Speaker 1: Here's another odd email that I received. The title The
writer gives it as strangeness in the South forty Our
farm operation was several years behind the times. Our neighbors
planted straight rose using GPS and enjoyed the comfortable, controlled
environment of a modern tractor. We didn't always have the
luxury of a cab guided by dead reckoning. The tractors
that did have cabs were nothing more than a noisy box.
To shelter from wind and rain. I had learned to
layer clothing to utilize my own body heat. I actually
preferred to drive an open station unit anyway. There was
something about the feel and smell of that evening. The
chill fall air was pleasant against my face, and I
could smell the rich earth as the dirt glided and
rolled through the three autumn plow I was pulling. I
was operating one of my favorite tractors. It was built
several years before I was even born, but it stood
up proudly to the duties ask of it. The old
farm all imperred like the well tuned machine it was,
and I admired the shine of the red hood before me.
Hents of warmth came from the exhaust stack that lightly
glowed from the work strain, and it was a wonderful
evening to be farming. Dusk was starting to darken the
pale clear sky. Now the colorful pastel canvas displayed shades
of blue, green and hints of red. It wasn't quite
dark enough to really need lights, but shadows were starting
to creep from the timbered field edge. Darkness was beginning
to claim the landscape. This particular area of the farm
could give a particular sense of foreboding. Tonight revealed to
be one of those nights of eeriness. I turned around,
was coming up the evening row was shaded by the
timber edge, and I noticed corn stalks were jamming up
in the middle plowshar, which would need kicking out before
it plugged tightly. I rolled to a stop and idle
the tractor down. Sighing dejectedly, I stood up and stepped
backwards down to the U shape of the drawbar, and
I stepped further down until I was on the ground.
I took out an ear plug and let my hearing
adjust to the surroundings. And it was silent, just way
too quiet. The only sound was the tractor engine idling.
This was very peculiar. My eyes gazed slowly and carefully around,
but I didn't realize anything extraordinary. I should be hearing crickets,
maybe some woodland cadences, but I heard nothing. My footsteps
loudly crunched as I maneuvered myself to clear the pl
i'll shear. My body felt like electric adrenaline was quickly flowing,
and this caused me to go on high alert. I
couldn't shake the feeling as if I was being watched,
and I quickly bent to my task. The sooner I
could get back on the operator's seat, the sooner I
could move on tink. I rocked. The size of my
fist hit the shear to my right. I jumped, barely
missing bumping my head against the plow frame. As I
turned to scan the tree line and other large rock
zipped inches past my head. There had been power propelling
this object, and I heard a whiz sound as it passed,
impacting the ground with a hard thump. Behind me, What
the hell, I exclaimed, not finishing my thought, a very large, dark,
indescribable shadow moved directly in front of me. Out of
the darkness, a man shaped form materialized. This was nobody
I reckon. Now, I judged the figure to stand at
least eight feet tall. A very primitive looking being with
menacing dark eyes stood just beyond my tractor. Dark hair
covered a majority of the neked body. This was very
decidedly a male, and I'm not going into detail on that.
Just trust me. He was well muscled and presented an
athletic body a wrestler or a football player would desire.
We stood within a few short yards of each other.
Now I was trembling with fear, but I stood my ground,
trying to hide my terror. I could feel a penetrating
gaze as if I was being measured and evaluated. Finally,
the mighty beast nonchalantly turned and walked away, as if
I were being dismissed. I heard a loud crunch behind me,
and I quickly turned to see a large fleeting shadow
disappear into the woods on my right. There had been
more than one shaking. I collected myself and I climbed
back in the operator's chair on wobbly legs, and I
was done plowing for the evening. In fact, I picked
up a higher gear to get back to the farmstead.
I didn't tell anybody about my encounter when I got
to the barn lot, who would believe me? Anyway, I
had been there and was still processing the event. Had
it been nothing but my imagination. The rock throne that
hit my plowsher had left a chalk like mark, though
I didn't get harassed about coming in. With darkness falling
and the old, reliable im didn't have the best lighting,
which made it hard to see at night, the bitter
chill was overtaking any warmth found. As the sunlight had retreated,
it was time to call it a day. Anyway, I
did overhear a mumbled comment about pushing the old tractor
too fast. My racing, bumping and creating a clatter was unusual.
Vintage and antique equipment were treated with great respect on
this farm. I had great trepidation realizing I had to
go back and finish plowing the south forty. The duties
still needed completion, regardless of my attitude. The next morning,
I swallowed as much of my fear as I could
and I headed back to the field. The morning went
with no incident. It was slightly warmer as the sun
rose higher in the pale sky. My eyes were constantly
scanning all the scenery, and my head was constantly swiveling
in every direction possible. I was seeking any abnormalities hiding
in the darker forest, and it was difficult to stay
focused on the task at hand. And the electric adrenaline
feeling had returned, and I sensed I was being watched again.
