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Speaker 1: You're listening to Bigfoot's Wilderness. Part five, The Missing Hunter,

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The Witness that Never Spoke. By the late nineteen eighties,

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Slate Ridge had slipped out of conversation, not officially, not deliberately.

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It just stopped coming up, the way certain names do

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when people agree without saying, so that nothing good follows

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the mention. Hunting routes shifted, camps were placed elsewhere. The

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ridge remained, but it existed more as an absence than

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a destination. That's how places like this survive quietly. This

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is the final account connected to the events surrounding the

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Missing Hunter. It doesn't begin with urgency or alarm. It

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begins the way most things in the woods do, with

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a man alone, moving carefully following what feels familiar. What

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happened next was never written down, never reported, never argued over.

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It was simply carried by the people who lived long

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enough to understand that some stories aren't meant to be resolved,

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only remembered. This is Part five, The Witness that Never Spoke.

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By the time the nineteen eighties began to draw toward

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their quiet end, Slate Ridge no longer felt like a

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place where something happened. It felt like a place where

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something remained. That distinction mattered more than most people understood.

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Places where something happens draws crowds, curiosity, noise. Places where

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something remains draws silence, avoidance, a careful stepping around the edge,

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as if the land itself had claimed a private boundary

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that no one wanted to cross. Slate Ridge had become

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that kind of place. No signs marked it, no fences

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barred it, but the rhythm of the community bent subtly

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away from it. Hunting routes adjusted, camps moved. Even casual

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wanderers seemed to feel it without knowing why, turning back

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before the slope steepened, before the creek bottom darkened, and

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the air grew thick and watchful. The legend had done

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its work. And yet legends don't persist on their own.

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They need reinforcement. In the fall of nineteen eighty nine,

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that reinforcement came quietly, without witnesses or headlines, the way

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things do when the woods are involved. The man's name

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was Thomas Riley. He wasn't local in the way Wade

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Harlan had been. He hadn't grown up on these hills

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or learned their rules from men who learned them the

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hard way. Thomas was from two counties over, a machinist

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by trade, divorced recently restless, he'd taken to hunting alone,

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not for the solitude exactly, but because he didn't have

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anyone left to hunt with. He asked questions when he arrived.

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Where was the good stand which ridge held dear late

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in the season, anywhere to avoid? Men answered him carefully.

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Creek bottom floods easily. North facing slope ice is up.

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Slate ridge ain't worth the trouble. Thomas heard the words,

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but not the meaning. On a cold November morning, with

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frost clinging to leaves and the sky stretched thin and pale,

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Thomas parked his truck near the old Spur. He hadn't

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planned to go there specifically. He just followed the sign

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the way the hunters do, tracks scrapes, the quiet pull

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of terrain that looks right. He shouldered his rifle and

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walked in. The woods received him the way they received

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everyone else, without comment. At first, everything felt normal. The

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forest breathed, leaves shifted under his boots. Somewhere high up,

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a crow called once and then went quiet. Thomas moved carefully,

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scanning ahead, choosing each step with the patience of a

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man who'd spent too many years around loud machines and

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now cherished the sound of his own breathing. He reached

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the ridge just as the light began to change. It

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wasn't sudden, not dramatic, just a gradual thinning, the way

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daylight does when it's ready to let go. Shadows stretched,

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colors dulled, The woods began to simplify themselves into shapes

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and contrasts instead of details. That was when the first

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thing went wrong. The woods went still. Thomas stopped walking

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without consciously deciding to. He stood there, rifle loose in

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his hands, head tilted slightly, listening for the sound that

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should have been there, wind, insects, something, Nothing came. His

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pulse ticked up. He told it was nothing, just a lull,

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just a trick of attention, but the sensation crept deeper,

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the unmistakable awareness that he was no longer alone in

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his thoughts. He took another step, and then he heard it,

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not ahead of him, not behind beside him, A footstep heavy,

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measured close enough that he felt it through the ground

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before his ears placed it. Thomas froze the step stopped.

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His mouth went dry. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.

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Nothing stood there, trees shadow, the vague slope, falling away

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towards toward the creek bottom. He took another step. The

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sound resumed parallel. Thomas's heart hammered against his ribs. He'd

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hunted long enough to know the difference between animals moving

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through brush and something matching his pace deliberately. This wasn't crashing,

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This wasn't startled movement. This was controlled Hello, He called out,

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his voice thinner than he light. The woods did not answer,

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but the presence did not leave. Thomas changed direction abruptly,

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stepping down slope toward the ravine. The footsteps adjusted, He stopped,

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they stopped. He swallowed hard and laughed once, sharp and nervous.

