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Two thousand and five, I was
a fifteen year old growing up in southwestern

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Virginia. I've spent most of my
life in the woods. I still love

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to be in nature. It's where
I believe I have a stronger relationship with

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my creator. I was sitting under
some pines overlooking a deer trail on a

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cold morning. My uncle had a
deer stand in an old tree in the

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same spot, and he'd killed a
few deer from there. Because of that,

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in the cold front that had come
through the night before, I had

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a feeling something was going to happen. As I sat there with my old

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side hammer, muzzleloader loaded and ready
for any deer to walk by, I

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heard the distinct sound of something crunching
through the leaves. I put my rifle

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to my shoulder in anticipation of the
deer I knew was about to pop up

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over the hill. What came over
the hill wasn't a deer. It was

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a man who looked to be in
his forties. Right away I noticed he

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was wearing clothes that weren't from this
era. He had on a flat brim

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leather hat with metal buttons on the
front for decoration. His coat was made

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with the fur turned to the inside, and his pants were the same,

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with worn leather on the outside.
His shoes were harsh soul moccasins, and

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he carried a leather possible's bag,
the bag Muzzloder hunters carry with everything they

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need inside. It was across one
shoulder, with a powder horn on his

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opposite shoulder. His rifle was longer
than the hawking style rifle I had.

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His hair was coarse and brown.
His bright blue eyes sized me up from

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a face covered in a full graying
beard. It was as if he had

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stepped through the mists from a distant
past. He had a look of confusion

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on his face as he approached,
but asked in a congenial voice if I

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had seen anything yet. Perplexed by
the fact that someone was hunting the farm

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that I knew I had sold permission
to hunt, I managed only a kurt

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no. He took another minute to
look me up and down, and I

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did the same to him. Can
I see your gun, he asked.

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I handed it over, and he
passed his to me. He sat down

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and we each inspected each other's weapon
with awe. Although his gun was longer

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than mine, it was lighter.
More impressive to me than the gun was

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the man's appearance. I was amazed
that someone was hunting in full mountain man

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apparel. Nothing he wore could have
been as warm as my modern day insulated

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clothing. It was a sight I
never would have expected to see here in

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the Blue Ridge Mountains. But I
thought he must be a man who wished

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to live in a different time,
and this was his way of coming as

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close to that as possible. Still, I couldn't help but wonder at his

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reaction to me. Maybe he really
was from a different time. He handed

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back our guns and he smiled at
me as he stood up. I might

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have asked him a few questions,
but at that moment we both heard the

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sound of a deer walking. He's
coming, the man said, without another

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word. The man got behind me
and we both watched as a buck came

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over the hill. The man put
his hand on my shoulder and he told

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me to take a deep breath and
squeeze the trigger. I did as I

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was told. Pop. It wasn't
the boom of the rifle, just the

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pop of the percrussion cap and the
powder igniting. It was enough to send

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the buck running. The man's hand
was still on my shoulder. As I

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turned around to say something, the
words died on my lips. Though as

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I looked around for him, he
wasn't there. I could still feel his

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hand on my shoulder, but he
just wasn't there. I jumped up,

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and as I did so, the
weight of his hand fell away. I

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decided it was time for me to
call it a day. I was confused

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and frightened, but I didn't feel
he meant me any harm, so there

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was no need to run. I
just walked home, reliving those moments in

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my head, wondering who he could
have been or where he might have come

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from. When I got home,
I put another percussion cap in the gun

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and fired. This time, the
rifle operated properly. I cleaned my gun

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and put it away. I never
got the man's name, nor did I

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ever figure out where or when he
may have come from, and I've never

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seen him again. I'm thirty now, and I haven't hunted that area since.

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Sometimes I think about going back just
to see if he might be there.

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There are some old rock walls in
that area said to be from the

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eighteen hundreds, though no one knows
what they were for. Or who built

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them. I like to think they
were his once. I've seen three bigfoots

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in my life, the first when
I was four years old. I can't

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talk about it though, without first
talking about my dad. Dad didn't have

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more than a ninth grade education,
but he joined the Air Force during the

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Korean Conflict. That led to opportunities
that placed him inside Cheyenne Mountain as one

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of the first programmers. He was
a brilliant man who was respected in both

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his career and his community. He
was my hero and I was his shadow.

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Where he was, that's where I
wanted to be, and what he

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did, that's what I wanted to
do. I wanted to be just like

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him. He was born in Florida
in the first year of the Great Depression.