My nose soon alerted me to an offensive smell. It
was stronger when I neared the tree line. The pungent
odor of wet, rank, dirty talk, combined with the smell
of a dead animal attacked my sinuses. No skunk would
have smelled more pleasant. I had planned the plowing so
that I had worked my way to the edge of
the middle, and each pass drew me closer to the trees.
I dreaded my actions after last night's bizarre occurrence. The
tree line felt as if nothing was closing in, making
it easier for the spectators to reach out and grab
me off the operator's seat. My imagination had gone into overdrive. Fortunately,
the cornstalks weren't hampering the plow, and I wasn't real
comfortable with the idea of stopping to clean that plug
away anyway. I felt vulnerable enough. Slowly moving in the open,
and this was one of the very few times I
would have rather dealt with the noisy confinement of a cow.
There probably wouldn't have been any more safety in an
enclosed area. That was nothing more than an idea, a
false sense of security. Another rock zip passed my ear
with fierce intensity. The projectile had been close enough that
I felt it brush the side of my face. One
inch closer and I would have been struck in the eye.
My immediate reaction was to mash the clutch pedal, bringing
the unit to an abrupt halt. Angry, I looked all
around but observed nothing out of the ordinary. Now it
wasn't the reaction of fear. I was mad. After calming myself,
I assessed the situation with more reason. The only place
of concealment the rock could have come was still a
good distance. Whoever or whatever made that pitch had more
power and accuracy than a major league pitcher. Intelligence to
no vulnerable points was also demonstrated. This knowledge was rather disturbing.
I heard the sound of another tractor in the distance.
The volume was increasing, and I observed another plow unit
head to the field. I sat back down and eased
out the clutch, and the old ms started forward with
a slight strain, and I had my doubts, but maybe
I'd be safer with the increase in numbers. The plowing
force soon increased again, and shortly there were three tractors
and plows working in unison. A three bottom plow pulled
by another M and an old John Deere fell into
the work, and the old A's distinctive chugging sound overtook
most of the created human noise pollution. The electric feeling
of adrenaline faded in short time, and I started to
get more comfortable now that there was companionship. It never
occurred to me the unpleasant odor still lingered until I
observe one of the other operators sniffing the air. He
gave me a puzzled look and pinched his nose and shrugged,
indicating he had found the smell strange and offensive. He
asked me later when we stopped, if I had hit
a scump. Okay, this next story, I'm gonna leave The
writer doesn't say, but I'm gonna leave his name anonymous anyway,
and he claims this story is true. This is a
whopper right here. Again, all these stories that I read.
I have no idea if they're true or not, but
it's the way people send them to me. Well, I
can't assume anything, so I don't. But I make a
judgment on those just like you do. But I'm just
not gonna say what I think. Does that makes sense?
All I do is read them, and it's up to
you to decide whether you believe him or not. Back
in the nineteen seventies, when we heard whoops and knocking
across the lake from the cab and my family owned,
were told it was drunk hippies. It was, after all,
northern California. In the nineteen seventies, we lived in the
San Francisco Bay Area, but we were in the Sierras
year round. My family owned a cabin at six thousand
feet elevation in Pine Crest off of Highway one eight.
We skiing the winter and enjoyed the lake in the spring.
In summer, and we hunted deer and cut wood from
fall back in the winter. After high school in nineteen
eighty four, I moved up to our cabin to get
away from the city. The work was seasonal and during
the winter months we worked the local ski resort and
then from May to October. We were wilding firefighters in
the stan Stanislaw National Forest. I think that's how you
pronounce that st. St A n I S l e
U S Stanislaw National Forest, and he says it all
this sounds great when you're nineteen. The first year with
the US Forest Service Department of Agriculture was nineteen eighty five.
I won the job of leeds sawyer on a thirty
man team. We were a hand crew who went where
bulldozers and trucks couldn't go, either by humping in or
by helicopter. Usually, wilderness areas have never been logged, and
therefore they have no fire roads. The area of my forest,
the Stanislaw National Forest, occupies and contains the Immigrant wilderness
where Ron Moorhead recorded this Sierra Sounds. The first of
my three encounters occurred a few hours to the north
of the Plumus National Forest, in which the town of
Quincy is located. The main fire camp was at the
local fairgrounds, where the different teams from around the country
gathered to organize for the fight. Our team drew a
hell attack mission several miles beyond any type of road
into a old growth wilderness area and that meant we
would be dropped in by helicopter. We split the team
to fight two separate dry lightning strikes, each about an acre.
