Speaker 1: I was a fifteen year old boy scout when our
troop was taken to Carter Caves State Park in eastern
Kentucky for a week of primitive camping. One evening, after
a day of carousing around, swimming, hiking, cave exploring, and
loving to be while young teenage boys, we finally had
a very late supper. Afterward, we drove the chilly night
away around our campfires, a large one for the troops
and a second for the scout master and his assistant
some twenty feet away. Upon this scene, about ten PM
or so arrived a park ranger on his nightly visit
to our camp. He usually just looked us over, asked
if we had any needs, and then he left, but
this evening he apparently had a couple of things on
his mind. Upon gathering up the scouts, the ranger said
he was looking in to an incident concerning one enterprising scout.
He said that he was told that this scout was
going down to the trading post at the bottom of
the mountain, buying up all the nickel candy bars during
the day, coming back to camp, and selling them after
dark for a dime. After being informed that doing such
a dastardly thing to fellow scouts was wrong. The culprit
who was me was admonished for practicing my first try
it for a enterprise. I thought it was fair. I
spent two hours trudging up and down the mountain every day,
and for the past four days they bought every candy
bar I had. But a snitch tried to blackmail me
into giving him a share of my profits. I wouldn't
do so, so he reported me to the ranger. The
guys really gave it to me good, rising me and
shoving me around in the circle. The ranger, on his part,
put his hand on his hips and smiled at me
and shook his head and walked over and sat down
at the scout master's fire across the campsite. Wondering if
they'd talked more about me. I made a small circle
around the tents and I crept nearer. I sat down
outside the fire circles, listening in on the adult conversation.
But what I heard had nothing to do with me.
The ranger was cautioning the scout masters that in the
general area around the park there had been a tax
on area farm stock. They put the blame on dog
packs codies, coy dogs, cougars, bears, and maybe black panthers,
which we had and still having this part of the country.
The attacks were particularly prevalent in one area about eight
miles away from the park. He said that recently, thinking
that they had the animal cornered, about one hundred volunteers
formed a line with twenty five feet or so between
each one, with some extra men at the closing end.
When it began to get dark, every man lit up
some kind of lantern or flashlight. As they pushed through
the stifling, hot and dusty tall brush. It was a
bit hard to breathe because there was a dry spell
one and the shaking the parched weeds dusted the air
with an artificial yellow fog of pollen, which grew about
eight feet high or more this time of year. At
one point, as they fought their way among the entangling brush,
they heard a scream and a shotgun blast, and they
rushed to the point in the line they found one
of the younger men, he was about twenty years old,
groaning in amongst some crushed vegetation. His gun was found
with the stock smashed in the barrel bent at the
base of a nearby tree. He was out of his
head with fright, so he was transported to the hospital
where he was kept overnight for chest bruising and shock.
He was sedated, so nothing could be learned the incident
until the next morning. After a day or so, According
to what I overheard the ranger say, the boy had
calmed down enough to relay his story. He said that
he was walking through the dusty growth with his lantern
raised in one hand and a shotgun in the other.
He said he heard and saw a rush of movement
from directly ahead that something was coming directly for him.
When a huge white wall came crashing down on him,
He awkwardly lifted his shotgun in one hand and fired,
but was immediately struck in the chest and launched through
the air. The crush of vegetation gave little clue as
to the type of an animal that had attacked the boy.
There was no blood at the scene, and I don't
know if anyone tried to backtrail it through the weeds
to see where it came from, but they didn't get
even another glimpse of it, and no one would volunteer
to follow out after it. The boy didn't know if
he'd even shot it and had no idea what it was.
He was sure that it struck him with more powerful
of a push than a hit, but it was able
to propel him through the air in what he perceived
to be a very little effort on the thing's part.
But the thing was never caught after apparently getting through
the line. Needless to say, that was the end of
any more skirmish lines and for this thing could withstand
a shotgun blast than all bets were off. It has
still been seen throughout the following decades as something like
a white shadow going through the woods, and has remained
around the southeastern portion of Carter County, about twenty miles
south of the park even to this day. But more
on this particular thing later. As I squatted shaking in
the night, the forest noise around me seemed to go quiet.
I realized I was alone in the dark. I made
it safely back to my tent and my sleeping bag.
At that time, the mention of it being a sasquatch
was never discussed or even considered. Bigfoot was alive and
well at this time, supposedly in the Pacific Northwest, or
so we thought. Back some fifty five years ago, not
as it would be in the later sixties and early seventies,
and so was lost in my mind for all these years.
