Roanoke Ridge

  “Should we check it out?”

  “We’d better,” he says. “Would you like to do the honours?”

  Halfway up the hill it occurs to me that he suckered me, and now he’s down below, hands over his eyes, checking me out. I glance over my shoulder and see the back of Saad’s head. He’s put himself between Ted and I, and seems to be making conversation or asking questions.

  The dirt around the mouth of the tunnel has been disturbed recently, just before last night’s rain if I’m reading the signs correctly. The tunnel itself is a little tight, even for me. I want to be able to turn around quickly and move easily should I have to, so I take my pack off and lean it next to the adit. I also take out my emergency kit and some glow sticks, stuffing them into the oversized pockets of my cargo shorts.

  My LED flashlight fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. The ghostly white beam I shine into the darkness diffuses long before it hits the back wall of the mine. The tunnel seems to lead all the way to Seattle. The timbers above and beside me have rotted away and look like burnt matchsticks.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Professor Sorel?”

  I bend at the waist and slightly at the knees, and enter the tunnel slowly. Partway in, I reach into my pocket, feel the smooth surface of a glow stick, and draw it like a dagger. I put the flashlight down for a second to crack the glow stick, shake it until I’m bathed in its ethereal amber glow.

  “Professor Sorel!” I say one more time.

  I toss the glow stick as hard as I can and watch it travel the darkness like a firefly. It lands softly, noiselessly, in the well-trodden dirt. I shine my light around some more, in a circle, starting from the floor to the wall to the ceiling and around.

  There’s a little sliver of colour on the ground, something out of place. Lying in a swirl of loose sediment is a sliver of thin plastic, the colour of milk chocolate on the outside and with a reflective foil on the inside. I smell it. There’s still an odour of food, so it’s recent. I look around for more signs of human habitation, but there’s nothing.

  “Anything?” Ted calls out from the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Just the corner of an MRE wrapper.”

  “Is it fresh?”

  “I’d say so,” I say. “Brisket Entrée, from the smell of things.”

  MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, are a staple for any soldier. They seem to have certain addictive qualities, too, based on how Dad could never fully wean himself off of them. When we’d go camping he had some quota, unspoken but certainly in his head, of food we needed to gather from the wilderness, whether it was fish, blueberries, or just pine needles for tea. The rest of our meals were supplemented by MREs. They had fewer flavours back then, and I never found them particularly good, but like instant noodles or mac and cheese from a package, there was something comforting about them. Dad flipped out if I wanted to bring a bag of Oreos along, saying your body doesn’t need that crap, but he had no issue with cheese tortellini in tomato sauce out of a package that looked like plastic explosives.

  “Could’ve been left by a miner,” Ted says.

  “That’s possible,” I say.

  “We’ll mark it down on the map and keep moving.”

  I do one last sweep of the area with my flashlight. Maybe if it were bright enough I could find another clue, something to confirm the professor had been here or something to eliminate that possibility entirely.

  Backing out of the tunnel, I slip my pack on again and we continue our search. Overhead and off to my right a helicopter flies in a search pattern. Birds chirp in the sumac trees growing out of the side of the slope, picking at the dried bobs — the fruit clusters — to find the nutrients that are always in season.

  Back at the bottom of the hill and up the road a little, Saad stands by an outcropping of rocks that make a perfect spot to sit and eat. Granola bars and a package of trail mix get passed around. The drumming of woodpeckers provides a soundtrack, along with the sounds of us gulping down water from stainless steel canteens. We have a good three hours of hiking ahead of us before calling it a day, so a moment’s rest and food will go a long way.

  Ted leads the way as we move in the shadow of Roanoke Ridge, the beating rotor of the search helicopter cutting into the sound of birds and the distant voices of other search parties. A hundred people have to be scouring this park, not to mention the helicopters, but standing here at the foot of a mountain and among a vast expanse of trees, I can’t help but feel helpless, like we are searching for a needle in a field of haystacks. I don’t like the feeling and we push on.