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They lived so far out in the
sticks it was a four mile walk

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into town. Even after they got
a truck. The condition of those old

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sandy roads made travel so difficult.
It was still a four mile drive,

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but it sure beat walking. Back
in the nineteen sixties, we lived in

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Wichita Falls, Texas, where Dad
was stationed at Shepherd Air Force Base as

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a flight electronics instructor. He and
my mom ran a restaurant on the side,

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But his greatest joy was being outside
hunting and fishing. Because he worked

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so much, he usually fished at
night when everybody else was asleep. He

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loved catfish and had access to all
the local ponds and lakes. And that's

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where I saw my first bigfoot.
One evening, Dad was closing down the

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restaurant when a buddy stopped in and
asked if he wanted to go fishing.

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Of course, my dad said yes, and I beg to go. His

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buddy had a small five hundred acre
cattle ranch where he raised Brahma cattle.

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I love going out there. Somewhere. There's even a picture of me sitting

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on top of one of those big
bulls. He made a quick stop at

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the house to pick up our fishing
gear, my dad's twelve gage Ithaca shotgun

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that he always had with him whenever
he was outdoors. A few snacks in

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my blanket, a lot, changed
into my pajamas and we headed to the

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ranch. And when we got there, Dad made my usual spot on the

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ground with my blanket and started a
small fire to keep me warm and occupied.

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It was your typical ranch cattle pond
built in a draw with an earthen

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dam. I laid there by the
fire while Dad and his budy fished.

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They had a few beers and they
swapped stories. Suddenly a group of about

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twenty cows bellowed below us and started
running in our direction. Something had spooped

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them. A small herd of the
one ton Brahmas bellowed in the night as

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their thundering hoofs shook the ground.
And that's something that's not easy to forget.

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Terrified, all I wanted to do
was crawl inside my dad's pocket.

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I was close to the truck,
and he was ten feet away, next

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to the bank of the river,
and he ran over and he scooped me

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up and he put me in the
pickup. Then he grabbed a shotgun and

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ordered me not to move. I
remember peeking my head over the side of

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the bed and seeing the cattle run
by. They were still bellowing and making

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all kinds of racket, and then
I saw something a four year old will

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never forget. I had no idea
what it was, but it was huge,

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bigger than the cattle. It was
on two legs, and it was

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ten to fifteen feet behind them.
I couldn't see every detail, but the

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moon must have been bright enough and
the fire must have been bigg enough that

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I could see something. My father's
buddy drew his side arm and hollered at

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it with a whistle and a good
cowboy shout. The creature stopped dead in

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its tracks fifty feet from us,
and when it looked in our direction,

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I could see the eye shine.
A few seconds later, he raised a

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pistol and fired a shot. The
sound made me jump. Just as quickly

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my dad raised his ithaca and he
fired three rounds. I can still close

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my eyes and see the fire explode
from the barrel. All the while both

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men were shouting something to the effect
of get out of here, Get out

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of here, y'all. It all
happened within seconds, but even today,

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more than fifty years later, it
replaces in my mind in slow motion.

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The creature quickly bolted away, vanishing
from my view in seconds. Both mid

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now had their weapons leveled in that
once they felt it was gone, they

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moved quickly to break camp. The
reels were thrown into the back of the

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truck, the fire was doused,
and I was scooped up and placed in

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the cab. But not a word
was spoken, and when my dad dropped

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his buddy off at the ranch house. He said, you okay. The

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man replied with a nod and said, I hate those things. And they

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were the only words I remember either
of them saying. Well. Curiosity got

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the better of me on the ride
home, and I finally got the nerve

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to speak. I was only four, and four year olds always have tons

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of questions. Daddy, what was
that? I asked, What's nothing you

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need to know about? Son?
He told me, Well, wasn't a

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man. It was Harry, I
said, but there was no answer.

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My father was silent, intently staring
at the road ahead. Dad, was

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it a hobo? I pressed?
Hoboes were still a thing back in the

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nineteen in the sixties. No,
Son, that wasn't a hobo. It

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just wasn't. Well, what was
it? And I wanted to know.

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My dad knew I wasn't going to
give up. No four year olds give

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up on questions. He took a
deep breath and said, well, it's

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kind of a monkey, son,
that lives in the woods. They're afraid

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of people. Well, a four, I didn't know monkeys lived in Texas.

