A Hairy Encounter With a Canadian Wilderness Legend
A (mostly) true Sasquatch story
Something’s been here
Here, where there is never anything but me.
The beach isn’t mine. It doesn’t belong to anyone, which means it belongs to everyone. But it’s only me who comes here. In the Canadian winter, this huge lake is free of ice and free of people. When I visit to drink in the silence, I remain undisturbed. The firewood I keep in a cave is always ready for me to use on my next visit. The fine pebbles are unscarred by footprints. The beach may not be mine. But it feels like it.
Not today. Today, a trail of footprints stretches across the stones. The pebbles crunch like snow under my boots. Whatever it was, it was much heavier than me. And I’m technically obese.
It dug a hole in the dirt near the edge of the water. It tore apart a rotten tree, scattering insect-laden wood across the beach. Then, it lumbered back into the forest, leaving tracks behind for me to find. Like Crusoe on his island, I stared at the prints for a while, my mind racing as I reconstructed what had happened.
