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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