Sasquatch stalks the Washington woods. I lope through low-lying bushes in search of huckleberries. The purple-reddish stains on my fingers are as real as the grumbling in my stomach, or the solidity of these mighty pines. The “small rain” begins to seep through the atmosphere. It will not wash away my stains.
I do not believe in Big Foot. He towers, an outsized legend of the forest. A Nessie of the woodlands. A mythical creature created to satisfy our impoverished imagination, atrophied by the ever-encroaching artifice and sterility of the human world.
Soon, the mist turns to big rain. Clouds blot out the sky. Dusk turns to night, hours early. Thoroughly soaked, I will seek shelter alone.
Mountain folk recite encounters with Big Foot like happy-to-be-frightened children around a campfire. The scariest tale is always the next to come. Twigs snap, branches break, pine cones are crushed. We all listen, acutely alert.
Gorged on huckleberries, I will sleep tonight beneath the pines, solitary, curling up safely in the contours of a giant footprint. I can hear the leaves hit the forest floor. Dare I dream of conversion? Dare I dream of belief?