by John Zada
The Sasqualogist, whether lay investigator or scientist, is no different from the other self-styled heroes. His or her particular brand of journey rests heavily on literal adventuring—questing—through a physically wild landscape, with all of its exciting fears and challenges to test one’s mettle. But this quest, it seems to me, is also metaphorical. He or she is in pursuit of what may be the most elusive prize that ever existed—a modern-day holy grail. And the obstacles are duly massive. The Sasqualogist wrangles against snickering hordes of skeptics and debunkers (who are themselves heroes of their own mythical journeys). He or she struggles to awaken an indifferent public and a contemptuous scientific establishment. The literal monster the Sasqualogist must slay, apprehend, or capture on camera is a much greater Goliath, in physical and mental acuity, than the biblical giant of that name.
Bearing this in mind, I wonder: Can there ever be victory for this sort of heroism—a seemingly futile kind propped up by hope? One in which all previous heroes on the same path have fallen by the wayside—self-sacrificed, beaten by the beast, like warriors at some indefensible Thermopylae. Beyond the nobility in superhuman effort against insurmountable odds, what could possibly goad a would-be hero into that sort of quest (especially when there are so many others to choose from)?
It may be that its prize is like no other: the capture of a supernatural being.
And so here I am now, among them—yet have always been among them—lost in the mythical landscape of imagination from which I derive my personal significance: another kind of Noble Beyond. But now that I’m awakened to it, I’m less than sure that this is the kind of hero I want to be—or that Sasquatch is the prize I want to spend my precious days failing to attain.
Our journey down the avalanche chute begins as a sluglike procession, as I, Daniel, and a whimpering Josie inch down what feels like a 70 percent incline on our backsides, while straining with Herculean effort to keep from gaining velocity and becoming flying objects. For a while it seems to work—until the ground gives way.
In that moment, the entire hillside comes alive in an animated rippling of dirt and rock that gathers momentum, moving faster and faster. I look behind me to see Daniel and Josie, wide-eyed with horror, being pulled down the mountain in a rip-roaring cloud of dust. I slide faster and faster until my desperate efforts to stop cause me to lose my balance and tumble over and over.
Time slows and all becomes gray, as I endure what feels like head-to-toe rug burn—and the terrestrial equivalent of being dragged under a huge wave of cresting seawater.
After who knows how long, and how far a fall, I awaken to the sound of rushing pebbles and dirt coming to a standstill beside me. I’m lying on my side facing downhill. Standing maybe twenty feet in front of me, with the lake behind him, covered in the fine dust that bathes people pulled from collapsed buildings, is Leonard. He’s holding his shotgun and pack and has a satisfied grin on his face. I hear Daniel cursing bitterly just above me, as Josie, now a gray Lab, steps on my head to get to Leonard’s side.
“Told ya we’d make it down,” he says. “Leonard Ellis doesn’t give up.”
The final push to the cabin, through a spacious grove of Douglas fir, is desperate and incoherent, a race against darkness in free fall.
Because of his knee, Leonard can no longer shoulder his heavy pack, which Daniel now carries in addition to his own. Even though we wear head lamps, visibility in the woods is frighteningly low. It is a shadowy, monochrome world of forms—one of those malign forests from fairy tales. To make matters worse, Daniel and Leonard are sparring about which of the many crisscrossing trails that have suddenly appeared leads to the cabin. But just as hope begins to fade, perhaps for good, we start to see evidence of human activity: piles of wooden planks, fences, hand tools, pieces of machinery.
“Stanley’s unfinished projects!” Leonard says, trying to hide his relief. “We’re almost there.”
Ordinarily, after an ordeal of this sort, the homecoming, the arrival at relative comfort and shelter, is sweet enough to negate what has been endured. But when we finally get to the old enclosure, my heart sinks to depths I had no idea existed. Our head lamps and the last light of dusk reveal a thin shell of a cabin totally at odds with the rustic comforts I’d held out for: it is a patchwork log-and-plywood shack, with open windows covered in tarps, surrounded by homemade wooden scaffolding and ladders. A renovation work in progress! As Leonard and Daniel drop their packs and dust themselves off, I peer around back, hoping to find the “real” cabin. Instead, I discover three partially completed shelters interspersed in a large clearing.