And now Incident number two occurred in August of nineteen
sixty six, and this gentleman was seventeen years old. Here's
a little note, he writes to me before he starts
the story. I finished writing this incident four months after incident.
I I've never told anyone ever, not even my wife,
until now, about this occurrence. I thought the event of
over fifty three years ago would be easy to put
down on paper and ready to send to you in
a couple of hours. I found, to my surprise that
I hardly remembered any details at all. But in starting
to piece it all back together, I was shocked by
what I remembered concerning the terror I had buried regarding
this incident so many years ago. Over the last four months,
things that I hadn't thought about in any detail over
the last half century fell back into place. Having been
a counselor, I'm aware that I blocked much of it
due to trauma, but unplugging the memories started it flooding
back so fast I could hardly keep up with my faults.
Worst of all was that I felt like weeping for
that boy, and the horror, and especially the loneliness of
this singular night. But be that as it may. Let's
go forward with a little over two years after the
first incident to when I was seventeen. A few weeks
before my senior year began, a couple of my friends
and I were invited by a very close family member, Billy,
to go hiking through areas of eastern Kentucky from north
to southeast, in places where we'd never tramped before. At
that time, there were hardly any inhabited areas in this
part of the states, and roads were few and far between.
It was to be a two day trek off trail
and through the dense woods and steep ravines, not far
from where the white Thing had been roaming some years earlier,
but we didn't give it any mind. Only Billy had
a firearm, the rest of us had hunting knives and hatchets.
The temperature was over one hundred with near one hundred
percent humidity, a typical southern hot and dusty August day
with a miserable time for such a hike. All the
creeks we passed were dry. Only the largest creek, Tigert Creek,
had a good amount of water, whose course constantly doubles
back on itself. Our ungs were clinging to the roofs
of our mouths, and we were inhaling hot air and
exhaling hot air back out using our canteens cause a
problem as we were going to fill up as we
went with clear creek water, but as I said, they
were all dry. We started out in jackets in the
cool of the early morning, but as the heat quickly rose,
we soon were shedding down from jackets to shirts to
T shirts. On we went, snagging our way through heavy
brier patches, ankle catching vines, tripping over hidden rocks, insects
die bombing our faces, and gnats doing their best to
land on our open eyeballs. Finally, at the end of
the day, Billy decided that we would set up camp
in a limestone cave set in the side of a
steep cliff with a clear but small stream of cold
water running through it. The gurgling brook echoed over and
over in the small cave. A wide flat stone porch
in front of the cave overlooked a sixty foot drop
The cave was in the side of a limestone cliff,
and I shined my light and checked the drop of
the cliff from above the cave's position. It was about
forty feet down from the trail that we had been following.
Billy chose the cave for its natural cool air conditioning
due to the damp limestone walls and the running stream
for a water supply. The old man was a hunter
and seasoned hiker that knew what he was doing. I
was sure glad to unload my backpack and sleeping bag
and quickly lay down before I threw up. I was
suffering from a pounding headache. I had all the signs
of heat exhaustion. There was nothing to do but try
to sleep the horrible pounding headache away. We were whipped,
so there wasn't much talking around the campfire. We ate
a late meal, gorged our sh in cold water, and
then turned in as soon as darkness fell about nine
thirty PM. I tossed in turn for hours in a
fitful sleep, but about one am I felt the result
of all that water. Groggily pulled on my socks and
gem shoes, buckled my jeans, and went out to water
the grass. This is the downside of sleeping in a cave.
We had to walk back up the trail to take
a leak, and Billy didn't want us to go out
to the porch edge for fear that we'd be so
sleepy that we'd likely fall over. It was chilly in
the cave, much cooler as I stepped up on the
ground above the cave aways in just my t shirt.
I would be back in my warm bag in just
a couple of minutes, though. I had my rail backed
flashlight and my bowie knife tied on my right leg
in a low quick draw sheath, both of which my
dad had made for me. I turned several times and
finally chose a direction that wouldn't spray in the direction
I would have to use and the return to the cave.
Aiming is important. As I was doing my business, the
great chattering noise brought on the night air suddenly ceased.
I felt creepy, so I finished as quick as I could.
The night was clear and the air was cold and damp,
and I was shivering, so I headed back to my
sleeping bag where it would be warm. I was still
in the throes of heat exhaustion, and I stumbled away
in the wrong direction. After not coming back to the
trail to the cave for five or ten minutes, I
knew I had lost my way. I grew a bit
frantic as I went each way along the cliff and
I couldn't find the small trail over the edge and
down to the cave. I let out desperate shouts, but
I got no reply. The loud babbling brook that echoed
in the cave must have drowned out my Pleas I
was in heavy brush, to the cave did not stand out.
