The legend is true: Old-man Sasquatch lives

After years of tall tales and false leads, I finally saw for myself. I’m talking about Sasquatch, of course, aka Bigfoot, the much debated subject of Washington lore from as far back as I can remember. As a youngster, I studied old, grainy photos and devoured witness testimonials, recreating scenarios from the captivating text and blurred images. I scrutinized the famous 1967 Patterson film frame by frame in search of flaws, but even more so in search of proof. I strapped plaster footprints to size 8 sneakers and flopped through the muddy creek bed, an attempt to duplicate the creature’s magnificent stride.

I was obsessed. But I’m a grown man now, more mature and of nearly normal intelligence, and had all but given up such nonsense until last weekend. As it turns out, Sasquatch lives right next door to my family home in north Spokane.

I put the connection together sitting on the deck, watching doves dive into the dead apple snags by the pond. Movement in my peripheral vision shifted my gaze toward the garden where an enormous creature emerged from the open gate, a bundle of leafy rhubarb stalks under one arm, partially obscuring a mat of gray hair covering the body. Strangely, the other hand wielded what appeared to be a stainless fillet knife, much like the one I used on perch and kokanee. It was hunched over at the waist and shoulders, its great size somewhat diminished as it lurched forward with an awkward gait and series of guttural grunts. My heart racing, I jumped for my camera phone to document this historic event.

“Hi, Dad,” my wife called out as she rounded the corner of the house, waving at the furry presence. “Whatcha doin’?”

The leaves dropped to expose a weathered face, darkened by years of sun and outdoor labor.

“Cuttin’ rhubarb,” the creature growled. “Can’t hardly do anything else, so I might as well bake a cake.”

I was stunned. Wrestling with a mix of emotions – excitement, disappointment, disbelief, sadness – I came to realize what it all meant. Bigfoot was Dad. Dad was Bigfoot. Both were cranky.

My father is every bit the rugged outdoorsman people make him out to be. His towering 6-foot-5 frame complements an omnipotent personality that charms men and women alike. His knowledge of everything outdoors is broad, his skills and talents formidable. To date, Dad’s still the only person I know that can decoy mallards blowing Yankee Doodle on a duck call. It’s that good. Dad earns respect without demanding it, and doles out sage advice to those trailing in his big footsteps.

His adventures are legendary: a face-off with an Alaskan bore tide in a malfunctioning, homemade air-boat; a floatplane crash in the bush; a dive under lake ice to save a drowning dog. Dad always manages to remain unscathed, emerging from his many exploits triumphant, occasionally humbled, but never in defeat. Dad has avoided disease and death as he dances through life, crediting the outdoors for keeping him fit and healthy, as many of his acquaintances have succumbed to a variety of ailments. Simply put, the outdoor connection has served him well. Until now.

It was painful to watch Dad shuffle down the garden path, his body protesting each movement. A frozen shoulder had shortened his hunting expeditions two years ago. A woodcutting injury to the other did the same last year. Numbness in his feet makes walking uncomfortable, and lately, a grinding hip bone with painful sciatica has accelerated the discomfort. Age and ailments were finally catching up. Although for him, it was more like a pileup.

While an upcoming hip replacement was nearly guaranteed to repair the aching legs, much like the shoulder pins had restored his shotgun swing, hints of mortality tend to sit poorly with living legends – a distressing reminder that what once was, may not always be.

But legends come and legends go. Those durable few that survive do so in memories and stories, in tales of great adventure told around campfires. These sagas are celebrated and passed on generation after generation, to entertain, inspire and encourage those have been, or soon will be, left behind.

“Soon as I get this hip replaced, I’ll be good as new,” Bigfoot yelled back over his shoulder. “I’ll be chasing goats on Kodiak this October, don’t you worry!”

I smiled as he disappeared around the bend. I’d take that over rhubarb cake any day.