  Saad, unaccustomed to a strenuous day of hiking, demonstrates his exhaustion — all his little aches and pains — in the slow, Frankenstein’s-monster way he’s walking. The search and rescue helicopter breaks off its search and flies off overhead toward the airfield in Medford. One more day is done and we’re still no closer to finding Professor Sorel.

  A crowd forms south of the ranger station, near all the parked cars. There’s a commotion. Ted pauses, taking the scene in. One man’s voice rises above the chorus.

  “They got footage! They caught that bastard on tape!”

  “Show us,” a voice calls from the crowd.

  I press forward and Saad follows. Ranger Ted hangs back with his arms crossed, a professional look of disinterest on his face. It’s a melee, which is hardly a surprise given that the bulk of the volunteers are here for the Bigfoot Festival.

  A phone is held up cautiously, and the video plays.

  From my standpoint, there is nothing to see.

  “I can’t see it,” someone says.

  “Post it on the forum!” a voice yells.

  “Here,” the owner of the phone says. He climbs up on the back of his pickup and sits on the tailgate. He holds his phone to his chest and plays the video again, looking like a kid doing show and tell. His smile tells me that he’s enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame, he’s feeding off of it. We still can’t see anything. I give up and Saad follows.

  Ranger Ted has an I-told-you-so smile on his face as we approach him. “Is that the definitive proof of Bigfoot?”

  I ignore his comment. “Ted, can you find out what grid they were searching?”

  “Do you think it’ll help find your professor?”

  I ignore his mansplaining tone, too. I don’t need to be reminded of my missing mentor.

  “It might,” I say. “But don’t ask me why. I guess it’s just too much weird for one time and place.”

  I can’t help but think that if there is such a thing as Bigfoot, now is the time we’d find it. Search parties on the ground, helicopters in the air, the odds of finding it are better than ever. One can’t imagine a squatching expedition, or even a primatological one, with this many resources.

  “It’ll be pretty warm tonight,” Ted says. “If your professor is as well equipped as you think, he’ll be fine.” He squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.

  I can’t place this guy, he’s all over the map. One second he’s arrogant, condescending. The next he is sweet, sympathetic, with a look in his eyes that tells me he will tear this area apart looking for Professor Sorel, if only I’d ask.

  NINE

  Texas oilman Tom Slick is going after the Abominable Snowman — with bloodhounds and a helicopter.

  — Lethbridge Herald, August 2, 1956

  SAAD HAS TAUGHT ME ONLY THE MOST rudimentary Urdu, so as I listen to him speak to his mother I can only pick out words like yes and no, as well as okay and mom. She is waiting for him to pick a career, to settle in one place, to have a steady paycheque on which he can support a family. From there, marriage and children. He tells me she keeps an ear to the ground for eligible bachelorettes from good families, she tries to introduce him to these good families at every opportunity. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

  I search every Bigfoot forum I can think of until I finally come across the footage shot earlier today. It’s a shaky, typical blob-squatch video, no discernable detail except the blur is the colour o
f dry grass. There’s no shape resembling anything. The audio, unlike the picture, is clear: Footsteps crunching over the dry brush. The sounds of excitement and “look-it” and “there it goes” that fit perfectly into the film.

  “Allah hafiz,” Saad says, hanging up the phone and dropping it onto the bed. Turning to me, he says, “Want to check out the Bigfoot Museum?”

  I look at the clock in the bottom corner of my screen; it’s six thirty-seven.

  “Won’t it be closing soon?”

  “Extended hours,” he says. “For the Bigfoot Festival.”

  “Nice,” I say. “It beats sitting around here.”

  The Roanoke Valley Bigfoot Museum and Gallery is more subdued in scale than something, like, say, the Guggenheim. It’s a hybrid of the great American roadside tourist trap and some kind of religious shrine.

  The doors are guarded by two Sasquatches carved out of wood. They stand just over six feet tall, which is taller than me, but seems a little short for Bigfoot. Sitting on the gravel by the door, as if in worship of one of the statues, is a young man with unnaturally orange hair and black ear gauges. There’s a canvas knapsack on the ground beside him, flap open, revealing a gaping pocket. He’s sketching the statue on the left, his pad lying across his knees.