I'd been a scout and an explorer for six years,
and I had hunted since I was eight, so I
was filled with the false overconfidence of youth. I believe
that even lost, I'd be able to walk out in
a few hours. I had a strong flashlight and a
twelve inch blade bowie knife, but the heat, exhaustion, and
the lower temperatures were now causing me to sometimes shape violently.
I felt like I was in an ice house. But
I knew that when I found Tigert Creek that I'd
find my way out. If I walked against the current,
so to speak, I was bound to eventually run into
an east West Highway a few hundred yards further. The
bank gave way under my right foot and I was
launched out in space on an elevator ride to Hell.
The fall seemed to take forever. I had crashed through
flimsy branches, falling about forty feet to a point where
the limestone wall met the incline. When I hit a heavier,
forked branch covered with tangles of vines and briars, my
back landing on the limb, knocking the wind out of me.
Thank God for the outstretched limb. Without it, I would
have hit the rock strown basin far below. The entangling
limb and vines slowly tipped sideways with my weight, and
I saw by the waning moonlight that I might be
able to use the vines as a sort of lighter
and climb down to within ten feet of the steep
bank under me. When I got free enough to drop down,
I knew that my best bet would be to dig
my heels into the earth upon impact and ease down
the rest of the way to the bottom. I let go,
and my heels hit and jammed in the loose earth.
I was in for a fast, hard tumble and slide.
To the rocky bottom of the draw. When I stopped tumbling,
I lay there, surveying any damage done to my body.
I was happy to find that, aside from many thorn
scratches and some probable bruising, I was whole. I slowly
got up on very shaky legs, and I turned around,
and as soon as I could think, I saw that
I was standing beside a tiny creek. A person would
think you could look up and see the fireplace light
in our cave, but it would have died down by now,
and I didn't know in which direction to look. I
tried anyway, but upon searching the cave, I could not
see anything but the leaves and the brush and the
walls effectively made this a prison hole. I did try
to find either or both my flashlight and knife, but
those two were lost causes needles in a black hay stack.
I stood there alone in the dark in a steep wedge.
I struggled over the bottom of the draw in each
direction for at least an hour. When I heard the
sound of that of a bear, quieting the forest chatter
once again. I looked around into the darkness of the
narrow pit of the mountain. I saw nothing, but felt
once again that I was being watched by something, and
I prayed it wouldn't be a cougar or a black
panther or a bear aside from wolves, or worse, a
dog pack. I tried to climb the side of the hill,
but each time I slid back down on my belly.
I tried to choose the right way back along the
dimly lit cliff, but I couldn't discern from which side
I had fallen. Logically, I chose to go down the
draw following the dried up creek bed, which is all
I had since it was away from the growl. After
a long stumbling journey of constantly having to climb over, under,
and around obstacles without a light or knife in the
near darkness, I finally came to a break in the
limestone wall on one side. I stopped and laid my sweaty,
filthy body over yet another tree, Falling from a bank
to bank, Gasping for breath with much effort, I used
small trees to drag myself out of my limestone prison,
sliding two steps down the bank while advancing just three,
getting filthier and sweatier by the minute. I finally made
the top edge of the flat on the mountain side,
and I flopped over above the cliff, and I drew
in a heavy, damp breath of air. After resting on
the grimy flat in order to stop wheezing out my lungs,
I got up and continued to crash through the thorn
rods and stumble over rocks and depressions covered by dirt,
gasping for air, sweating in the cold night. When I
made out a larger game trail, Imagine the fear of
a skinny one hundred and forty five pound kid, three
months into his seventeenth birthday, shivering in a filthy, wet
T shirt, groping through the darkness, almost legally blind and
not knowing what direction to go. The moon was going down,
and once again the noise of the forest stopped, but
this time it stopped around me. My heart was pounding
through my ribs as I struggled onward. So again all
I could see were silhouettes of trees and bushes. And
there in a right hand curve in the trail, looking
through and over the brush. Standing on each side of
the game trail were two large back lit figures, one
slightly taller than the other. They were massive and the
last thing I wanted to run into. Suddenly, the thought
of a bear or a cougar was more preferable than
the pair of things I was looking at now. At first,
coming up slightly from the side, I thought there were
two massive black panthers sitting on large boulders because they
seemed to have cat's ears pulled back to a point
my knees got weak. The worst possible meeting was about
to take my life. But as I turned to view
them straight on, I realized they were not on boulders,
but things that stood eight to nine feet tall. They
didn't move but for a small sway. Their heads appeared
to be directly attached to their three to four feet
wide shoulders. Whatever they were, if they were looking at
me at all, I could not tell, and looking back
on it now, I probably misconstrued their sloping heads for
possible ears. Them being a pair of sasquatch again never
even occurred to me until decades later, when sightings became
more common outside the Northwest. I stood there, shaking as
my sweat soak body trembled with cold and just plain
near panic. I then leaned over and put my hands
on my trim knees to steady myself. I was as
wet as I could be, covered with a filth of
many stumble and falls, and I already had had blood
running down my arms from the briars that had torn
at them. I had been lost so long, so many hours.
