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Oregonbigfoot.com Photo Research Journal
September 15, 1991
Pierce County, WA
Orting, Washington
It
was late evening, September 1991, on the Carbon River in
Washington State. Michael (my partner) and I were camped
out on a friend's property just down the road from where
my childhood Bigfoot experienced had occurred. We'd just
finished a fantastic campfire meal of fresh venison steaks.
It was too dark and late to do dishes, so I placed the dirty
pans away from the tent in the middle of the path, using
them as a sort of burglar alarm, convinced that anything
or anyone coming into the camp would trip over them and
wake us up.
We
took the Coleman lantern into the large, canvas tent with
us. After dressing down for bed, I blew out the light and
placed it just outside the door of the tent, again in the
path as a trap for intruders.
It
was nearly midnight; I was exhausted from a day of hiking
and quickly fell deeply asleep. "Please leave!" Michael's
thundering voice woke me not an hour later. My heart flew
into my throat and I choked out, "What's happening?" "Shh!"
he snapped. We were quiet for a moment. "Please leave!"
he boomed again. I shook, listening carefully. I thought
I heard the slightest shuffling outside, but couldn't be
sure. "Who are you and what do you want?" Again, another,
barely-audible shuffling sound. After another brief respite,
Michael yelled, "LEAVE!" All was silent. He began to explain
to me, in a whisper so light as to be merely a mouthing
of the words on my ear, that he was just beginning to fall
asleep when he heard a loud crunching coming toward our
tent. He was immediately alert, listening. The footsteps
sounded like a man's coming through the dense woods at a
brisk pace, right into the campsite. The steps followed
the path up to the fire pit and around it, over to the car
and around it and then up to the tent. The steps faltered
briefly, then continued along the edge of the tent where
our feet where.
At
this point, he heard a scraping sound, and heard the velcro
on the outer window flaps begin to separate, as if someone
were running a finger under the flap trying to open it.
The intruder then walked along the backside of the tent,
Michael said, and sat down at the corner with a sound like
the expelling of air - like a sigh. "You mean he's RIGHT
THERE BY MY HEAD?" I didn't know until then that one could
whisper hysterically! I really started to shake then. I
didn't know if we were dealing with a Bigfoot or a serial
killer or what. Every now and then we could hear a furtive,
shuffling sound coming from outside that corner of the tent.
I can't remember ever having been so afraid of the unknown.
I had visions of a screaming lunatic coming unglued and
slashing the tent with a knife. We had no gun; our only
protection was a survival knife and the small hatchet.
We
listened and sat, terrified, for over an hour, debating
what to do. Finally, we thought we heard him get up and
move off into the woods. However, this was at the exact
moment that a loud, small plane went overhead, covering
any noise conveniently.
We
decided to make a run for it. I opened the zipper on the
door carefully, quietly. Michael had the car keys in one
hand and the ax in the other. I carried the survival knife
and the flashlight. On the count of three he unzipped the
door the rest of the way and we made a break for it. I shined
the light under the car and around us wildly, looking for
the intruder, seeing no one. He unlocked the driver's door
and I dove across to the passenger sear, headfirst.
A
wild ride through the brush got us out of there and we quickly
drove two towns over to the only open police station. Two
officers in a cruiser followed us back - we explained the
situation, minus the Bigfoot scenario, and they came out
to help up pack up our gear. We did so unevertfully, leaving
only the tent and trash bag. Luckily, our friend owned another
piece of property with a small motorhome trailer down the
road, which we stayed in for the remainder of the trip.
Two
days later we were ready to leave. We took one final walk
down the long trail at the very end of the road where my
Mom found tracks so many years ago. The forest was deathly
silent; no birds or insects could be heard. Two miles later,
at the end of the trail, we heard a loud crashing go up
the ridge near us. Shortly after that, the feelings of apprehension
disappeared and the birds began to sing once more. A stop
by the original camp site proved that no one had stolen
the tent and we proceeded to pack it up. Once the tent was
in the back of the car I turned to take the plastic trash
bag down from the fir tree... and something began to circle
the campsite, loudly, in broad daylight, just out of eyesight.
It was enough. By this time I was much too shook up to stick
around. I dove into the car once more and we got the hell
out of there. 'sigh' The North American Bigfoot Researcher
is such a brave creature.
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