This is an opportunity and gift to my readers to experience the creation of my ongoing Sasquatch Book, "Conversations With Sasquatch". I believe it speaks for itself, so I will not bore you with any details other than it is being created and written as you read. I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think! For your convenience there is a glossary included at the bottom of the page for new and unusual words or terms.
I have had to readjust my beliefs and rethink many an opinion since I met a Sasquatch while out hunting for morel mushrooms in Lewiston, Michigan. I had no idea that these mushrooms were high on their list of dietary delicacies. They prize and love them.
I would have been afraid and crapped my pants if it hadn’t been for the long outstretched arm that offered me a half eaten morel. There was nothing aggressive or hostile in this gesture. He effused a welcoming aura of curious friendliness.
I took the half-eaten morel and popped it into my mouth. As I shook my head affirmatively, I offered him my paper sack that contained about twenty morels and two or three beefsteaks I had gathered along a cedar ridge beside Big Creek.
It was then that I noticed the pure silence that had fallen over the forest. The crows look-out caws had vanished, the squirrels had shushed their chatter and rattle in the trees. Not even a bluejay or a mosquito was daring a peep.
I struggled to swallow the copper taste that had encroached to dry my mouth.
Sasquatch smiled. He had jaws filled with yellow teeth and eyes that twinkled with delight.
“Thank you,” he said, and jiggled his lips like a horse as it eats a sugar cube off your hand.
“You’re welcome,” I replied with another swallow.
“There’s a storm in the air,” Sasquatch offered with a gesture towards the sky, “the ozone is lifting my hairs.” He proceeded to run his hand a few inches above his chest where I could see the hairs stand up as if a magnet were being run over a cache of metal shavings. He abruptly slapped his chest and laughed. It sounded eerily like the shriek of an eagle guarding its kill.
The sky was clear, but I thought I could hear a distant rumble of thunder to the west. I couldn’t remember any rain being in the forecast. I had come dressed only in jeans, a polo shirt and sneakers.
“You humans are such frail creatures,” he said. “I remember when you were more like us, hunters and gatherers of the health and fruits of God.”
I really couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me verbally or telepathically. There was such a sense of otherworldliness. I had a hard time getting a grip on my racing thoughts and emotions. In the absence of abject fear, I felt a combination of elation and serenity. I guess it was what you’d call dumbstruck.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” he asked and popped a fresh mushroom into his mouth.
“I have never met a Sasquatch before,” I managed.
“Not many a human has,” he whispered conspiratorially. “You are the first in many thousands of years I have spoken to. You are the chosen one”
“I am honored,” I humbly croaked.
“I am not so sure you should be. You humans are blowing it. You are blind to the world of the Sasquatch. You have lost the memory and instinct of your body’s genes and the very essence of your immortal soul.”
A darkness crept stealthily over the ridge. Lightning flashed and a huge clap of thunder reverberated and rattled my teeth. I began to shiver uncontrollably as Sasquatch melted into the rain with a welcoming gesture for me to follow him there to wherever there was going to be.
Talking to a Sasquatch would probably qualify me as being a delusional schizophrenic or having some such mentally manufactured label from the Diagnostic Manual of Mental Disorders. Rest assured, I am more sane than the writers and creators of that psychiatric flap-trap. As Sasquatch said in our first conversation a little over a week ago, “humans are blind to the world of the Yeti.”
Exactly why I was chosen I haven’t got a clue. All I know is that today I have an appointment to meet with him once again near that auspicious cedar ridge that runs along the banks of Big Creek, in Lewiston, Michigan.
I do not take this meeting lightly. The fear that was inexplicably absent during our first encounter is in full force as I lock my Mazda and begin my traipse into the greening woods.
As always, I find myself getting unwound and relaxed by the sanctuary of the forest. There is a lush carpet of fresh moss, wintergreen and huckleberry as I begin to cut a trajectory toward the ridge where I had previously shared mushrooms with a being that claimed to be immortal. As I walk, I am suddenly struck with the notion that Sasquatch might like a bag of fresh wintergreen. I, myself, love to chew on the minty leaves, which are cool and relaxing. I kneel down, pluck a new sprout and pop it into my mouth. I then gather a few handfuls of the dark green fingers and slip them into the small Ace Hardware bag I always carry for gathering purposes. I succinctly remember Sasquatch telling me that humans had once been much more attuned to the gathering of the medicinal and nutritional gifts of nature. Is it possible my penchant for such was what had drawn this Big Foot to engage me?
