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Speaker 1: This last summer, the Dan broke at Wixom Lake in Michigan.

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It forever changed the lives of the people who lived

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there after the five hundred year flood that it cost.

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There was a spillway on the southwestern side of the

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lake that afforded beautiful views of the river valley carved

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into the forested area. When I was growing up, my

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friends and I would ride our bikes and explore everywhere

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we could back there. It isn't an especially expansive plot

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of land, but it was secluded enough, and it connects

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to a large piece of state owned land by where

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I currently live. One summer night in two thousand and nine,

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just after dark, a friend and I decided to take

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a hike down a two track that led behind the spillway.

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We walked a long trail that is surrounded by woods

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down to the pond, and then up the steep hill

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to the spillway, where we sat and watched the lake

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for a while. The occasional boat and the small, steady

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spill of water down the pond were the only noises

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we could hear. It was a beautiful night, but eventually

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we knew we had better head back to the car.

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We chatted normally as we walked through the dark. We

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were in no hurry, and our gate matched our mindset.

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We were a little more than halfway back when I

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heard something making noise in the woods fairly close by.

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My friend was small and she was a female, so

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I didn't mention it because I didn't want to freak

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her out. We maintained the same casual pace as we continued,

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but I began to realize just how close whatever was

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making the noise was to us. It was walking parallel

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to us, and it sounded really big. I couldn't hide

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it anymore. I signaled to stop, and when we did,

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it stopped too. I think I was more inquisitive than

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a armed at this point. I thought, somebody's got to

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be messing with us. Well. We started walking again, and

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it immediately began walking with us. It couldn't have been

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more than fifteen yards away. I was really kicking myself

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for not bringing a flashlight. Some boy scout I turned

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out to be. My friend understandably was not enjoying this

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at all. We walked a few more paces and stopped again,

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and it followed suit. Although I couldn't see or smell anything,

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I could hear its footsteps mimicking ours right next to us.

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I finally called out, all right, I hear you over there,

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come on out now. I'm over six feet tall and

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I have a low voice. I don't sound like easy prey.

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But I didn't make a move. There was no response.

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I walked a bit more and it did the same,

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keeping a close distance right behind us. When we stopped again,

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it stopped two. When we walked again, it started walking.

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We stopped again and my friend moved in close to me.

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By now she was terrified. I pulled out my forty

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five and racked one in the chamber. That's an unmistakable

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sound on a quiet night. I knew he or she

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or it had heard that. That was the point. Now yelled, hey,

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I've got a gun and I will shoot you, hoping

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to scare this person off. But it didn't work. We

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started back up the trail and it stayed with us.

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Now I was really concerned if it was a person,

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they were aware that I had a loaded gun in

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my hands. I had just threatened to put their lights out.

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Was anybody that stupid? I don't think so. So what

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animal would be doing this the way it was intentionally

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stalking us. Made me believe it had the mindset of

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a predator. But I had never encountered any behavior like this.

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My safety was off. I was unsettled, to say the least,

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but I knew that running would be a very bad idea.

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I kept the pistol onready out in front of me.

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We kept a slow pace back to the car. Except

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for the footsteps, it never made a sound. Adrenaline was

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in heavy supply the rest of the height. As soon

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as we reached the edge of the woods and had

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the car in sight, it stopped. We couldn't get gone

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fast enough. Felt like a ton of bricks was lifted

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off my chest. Nine years later, in twenty eighteen, I

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had another experience about ten miles from the lake where

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the first incident occurred. Some friends and I decided to

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go winter camping in the state owned land behind my

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house on the coldest weekend of the year. I'm no

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stranger to the forest there. I've spent a lot of

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time hunting, camping, and exploring in those woods. The temperature

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was negative thirty degrees fahrenheit that weekend. People were advice

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to stay inside, but we thought it would be great

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time to hike three miles into the woods set up

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a camp for the weekend. It was dangerous, but not

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if you know what you're doing. The first night went smooth.

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We cooked a hot meal, had a few drinks, and

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chatted for a while, and we all went to sleep.

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I slept for a little while, but the pham pillow

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turned out to be a lumpy boulder and I couldn't

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get comfortable, so I decided to get up. Note to

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self memory, foam pillows in extremely cold temperatures do not mix.

