WEBVTT

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Like most people, I never believed
bigfoot existed outside of stories. Always figured

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if they did exist, there'd be
some kind of proof, like bones or

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excrement, hair or nests. And
like most believers, I've had some experience

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that have changed my stance on the
topic. In twenty thirteen, we had

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been in charge of taking care of
nuisance hogs at a pecan farm for over

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a year. The farm also included
a few fields of cotton, but the

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hogs tended to leave those fields alone. The pecans ended at the tree line,

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and that led to thousands of acres
of untouched Georgia forests, and the

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creek ran through the forest as well, along with a whole lot of deer.

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I was partnered with two guys from
my office. One was my best

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friend, Jim, who has influenced
me into becoming a Southern speaking Red Mexican

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Red a Southern speaking Red Mexican I
am today, okay. The other was

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Gregg, he runs a hunting guide
business on the side by the way.

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The man's name who wrote this.
He has a Spanish sounding name, so

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I'm guessing he may be or his
family may be from south of the southern

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United States border. We were having
a great success baiting the hogs at the

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treeline using automatic feeders, but the
population was so dense we were barely making

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a dent. It was probably the
heavy concentration of game that drew in a

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family group. One night, we
were spread out and using the last picond

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trees as natural blinds from the tree
line that was about thirty yards away.

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I was sitting at the base of
the tree to hide my outline. There

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was a farmhouse near the entrance to
the field where a light was just brought

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enough to backlight us. Well.
I didn't expect to see anything anyway,

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and the wind was behind us,
blowing our scent straight into the tree line.

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Surprisingly, I started hearing movement and
twigs snap, so I readied my

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rifle. It was a clear night
with plenty of moonlight to see the tree

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line. I didn't see any shadows
moving around yet, but I was patient.

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Thump, something hit the ground right
in front of me, scaring the

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crap out of me. I thought
a branch had come off the pecan tree.

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They're always losing branches. Well,
I jumped to my feet and turned

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on my weapon light, and lying
just a few feet in front of me,

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was a two foot piece of oak
branch, dug into the ground like

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it had been thrown. It was
three inches across and it did not come

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from the tree above. I jumped
behind the tree and swept my light across

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the tree line, and then I
called my buddies to come over, and

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as soon as I told them what
happened, Gregg started shouting that they were

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trespassing on private property. We were
the only ones with access to hunt there,

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and we pressed up to the tree
line and shouted for them to come

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out and show themselves well. After
a few minutes of shouting with no response,

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we figured our hunting was ruined for
the night, and so we packed

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up. The next day, Jem
and I went back to try to find

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tracks or signs of who was messing
with us the night before. We were

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hoping to find what direction they'd come
from, but the underbrush was too thick,

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and while we searched, we talked
about what kind of arm the person

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must have had to throw that log. Thirty yards is a pretty good throw

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for a stick that size. For
a while, that's how things went for

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us. We'd be hunting, and
then sticks and rocks or cotton seeds would

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be thrown at us, and we'd
yell like we did the first night,

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and it became a hunting as usual
routine. We figured someone was set on

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roots our hunts, but we weren't
going to be run off by someone that

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didn't like us hunting there. It
did make us extra careful about what we

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were firing at. We made triple
sure that we weren't firing on the harasser

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or harassers, and as annoying as
it was, we decided that none of

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us was ever to hunt alone on
that property anymore. And we continued bagging

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our fair share of hogs, but
we never found any tracks. We made

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up our minds that it was someone
poaching the land and they were good at

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hiding their movement. We had several
game cameras set up throughout the property,

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but we never got any pictures of
anything other than normal wildlife. We did

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sometimes catch a whiff of something that
didn't smell like any animal that I know

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of. It was an ungodly mix
of wet dog and hot garbage with just

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a hint a sulfur or ammonia.
Then things began to happen that convinced us

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that we were dealing with something more
than the human harassers. My father,