“Jumpin’ Jeezus!” Leonard yells.
I return to the cabin and step inside to find Leonard and Daniel, with their head lamps on, standing between some bunk beds and what appears to be the kitchen area. The place looks as if it has been ransacked. Cans of food, empty jars, pots and pans, rice, coffee, pasta, and mouse shit litter the floor. A large wooden chest is on its side, its lid nearly torn off.
“Bears?” I ask.
“Probably,” Leonard grumbles. “Though how a bear can nearly rip the lid off a locked grub box I have no idea.”
I pick up an empty dill-pickle jar at my feet. “Are bears able to open screw-top jars?” We exchange uncomfortable glances.
“Something—or someone—came through here,” Leonard says. “Right now it doesn’t matter who. Let’s clean this place up before it gets dark. I’ll light some lanterns and start a fire outside. You two get some water from the creek for washing.”
I have no idea how we muster the energy and enthusiasm, but for the better part of an hour, in the last trickles of daylight, we tackle the mess. By the time total darkness falls, the inside of the cabin is in surprisingly good order, swept almost clean, and we are on our bunks spinning with exhaustion.
At first I’m kept awake by Leonard’s thunderous snoring, the sound of Josie licking her shredded paws, and the audible fluttering of bats flying in and out through the cabin windows and doing hard turns over my head. As I begin to drift off, I hear a heavy movement around the cabin. It is the sound of lumbering and rustling of foliage. The presence, I’m certain, is no small animal. But I’m far too spent to care. I keep my eyes closed and will the sound to go away as I fade into my own version of well-deserved oblivion.
I stumble groggily out of the cabin the next day, my body stiff, every muscle aching. Leonard and Daniel are nowhere to be seen. Everywhere around me is a spacious and airy wood, filled with Douglas fir, pine, and birch running deep in all directions. Daylight unveils and defangs what felt like a diabolical forest the night before.
It is eerily calm.
I walk around the cabin to the partial clearing behind it. There I find the structures I could barely make out the night before. One is a very large, open two-story shed for firewood containing what must be a five-year supply of logs. Two more partially constructed buildings, whose final intended form I can’t divine, sit nearby. The rest of the property, littered with hardware-store esoterica, looks like a hurricane disaster site. Wooden planks of every variety, size, and type cover the ground, as do tools, equipment, metals, plastics, machine parts, books, and bobbles. The only thing more astonishing than the sight itself is the implication that Stanley Edwards had carried it all here.
“What a mess,” I say, as Leonard appears. I find and pick up an old hardcover book lying beneath one of the sheds. It’s a German-language translation of Leland Stowe’s Crusoe of Lonesome Lake.
“You shoulda seen the place when I bought it,” Leonard says. “Stanley was a hoarder, a real hermit.”
Daniel climbs down from the loft in the shed containing the firewood. He’s holding a gray 1970s bomber jacket, which he displays to us, glowing with pride.
“Look, Dad. Stanley’s old coat. Looks like I’ll be wearing a bit of history.”
Leonard smiles. “Well, boys, the good news is, we’ve got a boat. We don’t have to hike back up that mountain. I can’t find any paddles, s
o I’m gonna see if I can rustle up some good two-by-fours. Why don’t you guys gimme a hand.”
During the whole trip I’ve been ambivalent about Leonard’s past. It has been hard not to be. I’m not a proponent of the grizzly trophy hunt. But I also don’t see in Leonard the nefariousness that some others do. Some will say it’s because I’m naive. Perhaps it’s because as an outsider I don’t have a stake in these issues and am not driven by the emotions that sometimes surround them. But high emotion, especially in service of—or in opposition to—a cause, paradoxically narrows our vision into a two-tone outlook on life: “right versus wrong,” “with us or against us,” or “us versus them.” We stop discerning the many subtleties and shades that also exist within the spectra of life. The “other” can become a dehumanized enemy. It’s easy for Leonard’s opponents to see him only in terms of his differences and his ideas surrounding aspects of hunting—and vice versa. But if one can manage to look at him more dispassionately, one might find someone who also has much in common with his foes.
