen eating apples from a tree a few years in the past. Be careful, log trucks may be on this narrow road. To get to Weatherly Creek, drive through Elkton. It is several miles on the right over a short bridge. (We traveled down this road until we came to a short bridge and a split in the road. The log trucks were racing to deliver their logs. We felt unsafe and turned back. But we enjoyed knowing bigfoot was observed in the area.)
Number 3: Scottsburg Bridge, west end on left, a bigfoot was spotted there on the flat area and another time walking along the road going west.
Number 4: Scottsburg Park is just a couple miles west where a bigfoot one early morning was seen going through trashcans.
It takes about an hour to get to the coast from Sutherlin. You may enjoy picking up a picnic lunch and eating it at Scottsburg Park, and then going on into Reedsport to the SUGAR SHACK to enjoy one of their bigfoot pastries (shaped as a foot and filled with whipped cream). Please do report back to the Visitors Center if you should spot one of these regal animals. ...
Saturday, February 11, 2017
This story is my favorite of all the fiction stories I've written about bigfoot.... Linda Newton-Perry
The Hairy Men of the High Mountain Forests
he stink of them, the hairy men, is strong, powerful, sickening at times; and this for good reason, as I have often observed them roll around in the entrails, in the blood, in the bodily waste of their kills.
The same is true of the females, except during their time of mating, when to my nose they exude an overpowering green-grass smell. It’s tolerable, that is if one (one, meaning human) can smell it at all, for the acrid, overpowering filth of them. For me, the odors were the least of the annoyances during the female’s mating time. I was not of their kind. But one of them, Baday, my name for her, would sniff my breath and maneuver her powerful hairy thigh between my legs in an attempt to excite me. After much difficulty, I always managed to escape her advances. By difficulty, I mean, she’d pounce and claw me with her dirty, jagged nails. She’d bellow chest-rattling growls. She’d nip deep patches of skin from my face, neck and back. When done playing with me, and that’s what she was doing, for with one good swat of her hand she could have killed me, she’d spring to her feet and be off─off to her next conquest, these many, and of her kind, some milling close by, but most waiting patiently in somewhat of a line. And all this before I could rub the smell of her from my nose.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been here in the deep woods with these creatures. And, to look at my face you’d think I was one of them. Hair is thick and long on it, but the rest of my body has little hair. So I was given covering of animal skins, some with fur, some not. While I knew I was not of their kind, I felt myself one of them. I don’t know how I came to be here, in this place with these beings. I have no memory of it. We, however, shared this in common: I didn’t speak and they didn’t speak; but having lived my life with only their kind, I on a simple level understood them, and it seemed, they me. We gestured, motioned and went ahead with whatever it was we intended communicating.
If the creatures spoke in some primitive language, I had no way of knowing. It did seem they’d gibber at one another, and often pounded cruelly on each other’s massive backs and shoulders. If they had a language, then this gibbering was probably it.
It was when the need was great on me to mate, I
could not keep it from my mind, that the hairy being Lome (my name for him) brought a human girl to me and gave her into my care. He was for as long as I had memory, my father-figure. He cared well for me, providing shelter, covering, food and a mate.
For the passing of many moons, my companion girl cried constantly, or so it seemed, and ate little. She finally quieted herself, but still it was my constant concern that she would escape.
Still, when Baday’s time came to mate she’d bare her teeth and try to force me to comply. The girl had no choice but to witness these attacks. It was many moons passing that I kept her at my side with a tight hold of her wrist. She’d twist around to avoid the scene before her. Often she’d find herself tripped up and in the oddest of positions, laughable if the situation hadn’t been so repugnant and dangerous to us both.
My fondness for the girl, I now called Umyu, grew. She repeated to me often, Margaret, meaning that it was her name. But I could not call the female before me this name. Margaret sounded ugly to my ears. I called her what I wanted, Umyu, meaning to me, breath of many flowers.
In time, when we took our night’s rest, she allowed me to thread lightly my arm between her arm and waist (her back to me). More often, she’d allow it when it was cold, when the water from the sky turned white and covered deep the mountainsides.
Several seasons of hot and cold passed. With good frequency, Umyu now allowed my hand to pull her in tight and caress her maturing body, often until she panted. But still, she refused me, stopping short of mating; whereupon, often I’d spring to my feet and yell out, in good imitation of the hairy men we lived among. With hard blows, I would pound my chest with frustration.