I don’t know. There are doubts. I’m still feeling a bit dumbstruck and unbelieving. I have to work quite hard to suspend my recurring thoughts that Sasquatch was nothing more than a figment of my overactive imagination. Had I eaten (like some have suggested) the wrong mushroom by mistake? Was it possible I had simply hallucinated and manufactured my whole Sasquatch experience from the far reaches of a childhood memory?
Over the years, I must admit, I really hadn’t thought much about Sasquatch. I’ve had no particular reason to do so. I’m a busy person, both purposeful and happy. I think little of the past and focus on the present and the future.
As I continue my trek towards Big Creek, my childhood memory of Sasquatch floods back as if a dam has burst inside my head. I find myself emotionally present in the excitement of the time, the utter bug-eyed blinking and wiping of my eyes during those fateful moments I laid eyes on him bathing in the river near my fishing hole. I am overcome with a hot flash of perspiration. Adrenalin rushes and vibrates through my body as I re-experience running helter-skelter up the bank of the river to reach the deer camp where my father is playing poker and drinking whiskey with his pals.
I breathlessly arrive as Al Kaline* is stepping up to the plate with runners on first and third in the top of the ninth in a tight game against the Minnesota Twins. My dad and his pals are glued to the tinny squawk of a small transistor radio, intently listening as Ernie Harwell* sets the stage for the next pitch.
I shake my father’s arm violently to get his attention and shriek incoherently about the monster bathing in the river. My dad’s eyes blink rapidly as he slowly tries to bring me into focus. When he finally registers my presence, he frowns uncomprehendingly and remains as lethargic as a toad.
“Not now!” he grumbles.
I tug and push even harder, beseeching him to come and see the hairy man that looks bigger than a horse.
“Sorry guys,” he groans, “the young tyke is always dreaming up ghosts and things that go bump in the night.”
“No!” I exclaim, “He’s really there! He’s down by the river where the sunfish are!”
“Now son, go play. We’ll all be ready to leave in a few. Right now the Tiger’s are trying to beat the Twins. Let your dad finish his game.”
Forgotten and dismissed, I am overwhelmed by the force of his rejection and disbelief. Coming from my dad, it presses down hard on my young heart. He hadn’t even considered for a moment that what I had said I’d seen could possibly be true. I was just a kid with nothing better to do than make things up. And yes, I often did make things up, just not Sasquatch taking a bath in the river.
As I neared Big Creek I shook off the memory and began my gradual descent down the ridge toward our destined meeting spot. As I did so, the hackles on my neck suddenly stood straight up and goose flesh prickled down my arms and back. Once again, the woods fell eerily silent. All my senses snapped to the present and I reflexively reached for my absent Beretta which I had purposely left in the car.
As a hunter, I know how difficult it can be to move through the forest stealthily. You have to be completely in tune with your body and your surroundings as to not crackle a leaf or snap a twig. It is an art rarely achieved in our modern world. I have a Native American friend named Tecumseh that can do it. He’s a real spooky character in that regard. His name means from one place to another, and he is the epitome of being able to move quickly and silently in any environment.
I have no concept of how Sasquatch could appear like Tecumseh out of thin air. I never heard him. It was like one of Tecumseh’s tricks of sneaking up behind me and breathing on my neck. I was certain that if I turned around, he’d be there.
As before, there was nothing in his demeanor that imparted any kind of aggressiveness. Sasquatch’s face looked serene and soft, his eyes twinkled with recognition. All the remaining tension that I had been harboring evaporated.
I instinctively reached out and offered him the bag of wintergreen. He deftly received the sack in his huge right hand, stuck two fingers from his left into the sack and pulled out a single leaf of wintergreen. He crinkled it between his fingers and put it to his nose. He took a deep breath, relished the aroma and let out a guttural sigh that was more like a vibration than a sound.
“Pippsissewa*,” he chanted. “Pippsissewa.”
I tilted my head at the amusing combination of sound and vibration. It was like being tickled.