This complexity was apparent when I spoke separately with both Leonard and Ian McAllister at Pacific Wild. While the two men complained, sometimes bitterly, about each other, I was able to see similarities between them and could also discern a strange but powerful linkage, and sensed that, although they were opposed, each was somehow key to the other’s fate—and the fate of the region they struggled over. It was as if a strange cosmic collusion were in play that required both their positions, at odds, to create something new.
Leonard’s purchasing and cobbling together of the adjoining bear-guiding territories made it possible for the environmentalists to eventually buy him out and help bring some protection for the bears within a large area in one swoop. In doing so, and encouraging bear-viewing ecotourism in those places, the conservationists and First Nations have fostered an economy Leonard both contributes to and derives his newer work and sustenance from. And so there is a much larger dynamic in play than what heated, irreconcilable enemies can see.
As the three of us dig through piles of wood looking for makeshift oars, Josie trots off into the trees, virtually unnoticed. Moments later we hear her barking. It doesn’t seem important until Leonard yells in a growling voice more alarming than any I’ve heard from him to date: “Joseeee! Come’ere! Come’eeeeeere!”
The dog scurries into view from behind a Douglas fir.
And then everything comes undone. Suddenly, and without any sense of transition, there is a large grizzly sow with a cub forty feet ahead of us at the edge of the clearing. The sow is flailing, roaring, and gnashing her teeth. She is a blur of rippling brown fur and beady eyes set in a wide head. The cub is dancing skittishly around her. I stand there looking at everything blankly, not understanding, trying to process what is going on—and how it came to pass. The moment of surprise is drawn out and stupefying.
Following an invisible cue, as if some order of battle were under way, the bear cub shinnies up the trunk of a tree with the nimbleness of a squirrel. All of us fan out in the slow, cautious, semi-crouched motion of wrestlers about to grapple. Part of me wants to run and keep running. But I remain calm enough to remember that this would be the wrong thing to do. I take small steps back in the direction of the buildings, urging the others to do the same. But no one is listening. Daniel is the first to flip into panic mode.
“She’s gonna charge us, Dad! Shoot ‘er! Shoot ‘er!“
I have no recollection of Leonard’s shotgun anywhere that morning. But now he has it raised—as if he has just pulled the weapon out of his back pocket. The man has menacingly come to life. He is roused and bristling with aggression—a mirror of the snapping beast in front of us.
“Go on! Get outa here! Go on! Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!“ His growls, decibel for decibel, are just as frightening as the bear’s.
Panic infects me in turn. “Let’s go!” I yell, stepping backward, feeling the last of my composure fall apart. “Let’s walk out of here! Now!”
“This is my property!” Leonard barks over his shoulder. “There’s no going anywhere!” He returns to his aim, grappling tensely with the weapon.
Meanwhile, the grizzly’s movements are erratic, chaotic. She lunges several feet before hitting an invisible wall, howling and roaring as if she’s struggling to break free from a net that ensnares her.
“Dad! What are you doing?“ Daniel yells, holding back tears, as the bear takes a few steps toward us. “She’s not stopping!”
Leonard curses to himself, keeping his shotgun raised and moving it around, jerkily. Something is wrong.
“Quick, Dad! Shoot ‘er! Shoot ‘er!“
The bear takes half a step back and prepares to charge.
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!“
Hair bristling, the bear bolts, like an unstoppable missile. The world slows as I give myself over to my reflexes, trusting them to sidestep a thunderbolt.
The gun goes off. There is a deafening clap of thunder. An open-palmed thrust of pressure to my chest. An explosion of earth.
