Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 9

From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

Yes, I’ve heard the legend. And no, it’s got nothing to do with my heritage. I’m from the Southwest, not the Northwest.[21] Not that we don’t have our own stories. Everybody does. You’ve got the Almas in Russia, the Yowie in Australia, the Orang Pendek in Indonesia, and a bunch of Sisimite stories from Latin America. And that’s just today. The Judeo-Christian Bible has Esau, the primitive brother of Jacob. And the Epic of Gilgamesh, the first written story, has “Enkidu,” the wild man. Show me a culture anywhere on this planet, and chances are, they got something.

Including this one, and by this one, I mean mainstream pop culture. Bigfoot’s as American as apple pie and guns in schools. That’s how I learned about it. Like any good Gen Xer, I was raised by TV. I’ve checked out my fair share of the modern Bigfoot media.

I’ve seen a lot of the newer, shaky-cam Blair Witch–wannabe flicks. I’ve flipped through a couple of the faux documentary cable shows. I keep meaning to check out the one from the survival guy, not the British fraud, the real deal. The Canadian. He knows his shit, and maybe he’s actually on the right track. But all the other stuff I’ve seen, fiction and “managed reality,” I gotta say, just feels like a polished rehash of the ’70s–’80s craze I grew up on.

You know! I read your article about the five classic films, and, yeah, they scared the crap outta me too. That one where a yeti attacks a ski resort. I think you’re right about them not being able to afford a whole costume,[22] but the result, the whole Jaws POV, terrifying. That scene where it breaks through a window… comes down from the mountain, right into town… It wasn’t supposed to do that! It broke the prime directive of horror films! If you don’t go looking for trouble, trouble won’t come looking for you!

That’s why our generation’s scary movies were essentially cautionary tales. That’s why I never had any sympathy for the horny teenagers going to the summer camp, or the greedy town mayor keeping the beaches open, or the rule-following spaceship crew that just had to investigate an alien distress signal. I knew I’d never be like them. I’d do my part and stay home. But after watching the snowbeast attacking Aspen, I thought, What’s to stop the real Sasquatch from doing the same?

Because it did! The other movie you wrote about, with the host from Mission Impossible, and exhibits like footprints and photos and an interview with a “psychic detective” and, most important, oh my God, those “dramatic re-creations.” When the girl… Rita Graham, I remember the name… when she’s sitting at home that night, watching TV, minding her own business… just like me… and a shadow appears across the window shade behind her two seconds before this giant, hairy arm smashes through the glass. I might have actually pissed myself on that one. It scared me so badly that years later I actually tried looking it up. Turns out the incident did happen, but was seriously dramatized for the show.

What wasn’t dramatized was another incident, two of them, really, that were re-created for that other movie, the one that actually ran in theaters! The first account comes from the 1920s where some rogue miners are prospecting near, of all places, Mount St. Helens. One night their cabin is attacked with boulders and fists and the classic animal screams we now associate with the legend. That’s why, to this day, the canyon where it happened is nicknamed Ape Canyon. The second story is from Teddy Roosevelt.

She reaches into her desk and thumps the old, dog-eared copy of The Wilderness Hunter onto her desk.

Fair warning, the first part’s pretty cringy. It opens with Roosevelt talking about how lucky he’s been to shoot every kind of large animal in North America.

Douche.

Anyway, it goes on to “recount,” not tell firsthand, recount, the story of an Idaho fur trapper named Bauman, whose partner was torn apart by a “goblin.”

Is either story true? How the hell do I know? I thought they were at the time, when I kept asking my parents to move my bed away from the window. I’d be like, “These are real accounts! A president wrote about it!”

To their credit, my folks didn’t just blow me off. They tried to get me to verify it, to look beyond words and see if there was any physical evidence. I think that’s why I got interested in zoology, why, to this day, I get excited when any new species gets scientifically proven. And there’re thousands of them. Every year! I’ve seen a live Goliath spider and the corpse of a giant squid. I’ve seen all types of specimens recovered from hydrothermal vents that would have been considered science fiction when I was born. And as soon as the Congo gets safe enough for eco-tourism, I’ll be the first one in line to see that newly discovered Bili ape. I’m open to any discovery, as long as it’s based on hard, physical evidence. Facts are supposed to banish monsters…

She sighs.

…not invite them in.

The animals are gone. I didn’t notice it this morning, but as the day’s progressed, I realize I haven’t seen a deer or squirrel. Anything. And if there are any birds, they haven’t made a peep. Why did they leave? It can’t be hunger. There’re still a few apples on the Perkins-Forsters’ trees. I bet if I check the others, I’ll also find some remaining fruit. Was it the fight? Are they scared of the animal that killed the cougar?

Listen to me. “The animal.”

I can’t even write the word down. I also haven’t talked about it since telling Mostar. Neither has Dan. To be fair, he’s really busy.