I was tired and weary. It seemed so unfair to
be stopped, injured, or even killed. Now I tried so hard.
Was it for nothing? I raised my head and gazed
up at these beasts. I was only about twenty five
feet from them at this point, but as I stood there,
I could make out hair and a shadowy face, but
again no details. It would be four decades later before
I read about such encounters, and how the creatures almost
become as still as statues while observing humans, and how
many people went through exactly what I did. But for now,
I realized that I was halfway up the mountain. To
my left were briar patches and wildly tangled brush. To
my right was empty darkness that meant a cliff's edge.
I could not go back because I didn't know where
back was. My strength was not up to it, and
I didn't know what would happen if I turned my
back on them. Why they stood in the brush on
each side of the trail instead of blocking it. I'll
never really know. They still swayed slightly in the dead air,
But as with any predators, I knew that if I
kept my head about and made no eye contact, perhaps
they would just look at me as a harmless curiosity.
As I slowly lowered my head, I got the impression
that they too might have lowered their heads to better
watch me. I'm not sure. The path was a good
three feet wide, so I very slowly made my way
towards these two things. I wanted to look up and
see what kind of beasts they were, but I think
my first thought was correct, and I kept looking down.
As I stepped closer. I wanted to scream and run
for it. All either of them had to do was
crush my head like a grape. The forest was dead still,
and it came to me that they could have been
stalking me all through the night as of now, though
it seemed as eternity was marked in slow inches. But
in the end I was permitted to pass unharmed. I
looked neither right or left or back and neither did
I raise my head. I didn't realize that their feet
were partially on the trail, but I couldn't make them
out in the gloom. After passing by them, I quickened
my pace until the beautiful night's noises began again. I
must state that even passing by within a foot of
these things, I smelled nothing beyond my own sweaty stink.
I walked on for an hour or so and finally
hit Tigert's. I collapsed forward on all fours into the creek,
putting my mouth under and slurping up water through my
parched lips like there was no tomorrow. I didn't have
a canteen, but this time I followed the creek opposite
its flow to keep my thirst quenched. And within a
few hours I heard a lone truck's moan just south
of the creek. I stumbled about five hundred feet in
that direction upon an east west highway. I tried to
flag down the four or five passing cars and trucks
at that early hour, but looking at myself, I hardly
looked human in my totally filthy condition. I then walked
what turned out to be over five or six miles
until I flagged down a cruiser and told the deputy
of my plight. He drove me clear back to the
farm where we'd started out from the day before. Several
hours later, a car pulled up outside and out the
rest of the team jumped out and shouted with relief.
They had been searching for me, and we simply had
a tremendous emotional release from the worst night of my
life thus far. But the really bad part was that Billy,
who led us in whom I hunted with several times,
never allowed me to go out in the woods with
him again. Until now, I hardly remembered any of this incident,
having just told one of my friends at the time
about spotting the creatures, but he just told me I
was hallucinating from the terrified time that I had had.
But it's very clear that God and God alone spared me.
This friend, even though it was fifty four years ago,
still refers to it as the night that you went crazy.
But those of us who were there know better, and
I never ever mentioned it again, not even to my
wife until we were listening to many of your people's tales.
Be it as it may, until now, I hadn't realized that,
aside from mentioning, I had gotten lost in the woods
and fell from a cliff. I never ever had thought
about this in such minute detail until the last few
months of piecing it all back together using twenty twenty hindsight.
Having studied everything about Bigfoot for over fifty years and
listening to others' run ends with Bigfoot, I wonder there
were all of those sudden silences as I fought my
way out of the untangled forest, forcing me to flee
in the opposite direction of the growls. Could it be
that the creatures were just hurting me, making sure that
I would take the right path out of the woods.