Even though I had a companion, Baday, when the need was upon her to mate, came to me still, inflicting wounds that took many moons to heal. It was a mean and twisted game she played with me. Once I spied Umyu peeking through the tree branches while I fought Baday. She allowed the branches to snap back upright when I saw her. I wondered if she thought I gave in and did as Baday wished. I don’t know, for I didn’t speak to Umyu of such things. Maybe, I reasoned, it was why she’d not have me as mate.
Because of all the moons and seasons that had passed, I believed Umyu was attached tightly to me. She seldom strayed far from my side. I enjoyed believing that, anyway. I did not worry overmuch about her running back to where Lome had abducted her. So, she was free to walk her own way during the day.
At this time it is good to say that she could have never found her way back, for we were deep into the high mountains, mountains shrouded in thick clouds and heavy mists most days.
It was to my great pleasure when next Baday waddled into our private sleeping den that Umyu rose, turned and stared down the overweight and smelly being. In Umyu’s slim hands, she held tight a club that she’d made with a thick branch, thorns bristling all around. Baday seemed amused, sniffing and jutting her hairy chin in jerks. She turned, seemingly to walk away and then whirled, catching Umyu off guard, trying to slap the club to the ground. With ease she dislodged it, but it now was stuck to her wrist, possibly by a thorn to the bone. She whooped in pain.
Grunting and sniffing loudly the air, Baday’s next-in-line suitor charged forward, black puffy hands clenched. His whole body swung around as he turned his massive head, trying to determine what was going on.
Umyu, shaking hard her stinging hands from the blow when the club was knocked from them, motioned me to make them leave.
It was my finest and happiest day, for Umyu that night turned to me and allowed our first mating.
From the time the girl was given to me, that is to say when she finally stopped crying, she made an attempt to teach me to speak her language, from the world whence she came. She tried to explain it, but I had no way to visualize it.
She made it clear that one day she hoped to return to it, with me and our offspring. I’d smile, but I knew I would never have the courage to leave the high mountains and the hairy men, leave the only world I’d ever known. And so it was my want, that she’d never be rescued, but it was not to be.
Umyu called me Fellow. Some days, when the powerful winds are away lingering in far places, I believe I can hear her voice, calling to me across the mountains.
Years later, 1887
Mrs. Margaret Sarah Jones, 83, sits now rocking slowly on the porch of her Oregon home. Her husband of many years has just passed, leaving her little to do with her days except care for herself and keep her log cabin tidy.
During her long and happy married life, she thought often of what happened to her as a girl. When she was rescued, she was pressed to explain her “ordeal.” “Ordeal” was used often; it was their word for what had happened to her.
It was many years before she found a good and decent man willing to have her as a wife. And that was only because David Brian Jones wasn’t aware of the details of her years with the hairy men. Margaret did not tell him everything, him or anyone else.
All that kind-hearted David knew was she’d been taken by one of the hairy men of the mountains.
She told him they used her as a slave of sorts, and that she’d watched over several of the hairy men’s offspring, gathered food and helped build shelters while the group was on the move through and over the high mountains.
About Fellow she never spoke a word. And about their twin boys left behind, she never said a word. (No children were born alive of the union with her husband.)
She expected that life would be lonely for her now, now that most of her family had passed on. But the days she now filled with remembering.
She crossed her ankles and pulled a woolen throw over her knees, bunching it over her lap, covering her blue-veined hands. The view before her eased the sore heart beneath the calico bib of her homemade dress. The yard and field sloped down to a tangled thicket of blackberry bushes, a long line of them, shoulder high.
Tiny yellow birds flitted in and around the vines.
Again the thought of Fellow came to her. It was at such a thicket that Lome, the hairy man, appeared from nowhere and threw a great hairy arm around her middle and then barreled down into a near, deep ditch completely covered with a canopy of thick trees. She screamed the whole time, but there was no one to hear.
She’d walked the two miles to the berries by herself. She had walked it often, for she was twelve. Old enough to take care of herself, she assured her mother and father.
When she was rescued by the road crew at eighteen, her parents were quick to say that they were concerned over her disappearance, but her mother repeated often, “We thought it was Frank Roy Blain. You remember him? We were sure you’d gone with him and his family to Missouri. You were really sweet on him.”