Dan got a new “gig,” that’s what he calls it. We were having breakfast at Mostar’s, the last of the rabbit stew, watered down, when Vincent Boothe came around. He said to Dan, “I, uh, noticed you were cleaning Reinhardt’s solar panels yesterday, and was wondering…”

“Sure.” Dan was already licking his bowl. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

“Great!” Vincent looked relieved but stiffened when he caught Mostar’s eye. “And, you know, of course, we’d feed you for your time.” Then he looked at me. “And you’re more than welcome to come over and, uh, go through our supplies.”

I smiled uncomfortably. Mostar gave an approving nod.

Dan couldn’t have been happier. As Vincent left, he flashed this goofy, almost childlike grin. “I’m in demand.”

Mostar playfully cuffed him on the arm and said, “Look at you, village handyman.”

“Handyman!” That should have destroyed him! Would have a few days ago. How many job offers, how many helpful, hopeful dinners with Frank? “I’m not a salary man.” That was Dan’s default defense. “I’m a builder, not a maintainer.” And, oh, the surly tailspins that I had to nurse him through.

And now, thanks to Mostar’s big mouth.

Grip the wheel, brace for impact.

But, once again, my head nearly spun off my shoulders as Dan’s grin widened. “Village handyman.” He licked his spoon like a lollipop, bounced, bounced, up from the table, and said to me, “Time for work.” Then hummed his dishes over to the sink.

He hummed all day. Through every job the Boothes gave him. They had a list, FYI. Even before he could get to the solar panels, the air vent in the bedroom was rattling, the shower drain was stopped. Little things here and there. I kept my own list. I’m charging them in rolled oats (we’re out of cereal). While Dan bopped his merry way between tasks, I went meticulously through the Boothes’ pantry, cataloging everything they had, down to the last drop of Lucini Italia premium olive oil. A lot of calories in olive oil. I don’t think I’m overcharging them.

Maybe a little.

I’ve gotta get past the potato thing. Bobbi tried so hard to be nice. She was so open about everything they had—or had left. (Sorry. Let it go!) She even suggested sharing their house’s electricity as well as a little blue teapot that “would make a perfect watering can for the garden.”

How does she know about the garden? Does everyone? What else are they saying behind our backs? The shift seemed so sudden to me, the acceptance that we might have to survive the winter. But it must have been building for some time, as they listened to the news, watched the empty sky, saw that Tony and Yvette were still clinging to the status quo while Mostar, at least, was trying to adapt.

Whatever the reason, the Boothes certainly seem to be on board with us now. Bobbi even offered compost from her bin for extra fertilizer, and asked if maybe some of her brown rice or puffed quinoa could be planted. I don’t think the quinoa will work. Doesn’t “puffed” mean “cooked”? And as far as the rice, I took a handful to experiment with. Just enough for a square foot of earth. We don’t have a lot of space left, now that Pal’s beans are planted. But if they don’t sprout and the rice does, it might be a welcome backup. No matter what, we can always use more compost. And I do give her credit for suggesting that her buckwheat pillow stuffing might be edible.

Vincent laughed at that last idea, but when he saw her hurt expression, he explained that their pillows are stuffed with the husks, not the kernels. He kind of slurred the explanation. They were both a little buzzed, opening a bottle of chardonnay as soon as Dan and I came over. Who knows how many 120 calorie glasses they’d had before we showed up. Vincent definitely had another 240 before getting up the courage to ask about the mountain lion.

When I described the blood and bones, Vincent wrote it all off as scavengers. “All the birds and small animals. Insects. Gotta be insects. So many insects. They must have all come out after the poor cat died. Everything’s so hungry out there. Died of its wound. That’s what we heard last night, all that screaming. Poor thing must have suffered badly. Hopefully it was gone before the smaller animals started feeding on it.”

When I brought up the rocks, Vincent just shrugged it away. “Who can tell in all that mess.”

Maybe that’s why I didn’t mention the footprints. Afraid that they’d disregard it with another tipsy theory. Or maybe I was afraid that they wouldn’t, that it’d open the door to questions I couldn’t answer.

I still can’t. Maybe that’s why I went over to the Durants’ afterward. I’m still convinced that Yvette thought she was talking about some quaint, indigenous fairy tale. But if I could learn more from that tale. Some details. Where it comes from. What it wants. Doesn’t all folklore have some basis in reality? Wasn’t there really a great flood sometime way back? Prerecorded climate change? And isn’t there a theory about the tides of the Red Sea being so extreme that it might have looked like the waters parted?

I can’t remember where I’ve heard this, or if I’m just totally making it up. I’m pretty sure one of Dan’s college friends talked about how mammoth skulls inspired the Greeks to believe in the Cyclops. The cartilage between the eyes looking like one giant socket. I thought Yvette might have some nugget of useful information like that. If I could just get her talking.

And Tony, I wanted to ask about that day he tried to drive away.