  Saad lingers, and the artist looks up at him, his expression half-flattered, half-do-you-mind? “That’s really good,” Saad says.

  “It is,” I say, backtracking and taking a second look.

  “Thanks,” the artist says.

  “Are you in town for the Bigfoot Festival?” Saad asks.

  “I sure am. I came all the way from Vancouver for it.”

  “Washington or B.C.?” I ask.

  “The real Vancouver,” he says. “B.C.”

  “Are you an artist?” Saad asks. “Or do you just sketch for fun?”

  “I’m hoping to drum up some interest for my comic.” He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a graphic novel with a glossy cover that glimmers in the sun. He holds it out between us. The title is Sasquatch: Guardian of the Northwest. A Sasquatch is on the cover, one foot up on a rock, a log held high above his head. Underneath is the artist’s name, Andrew Price.

  Saad takes it from him and flips through it. Drawn across the panels is a story about a Sasquatch disrupting the construction of a pipeline that is supposed to transport fossil fuels from the tar sands in Alberta to the Pacific coast. The news here covers the Keystone XL project more, but I know in Canada there are several pipeline projects that draw protests from the Indigenous Peoples of the region and activists. Both groups would definitely benefit from having Bigfoot on their side.

  “This is good stuff,” I say.

  “Do you read comics?”

  “Sometimes,” I say. “I still read X-Men from time to time, but mostly I just read indie stuff now.”

  Saad looks over at me with astonishment. “I didn’t know you read comics.”

  “I’m selling this for twenty bucks,” Andrew says. “Want a copy?”

  Saad considers this for less than a second and nods. He passes me the comic while he fishes out his wallet.

  “How long did it take you to do this?”

  “About a year,” he says.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah, I have some sweet software to help with the layout and the colouring, but still.”

  “I’ll take a copy,” I say.

  “I only have the one on me,” Andrew says. “I’ll be selling more at the book table during the festival.”

  “Cool,” I say. “I’ll swing by.”

  When we walk into the museum, there’s a rapid onset of darkness that my eyes need to adjust to. The proprietor behind the counter snaps quickly to life to welcome us inside. With his long white beard and bald scalp he resembles Charles Darwin post-Origin.

  The museum is empty, which is strange. Any given weekday, sure, but we’re on the eve of the Bigfoot Festival. The place should be packed.

  The museum seems intended for the casual visitor passing through on their way north to Seattle or south to San Francisco, but once I’m inside, I see the museum is clearly designed for the true believers. Whereas at most major museums across the country it is common to read the words palaeontologists believe that or fossil evidence suggests, here there is no room for skepticism, for anything other than absolute certainty. The deeper into the museum you travel, the more it becomes an echo chamber of Bigfoot belief.

  Though small lights on the ceiling light up particular exhibits, the museum is dim and smells like an antique store. The first thing we see is a glass case mounted on a pedestal, a spot fit for the rarest medieval Bible. Inside is the issue of Argosy magazine containing the first coverage of the Patterson-Gimlin film. A placard on the wall provides four paragraphs of context about the film, which was shot on October 20, 1967, a short drive from here down Interstate 5. It’s perhaps the most watched and most iconic piece of eight-millimetre film ever shot, next to the Zapruder footage of the Kennedy assassination.

  The next exhibit is entirely dedicated to the Roanoke Ridge film, my father’s film. Built into the wall is a small television. A white plastic button sticks out from the wall under the screen. Around it, on the walls, are blown-up still frames.

  Saad, almost reflexively, takes a short step forward and presses it. The black screen turns blue, then it is filled with static. Finally, the film begins to play.