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he's my best friend, and my
brother came in from out of state to

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do some hog hunting with us,
and we began our hunt at the edge

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of the pecan field as usual,
but we never saw anything. Our visitors

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were only there for the night and
the moon was full, so we decided

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to go down to the farm's dirt
service road that was cut into the trees

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leading to the creek. We figured
we might get a chance to run up

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on a hog near that water.
We've killed a few of them down that

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road when they were wallowing in the
mud to cool off. We moved near

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the water until we could hear some
movement coming from the creek, and as

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it got closer, we took a
knee to wait for it to expose itself

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near the road. Whatever it was, it stopped just shy of the road

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beyond our site. After a couple
of minutes that felt more like hours,

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something hit me in the chest.
It didn't hurt, it's just surprised the

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heck out of me. And I
looked down and I saw a cotton seed

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at my feet. Well, that
freaked me out because we were a long

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way from the nearest cotton field,
and I jumped up and was about to

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turn my weapon light on when Jim
told me to wait. There was some

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more movement closer to the road,
and then he heard a loud grunt right

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before it ran away through the shallow
creek. The grunt was not a hog

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or a deer. The sound of
it running through the water told us it

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was by a peedle. It was
making a loud splash, like a person

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running ankle deep in water, but
the splashes were too far apart. Whatever

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made that sound, it had a
huge stride. We pulled out of the

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woods and returned to our cars,
and our visitors drove separately. In our

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car, Jim and Gregg and I
were in a tense conversation about what could

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have made those noises. We figured
it didn't expect so many of us to

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be on the trail, so when
it got eyes on us, it turned

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and ran. We were beginning to
lean toward the possibility of the stories about

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sasquatch being true, but with the
jobs we have, never making assumptions and

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seeking solid evidence before confirming suspicions is
ingrained in us, so we continued on,

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but with extra caution and large caliber
weapons. One night, Greg brought

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in a couple of friends for a
dog hunt. These guys had two catch

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dogs and one bay dog. They
were no slouches. The catch dogs were

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pitt mixes and they were well equipped
with GPS, trackers and night vision and

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a lot of success in previous hunts. It was a hot summer night and

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we were excited to get our first
dog hunt in. The handlers sent the

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dogs into the tree line to start
the hunt, and it wasn't long before

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the dogs had their cat and the
bay dog began barking to let us know.

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We tracked the dogs using the GPS
and we got within two hundred feet

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of them. When the dogs moved
away from us, and as we pushed

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further in, we got a whiff
of that same scent we'd smelled in previous

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hunts. For the next hour,
the dogs would stop and we'd move toward

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them, and then they'd move off
before we could see them through the underbrush.

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The handlers thought the dogs might have
gotten into a hog too big for

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them to pin down completely. We
decided to pull back to our park vehicles

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while the handlers tried to recall their
dogs. Only one of the catch dogs

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returned. He wasn't injured, but
he had some blood on his muzzle.

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They put him in his kennel and
the bay dog continued to holler when they

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tried to recall him. On the
GPS, the dogs were showing as being

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a bit less than a quarter of
a mile away, and we decided to

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try to get closer to the dogs
in case they couldn't hear us, or

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the collars were malfunctioning or something.
We pushed into the woods, and again

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when we got close, the dogs
moved away. The handlers were getting worried

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and started yelling as loud as they
could to get the dogs to return,

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and when the dogs moved away yet
again, we started running to try to

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get close enough to see what was
happening. After running a hard mile through

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the woods and thorny vines and thick
underbrush, we finally caught up to the

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dogs near the creek. The catch
dog was laying on his side with a

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circular stab wound in his left temple. He was dead. The bay dog

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was standing over him, barking toward
the brush. We thought a hog's tusk

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had finally gotten him, but when
we inspected him rigor mortis was beginning to

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set in. If he just recently
stopped moving, that wasn't possible. His