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Things like that weren't on my radar. But if Dad said it was

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a monkey. Must have been a
monkey. However, even at four,

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I recognized that my dad was afraid. Even then, I knew what guns

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were for hunting and protection, and
this wasn't a hunting trip. And then

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we left real quick, and so
I continued my questions, Well, Dad,

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why was it chasing the cows?
Is it mean? Are they poisonous?

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Which woods does it live in?
Well, my dad was used to

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my interrogations, and he would usually
lovingly answer them in ways I could understand,

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But this time was different. He
was silent, and after a few

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more minutes of NonStop questions, he
pulled the truck over and looked at me

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with his piercing steel blue eyes.
Son, here's the problem. For some

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reason, the government doesn't want people
to know about this monkey. The government

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was well known in our house.
I knew my dad worked for the government.

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The government owned things. When I
was born, my sister asked if

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I belonged to the government or to
my mom and dad. Well, we

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didn't know or understand exactly what the
government was, but we knew it owned

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things and it had rules. My
dad continued, Because I worked for the

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government, I have to do as
they ask and since you're my son,

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so do you. You have to
help keep this monkey quiet. You can't

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tell anyone, you understand, You
can't even tell your mom. It's your

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job now to keep this a secret. You can ask me more questions later,

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but right now you need to be
quiet about it. Do you understand,

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son, Yes, sir, I
will, I assured him, and

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I did. Until this year,
I've never told anyone this story. First

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I told my wife, then my
son, and now I'm telling you.

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A few years later, during a
trout fishing trip in the Colorado Rockies when

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I was nine, I brought it
up again, and that was when my

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dad explained in detail the creature that
he called a skunkate. But that's a

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story for another time. I'm a
sixty eight year old resident of Central Indiana,

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where, following a thirty five year
career, I retired as a captain

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of detectives. I've always had a
passion for being in the woods. As

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early as the age twelve, I
had a trap line. I loved doing

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it, and I was good at
it. So I spent every free minute

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in the woods, especially in the
late fall and winter. At various times

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over the years, the price of
furs was high, and that was an

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added incentive. Every morning, I'd
leave my house at four am walk one

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mile to the large wooded acreage where
I trap and run my lines. Sometimes

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I had more than I could carry
in my pack, so I'd have to

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retrieve the rest after school. In
all my years in the police force,

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I've heard it all from every angle, but I can't say that I ever

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saw Bigfoot. Back when I was
a kid, Bigfoot wasn't even a thought

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in my head. However, I
have heard and seen some very strange things

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in the woods that cannot be explained. There were many times in the woods

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when I had the uncanny feeling of
being watched in the darkness. I would

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hear trees crashing too often to be
at random occurrences. And I remember one

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early weekend morning in particular, when
I was looking for a new trail wrapping

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area adjacent to where my other traps
were set, and a hard rain the

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week before had flooded the bottom land
near the large creek. Afterwards, a

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deep freeze left pockets of water trapped
after the creek receded back into its bank

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and covered in four inch thick sheets
of crystal clear ice. That were like

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window panes into the many aquatic ecosystems
below. As I passed over one of

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these frozen ponds, I looked down
and I saw two large snapping turtles trapped

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under the ice in suspended animation.
Turtle meat was excellent. My father taught

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me the art of cleaning a snapping
turtle. It can be a difficult task

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if it isn't done right. So
I decided to take these two turtles home

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for some good eating. I tried
stomping the ice with my bootheel, but

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I couldn't even crack it. I
decided that i'd bring a hatchet with me

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to chop them out. When I
came back the next day and went on

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my way, I made a three
mile circle around the area, looking for

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fur sign and new places to set
my traps. The ground was frozen hard.

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A couple hours later, as I
came back around the little frozen pool

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with the turtles, I couldn't believe
my eyes. Laying on the root ball

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of a tree were the two turtles. The ice had been smashed, That's

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how I know it was four inches
thick. I could see how thick the

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chunks were. The turtles had been
ripped open from the bottoms to the tops

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of their shells, and all the
flesh was completely gone. I couldn't imagine

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what could have had the strength to
just rip those turtles open like that.

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Well that night it snowed again.
The following morning, I went back to

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the down tree. That hard frozen
rootball was completely destroyed, with the root

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and roots strewn all around in the
snow. I looked around and found huge

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tracks leading to a part of the
creek that ran too fast to free,

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and then they disappeared into the water. After all these years, I still

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think about those two turtles and the
tracks that led into the creek. I

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have no earthly explanation for what it
was, but I hope if you share

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this story, someone else may have
had an encounter similar in relation to Bigfoot,

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and it will confirm what I think
I'll already know.