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I sat by the fire and enjoyed the silence in

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the twilight sky. It gets incredibly quiet on a winter

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night with no wind. There were no critters making noises

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at all, and I didn't hear anything except my friends

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in their tents snoring in their sleep. Crack, the sudden

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noise of what sounded like a tree exploding nearby me

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made me jump out of my skin. It was strange

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out and unnerving. I listened close, but I heard no

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branches or trees crashing down. I'd have recognized that if

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I heard that. A few minutes later, it happened again.

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Now things were getting weird. I grabbed my rifle and

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I headed to the area to have a look. I

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walked down the hill from the camp to the frozen

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stream and I posted up. I heard it a few

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more times, but I never saw anything move. One of

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my friends got up as well, and I told him

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what I heard. We sat and listened for about an hour.

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We heard the trees bursting all around the camp. First

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it would come from one area and then from another.

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It wasn't a tree knock, nor it was it anything

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you might typically hear in nature. I was too well

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armed to get spooked, but my curiosity was definitely piqued.

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I wanted to see what was causing it more than anything.

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I thought there could be an explanation for these trees

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making these loud noises and extremely cold temperatures, but I

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haven't found one. It reminded me of one of the

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stories of a policeman who was hiking to his friend's

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grave in the Pacific Northwest. In his story, the trees

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sounded like they were shattering, but there was no physical

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evidence to support the noise. It was the same thing

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for us, without the terrifying chase. Eventually, the sun came

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up and the sound stopped. We had a bizarre story

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to tell our friends who slept through it all. I

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didn't see anything in either event. They were just some

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strange encounters that I can't explain. Back in the late

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nineteen fifties, when my dad was still a young man,

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he hiked by himself up a marked and maintained US

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Forest Service trail to the top of a nearby mountain.

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He was there to hunt a heavily thicketed area for

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black tail deer. It was an arduous two hour trek

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in the dark, and as he reached the summit, an

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unexpected dense fog rolled in, dropping visibility to near zero.

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The area had proven itself productive in the past, and

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he had no desire to make his return trip so soon,

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so he sat down to wait it out, hoping the

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fog would dissipate once the sun came up, or at

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the very least it would thin out enough to allow

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him to continue hunting. He lit a cigarette, and from

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about a half mile away, something screened. My dad always

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maintained that he had experienced and could recognize all the

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screams and calls from every dangerous predator known to inhabit

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the Cascades, except this one. My mother described my dad

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as someone who wasn't afraid of the devil himself, and

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I personally witnessed this bravery and intestinal fortitude on many occasions. However,

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when Dad recounted this tale, a shadow of unsure certainty

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crossed his face, as if he were uncomfortable with the memory.

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He said, it was a cross between a woman's screaming

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and a male lion's roar, and it seemed like it

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went on for a minute or longer, as if from

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an animal with a massive lung capacity. Suddenly, Dad's Winchester

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thirty thirty rifle didn't seem big enough should he have

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to challenge whatever was out there, So discretion being the

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better part of valor, he decided to climb about thirty

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feet up a nearby snag, and there he sat on

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a big, bare limb, listening as the unknown creature sliced

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through the darkness, its screaming roar echoing through the fog

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every few minutes and coming ever closer. Unfortunately, the fog

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settled downward and thickened substantially in the pre dawned chill,

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until he could no longer see the forest floor, but

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his eyes remained riveted on the mists swirling beneath him, waiting,

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though he wasn't sure for what. Then, realization set the

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air from his lungs and sent his heart racing into

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his throat as he heard the unmistakable and terrifying sound

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of someone climbing up the branches below. Quickly, acting out

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of pure instinct, he swung the barrel of his rifle

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around and pointed it in the direction of the sound.

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Bracing himself for the battle of a lifetime, he watched

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as a human like form slowly broke through the fog.

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To his relief, he saw that it was another hunter

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who had the same idea to get out of the

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way of the screaming creature below. He relaxed with a sigh,

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grateful not to be so alone against an unknown enemy.

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The other hunter was a logger who lived in the area.

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The man told my dad that he'd hunted this spot

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for nearly all of his forty five years and had

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never heard anything even remotely similar to the sounds that

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they were now experiencing below, sounds that were now even closer.

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They positioned themselves as nearly back to back as they could,

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and they waited, praying for adequate daylight to survive so

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they could at least see what they were up against.