  I could describe the film with my eyes closed. It’s shot from somewhere down the mountain facing upward. The sun creates lens flares as the camera pans over to a cluster of white bark pines growing out of a mossy carpet on the mountainside. A log on its side, bleached by the sun and bone-like, occupies the centre of the frame. There’s some kind of movement. A bipedal, fur-covered creature lumbers out from behind a grouping of trees on its way toward an outcropping of rocks. It seems to gesture down the slope. Then, a smaller creature rises up from behind the log. They both move out of the frame, their locomotion obscured by the branches and the rocks that Sasquatches always seem to move behind. The whole video isn’t even thirty seconds long.

  Beside the film exhibit is … a mural? An infographic? A poster? I’m not sure. It’s a crudely put together image of three lifeforms: a chimpanzee, the Sasquatch from the PG film, and a white man wearing nothing but a loincloth. There are thick black arrows connecting the three beings, starting from the chimp and moving through to the Homo sapiens sapiens. The words Missing Link? are written above the Sasquatch.

  “Guess they’re not worried about staying up to date,” I say, quietly, looking down the length of the museum for the long-bearded proprietor.

  “I can’t even remember the last time I heard someone use the term missing link in reference to human evolution,” Saad says.

  “It’s like a great slogan, I guess. It really sticks in the brain. I think it has broad appeal, makes discoveries of transitional fossils more appealing to casual readers of science stories. But it’s an idea that’s as outdated as most of the stuff on these walls. The chimpanzee-human last common ancestor is a thing. The missing link? Definitely not a thing. If I used that term in an article I’d have a legion of biologists and anthropologists banging down my door with torches and pitchforks.”

  “That would make a good story for the site.”

  “It certainly would. I’m sure the entire scientific community wishes the term would go extinct. The word link implies a chain, which refers to the Great Chain of Being, a pre-Darwinian religious notion of the hierarchy of all life. But there’s no hierarchy. Life is a tree that branches out in all sorts of fascinating directions.”

  On the wall in the next room is an old front page of the Klamath River Tribune. A black-and-white photo of Sheriff Watkins is dead centre, holding the cast of a Bigfoot print. The headline reads: Bigfoot is Out-of-Season, Permanently. Watkins is twenty years younger in the photo, his cheeks jagged and his moustache — now a snow-capped mountain — a solid black strip above his lip. The plaque below the
image outlines the creation of the ordinance that prohibits the hunting of Bigfoot within the Roanoke County limits. Saad reads the story and chuckles.

  Stone ape heads line a shelf built right into the wall. The heads are carved from a variety of stones that have natural apelike features and were found in the Columbia River. Squatchers see these as proof that the Natives of the region have encountered Bigfoot in times past. I hardly think stones with atavistic traits form concrete proof, but at the moment, the town is full of people who’d disagree.

  Saad and I leave the cavernous museum and walk out into the waning sun. This time of year it doesn’t get dark until eight. The ground beneath our feet is all well-packed dirt and stones, and when the wind kicks up only a very thin layer of dust from the surface rises and sweeps across our shoes.

  As we walk, a passing truck stops abruptly, reverses, then turns into the museum’s parking lot.

  It’s Ranger Ted. He pulls up close, looks through his open window, hesitates, then gets out. “The SAIT guys have picked up and left,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “They’ve called off their investigation,” he says. “The death of Rick Driver no longer seems accidental.”

  You don’t say I told you so at a time like this — not when a man has lost his life — but for a career fraudster like Rick Driver, it’s okay to think it.

  “Did they say why?” I ask.

  “No, not to me anyway. They just packed up their stuff, spoke to my boss, and called in law enforcement. Officially, we’re keeping this quiet, especially ’cause the Bigfoot Festival brings a lot of tourists through this town and we owe it to the locals not to start a panic.”

  “But you told us,” Saad says.

  “I told Laura. You just happened to be here,” he says, then turns to me. “You were right. I still think it was a bit of a fluke, considering it took seasoned investigators a day to conclude what took you thirty seconds, but you were right all the same.”

  On the way back to the motel, we drive past the Paul and notice a crowd gathered in the parking lot. A man in jeans, white sweater, and green vest stands in the back of a pickup truck and speaks to the crowd. We can hear his voice but not his words.