I knew I was onto something when I saw those unmistakeable prints in the dirt. A black bear had been here, a large one. I strapped my hunting rifle over my shoulder and kneeled down in the dirt to get a closer look, running my fingertips across the prints and examining them like fine pieces of art. The bear had been through here not long before I’d arrived, I could tell by the freshness of the tracks.
I’d been to this same hunting spot the previous fall, I reckoned it had been nearly a year ago on the dot. My results had been pitiful. I had seen one bear, a big one, too. I fired off one shot, thought I could’ve made it at that distance. I was wrong. The thing got scared off and ran away, eluding me for the rest of my trip.
As I stared down at the tracks, I laughed as I wondered if this was the same bear as the previous year. It wasn’t too much of stretch, this one was just as big. How poetic it would have been; the head of the bear that had eluded me, planted firmly on the wall above my fireplace.
I stood up and began to follow the tracks. Everything seemed just right. The tracks were clear and fresh, my prey was clearly quite the trophy, and the wind was kind to me as it blew in my direction. The bear wouldn’t have been able to sniff me out if I’d been wearing the strongest cologne.
I navigated over several hills and across paths, eventually coming to a ledge that looked out across the woodlands. I perched atop the ledge and pulled out my binoculars, scanning the area for signs of my target. Something to look for when hunting bears is a tree swaying back and forth due to a bear scratching its back on the bark.
After just a few moments of inspecting the terrain, I spotted a faint shadow moving through the thicket, a couple hundred yards away. At first, I thought it was just wishful thinking, a trick of my own mind stemming from the hope that I would attain redemption. But as I looked closely, I realized that what I was seeing was really there. Something big and furry was moving through the brush below, and fairly quick. I only caught fleeting glimpses. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as I had last year, overconfidently pulling the trigger at Navy SEAL range.
I immediately stood up, walking with a crouch so the animal wouldn’t spot me. I was certain this was a bear. I needed to get somewhere suitable for stalking. I walked parallel to the bear, which was still on the move far below.
I entered back into the thicket, navigating winding paths and streams, being quick about it so I wouldn’t lose track of the bear. At the tree line was a ravine, the edge of which made a fairly good spot to perch. Below the ravine was a large stream and a sandbank, followed by patches of open woodland, perfect for a clear shot. Staying slightly behind the tree line, I crouched down and pulled out my binoculars, peering through them and waiting for the bear to emerge. If it was still on the move, it shouldn’t have taken long for it to rear its head from the grove.
My heart was pounding out of my chest. Thoughts of apparent poeticism continued running through my head. The thought of conquering this thing was all too satisfying. Do not mess this up.
Sure enough, the bear soon emerged from the woods and into the open. But something was immediately apparent. It was walking on two legs, pretty commonplace for black bears if their front paws are injured. But it’s front legs didn’t look injured at all. Matter of fact, they looked like they were working fine. Something was wrong, though. The front legs were down by its side as it walked, swinging the way a human’s arms swing during a stride.
The pounding of my heart soon ceased. In fact, my heart stopped completely once I got a better look at the creature—the thing—that came out of those woods. This was no bear.
At a passing glance, the animal looked like a bear. It was stocky and fuzzy. But the front legs were long, even longer than a person’s arms. And that’s exactly what they were: arms, not front legs. And at the ends of these arms were not paws. No, those were hands, hands with opposable thumbs.
And then I tilted my line of sight upward. What I saw next sent more chills through me than when I had seen the hands. Because now, I was looking at the animal’s head. Not a bear’s. Best I could describe it would be as the head of an ape, like a gorilla. It can’t be, I thought. As I live and breathe, it simply cannot be.
That is when I realized that I was looking at Bigfoot, right there, in the flesh. I’d always heard the stories, the eyewitness accounts, seen the documentaries on Discovery and National Geographic. But here he was, pacing along a riverbank here in the Pacific Northwest. I wondered if I was to become another one of those crazy-sounding interviewees on a NatGeo documentary.
Then, it hit me. I wouldn’t have to be just another eyewitness. If I brought this thing home, I’d be famous. Hell, I’d be rich. How many museums would pay top dollar for a Bigfoot carcass?
I kicked it into high gear, grabbing my rifle and holding it at the ready. I cocked it and peered through the scope. But the hulking ape was traveling too quickly, moving at a brisk walking pace. If I shot, I’d likely miss, and the gunshot would scare it off. No need to make the same mistake this year.