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That ain't funny, he said aloud, though he didn't know

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who he was addressing. That was when the smell arrived.

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It rolled in like fog, thick and unmistakable. Not decay exactly,

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but something old and animal and damp. It filled his

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nose and throat, turning his stomach. Thomas gagged and staggered

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back a step. The footsteps stopped entirely. Silence pressed in

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around him, so complete it felt artificial, as if the

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woods had drawn a breath and refused to let it out. Then,

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without warning, something moved on the ridge ahead of him.

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A shape rose where no shape had been before, tall, broad, upright.

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It did not rush, It did not crouch, It did

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not hide. It simply stood. Thomas's mind tried desperately to

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categorize what he was seeing bare man shadow, but none

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of those fit. The proportions were wrong, The stillness was wrong.

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Animals don't stand like that. Men don't move into open

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ground without purpose. The figure regarded him, not aggressively, not curiously, attentively.

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Thomas realized then that he wasn't the center of its focus.

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It was looking through him, toward the ravine, toward the

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place where the ground dipped and the creak wound cold

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and dark. Thomas's breath came shallow. His rifle felt absurd

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in his hands, suddenly irrelevant. This wasn't a moment for defense.

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It was a moment for understanding, and he was failing

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at it. The figure shifted its weight slightly, and then

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slowly it turned its head. The movement was subtle, deliberate, unmistakable.

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It was indicating something Thomas followed the direction of its

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gaze down the slope. Near the edge of the ravine

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stood another man. Thomas hadn't heard him arrive, hadn't sensed

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him the way he'd sense the presence beside him moments earlier.

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This man stood half hidden by trees, posture relaxed, as

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if it had been there for some time. Watching. The

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realization hit Thomas like a physical blow. The footsteps, the smell,

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the stillness. They hadn't been meant to frighten him. They

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had been meant to hold him. The man below shifted,

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Realizing he'd been seen for a fraction of a second.

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Thomas saw something flash across his face. Surprise, then calculation.

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The man turned and moved down slope, quickly vanishing into brush.

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Thomas looked back toward the ridge. The figure was still there,

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still watching, still not intervening, not chasing the man who fled,

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not stepping toward Thomas, just witnessing. Thomas's knees buckled. He

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dropped to one knee without meaning to, gasping for air.

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When he looked up again, the ridge was empty. The

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woods resumed breathing, wind stirred leaves. Somewhere, a bird fluttered,

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the smell thinned and vanished. Thomas stayed there until the

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light was almost gone. Then he turned and walked out

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the way he'd come, moving slowly, carefully, never taking his

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eyes off the trees. He did not return to Slate Ridge.

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He did not tell his story publicly, but he did

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tell one person, Cal Morrison. They sat on Cow's porch

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as the sun went down, the ridge visible in the

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distance like a dark line against the sky. Thomas spoke,

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halting at first, then with urgency, hands shaking as if

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he described the presence, the shape. The other man, Cal

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listened without interruption. When Thomas finished, Cal nodded. Once it

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showed you, Cal said, showed me what. Thomas asked, The truth,

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Cal replied, and the lie. Thomas swallowed. Why didn't it

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stop him, he asked. Cal looked out toward the woods.

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Because it's not a judge, he said, it's a witness.

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Thomas frowned. Then what good is it? Cal's voice was quiet.

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Witnesses don't exist to fix things, he said. They exist

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to make sure the story doesn't disappear. Thomas never returned

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to the woods. He sold his hunting gear the following

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spring and moved out of the region entirely. He carried

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the memory with him like a scar. He never explained.

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Cal Well passed away two years later. At his funeral,

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men spoke of logging accidents and hunting trips and long

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winters survived. No one mentioned Slate Ridge. No one needed to.

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The ridge remained, and so did the witness. Even now,

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long after the nineteen eighties faded into memory, people still

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talk about Slate Ridge the same way as a place

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that watches back, the place that knows more than it reveals.

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They still hear knocks sometimes three, pause, three. They still

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see shapes at dusk, and once in a great while

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someone walks into the woods with the wrong intentions and

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walks back out with a story that they can't quite tell.

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Bigfoot's wilderness does not end with justice. It ends with understanding.

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Some things do not hunt, some things do not save.

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Some things only observe. And when the lye grows loud

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enough to swallow the truth, the witness steps just close

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enough to be seen, then fades back into the trees,

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leaving the story intact and the woods watching. That was

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really great, And that was the end of Part five

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The Missing Hunter. Thank you for listening to Bigfoots Wilderness.

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If you'd like to support the show, you can join

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the Supporter's Club for just a couple of bucks a month.

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No pressure, just appreciation. Until next time, listen carefully. The

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woods are still watching.