Go for help! Oh my God. The day he tried to go for help! The day I was chased. Did he see something too? That look he had. I assumed it was from seeing the lahar, the realization that we were cut off. Maybe that was part of it. But on the way home, or maybe when he was standing there at the edge of the smashed bridge. Did he see something? Did it chase him too?

Those were the questions spinning through my mind as I nervously stepped up to their door.

I’m not sure what I was afraid of. Yvette slapping my face, yelling at me for betraying her? Both would have hurt the same. I took a deep breath, put on a fake smile, and knocked gently. No answer. I tried again, a little louder. Nothing. I thought I could hear talking. But it sounded far away. I glimpsed a faint, flickering glow coming through the living room window curtain. The TV. A recorded show. That’s what I must have been hearing. A shadow passed in front of it, heading in the direction of the door.

I stuttered, “Tony? Yvette? It’s Kate.” I thought about ringing the doorbell but chickened out as my finger grazed the button. I watched the shadow pass the glow again, heading in the opposite direction. I moved sideways down the front of the house, to the garage. I could hear the steady zzzzzp-zzzzzp-zzzzzp of Yvette’s elliptical, and the muffled mumbling of voices. She must have been working out, because the zzzzzp-ing stopped as the voices grew louder. One voice, really. Hers. His stayed at this low murmur. I couldn’t make out her exact words, but the tone, high and clipped. I thought about putting my ear to the thin aluminum of her garage door, maybe even knocking on it. But instead I just waited like an idiot for a minute or so, until the voices faded and the zzzzzp-zzzzzp-zzzzzp resumed.

I turned back for home, stopping as Dan came out of the Boothes’ house to do his roof cleaning. He saw me, waved, and even blew me a kiss that I returned. For a moment, I considered staying, to help or just to keep him company. Something about him being outside all alone. I didn’t like it anymore. I felt, feel, uneasy.

Everything’s too still. No wildlife. No sound. But the smell. It’s constant now, like it followed us down from the kill site. And the eyes. I didn’t feel like I was being watched this morning. Maybe I was just too focused on the dead cat. But I feel them now. Walking home, I kept looking up and around me. Up to the ridge above the houses, scanning the trees. I didn’t see anything, but does something see me? That’s why I couldn’t wait to get inside. That’s where I am now, sitting on the couch, keeping an eye on Dan through the living room window. Blissfully scraping those panels, then jumping back from the falling ash like it’s a game.

I don’t mean to keep glancing up at the woods. I’m trying not to memorize every tree, rock, patch of open space, to see if any of them change between glances. I’m trying really, really hard not to head back over to the Boothes’ to see if they have binoculars. With all their hikes, they must have a pair. I’ll be going over there for more compost, or staying home to work in the garden, something other than watching Dan out there by himself. I thought about getting in the car to listen to the news. But the car faces the house.

I don’t want my back turned.

From Steve Morgan’s The Sasquatch Companion.

The official history of cryptid hominid encounters has had, shall we say, a checkered relationship with indigenous oral evidence. In the words of J. Richard Greenwell, secretary and founder of the International Society of Cryptozoology, “Native peoples tend to not have a very clear line of demarcation between the metaphysical world and the physical world. We in the West very clearly separate those.”[23] This is obviously a heavily biased and debatable point of view, especially when so many “Western” (i.e., Caucasian) eyewitnesses claim to have seen supernatural, even extraterrestrial, elements associated with Sasquatch. Nevertheless, Greenwell’s statement typifies a substantial reliance on a Eurocentric record of encounters, a record that until the mid–twentieth century was woefully lacking.

Given the chaotic, often competitive nature of Europe’s American invasion, and the incurious, illiterate nature of so many individual invaders, it is a wonder that any written accounts emerged from this period. While there are, of course, notable exceptions such as Fred Beck’s Ape Canyon Siege, Roosevelt’s “Goblin” story, and the writings of British explorer David Thompson, who discovered “the track of a large animal” which “was not that of a bear,” we simply cannot know how many trappers, traders, and gold-fevered prospectors took their Sasquatch experiences to the grave. For all we know, some modern-day Russian may have a mysterious, malodorous hide nailed to the wall of his dacha that his ancestor brought back from the tsar’s American colony.

So why the change? Why did contact with Sasquatch suddenly go from a trickle to a flood? The answer is simple: World War II. Before this cataclysmic event, fewer people (of all ethnicities) lived between Northern California and the Canadian border than lived in New York City. With Pearl Harbor came industry, military installations, infrastructural expansion, and millions upon millions of Americans. Small wonder that, barely thirteen years after V-J Day, in Bluff Creek, California,[24] a road construction crew discovered what appeared to be strange, giant, humanoid tracks. This discovery prompted the investigation by a local newspaper, which, in turn, unearthed previous stories from the surrounding area.

By the end of the year, the tracks had made headlines around the country, along with a name for their creator: Bigfoot.