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fur was wet, but there was
no blood or other injuries anywhere on him,

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and it was as if he had
been carried and put down where we

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had found him. If a hog
had dragged him, he'd have been dirty

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and beat up. And again that
smell permeated the area. The handlers collected

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their dogs and we all walked out
to the cars. The handlers loaded up

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their dogs and left without saying a
word. They were definitely spooked and refused

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all invitations to ever hunt with us
again. Despite all of this, we

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never did officially call it a sasquatch
encounter. We had several more similar encounters,

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but we never did lay eyes on
one. The South Georgia brush is

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so thick that you can hardly see
a few feet in front of you.

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We spent the rest of the summer
trying to find hard evidence. To provide

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proof, we set up game cameras, but all that did was convince me

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that they can see infrared illuminators and
smart enough to avoid them. Jim had

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read about tree knocking, so we
finally decided to give it a try to

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challenge them into coming out. We
parked about two hundred yards from the tree

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line and we walked up to one
hundred and fifty yards from the tree line

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and the pecan field. We borrowed
a PVS fourteen monocular to get an advantage

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with good night vision, and after
being there for about an hour with Jim

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knocking on a pecan tree with a
dial rod, we finally saw them.

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Jim unclipped and handed me the monocular, saying scan the tree line to our

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left. Near the first row of
pecan trees outside the tree line, there

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were three of them, with two
more further back in the tree line itself.

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It was a clear night and plenty
of starlight to feed the night vision.

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They were absolutely massive, and the
tallest of the three was a good

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eight and a half to nine feet
tall. The two of the tree line

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were, though with a perspective and
the trees shading them from the light,

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it was hard to tell if they
were significantly smaller. The night vision didn't

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let us see the color, and
we were too far away to see a

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good detail on their faces, but
they were muscular with thick shoulders and short

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necks. Their hair was matted and
it reflected some light in the night vision,

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as if they had been in a
creek water and they were standing there

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watching us with no idea that we
could see them with our passive night vision.

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We were never fans of shooting one
to use the corpse as evidence.

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They're just animals doing their thing.
We're not sport hunters. We eat or

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donate the meat from our kills.
But we didn't like our chances against five

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of them if they decided to attack, so we decided to bug out.

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I handed Jim the monocular and we
walked backwards to Jim's truck slowly with rifles.

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Out said that they were not advancing
on us, but they were keeping

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pace with us. When we got
to the truck, I jumped into the

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bed and covered Jim while he got
into the driver's seat and got us out

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of there. We started referring to
them as our friends whenever anyone might be

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around to overhear us talking. We
never did get them to come out into

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the open again. They still throw
stuff at us to remind us that they're

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still out there. We decided as
long as they made no overtly aggressive actions

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toward us, that we would not
shoot at them. The sticks and rocks

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and seeds smarted on occasion, but
we did not see it as enough to

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respond with deadly forced We did,
however, start wearing our armor while we

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were out there. The next year, the farmer who on the land leased

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a property out from under us to
a friend for deer hunting. We found

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out later from his son that the
guy only hunted once and he never came

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back. The farmer has since passed
away and we have not been able to

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get permission from his estate to continue
our hunts. We're still working on it.

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We have better technology now to obtain
proof that they're still out there.

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And one last thing. Once,
when I was working the night shift,

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I got a call from a coworker
who had gone out with Jim and Greg,

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and as soon as I answered,
he started to cuss me out.

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Well, as an ex marine,
he had a lot of inventive ways to

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swear, and after his verbal assault
calmed down, he asked me why I

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never told him about our friends on
the hunting property. Well, I ask

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him if he'd ever believed me,
and he said probably not, and he

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hung up on me. We never
talked about it again. That short chat

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proved to me that we were not
crazy or seeing things. I believe the

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behaviors we witnessed from these creatures were
threat displays to protect their hunting grounds.

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They could just as easily be very
dangerous if they wanted to.