I stood up and began creeping along the ravine, once again walking parallel with the ape. I resisted the urge to stare, knowing that I might trip over something and make a sound. But it was damn hard, I tell you. This thing was quite a sight. It was hard to tell at this distance, but it must have been seven feet tall.
As the minutes passed, tracking the animal became difficult. If you’ve ever been out in the Pacific Northwest, you’ll know what I am talking about when I say that the forests there are like a box of cotton swabs, incomprehensibly dense and seemingly endless.
I couldn’t stand the thought of this thing disappearing into the thicket. I was sure I’d never have this chance, again. No way this kind of thing happened to someone twice.
I came to a halt and peered into the forest. No sign of Bigfoot. I cursed under my breath, though I refused to curse above a whisper, hoping that the ape was still nearby, and maybe I’d find it again. I kept my feet planted firmly in the dirt, refusing to turn even an inch. I had walked deep into the forest, now, and it was all beginning to look the same. Not only would I lose track of Bigfoot, but I might get lost out here, too. Hell, D.B. Cooper made off with a half a million in cash in the Pacific Northwest, and no one ever found anything more than a necktie.
I started walking again, more slowly this time. I hoped Bigfoot had stopped at some point, and I’d be able to catch up. No way I’d catch up when it was moving at that pace. The sensible part of me said turn back, but I pressed on, determined to bring home the ape.
I perched atop a nearby boulder and looked out at the forest. I couldn’t believe my luck. There, standing still by a tree about a hundred yards away, was Bigfoot. It was squatting down, and it looked like it was eating the ferns on the ground by the tree.
I held my rifle at the ready, aiming at this monstrous simian creature. My arms were shaky, trembling. There was too much at stake for a relaxed sensation. This wasn’t just any hunt. There’d be more black bears next year and the one after that, but this was my only shot at a living, breathing Bigfoot. I gulped as I attempted to steady my rifle, but my arms just wouldn’t calm down. How the hell do brain surgeons do it?
I took a deep breath, and then another, and then another. This seemed to help all the trembling, at least a little.
And then my heart sank as Bigfoot stood up. It was bound to start walking off again. I had to take the shot. I said a silent little prayer and pulled the trigger.
Time seemed to stop for a good while. Everything went silent after I pulled the trigger. I swear I didn’t even hear the gunshot, but I knew it went off, because when I snapped out of my trance, all the birds nearby panicked and began flying away.
I looked on and saw Bigfoot lying by the tree. He was dead, all right. My bullet must have ripped right through his heart, because he didn’t flail or do anything of the sort. Now, he was just a heap of fur on the forest floor.
My heart pounded like a turret as I hopped down from my perch and began jogging over to the dead ape. I couldn’t believe it. For a split second, I felt accomplished and at peace. I was bound to be a millionaire. But those thoughts washed quickly away as I realized I had a new challenge: getting the beast home.
I slowly approached the dead ape and reached out with the barrel of my rifle, ready to poke at it. The last thing I wanted was for this thing to turn out to be still alive and to jump up and rip my head off.
I gave the dead Bigfoot a good poke with the rifle. It didn’t move. I took a deep breath as I stared down at the body, which was lying there facedown. I wanted to get a good look at the face. See what this thing really looked like up close.
As I squatted down on the ground, however, I noticed something peculiar on the body. Something was running down its back, right down the spine, in a straight line. I didn’t quite believe it at first, but as I squinted at it, the thing running down its back could only be described as, of all things, a zipper.
I began to panic as I rolled the thing over. The second I touched it, I noticed that the fur felt strange. The face looked fake and rubbery. I didn’t want to believe it, but suddenly I knew the truth.
Everything added up in my head in the most horrific way possible once I unzipped the zipper and peeled away that rubber mask and revealed a man’s face beneath it. His eyes were shut and his skin was pale and cold when I felt it. I pressed two fingers to his neck and felt no pulse.
The sound of crunching leaves alerted me. I looked up to see two horrified men standing a few feet away. One of them was holding a camera. To say I’d ruined their hoax would be an understatement. I shot Bigfoot, and as I sat there and stared back at the two witnesses, I wondered if they’d caught the killing shot on camera.