Good morning. :)
As I attempt to steer this blog towards a new direction, I’d like to begin by sharing with you an eyewitness encounter that was sent to me via email.
Certain details shared by this witness stand out to me: particularly, that Thom felt he found evidence of a small family unit using a natural “den” for shelter. This has been corroborated by the gentleman I’ve been working with who has observed individuals at length, though the actual structure of the shelter itself differs due to the difference in vegetation between the two locations.
(This is the first of three encounters that this witness has shared. Thank you, Thom, for being willing to come forward and talk about your experiences. While Thom has chosen to include his name in his report, if you have a sighting or encounter you’d like to share with other witnesses here on the blog, you may choose to keep your identity confidential.)
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In the spring of 1978 I worked for a timber company located on the California-Oregon border at Highway 101. My job required that I drive from the mill yard inland to our logging jobs west of Orleans, CA. To get there, I had to drive a huge circular route.
Leaving the yard, I drove south on US 101 for just over sixty miles through the coastal Redwood groves to the Bald Hills Road just north of Orick, CA. I followed the Bald Hills Road for about thirty-six miles to Weitchipec, CA and Highway 96 where I turned north for approximately fourteen miles. At Orleans, I turned back to the west and drove for about twenty five miles to our job sites. Since much of this was driven on gravel roads, the trip required four to five hours to complete, depending on the amount of traffic on the highway. I was required to make this trip an average of three times a week.
There existed at that time a road that ran directly from the small town of Gasquet, CA, up the south fork of the Smith River and past Doctor Rocks and on into Orleans. This direct route shortened my trip to about ninety minutes and was known as the Gasquet-Orleans Road, or more familiarly, the G-O Road. It was paved on both ends, but there was, in the middle, from east of Blue Creek to the west of Doctor Rocks a stretch that had never been constructed beyond a bulldozed trace through the timber. The U.S. Forest Service had plans to finish this road, but was being fought vigorously by the lunatic fringe preservationists who pretty much control California, it would seem. The final result being that, looking at a current map of that area, it shows that road still not being completed.
Much of this primitive section of the road was at sufficient elevation that winter snows drifted deep and kept the track closed until early summer, at least, under normal circumstances. This particular spring, the shortcut being so important to us, we hauled a D-7 Caterpillar as far in the west end of the road as we could before the snow stopped us.
There, we unloaded the Cat and let him clear snow across the ten miles or so until he broke out of it on the east end. We used a rubber tired road grader to clear what drifts were amassed on the paved section east of the primitive road. At the beginning of the pavement, we reloaded the Cat back onto its trailer and hauled it on to our road construction site.
With the G-O Road open to Four Wheel Drive vehicles, our crews could leave home two hours before time to be at work on Monday morning, work their time, spend the week in Orleans at a logging camp we’d set up there and return home after work on Friday. If there were something sufficiently important to do at home, they COULD make the trip in midweek, though this was frowned on. On the week in question, I had meetings scheduled with the U.S. Forest Service Sale Administrator on Thursday to set where the roads into the next unit would be located. I then had a conference with our road construction boss set for Friday morning. I determined to drive over on Thursday, have my USFS meeting, spend the night at our camp in Orleans, meet the road boss on Friday and drive home Friday afternoon.
Since I was meeting with government workers on Thursday, I knew I could sleep in a bit longer as they would not leave their office in Orleans any sooner than 8:30 am.
Since I knew I would be staying over, the pack I always carried with me in my truck in case of emergency was especially plush that Thursday morning as I pulled out of the mill yard at 7 am. The sun was well above the eastern rim when I reached the snow line on the G-O Road. That I was the only vehicle to cross this morning was evident in the icy slush that was on the road in various places.
I had traveled about a half mile from the point the snow began and was on a slight uphill grade traveling west to east. I spotted tracks in the snow. The tracks came from the north, dropped down into a shallow swale that opened onto the road in a very muddy stretch. They continued on south, up the slight bank on the south side of the road and disappeared into the distance.
My first thought on seeing the tracks was that a bear, just out of his winter’s sleep had been on a trip of exploration, probably for his morning meal. I am always interested in locating sizable critters, and especially since there were no cub tracks I could see, it would most likely be a lone boar, I stopped short of where the tracks crossed in the mud of the road to measure this bear. As I walked up to the tracks, my jaw dropped like a rock! There in the muddy slush was not the bear tracks I expected to see, but a very large, very human shaped foot print… not just one, but a whole series of them.
For several moments I just stared! Bare, humanoid foot prints that measured just over eighteen inches in length with a stride that I, at six feet, four inches could not begin to emulate. For me, a full stride, left and right is exactly five feet in length. I’ve measured it time and again in my capacity as a forester. The stride on this creature was well over eight feet in length! That was an awesome stride! My first inclination, after regaining mobility, was to follow them to see where they led, and, hopefully, what was making them.
I had but little time to devote to this. A multi-million dollar logging operation could not be left to falter because I wanted to chase a Sasquatch. I did flag the spot well, so I could find it easily on my return trip. I knew I could be done by noon on Friday because I did not have to wait on the USFS and could meet the road boss on the job at six am.