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Time crawled as they sat in anticipation, holding their breath

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and trying not to panic. Eventually, the creature stopped screaming,

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and it was no longer crashing through the brush. Apparently

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it had vacated the area without ever revealing itself. Sometime

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after sunrise, the fog burned off, and Dad and his

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new friend climbed down from their perch. Both men continued

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their hunt for the rest of the day, but without

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further incident. Neither was ever able to identify or determine

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what it was that had tried them. Soon after that,

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Dad purchased a much more powerful three hundred magnum rifle

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he used for hunting in the Cascade From that day forward,

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he always insisted that his reason for buying it had

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nothing to do with his experience on the mountaintop that morning.

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Years later, Dad, my brother, and I would share another

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experience during a hunting trip. It's an account that I

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have relived in my mind many times in the last

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fifty years since it happened, but I've only shared it

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with my wife and immediate family. I guess it's time

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to share it with you and your listeners before it's

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loss forever. It was in the early nineteen seventies and

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I had just completed my first four year enlistment of

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a thirty three year career in the Air Force. My

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wife and I had returned to my home state of

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Washington on terminal leave. I was spending some quality time

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reconnecting with family and friends, shaking off the lingering remnants

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of wartime nerves and homesickness, and arguing with myself as

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to whether to re enlist for another four years or

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go back to school and finish college on the GI bill.

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It was November and deer season was open in Washington,

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so my dad, my brother, and I decided to celebrate

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my homecoming and the fact that I had survived the

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war in Vietnam with a nostalgic hunting trip to the

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Mount Adam's Wilderness backcountry, an area that we had hunted, camped,

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and fished, and escaped the daily grind for most of

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my young life. We had a perfect spot picked out

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where we had camped before. It was a pretty little

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meadow adjacent to a natural spring in an area that

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was heavily timbered with old growth firs, ponder rosa pine, hemlocks, scrub,

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open vine, maple, and it was prime deer hunting habitat.

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Except for the tiny town of Trout Lake, it was

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miles from civilization. At the time. Trout Lake, Washington was

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no more than a wide spot in the road supported

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by the timber industry in the US four Service activities.

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It consisted of a gas station, a small cafe, a

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general store, and inhabitants who were friendly to the local hunters.

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It was a convenient place to restock our supplies, refuel,

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or grab a bite to eat when we got desperate

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for something other than campfare. My father and brother were

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both experienced hunters and woodsmen. As such, they were always

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enjoyable to hunt with. I had no doubt that he'd

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return home with good memories and with any luck, enough

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venison to fill a couple of freezers. I was ten

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years younger than my brother and eager to join the

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ranks of accomplished hunters and our family around the campfire,

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I always listened intently as they shared stories of their

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hunting adventures in the Washington Cascade Mountains. Their tails were

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sometimes scary, sometimes dramatic, and sometimes sad. Sometimes funny, but

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they always kept my attention. One of my favorites was

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the time my dad was tried by an unknown creature.

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As we set up camp that night, we had no

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idea we'd soon be adding another story to that list.

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It was around the third evening of our hunt, and

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we were walking the graveled forest road back to camp,

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which was another mile or so to the north. It

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was almost dark, past legal hunting hour, so our high

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powered rifles were unloaded and slung over our shoulders as

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we walked three abreast, talking quietly and joking with each

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other about the day's hunt. The gravel was a light

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yellow crushed rock that was easily navigated even without flashlights. Unexpectedly,

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my dad and brother came to an abrupt halt. What

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the hell is that, my dad whispered in astonishment. It

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took a moment from my brother and I to find

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out what he was looking at, but when we did,

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I reacted by immediately reloading my rifle. My dad and

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brother followed suit with our guns at the ready. We

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stood and stared in disbelief as approximately one hundred feet

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in front of us and to the right, a very tall,

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very wide, and very dark figure was walking slowly and

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quietly from our right to our left through the heavy timber.

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It was walking on two legs. As it reached the road,

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it stopped and appeared to stare directly at us for

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a long moment before continuing on its way. We got

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a good look at it silhouette as it crossed the

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light colored road fill, and then went up and over

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a four foot tall vertical cut bank on the west

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side of the road, and it disappeared into the forest.