And then her father repeated his own string of words, primed by his wife’s, told in just the same way over the years, never changing a word: “A splendid vision you were, when we finally recognized you.” Margaret’s father sniffed in just the same place, telling after telling, trying mightily not to let the tears show and the running nose give away his feelings for his only girl child. “Mercy, mercy such a vision!”
Margaret cried in grief now, for her husband of all these years, and for Fellow. What, she wondered, had become of him and their children? At least he was not left alone, he had the children.
“What a remarkable life I’ve experienced,” she thought, “first in the high mountain forest, and then with my gentle David here on the edge of this small Oregon town. Would even one soul have believed
me, believed my story, if I had told the whole of it?”
She guessed not. So, she didn’t bother. She kept it all to herself and only nodded when a passerby would call to her on the porch, or one of the local newspapers reported, “A young girl (or boy) disappeared last week while picking berries.”
It was no surprise to Margaret Sarah Jones; after all, her children and her grandchildren would need mates, living there in the mountain mist along with the ancient hairy men. That is if they wished to
For a fleeting instant, Baday flashed across her mind. She ground her old teeth and before she gave thought to it, she was yelling insanely in the direction of the berry thicket at the bottom of the yard. It was her own version of the yell of the hairy men.
She rose from the rocking chair and looked to the high mountains. Now in hoarse voice, she whispered to herself, “Fellow I hope you still live. I hope you and our children have mates, have families!” And then in loudest of voice she yelled, “F-e-l-l-o-w, where are you?”
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Monday, February 6, 2017
From Linda Newton-Perry
Sub. Someone that knew of Dr. Miller
(I found this in some printouts from Bigfoot Ballyhoo. I was going to give you the person’s name, but at the bottom of the document she asked that I only use her initials. So I will honor that. Perhaps you can still use this information or find her by the initials. I’m having to type a copy from the printout. I can’t find it by using the search tool on Ballyhoo.)
My Name is KS
I wish to make my sighting part of your record of sasquatch experiences. Your site has given me courage. i am shy about sharing my experience. It is a relief to see more and more from USFS posting the truth. I spent time as an archeological assistant several semesters each year while in graduate and post-graduate school. We definitely knew about the bigfoots. We were given a reference card which included the accepted scientific taxa accepted by the USFS. I kept it to this day
O. nerteros pacificus
I remember learning about Dr. Miller and the debates about classifying the animal, and the taxonomy keeps changing each decade or so. But his species classification has stayed the test of time.
Because the animal is a hodgepodge of various primate qualities from New World Monkeys to prosimian, to Old World Moneys, it was recently determined to create a single new family of Primate. This new family literally means all-in-one or all encompassing.
As an archaeological assistant for the United States Forest Service, we were assigned to very remote areas in the Pacific Northwest. Of course we knew we could encounter three different kinds of bigfoots-O. arktos, Ol nerteros pacificus, and O. americanus. One early morning while at a study site in the gold hill area-I noticed a herd of running big-bcacktail. The deer ran through an open grove. It seemed like out of no-where when a large bigfoot 9O.nerteros pacificus) jumped fromt he tree line and landed on top of a large blacktail. It nearly straddled the deer and flung its huge muscular arm around the neck of the deer, pulling it to the ground. Once the deer was to the ground-the bigfoot clamped its huge jaws onto the neck of the deer and shook it violently. I was terrified-especially when it looked up at me and starred momentarily. Then it grabbed the deer by its neck and dragged it off.
Anytime I tell the story-I am ridiculed. I hope more forest service or fish and wildlife employees start speaking up.
Please only use my initials when posting online.
This is what the other side of the reference card says: (Note:O.n.p. is the reference to bigfoots. O. nerterus pacificus)
STATE OF OREGON
FOREST SERVICE QUICK REFERENCE CARD
When encountering unexpected O.n.p. wildlife
While driving a vehicle:
Keep Headlight, taillights, mirrors, and all windows clean and clear
Slow down and try to avoid the animal.
Note: If encountering O. n.p., it is safer to hit the animal rather than to drive off the shoulder and risk a head-on collision.
O. n.p. that display dangerous characteristics should be destroyed
Private Livestock and O. n.p.
At times the O. n.p. may feed on private live stock on federal lands, notify your supervisor immediately and maintain confidentiality.
Exercise extreme caution in the presence of O. N.p.
