by J. J. Dupuis
“There’s another point for the true believer,” the man with the moustache says. “There are only a handful of Gigantopithecus fossils anywhere. Conceivably, there could be Gigantopithecus bones somewhere in North America and we just haven’t uncovered them.”
“That’s not the most flawed logic I’ve ever heard in a pub,” Dr. Laidlaw says. “But then there’s the question of diet. According to Ciochon et al., opal phytoliths found on the surface enamel of Gigantopithecus teeth shows that the animal ate a variety of grasses and fruit, distinctly different from the plant life found in this habitat.”
The table becomes silent as we consider Dr. Laidlaw’s comment. I look above our table, at the light fixture. It’s made from an old wagon wheel and suspended from the ceiling by chains, a black cord snaking over the links and powering the amber lights. Half a dozen of these lights, like a fleet of flying saucers, shine down over the heads of the squatchers. Maybe there are some locals here, too, but from the looks of the crowd I’d say it’s mostly people taking up all the motel rooms and eating all the Bigfoot breakfasts.
“I find the supposed smell associated with Bigfoot to be a fascinating feature of the lore,” Dr. Laidlaw says. “Many members of the lemur and loris families coat themselves with pungent substances as a defence mechanism. Perhaps the majority of bears and wolves, even humans, would avoid the creature due to the odour alone.”
The man wearing a newsboy-style flat cap chimes in. “I find these crossovers between the Sasquatch legends and real-life primatology so fascinating. There’s the matter of the odour, like Dr. Laidlaw points out. Then there’s the issue of the shoulders getting in the way of the Sasquatch turning his head, as Dr. Grover Krantz observed in the Patterson-Gimlin film.”
He’s some kind of naturalist and writer. His waxed moustache and tortoiseshell glasses are right out of the twenties. All that’s missing is a cigarette holder squeezed between his teeth, which he indeed might own. You can never tell in a non-smoking environment.
“Daniel is the author of the Bigfoot Researcher’s Field Manual,” Dr. Laidlaw explains.
“I try to use the interest in Bigfoot to teach people principles of field biology,” Daniel says. “Plus you put Bigfoot on the cover of a science book and it’ll sell much better.”
“Hear, hear,” Dr. Laidlaw says, raising his pint glass.
A heavy-set lumberjack look-alike peels away from the bar and makes his way out the door. With him out of the way, I now see Ranger Ted Cassavetes is at the bar, doing shots and chasing them with beer. He notices me looking and raises his glass to me. His blond stubble, golden in sunlight, looks dark inside the bar. Ted bent over and drinking looks like a film noir antihero drowning his sorrows.
“My word,” Dr. Laidlaw says. “I do think I’ve drank back all the calories I lost on the search today.” He slides his chair back — it squeals against the hardwood floor — and surveys the landscape until he finds the washroom, then walks around the other tables until he gets to the dark, narrow hall at the back of the Paul.
The waitress comes by and asks if I want another pint of beer. I look at the time, then shake my head. “Better not,” I say.
Moments later, another pint appears anyway. I look at the waitress with subtle incredulity.
“He insisted,” she says, pointing a thumb over her shoulder.
Ranger Ted leans back on his stool and waves. He now looks less like the down-and-out noir detective and more like a silly frat boy.
“Excuse me,” I say to the rest of the table, before getting up and walking over toward the stool next to Ranger Ted.
“Hey,” he says, raising his glass.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Everybody comes to the Paul,” he says. “It’s the only bar in town.”
“I’m not really in the drinking mood,” I say. “But thanks for the beer.”
“I heard about your little debrief at the sheriff’s station. Don’t let Watkins or his goon squad bother you,” he says. “He’s just worried about his job.”
“Is it an election year?” I ask.
“There’s a push to amalgamate three of the smaller sheriff’s departments around here. If that happens, Watkins won’t be top dog anymore and he’ll ride out his term in office giving out parking tickets.”
When he notices me looking at the shot in front of him, he conceals it in his meaty fist. He knocks it back the next time I look away, then slides the empty glass across the bar, as far away from him as he can reach. The bartender picks it off reflexively as he passes.
“Last thing Watkins will want is a major crime that might expose the shortcomings of his department,” I say. “Especially if it’s a journalist like me who reports the crime.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that. A murder on federal land? That would automatically bring in the FBI. People might start asking whether we even need a local sheriff around here if a regional outfit can do more and cost less.”
“A man lost his life and local politics take precedence.”
“Sheriff Watkins has been a bigwig around here since I moved to this town. Even before that. He doesn’t know how not to be the boss,” Ted says before emptying his glass. “Look, Laura, I’m sorry I was hard on you before.”
“It’s cool, we sort of got off on the wrong foot,” I say. “Stressful situation.”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“You already did,” I say, pointing to the half-empty pint glass on the bar.
“Okay, one more,” he says. “You deserve it.”
“It’s been a long day,” I say. “My tolerance isn’t what it should be. I’m afraid if I drink any more I’ll be no good in the search tomorrow.”