Once I hit Tiger Creek, there were no more silences
or growls. I just don't know. And now incident number
three November two thousand and fourteen, and the Gentleman was
sixty five years old. I was speaking with a local
author who had a popular bestseller, whom I had asked
to sign a copy of his book for my daughter
in law. While passing the usual small talk, we got
on the subject of strange tales, and I told him
of the talk I had overheard the ranger tell when
I was in the Scouts back an incident number one.
When he finished listening to my tale, he asked if
I would like to come to a meeting of the
Carter County Bigfoot Research Group in Grand Kentucky and listen
to others encounter stories and retell my story of the
white thing for the group. I was glad to go,
but why that minor tale seemed important to him? I
didn't know. That evening I heard a lot of great
stories from farmers, a doctor, and other professional people. The
author then told the group that they should listen to
my story as it would be of great interest to
them all. After completing the story, there was some silence,
and then the group's leader explained that there had been
a white bigfoot around eastern Carter for decades, but that
this was the oldest confirmed story with dates and details
they had heard about from so long ago. I reiterated
that I didn't know if it was a bigfoot, since
at the time it was just described as some kind
of large white thing. They went on to tell many
more stories of this old white bigfoot, two of which
a woman also recounted some five years later for a
local newspaper. I've included two quotes from that newspaper, and
here's quote number one. The title of the article is
Carter County Bigfoot Regional Sightings prompt Questions. The author of
the article is Jeremy Wells. The publication is the Grayson
Journal Times, dated February six, twenty nineteen, and here's the quote.
Other sites online, including Kentucky hunting dot Net, also record
sightings from the area around Carter Caves, including a supposedly
all white bigfoot that the person reporting the sighting was
nicknamed Big John, who reportedly liked to eat from the
lodge's dumpsters, but naturalists at the park have stated that
they are not familiar with any reported sightings from the
park or the lodge. The next article is also by
the same writer's same publication, and that the title of
the article is Grand Squatching Bigfoot meet Up draws witnesses
and the curious, and the article reads like this. Once
she Tabitha Siegel, started investigating, she found out that there
are sightings dating back to the nineteen sixties and earlier,
and one hair raising tail a young man riding a
mopad after dark had a bike stall on him as
he was trying to get it started he glanced at
his side mirror and saw a tall creature covered in
white hair coming up the road behind him. With this
this extra motivation to get moving, the young man was
able to get his bike to turn over and fled
the area without looking back. So at last, after fifty
four years, I finally was able to put a face
on the creature from back in my scouting days. And
here is incident for the last incident. It's dated February
twenty fifteen, and he is sixty six years old. At
this time, I had purchased a farm on fifty five
acres of mostly forest in nineteen ninety three. The property
was twenty five hundred feet deep and sixty eight hundred
feet wide and locked into all of my other family's properties.
We all used the combined area for hunting and simply
to enjoy the woods. A lot of people from out
of state would come in just to get a big
buck in its rack, and it was common knowledge that
I wanted deer to butcher and didn't care about the rack.
Since we have never been on a high side of income.
We eat lots of game, rabbit, squirrel, and of course deer.
The hunters would feel dress them so all the skinning
and butchering was up to my wife and I. When
we had to dispose of the rest of the head, hide, bones,
and bits of meat. I had a certain place that
I dumped the remains. It was about five to six
hundred feet out back of our barn. It was at
the base of a small ledge overlooking a creek bottom.
There were tracks in the mud on both sides of
My Creek, a tributary of Upper Tigert Creek. My home
is about sixteen miles from my nineteen sixty six adventure.
There are many prints of animals that I can identify,
very large and small, from possum, squirrel, rabbit, raccoon, to
mountain lion and an occasional bear. I've done this for decades,
which lent to one mystery. I would come back to
dump other carcasses and the ones before would be totally gone,
usually within eighteen to twenty four hours. I've seen what
happens when dogs, codies, lines, and black panthers get into them.
The remains are strewn about and with only bones or
bits of meat or left. But that is not the
case now. There was nothing left of almost sixty carcasses.
I dropped back there. So after twenty five years, I
finally got curious enough to borrow my son's trail cam
and change things around. I stacked the remains of the
deer on the flat overlook of the creek, just above
the area in which I tossed the remains. I then
placed the trail cam about eight feet up a tree
on the side of a bank, which placed it about
four feet above the level of the flat rock. Here
it couldn't be reached by anyone without a step ladder
or be quickly noticed by any game. Then I came
back the next day, all that load of remains was
gone right down to the dirt. When I excitedly took
the camera down and rushed it home, all I had
was a photo of me putting the camera up, then
a second from the next day when I took it down.
