The Misty Dawn
Rain falls in the Pacific Northwest. It is not a storm, but a constant, dripping presence that turns the world into a palette of greens and greys. High in the Cascade Mountains, the air smells of pine needles and damp earth.
A massive shape unwraps itself from the base of a cedar tree. Standing eight feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur, the Sasquatch blends perfectly with the shadows of the ancient forest. He shakes the water from his coat, a movement that sends a spray of droplets flying like mist.
He is not an ape. He is not a man. He is something in between, a relic of a time when the line between the two was blurred.
scanning the forest floor, his eyes—dark and intelligent—miss nothing. He sees where a deer slept. He sees the disturbed leaves where a cougar passed in the night. He is the master of this domain, and today, his primary goal is simply to remain unseen.
The Forage
Hunger drives him. He moves through the underbrush with an impossible silence. For a creature weighing eight hundred pounds, he steps with the lightness of a ghost. He knows which branches will snap and which mosspatches will hold his weight.
He finds a patch of skunk cabbage near a stream. Kneeling, he digs up the roots with hands the size of baseball mitts. He chews them slowly, savoring the peppery taste. Later, he strips the bark from a young hemlock tree to get at the sweet cambium layer underneath.
He is an omnivore, an opportunist. He eats berries, roots, insects, and fish. He takes what the forest offers, never taking more than he needs, never leaving a scar on the land.
The Intrusion
A sound cuts through the rhythm of the rain. Voices. The distinct, jarring timbre of human speech.
The Sasquatch freezes. He becomes a statue. His fur breaks up his outline, making him look like just another stump, another shadow.
Two hikers appear on the trail below. They are loud. clad in bright Gore-Tex jackets that scream against the natural hues of the forest. They carry metal poles that clack against the rocks.
The Sasquatch watches them. He feels no aggression, only a weary caution. Humans are noisy, smelly, and destructive. They leave trails of garbage and noise wherever they go.
He waits for them to pass. Then, he hears the click of a shutter.
One of the hikers has stopped. He is pointing a black box at the trees. Not at the Sasquatch—he hasn't seen him—but at the interesting play of light on the ferns.
The Sasquatch slowly retreats. He does not turn and run. He steps backward, placing his feet carefully in the shadows. He melts away. One moment he is there, a looming presence. The next, he is gone, leaving only the smell of wet musk in the air.
The Communication
Miles away, across the valley, a sound echoes. Knock. Knock. Knock. it is the sound of wood striking wood.
The Sasquatch pauses. He finds a heavy branch and walks to a hollow snag. He strikes it. Knock. Knock.
It is a signal. A simple binary code. I am here. The area is clear.
He listens. The reply comes faint but distinct. Another of his kind, ranging on the next ridge. They are solitary, but they are not alone. They keep track of each other, a network of ghosts spanning the wilderness.
The Night Watch
Darkness claims the forest. The rain stops, leaving the sky clear and star-studded.
The Sasquatch climbs to a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley. Below, he sees the lights of a small town. They twinkle like fallen stars. He watches the cars moving on the highway, tiny beetles of light.
He feels a strange kinship with the night. Down there, in the boxes of wood and glass, the humans hide from the dark. They fear what lies beyond their firelight.
But up here, the dark is a blanket. The Sasquatch lies back against the rock, crossing his massive arms behind his head. He is safe. He is the secret the forest keeps to itself. He closes his eyes, lulled by the wind in the fir trees, knowing that as long as he remains a shadow, he remains free.