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The entire episode lasted no more than a few minutes,

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but we all agreed later that it felt like we

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were watching it happen in slow motion. Stapled fairly high

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on a furred tree, immediately behind the creature was a

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thin plastic, bright yellow forestry mal marker. In spite of

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the encroaching darkness, it was still plainly visible, but when

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the creature passed between us and the sign, its head

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blocked our view of it. Once the creature had disappeared

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into the woods, we walked in single file formation, our

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rifles still loaded and with safeties off, down the far

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right side of the road, keeping our focus on the

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left side. As we went. We remained on alert all

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the way back to camp, and it was well after

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dinner was cooked and eaten and the dishes were washed

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before any of us spoke about it. We were all

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lost in our own thoughts and reliving in our minds

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what we had just witnessed. Even after we found our tongues,

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it was my brother and me who did most of

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the talking around the campfire. Dad remained quiet for the

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most part. I believe he was mulling things over in

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his mind and trying to work them out, or perhaps

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he was reliving that morning in the tree and comparing

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the two of events. Dad knew these woods better than anyone.

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He'd hunted and scouted them for decades. Yet it was

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obvious that he had never seen anything like what we

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had just seen, and we could tell that it was

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bothering him. My father and brother both had a lubinum

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pickup truck covers to sleep under. That night. Alone in

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my tent, I tried to sleep. My rifle was at

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my side, but every sound brought me wide awake and

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put me on edge. When daylight finally came, I was relieved,

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despite my fears, the creature or whatever it was, had

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chosen to leave us in peace. That morning, we passed

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the same spot as we walked back to our hunting

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area and stopped to search the cut bank for tracks,

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hoping we'd be able to identify what we had seen

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the night before, and we didn't find any, but we

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were able to determine that the creature would have to

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have taken giant steps up the four foot vertical incline

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to negotiate the cut bank. On the west side of

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the road at that spot was a well worn deer

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trail that it had probably followed down the hill through

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the timber. When we reached the spot where we had

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initially seen the creature, we looked back and were shocked

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to realize that for its head to block the mile

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marker when it passed, it would have had to have

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been in an excess of eight feet tall. The next day,

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Dad harvested an ice buck, and all thoughts of big,

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hairy monsters were put aside. We were all back at

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camp early that afternoon and deciding what to do with

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the deer. It was an unusually warm November and we

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were faced with a dilemma of how to keep it

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from spoiling before we could get it back to Dad's house.

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In Vancouver, which was a two hour drive to the west.

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In cooler weather, we would have just hung and cured

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the deer, but with several days of hunting still ahead

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of us and with the warm weather, that was not

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an option. We decided the Dad and I would take

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the deer back to his house, prepping, bag the meat

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and hang it in his garage where it was nice

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and cool, while my brother stayed at camp, and then

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Dad and I would make the two hour drive back

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and arrived that evening to prepare for the next day's hunt,

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since my brother and I had yet to fill our tags.

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We arrived at my father's house and completed our task,

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and we're about to head back out when Mom informed

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us that dinner was ready. No one is to ever

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pass up on a chance at her fantastic cooking, so

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we stayed and enjoyed the fruits of her labor. But

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that meant we didn't leave until well after dark. We

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were still several miles from camp when we noticed an

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orange glow in the sky and through the trees. We

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were puzzled. It was absolutely no civilization near where we

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were camp, so we had to conclude that it must

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be my brother but we couldn't understand why. When it

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finally came into sight, we were amazed at the size

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of the bonfire burning in the middle of our little meadow.

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Flames were leaping a good ten feet into the air,

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and it was so bright it was illuminating the forest

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that ringed the field. And sitting right next to close

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enough to melt the barrel of the rifle sitting in

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his lap, was my brother. I reiterate, it was an

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unusually warm November. There was no reason for a fire

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of this size. We pulled up and Dad got out

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and asked, why in the world my brother would build

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such an inferno while you two were in Vancouver taking

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your damn sweet time. My brother retorted, I was here

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fending off a pack of howling coyotes. Well, this drew

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a look from my dad and me. Coyotes were not

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something my brother had ever feared. They were always seen

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and heard around our camp at night, and they were

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considered generally harmless to adult humans, and my brother knew

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this whatever he heard. Once we arrived, it stopped. My

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Dad my brother have long said it's passed away, but

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until their dying days, we relived this incident many times

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at the dinner table and around the campfire. We tried

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to make sense of it, but mostly we just liked

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giving my brother a hard time about burning up most

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of our firewood in one night. Well probably never know

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exactly what it was, but my brother and I have

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always thought it was probably a sosquatch. My dad, on

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the other hand, was not a believer by any stretch

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of the imagination. He always felt that for every strange

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occurrence in the forest there was a logical explanation. However,

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he was never able to come up with any explanation

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at all. Since retiring from the Air Force, I've returned

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to that spot many times to show my wife where

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it all happened. For some reason, she never likes to

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stick around for very long. You