Ted’s blue eyes pool with a kindness I didn’t think he was capable of.
“That’s fair,” he says. “You’re really worried about this professor of yours, aren’t you?”
“He’s like a grandfather to me,” I say. “I don’t think I’d have become a science journalist if it wasn’t for his encouragement.”
“You work for a newspaper or something?”
“I run a website dedicated to communicating science to the general public. It’s a skill that’s sorely underpractised.”
“So you write for an online National Geographic or something?”
“My site is like any other news site, except it covers science stories exclusively.”
“How did you get into that racket?” Ted asks.
“I started a Facebook page in university called Science Is Awesome, where I reposted science news stories and press releases from academic institutions. I even started designing my own infographics for the page. When it took off, I decided to launch my own website and here I am.”
“And you make money off this?”
“I do.”
“Good money?”
In my parents’ day that would have been considered a rude question.
“Very good money, all things considered.”
“Wow,” he says, looking at the bartender and signalling for another pint.
“Do you always power drink like this on a weeknight?” I ask.
“Only when I find a dead body,” he says. “So, your website. Is it like your career now?”
“For the time being.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure it’s my calling. It grew so fast that I struggled to keep up. I’ve been too busy slipping punches to counter, or even to think about going on the offensive.”
“‘Slipping punches’?”
“You don’t have the monopoly on boxing analogies,” I say.
“I don’t know too many girls who use them.”
“You should get out more,” I say. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this at all. I don’t usually talk about myself so much. I guess I’m just …”
“We’re going to find him, you know that, right?” Ted says. “We’ll find him and in a month or so you’ll forget this ever even happened.” He take
s a long sip of his beer, draining half the glass in one go. “You won’t forget me, of course,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. “You’ll never forget me.”
“You know your one shortcoming, Ranger Cassavetes?” I say. “You lack self-confidence.”
“I know it seems that way,” he says, smiling. “I’m just humble to a fault.”
“Tell you what,” I say. “You find Professor Sorel, and I’m not likely to ever forget you.”
“Deal,” he says, offering his hand.
I take it, and shake a little. Ted doesn’t let go. He’s getting comfortable with the contact, too comfortable. “I should go and get some rest,” I say. “It’ll be another long day tomorrow. Hopefully one where I can spend all the daylight hours searching.”
“Let me walk you home.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“I’d like to,” he says. “Plus now I feel guilty. I should go home and sleep so that I can start fresh in the morning.”
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” I say.
“Affirmative.”
The first thing, the only thing, we hear when stepping out into the cool spring air is the sound of the Klamath River flowing invisibly in the blackness of night. I stop and take a second just to listen. Even though it’s a block or so down the street, it sounds so near, as if I’m standing on the bank. Ted stands shoulder to shoulder with me, or at least my shoulder to his biceps given our height difference. He’s listening, too.
“I think of the Klamath like a nomadic army, marching from the plains in the east, set on invading the Pacific. Every tributary is like another band of mercenaries joining the cause,” Ted says.
“You watch a lot of History Channel?” I ask, smiling.
“History books are the only books I read,” he says, though I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed or boasting.
We walk along the main street, which is mostly dark except for the street lights and the old, one-room movie house. The Alpine, in red neon lights, blazes diagonally across the front of the theatre. The marquee, a constellation of glittering incandescent bulbs, reads This weekend: Bigfoot Double Bill: Harry and the Hendersons/The Legend of Boggy Creek 1pm/7pm.
“I love these old theatres,” I say. “I’m surprised a town this small has one.”
“It’s the only one within miles of here,” Ted says. “When it was built, back in the thirties, people came from all over the state, even northern California and western Idaho and northwestern Nevada. A few years ago, when it changed ownership, the new management wanted to change the name to something Bigfoot-related, but the town council protested it unanimously and the new buyers backed down. That’s the only time when the name Bigfoot was prohibited from being slapped on the front of a business in this town. The Alpine is just too important. This place is legendary. We should see a show while you’re here.”
“I don’t think I’ll have time,” I say.
“Not much else to do here in town,” Ted says, taking a step closer and eclipsing the street light above me.
“I should be getting back,” I say, stepping away.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Ted says.
We turn north, back toward the motel. Up the road a fox crosses from the shadows into the yellow glow of the street light, then back into shadows again. A slightly overgrown bush waves as it passes, the only evidence the fox came through there at all.
“Hey,” a voice calls from behind us.
Three men stand under the Alpine’s marquee. Ted steps forward, half shielding me. “Stay behind me,” he whispers over his shoulder.
I don’t need him standing up for me. They aren’t dangerous-looking, they’re almost pathetic. Plus, all it would take is one forceful shove to knock him back against me, then we’d both fall, end up on the concrete, and find ourselves in incredible danger. I move like a knight on a chessboard, to the side and forward, to get around him.
“Yes?” I say to the men, ignoring Ted. “Can we help you?”
The leader of the trio comes forward, the street light shining down on his long brown hair and matching long, catfish-like moustache. He wears a denim jacket, a white T-shirt, and jeans, like he was dressed on an assembly line in the era of Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, and Jon Bon Jovi. His friends, similar in age and style, hang back.