“The Anishinaabe* Indian name for the wintergreen,” he tells me, “ancestors of the Chippewa.”
“It seems like just yesterday,” he adds, “that our kind co-existed with these peoples who enjoined the forest, sky, and waters to their spirit. Did you know that right where you are standing is Anishinaabe sacred ground?”
I reflexively move back a few inches.
Sasquatch lets out a guttural chuckle, flips his hairy arms and hands me a small polished stone.
It is surprisingly cool to the touch. I recognize it as lapis lazuli. Its celestial blue signifies gods and power, spirit and vision. It is a universal symbol of wisdom and truth.
“It was found here by a Chippewa medicine man.” Sasquatch tells me. “It is said that Big Creek and the Chippewa will eternally run within it.”
“Beautiful,” I respond, and reach to hand it back.
Sasquatch deliberately sits on his hands, vibrates his lips, rolls his eyes and shakes his head. I immediately understand that he has no intention of taking back the stone. Like the Pippsissewa leaves I had gifted to him, the stone is now a gift to me.
“Thank you,” I say, awed by this generous and thoughtful gesture. “I will treasure it as a symbol of ancient wisdom and friendship.”
Sasquatch tilts his head and gives me a wry smile. I get the impression he thinks he has achieved some sort of leverage over my emotions with the stone.
“Am I trespassing?” I ask a bit befuddled.
“Some would think so,” he says. “Unlike the Anishinaabe, your brethren now believe they are more important and deserving than a toad or the rock it sits on.”
“I…,” I began, but he shushes me with a forceful exhale.
“Your human spirit is large, like makwa*. The blue stone is in your eyes. The toad does not fear you and will not pee in your hand. The trout and the forest embrace you like a brother. Come back as often as you like. I will know you are near and I will always find you.”
I am in wonder of this huge Being, his eloquence of speech and carriage. It is almost as if I can suspend the fact that I am talking to a Sasquatch.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “I do embrace and respect the forest and plan to come rather often to see you. Does your kind give names to each other, and if so, what is yours?”
“I am known as Loquius. It means teacher with many tongues,” he explains.
It is pronounced with three syllables instead of two. It’s a name that seems to demand one to listen as the last two syllables tail off succinctly into a quiet hush.
“I am known as Richard.” I say. “It means strong or brave leader.”
We nod at each other in simultaneous acknowledgement. I inexplicably feel compelled to extend my index finger at the exact same moment Sasquatch extends his. The tips of our fingers touch and any doubts or reservations about Sasquatch being a hallucination or a figment of my imagination are vanquished. He is a fully sentient being of significant intelligence and complex emotions. The deep crevices in his face signify to me an uncharted wisdom and a self-awareness that has spanned the ages. He is truly Loquius.
The only person I trust to share my Sasquatch experiences with, is Tecumseh. If my mother were still alive, she would be the other, but she passed on an unbelievable twenty years ago.
I meet Tecumseh at his trailer west of Comins. He lives on the edge of a Michigan State Forest he calls Tecumseh’s Reservation. For all intents and purposes, it really is his personal playground. No one else hardly ventures there and if they happen by, Tecumseh has ways of scaring the crap out of them and they seldom come back. I have had lots of laughs about his stories of city folk dropping their drawers to take a dump and then hightailing it bare-assed back to the nearest civilization.
The weather is drearily overcast, but humid and warm. I break out into a sweat as we light a fire in the stone pit that will retain a cache of hot coals for a fish fry. I have never seen Tecumseh sweat. It can be a hundred degrees with 100% humidity and he still looks cool and comfortable.
“Caught some real orange beauties,” Tecumseh offers, “you should have come with me.”
“Sorry, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say, seeing my opening to broaching my recent encounters with Sasquatch. “I was a bit engaged. I’ve had a couple of conversations with a Big Foot.”
Tecumseh stops what he is doing and gives me that penetrating look only a man of high virtue can give. My eyes don’t waver.
He nods, “Chiha Tanka, My Elder Brother. Did Sasquatch have anything significant to say?”
“Yes, he said the human race is blowing it.”
Tecumseh laughs mirthlessly. “The same warning I have been poking into your ears since the day we met. Do you believe him?”