A thick spray of dirt flies into the bear’s face as if a miniature meteorite has crashed to earth. The animal slams on the brakes and recoils with a roar.
Leonard lets out his own nasty, vituperative roar, the mother of all impervious rages, hurled in the dialect of some dark underworld that I hope never to hear again.
“GEEEEEET OUTTTAAA HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRREE!”
When the forest is done quaking, and some semblance of nature’s indifference returns, all of us, including the bear, find ourselves just standing there, emotions largely discharged, wondering what to do next.
The sow is uncertain. She wears a look of shy embarrassment and lowers her head to the ground, pivoting it from side to side, fluttering her lips. After a few pendular swings she resignedly lumbers into the trees.
My heart is galloping uncontrollably. I try to speak but can’t.
“Jeezus,” Leonard says.
We stand there watching her, a shadow drifting between trees, as she is joined by her offspring. The pair vanish deeper into the woods before reappearing again, farther off, in the adjacent creek, crossing to the other bank. The three of us huddle, dazed and fired up on adrenaline. Josie picks up a rusty old food can, brings it to Leonard’s feet, and starts to play with it as if nothing has happened.
“Boy, that was close,” Leonard mumbles, looking both agitated and euphoric and trying to regain his composure.
“What took you so long to shoot?” Daniel asks, his relief tinged with annoyance.
“The gun jammed. We’d have been dead meat if I hadn’t let off that warning shot,” Leonard says, before turning to me with a look as admonishing as it is sarcastic.
“So, Sasquatch Man. Seen enough yet? Ready to go back?”
* Grease trails were indigenous trade routes running between the northwest coast and the interior, along which fermented oil (i.e., grease) of the sacred oolichan (eulachon) fish was traded for other goods.
* In 2001, the provincial New Democratic Party government imposed a moratorium on bear trophy hunting across all of British Columbia until better scientific data about its impact on populations could be collected. Several months later the party was defeated in a snap election. The first act of parliament of the victorious Liberal Party was to rescind the moratorium.
* Bella Coola earned its wider reputation as a Sasquatch hub when journalist John Green and field investigator Bob Titmus, both pioneering Bigfoot researchers, started documenting the numerous reports here in the 1960s. The town’s Bigfoot profile was further raised when the memoirs of a colorful twentieth-century Nuxalk bear-hunting guide named Clayton Mack were published in the 1990s. Mack’s two books, Grizzlies and White Guys and Bella Coola Man, contain the transcribed oral accounts of his own early adventures. Mack, a respected wilderness hand who spent most of his life in the bush guiding hunters (including Norwegian explorer Thor Heyerdahl), claimed to have seen and heard the creatures on a number of occasions.
9
THE RECKONING
The search is not for a wild man but for how wildness has left men, then to bring that wildness back.
—Daniel C. Taylor, Yeti: The Ecology of a Mystery
We’re crammed into an old wooden rowboat, with Leonard in the back, paddling against the wind with two-by-fours cut by Stanley Edwards himself. Only Leonard speaks, periodically directing our strokes through the thick blooms of aquatic weeds. He’s irked about the way the trip has gone and returns to his laments about his plight and life. My mind is overloaded, and I block out most of what he’s saying. But one sentence penetrates:
“Without meaning, a man’s life falls apart,” he says.
Our run-in with the sow and cub the previous day marked the end of our expedition—and my trip. It was as if some denouement, or climax, had been reached. It felt like a powerful, unspoken truth: that there was nothing more to do. My travel companions, I think, sensed that too.
At first I can’t help feeling that I’m returning empty-handed—that the Sasquatch has run circles around me.
But it really hit home more than once during this side trip with Leonard that it doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things whether the Sasquatch actually exists or not. The possibility of a physical Bigfoot may be important for people like John Bindernagel and other scientists, who are working within a certain materialist worldview involving mammals, natural histories, and primate lineages. But to me the implications of the Sasquatch have amounted to a different significance: what it tells us about ourselves.