“You the two who came across Rick Driver’s body today?”
“Yes, sir,” Ted says.
“We wanna know what happened to him.”
“Rock slide,” Ted says.
“Bullshit,” the man says. “Someone got him.”
“It can be dangerous hiking up on the mountain during the spring thaw,” Ted says.
“We want to see the body.”
“Ask Sheriff Watkins in the morning,” Ted says. “He’s an agreeable fellow.”
“He won’t tell us nothing,” the man says.
“We can’t tell you anything either,” I say. “There’s nothing to tell.”
The man, probably drunk, just stares at me a while, not even blinking.
“I’m sorry about your friend. He was an old acquaintance of my dad’s,” I say.
Finally, the man blinks, then nods. “Let’s go boys,” he says. He turns around and walks back between his friends. Like loyal underlings, the other two wait for him to take the lead before the three of them walk away. Ted watches them distrustfully until they cross the street in front of the drugstore.
“Nice work,” Ted says.
“Thanks.”
“And thank you for not mentioning murder, or any of that stuff you said on the mountain.”
“Why would I? I am not an idiot.”
“I know,” he says, hooking his thumbs into his pants pockets like he might line dance down the street. “Was your dad really a friend of that Driver guy’s?”
“Apparently, they knew each other. Driver said as much yesterday. I can’t corroborate it.”
“Well, now that that’s over, can I walk you back to your motel?”
“No thank you,” I say. “I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You won’t let me protect you, will you?”
“Who says I need protecting?”
Ted chuckles a little, then straightens up and smiles.
“Good night, Laura.”
“Good night, Ranger Ted,” I say.
EIGHT
America’s first Sasquatch-catching expedition headed into the mountains of British Columbia to-day on a hunt for the horrible, hairy naked bogey-man of Indian legend.
— Fresno Bee, April 9, 1934
THE ROADS ARE SLICK FROM RAIN THE NIGHT before. The moss, clinging to roadside rocks and carpeting the soil between trees, glows vibrantly green.
We arrive in a convoy with the rest of the search and rescue volunteers. Another day has passed and the hope is ebbing. Word of Rick Driver’s death has worked through the crowd of volunteers. It worked on them all of last night, and now the urgency to rescue a live man is fading into the duty of recovering a dead one. They march out together, solemnly, their heads hanging low. I don’t let it get to me.
Word is also spreading about the Bigfoot sighting that took place yesterday. A foursome of volunteers, none of them the men from the motel last night, repeat the story. I linger just a second to listen.
“Do you believe that? Henry saw Bigfoot.”
“He did not.”
“That’s what he says. Saw him yesterday, just north of the road that winds around Roanoke Ridge.”
Ranger Ted, wearing a look of concern, weaves between the volunteers, on an intercept course with us. He doesn’t have a pack on. Crows caw in the trees to the right of the road.
“Hi, Laura, Saad,” Ted says. “Glad to see you made it home safe last night.”
“Good morning,” I say.
“What happened last night?” Saad asks quietly, looking at me.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Roanoke Ridge is off limits today,” Ted says,
“until the SAIT guys are gone and are sure there’s no threat to anyone else, no volunteers are allowed.”
“What about Dr. Sorel?” I ask.
“After that little blow-up with the sheriff yesterday, my boss decided to request an aerial SAR unit out of Medford to scan the whole area with FLIR cameras. We’ll be working with the other volunteers searching the rest of the park and river valleys.”
“I should be up there,” I say, then realize how arrogant I sound.
“We tried it your way, as a favour to Dr. Sorel’s wife. But now the man’s been missing for over forty-eight hours. Another man has been found dead. We really need to bring out the big guns here.”
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll take whatever section you want us to search and we’ll search it.”
“Great. Moira’s been moved to another group but I’ll accompany you guys. We’ve been assigned the far side of the mountain, near the hot springs.”
Ted leads, consulting his GPS. We follow a dirt road on foot, part of a parade of volunteers that grows smaller and smaller as we go. I hardly notice when we’re the only ones left.
A creek runs next to the road, on my left. On my right, a hill rises at a sharp angle. Bushes, shrubs, and small trees dot the hillside. The exposed dirt is dry and resembles sand. This patch of land resembles Nevada more than Oregon — the price of a drought, I suppose.
There’s a well-worn trail leading up the steep hillside, a tail of dirt strewn downward that sticks out because the dirt is a lighter colour than the surface soil around it. It leads up to a tunnel carved into the side of the hill, too clean and wide to have been made by an animal. The walls are too flat and the top is too arched to be natural. It resembles a tiny doorway out of Alice in Wonderland.
Ted shields his eyes from the sun and takes a long look at the tunnel. Exposed roots have been hacked away and the dry, stiff husks of last year’s shrubs have been ripped from the soil. “There shouldn’t be any active mines in this area,” he says. “Nothing on the maps anyway. Probably an old claim that someone’s scavenged recently.”