It takes four trips to ferry the entire team. Being
the lead sawyer, I was always in the first flight
with one of my crew leaders to assess the approach
and fell any trees that needed to create rotor clearance.
Sometimes that meant repelling down and lowering my saw by rope.
I fell two trees and the landing zone was open. John,
my crew leader, the First Nation's meewalk tribe member, and
I started to establish the approach by tying ribbons and
limbing up trees so the remainder of the crew could
easily follow. It was an easy fire. Half the crew
had ours out and coal before total dark. The plan
was to bivouac and keep an eye on the burn
until the morning when the birds would pick us up.
It was a beautiful area with old growth forest and
barely any moonlight reaching through the forest floor. We each
took out our space blankets and found a good tree
to bed up against, and we were exhausted and we
fell asleep in no time. It was three thirty am.
When I suddenly awoke and found myself staring at the
outline of an eight to nine foot tall creature covered
in dark air. I could see it move as he
was swaying. Years of hunting all over the Sierra Nevada
Mountains told me that this was not a bear, and
I started to reach for my chainsaw, but I couldn't move.
It felt like I was being held on every part
of my body. I was furious. I wanted to cut
this thing off at the knees, and that's when he
turned and looked at me with I swear to God,
red glowing eyes. I was never scared. I was too
angry to be a friend. I was mentally yelling to
the big bully to let me go and give me
a shot. He looked at me as an older man
would at an nineteen year old, and as clear as day,
without making an audible sound, he said, thank you for
taking care of our home. You are our friend. Well.
I immediately felt calm, and we stared at each other
for a long minute or two. He had a human
face with only a beard for facial hair. He was
four feet, white at the shoulders, and his hair hid
any neck that he might have had, and his nose
was turned down, almost human like. His arms were along
with hands that hung down below his knees, and his
chest was ripped. I knew the chainsaw would have been
a bad idea. He was definitely a male, and he
was standing a mere four feet from me, and he
could have reached out and grabbed me at any moment.
I started to listen with my ears. Everyone was snoring
and making normal sleeping sounds. I looked back at him,
and he honestly gave me a polite nod, and then
he turned and took three or four easy steps that
made no sound, and carried him in an unreasonable distance
to where he passed between two trees. At that point,
he just vanished where he had been looked like the
transporter Sparkles from a Star Trek episode. I'm no kidding.
It was like beat me up, Scottie type stuff. And
then it was dead quiet, and the guy sleeping four
feet away started whimpering quietly, and the guy next to
him made a sound like he was soiling his pants. Well,
I stayed quiet until the sky turned purple in the east.
Before I finally got off to relieve myself. I turned
when I was done, and I saw John, my crew ball,
standing right behind me. He was looking at me with
a serious expression on his face. Who else was all?
He said? Later, I told two other guys and my
crew about the incident, and this is where the Bigfoot
and the government messed with my life and my freedoms.
I was sternly ordered to go get the other two
guys and bring them back to that spot, while the
rest of the crew was sent to prep the LZ
for the choppers. John my boss, held up his hand
and he walked back to us, and he told us
not to speak, and then he advised us that as
employees of the federal government, we now had top secret
clearances and we were never to speak to anyone of
the bear encounter, not even amongst ourselves. I begged him
to answer just one question from each of us. He
gave me a disappointed look, and he walked away to
meet the others at the chopper. While the three of
us made our way to the meadow. I tried to
speak with my teammates, but to no avail. They were
both clearly in shock and would not utter a word.
We made the chopper ride back to town, where we
each met individually with top FS brass. I don't know
what FS Forestry Service brass. After a lengthy deep briefing
and some scary warnings, I headed for the showers and
then I went to chow. I was told that both
of my team members were sick and had been sent
home due to smoke inholation. I made the decision then
to shut up Levenworth Supermacs didn't sound too inviting to me,
and when we left Quincy, we traveled back to our
forest to work and wait for the next fire call.
Now I did my best to act normal, but I
felt like everyone knew my secret. It was a long
time before I was able to relax in my own
skin again. During the mid season, we were called to
go a couple of hours south to then Sierra National
Forest east of Fresno, near Sequoia an Yosemite National Park.
The fire was slow moving, so John and I hiked
up a ridge across the canyon from the burn that
was slowly moving up the opposite ridge through a stand
of trees. Along the other ridge was a logged area
that ran to the top, with a stand of trees
that ran along to its left and standing in the
middle of the logged area. About halfway up the ridge
was an eight to nine foot reddish brown bigfoot or
this guy right sabe. I don't know where that word
came from. It's pretty new. It's pretty new. People are
using it all over YouTube, but we'll call them sabe.
