Jaci Dawn

Recently I had the pleasure of hearing a first-hand account of a Bigfoot encounter. If you know me, you know I am a believer in the elusive Sasquatch. I make jokes and follow the news, but the truth is: I think there *is* something out there. It doesn’t really worry me when I am out in the woods (I worry more about Here Kitty Kitty Kitty as in COUGAR and bears than I do Harry of Harry & the Hendersons) but it is something I think about. A lot, actually.

I went out to dinner with a group of old friends and new friends recently. Two of my old friends told a story from their youthful days that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. They did it tag-team style as they recounted an event that took place over 35 years ago, an event that is burned into their memories.

They worked together and after work they sometimes managed to get a six pack of beer which they took out into the mountains to drink. On this particular night, there was just a little snow left in the passes and the side roads were accessible. They were in an old Karmann Ghia and couldn’t go too far off-roads, but they went south out of town and onto some old Jeep trail until they came to the snow. It was dark out and they parked so they could easily get back out in the little car. Juniper and Pinion Pine surrounded them, sagebrush and old snow drifts, and the deep black night.

The first thing they noticed when they stopped was the set of eyeballs glowing in the woods, just visible in the passenger side-view mirror. “Mule deer,” they said and agreed.

But the eyes moved closer and the figure loomed larger. The two teenagers fell silent as they watched something in the side view mirrors. The brake lights no longer reflected in the eyes and darkness enveloped the car. Suddenly, the back of the car dipped down like someone was pushing down on the bumper. Really went down. Then it squeaked back to level.

The two young men sat silent a moment.

“What the …?”

“Want to see?”

Now, at this point I would have been turning the key in the ignition and getting the hell out of there, but this story is about young men. Young men who obviously never watched Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” and who obviously never screamed at Tippi Hedren: “Don’t open the door! Don’t open the door! Don’t CLOSE THE DOOR BEHIND YOU!!!” (Tippi Hedren ignores all the warnings, too, and nearly gets pecked to death by the birds in the attic.)

The once-young men who told me this story both got OUT OF THE CAR. Yes, they actually got out. Testosterone – this is why men do stupid things. Anyway, they got out and shined their flashlights around. Nothing. Except the SMELL!!!

They tried to put it into words.

“The smell is hard to describe..not overpowering, but strong….dirty, sweaty, burning hair, rotten flesh. Kinda akin to that when an abscess bursts…”

There was also a set of very large human-like tracks in the snow bank where whatever-it-was retreated. They ran their flashlights out along the tracks.

And then it screamed.

Suddenly, good sense took over: they jumped into the Karmann Ghia and got the heck out of Dodge. Somewhere down the road, they stopped and popped open their first beer of the evening.

The wife of one of the men confided to me that, “I used to think he was making this up but the story never changes. It’s always the same details. I believe him now.”

They claim the encounter happened somewhere near Connors Summit in Nevada. (???) Circa 1970-1973.

Do you believe? I am convinced.