Keep alert for O. n.p at all times
WO Amendment 6709. 11-99-1 Page 10-18
Sunday, February 5, 2017
Click link to take you to a Youtube video. It is of a short clip of a helicopter trip searching for bigfoot. I'm with my husband Chris. What a beautiful day that was. No bigfoot sighting but a great time anyway!
Saturday, February 4, 2017
|How are Bill Emery and Cole Saxton doing with this bigfoot subject? I haven't heard for a long time. Please if you know one of them have them comment. I'd really love to see a clear photo of the bigfoot they observed. ... Linda Newton-Perry|
Friday, February 3, 2017
Fiction Story Bigfoot
“%#!#! (curse word). What is that smell, John?”
Long pause. “Stepped in something, I guess.”
"%#!#!, it’s all over your boots." She purses her lips, shakes her fists and pantomimes a scream. Very long pause. “Do you know how hard I work to keep this carpet clean?”
“Course, Baby, I know. I know,” said in kinder voice than usual. He couldn’t believe the stench; and worse, he couldn’t believe he didn’t notice before entering the trailer.
“John, something’s moving. Something’s crawling off your boot. Oh, #!%&!! Oh #!%&!!”
As the two scrambled to remove the six-foot-five’s slimy, smelly footwear, the noisy forest around their camp trailer fell silent. They easily determined the strong-smelling mess was scat of some sort. Bev’s eyes filled with hot tears. She dashed them away before John noticed. The big man felt helpless when she wept and so he hated it.
She worked to keep the trailer as clean as the day it rolled off the sales lot. And now the green carpet was probably permanently stained with foul-smelling #@%!.
“#$%!,” she said, loudly. She stamped her bare foot, making not a sound.
“Bev, Baby, now stop it.” He laughed, while scraping the scat and shiny beetle into a pile with a sharp-edged flat stone that he’d just retrieved from the ground outside in stocking feet.
“Yuk! Yuk! It stinks.” She was now also laughing as she handed him a sloshing bowl of soapy hot water, with a tattered rag to scrub the dirty spots, on his boots and carpet.
“@#$&!. Great, I need to level the jacks. Why’s the trailer shaking so much?”
“Something’s out there, John! Look! Something’s at the window. Lock the door! John, lock the door!”
The thick glass broke and flew inward as a hairy black hand pushed through the opening. A stream of blood ran down the inside wall from a deep gash on the hairy forearm.
“Hit it with the frying pan Bev!”
“No, you do it. Here.” She threw a large black iron pan at him. Warm bacon grease left a line of dark drops across the light-green velvet couch that was under the broken window. “Oh, the couch. %#!#!,” she whimpered. Bev would often look back on this frightening experience and wonder why she bemoaned the ruined couch when a monster was breaking into their trailer.
Cursing nonstop, John hammered the grimy hand and hairy arm, breaking bones. The animal made no sound that they could determine.
Again and again, the iron skillet clanged down on the narrow metal window sill and thudded softly when contacting with the animal’s flesh. Finally, whatever it was withdrew its arm, caught the edge of the window opening and rocked the trailer. Fearing the trailer would tip over, John drew back and heaved the pan at the grayish manlike face. They ducked below the window, thinking the pan could be hurled back at them.
No noise came from outside for a time. The married pair rose cautiously. From the jagged glass-edged window opening, they watched in disbelief as a bigfoot, on all fours, dashed into the deep shadowed forest. Thick drops of blood trailed behind the animal. That evening, they both several times asked the same question: “Think it’ll bleed out?”
Pointing to the blood on the wall, John said, “Lot of blood, Bev. We’ve got enough to have it DNA tested. Might be some flesh here on the glass.” He examined the sharp shards still sticking from the window opening.
Later, when the moon came out John said, “Come here, Baby. Look.” He pointed to the edge of the forest. There stood two adult bigfoots, one holding the hand of a much smaller one. Bev grabbed their camera and filled the memory card to its limit.
With scat, with blood and skin, and with numerous photos of the bigfoot family, the Rayburns became well known the world around for their part in “finding bigfoot.” John Rayburn now allows his wife the luxury of a good cry once in a while, for she’s the one that snapped all those great bigfoot photos. If she hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab the camera and snap the photos, for a certainty he’d now be the one with the weeping habit. As it is, both Rayburns laugh easily these days. The photos made them wealthy. And unlike before, they are now bigfoot believers.