Whatever it was standing there assessing the fire just as
we were, all I could think about was how the
bully held me down with his frieze ray eyes the
last time we met. Now, I put as much concern
into broadcasting one very clear message to this bastard, and
it was two words, but I don't want to repeat them. Here.
We were at least four hundred and fifty yards in
a tree line across the canyon, but he looked directly
at me. He gave me a slight wave by raising
his hand, and took another look at the fire. And
then he turned toward the opposite stand of trees, and wow,
he covered the three hundred yard side hill to the
opposite stand of trees and a time and speed that
was not physically possible by the physics that we understand
right now. The weirdest part was that he looked like
he was gliding. Each stride covered huge distances, and then
just like before, he passed into a tree line and vanished,
and he was followed by two softball sized orbs. It
was midday and very clear, with all the smoke traveling
up over the other ridge well. I turned and looked
to John, and he smiled at me, and he said,
what did you think of that bear? It didn't mind
speak to us so much as it sent an emphatic,
thankful feeling. Now I wouldn't want to be on this
giant's bad side. Nothing was said between John and me,
but again, it didn't frighten me nearly as much as
it amazed me and made me angry at the jerks
who had been letting me run around this forest since
I was five years old without telling me that the
Boogeyman was real. The last time I had occasion to
work with our fellow protectors happened midway through my second
fire season. We were dispatched to Yosemite, which shares a
border with our home forest. We grouped at the top
of the glacier point at the ski area for helicopter operations,
and being in the first sortie, I got a great ride.
We dropped over a glacier point and went straight toward
the valley floor, and the pilot pulled level at five
hundred feet and banked off El Capitain and then circled
toward Bridal Veil Falls, where the fire was located. On
this fire, I had to repel down and have my
saw lowered, and the boss made a couple of sweeps
while I was fed, selling three trees giving us the
clearance for the roads. I had already started to move
up the slope toward the fire, tying ribbons and limbing trees,
and as I came over a rise, another sabe was
standing twenty feet away. Well, I started to laugh at
the silly smile on its face. He in some way
communicated that I met his kin and that I was welcome.
He had me follow him up rout I never would
have seen otherwise I was in a perfect spot to
start the initial attack on the burn line. The crew
followed my trail up and John came over to me
and he said, you gotta love these bears. Huh. Well,
those are the official and unofficial encounters that I'm officially
not supposed to talk about. Thank you and the other
brave souls who gave me the courage to write the
wrongs that I can, and that's the end of his email.
I'm not sure I didn't read any wrongs in this email,
but I think there are many who were going to
find this type of encounter quite outlandish. You know. I
think this is like putting magical powers on these bigfoot
That's not me. I thought the story was great. I'm
not saying that, but I bet there are some if
I'm right, there are some out there who are going
to go, oh, this is kind of a crazy story.
But this guy obviously sounds like he knows about fire
jumping and firefighting in the national forests. And these guys
are raw high dudes. They're not. They don't play around.
They're in fantastic shape, they eat good, they exercise all
the time, and they when they're fighting fires, they're out
there for days, days without sleep. I read a book
not too long ago, well it was actually ten or
fifteen years ago by Norman maclan. It was I think
it was called young Men and Fire. It was about
the man Gulch Fire. I can't remember. Maybe it was
in the sixties, maybe eight or ten firefighters died fighting
that fire, and they learned a lot from it. It's
a great book. Norman McLain. Norman McLain wrote the book
A River Runs Through It that was later turned into
a movie with Brad Pitt and some other guys, and
it's a good movie. It's a good movie, but the
book is better. But he wrote a piece of nine.
A River Runs Through It is fiction, But he wrote
a piece of nonfiction called young Men and Fire. I
strongly recommend you read that book. Norman McClain was a
fantastic writer. He was a very smart, scholarly writer. And
when you can read stuff like that, you really learn something.
So I don't know, I'm just rambling about stuff that
came to my memory as I was reading this. And
these firefighters have always impressed me, you know, the kind
of work they do and the things they're willing to
do to fight these fires. I think they're in it
for the adventure. But to run into a big foot
out in the middle of the woods and him, do
mine speak with you, you see orbs or involved. There
is no aggressive feelings or any fear of these things.
They kind of, according to this this bigfoot or Sabe
as he called it, seems to mind speak with him
to calm him. Isn't that cool. I think that's really cool. Well,
thanks to the writer for the story. I thought it
was great.