Noon Friday found me in my little truck, climbing the last grade out of Blue Creek Canyon that led to the crossing… not that I was anxious or anything. When I reached my markers, I found a secluded spot without much snow where I could park my truck out of sight of the road. I knew the cutting crew, the logging crews and the road building crews would be passing through here tonight and, knowing that most knew my truck, I did not want them to know what I was about doing here.
When I was ready to travel, I set out on the now day old tracks with little hope of catching up with this particular creature, but I had to follow. Down the ridge we went in the snow. Within a half mile, we broke out of the timber onto a sunny, south-facing slope that was clear of snow except in the very shaded areas. Every few hundred yards there would be a patch of snow varying in size from a few feet across to some that probably covered more than an acre. Although it was not difficult tracking in the bare trail that varied from damp to muddy, these snow fields served to let me know I was still on the same animal.
Very late in the day, when I felt I had hiked about eight or nine miles from the G-O Road, hunger was beginning to rear its demanding head so I decided to look for a good campsite, enjoy my dinner and take a little time to explore my immediate area before dark spread its tentacles and drove me back into camp. The area I was in was populated with stands of magnificent old-growth Douglas Fir of huge proportions. Some of these were more than seven feet in diameter and it was obvious that they had survived many, many fires. Between the stands, especially on the south facing slopes, the scars of those fires were very evident. When I dropped down onto a flat gravel bar adjacent to a beautiful, clear running stream, I thought I had probably found my campsite and when I noticed that several of the huge old behemoths had their trunks burned out, leaving a warm, dry, cave-like den, I determined that I was at home for the night. This had everything I normally look for in a campsite, level ground, cover from possible lightning storms that the current increasing clouds could certainly deliver, and abundant fresh, clean water.
The only disconcerting thing about my campsite was a rather putrid smell that wafted through from time to time and, in searching the den burned from the tree trunk, there was a large number of long, black hairs lodged in the bark and wood. I thought I had probably found a bear’s winter den and, since they were out and doing now, they would not mind sharing quarters with me, since I was determined I would not be there when next they needed it for hibernation. This area, as I have described it here was the model for the second Sasquatch camp in the narrative to follow.
The first thing I did after getting out from under my pack was to hike up the stream for a couple of hundred yards, checking closely for dead critters lying in the water.
The coming night was just beginning its tenure when I heard from the timber the most god-awful, gut wrenching, piercing, high, ululating cry. It was absolutely stunning and bone chilling to hear. I had, at the time, absolutely no idea what could be singing that song and I wasn’t really sure I wanted to know. I had heard descriptions of the call of the Sasquatch, but, believe me, no description I had ever heard even began to prepare me for the reality of it. The first call went on, varying in pitch and modulation for what seemed like minutes, but which was probably between thirty and forty-five seconds. It then ended by fading away in volume to zero.
I was sitting by my fire, completely at attention, eyes and ears under full strain to learn more when it began again though not in the same place. Where the first call was to the south, this call was from the northwest. Again, the same high ululations, almost a warbling sound followed by a steady tone only to be varied again. This time I was able to be a bit more clinical about it as I was not quite so in awe of the sound in and of itself.
I timed this scream at twenty-five seconds when it again faded away. When the calls ceased, there was not a sound to be heard from any source save two. The bubbling of the small creek which was wholly unimpressed with the nocturnal display I had just witnessed was one sound. The other was the thumping of my heart in my chest. I judged the calls to be just up the ridge from my lair, not over two hundred yards away from me.
After these two calls, nothing more was forthcoming. I built my fire up slightly so that it afforded more light. When about two hours had elapsed with no more contact, I noticed a shadow flicker across one of the openings to my den. A moment later, another shadow. They were not really close to my tree, but just at the edge of the light cast by my fire. I quickly searched my pack for the flashlight I always carry there. Unfortunately, when I found it, I could not get it to work. My pack seldom leaves my truck so that I always have it in an emergency. Normally, I remove the batteries from the hand light and store them separately in a plastic baggie to prevent what I had just discovered. Evidently, at some prior time, I had broken my own rule.
Without artificial light, I was relegated to making the most of the light my little fire afforded. By sitting near the opening with my fire at my back, I was able to see my “guests”. There were three of them that I watched most of the night. Evidently, I had unwittingly commandeered their den and they did not appear overly pleased with the prospect of sharing it with me. At any rate, they were with me all night long, a night that lasted, I might add, approximately one hundred and seventy seven hours.
Towards morning, I dozed in short catnaps that were often interrupted by the sounds of woofs and yips that I heard from outside my nest! Somewhere near dawn, these sounds stopped and, my fire built up to last a bit more, I slept soundly for a time.
When I woke, light covered the land, my fire was burned down to coals and the only sounds to be heard were those common to the mountains in the daylight hours.
On emerging from my retreat, the first thing I saw were myriad tracks. From these tracks, I discerned that there where, indeed, three separate creatures of three separate size classes. My assumption is that it was a family group, however, that is strictly an assumption on my part. As soon as I had completed my breakfast and morning ablutions, I hoisted my pack and my butt and hied out of there and back to the road and my waiting truck. I have always wanted to go back in there and check that place out, but I left that job and that area within a month of this incident, and have not been back in that area for any period of time since this occurrence.
This incident is factual and is reported here exactly as it occurred. The memory has remained bright in my mind though more than thirty years have elapsed since that night.
Thom Cantrall