What in the world happened to all the other photos
that should have been taken. I checked the camera when
I took it down, and it hadn't been disturbed. In fact,
you really had to look for it. It was concealed
very well. During this time, there seemed to be nightly
noises and movements around our house. I've caught possums and
coons around here, so I took the trail camera and
placed it twenty feet behind the house in a tree
on top of a six foot cutaway bank about five
feet up the tree. That put the camera at twelve
feet above my driveway looking at the back of the house,
so there was no way to step around this tree.
I wanted that so that no curious possum or coon
could climb around the lens. And then set it up
and I focused it on the back of the house,
the parking area, and the edge of my garage. The
tree had no limbs below or around the camera for
a bird to light. The only toe hold was a
five inch ledge that allowed me to reach up and
hang the camera. These photos begin on the eleventh of
February in twenty fifteen, at about eight pm. The days
were in the thirties during the day and twenties at night,
so that thin crust of ice froze on top of
the snow. Understand that this camera was a low light
there was no flash involved. In the first picture, you
can see me jumping down the short ledge after I
installed it. The next picture was taken about six pm
on February thirteenth, twenty fifteen, of my wife's return from town.
See the ice reflecting off the lights. The next photo,
also dated February thirteenth, is of just blackness. It's not included.
The shutter went off, but something appears to be blocking
the lens. But nothing could prepare me for the photo
taken next. There's a tremendous white shine around it, and
it doesn't appear to be anything blurry, and in truth,
it seems that the mystery picture is in focus, displaying
at least muscle, eyelids and blood veins, doesn't it or what? Well,
I'm looking at that photo right here, and I don't
see anything. I just see an overexposed. It could be hair,
and it looks like white hair if it is hair.
But I really can't tell what this is, so he asked,
what is it? I've had dozens of people view it
in the last five years without luck. A white owl
was kicked around by some people, but the owl would
have to hover to get this image. The kicker here
is there were and still are no white horses in
this area. But the last photo also seems to have
something to tell. The lens caught a really large flash
and then it was gone, the next shot being another
black streak. Again, there is no outside light other than
the above back door. I say again, the camera has
only a low light lens. The light had to be
from an outside source, and no animal that I know
of is internally lit. Although my wife thinks it might
be an angel horse that floats above the ground. It's
as good a guess as any. The last thing the
camera caught was almost as mysterious as the shining animal.
There was a tremendous flash, and the final photo is
black and I'm looking at I'm looking at just a
white over exposed photo here. Do you have any idea
what this thing is? It's also been speculated that it
could be a twelve foot tall bigfoot, face turned back
toward the camera, perhaps looking over its left shoulder. It
is of the eck andeers of sorts instead of an eye,
but I just don't know. However, as I said before,
there was a thin glaze of ice over an inch
of snow, and nothing could have walked around that tree
without leaving places where a foot would have crushed in
its crust. This is the first thing that I thought
of after this was to look for any prints because
hoofs would have broken through and there weren't any. Again,
I had mounted that camera over the edge of a
little edge. If a horse had stood behind the tree
and twisted its neck around the thin ice would have
been broken. Aside from leaving dozens of other hoof prints,
I have no further ideas. And then the gentleman goes
on to ask for anonymity, and he gives me his
name and phone number and all those things. So that
was a long story, and I did not a lot
of these stories. I do a little bit of editing
to make them a little more I don't know, to
follow a line of a story. You kind of getting
all these pages back together here, But that's what I do.
But I didn't on this one because this man had
spent a lot of time putting this together and me
not being able to see anything in these photos. I'm
not making fun of him or you know, I'm not
being ugly about it. I just don't see anything in
the photos. It just looks like a house and some
people and you know, some blurry things, and it could
be anything. I mean, it could be anything to set
off the lens of the camera, and if they're right
in front of it. It's just going to pick up,
you know, some blurry over exposed hair or fur or whatever.
So I don't think they show anything, so I'm not
going to show them. But I appreciated the story. I
think his tale of getting lost was spectacular, and walking
right walking right by to bigfoot is oh, that's unreal.
And then the tale of the that the ranger told
the scout masters was pretty good. So Carter k the
Carter Caves area in eastern Kino, Luckie must be a
big white bigfoot rider around there. Thank you to the
writer for taking so much time in mailing me this,
and I really appreciate it.