“I believe you, don’t I?” I counter with a jab.
“My Elder Brother only speaks to deliver important messages about a turn of events or a prophesy of magnitude. What he says should be regarded with utmost respect. He is a special Being. He is translator and mentor into the consciousness that runs through all of life.”
“I didn’t know you had such inside knowledge.” I exclaim. “Have you met this Chiha Tanka, as you call him?”
Tecumseh shakes his head negatively. “That connection is the domain of medicine men. It is for those that guide us between the physical and spiritual worlds. I am a hunter not a healer.”
“He is troubled about man and the future,” I say. “He has invited me back for further conversations. I am eager and believe he has much more to impart to me, and, in his own words, “to my brethren”. I am a good listener as well as an astute and sensitive interrogator.”
“You are worthy,” Tecumseh replies, “but, be careful.”
“What harm could possibly come in talking to him?” I reply.
“If you should wander and get lost between this world and his, I may not be able to bring you back,” he says.
I believe I am first witness to seeing sweat on Tecumseh’s brow.
He turns abruptly to the task of melting some fat and peanut butter in his cast iron skillet. Fresh caught brook trout fried in peanut butter is a meal worthy of the Gods themselves.
On my return to Big Creek, I am aware of some recent activity by other humans. It is not only the physical signs, like the matted down grass and discarded cigarette butts, but also the remnants of their auras. People leave in their wake good or bad vibrations that can hang around and be felt from here to eternity unless cleansed from the emotionally disturbed space. What I am feeling at the moment is not good, and it isn’t long before I find a half dozen empty beer cans and several Twinkie wrappers scattered about.
I have never known beer and Twinkies to mix well with the forest. I am hoping it is just a sign of some rebellious teenagers getting away from the claustrophobic demands of their parents, and what I am seeing is discarded pieces of their rebellion and carelessness that have been shed like the skin of a snake.
My hopes get permanently dashed when I find more cigarette butts and a game camera locked in place to a small sapling of birch. There is a generous pile of untouched corn a few yards away from the lens that snaps my picture. I stick out my tongue and give it the finger.
Tecumseh would throw a fit if he saw this disrespectful approach to the fine art of hunting. I can literally hear one of his angry rants echoing through the forest as I decide what to do.
“They leave their ugly scent behind like mangy dogs that seem to have a purpose to piss on everything,” Tecumseh rails. “They are thankless of all but their own gratification. I weep when I think about how the ancestors of such vile men invaded our tee-pees with their spirits of evil. I pray our eternal wills continue to be reborn without such an abominable weakness for whiskey.”
I look around and heft a broken hardwood bow about the size and shape of a baseball bat. I contemplate and weigh it for my purpose. Knowing I have been captured on the camera, I have decided prudence would be my best course of action.
I wind up and take a healthy cut and catch the camera square in the face. It explodes into different pieces and is not easy to gather back together, but I find the photo chip and slip it into my pocket. The rest of the camera pieces and every other sign of human presence, I put in my gathering bag. All that is left is the cable and lock still wrapped around the birch. I apologize in the name of Tecumseh and cut the cable free.
I then backtrack and gather the beer cans and Twinkie wrappers, finger-rake the grasses back to standing the best I can, and collect all the cigarette butts. I am happily gratified to feel the forest rejoice.
With the area cleansed of trash and bad vibrations, I am able to return to contemplating my original purpose. I had been looking forward to another philosophical melding with my Big Foot friend, Loquiis.
I have been pondering, that if the Sasquatch are immortal beings that have roamed this planet since the beginning of time, then they have survived the endless disasters of climate change, including ice ages, volcanos, earthquakes, drought, famine, asteroids, and even pandemics.
Man is relatively new to the game, and what is most important in this age of narcissism, are the symbiotic relationships that have and can be further developed between man and nature; each one can enhance the other when common sense and basic ethics are applied to such things as forestry, farming, housing, and industry. Even cities can be redesigned with regenerative energy and agriculture in mind. Man is basically good and will strive for the greatest good for all concerned when he realizes that one lifetime is but a growing and cleansing journey for his immortal soul. To survive, you have to learn that you do not shit in the bed to which you must return.
I hope to garner much more insight into what answers Sasquatch might have to help the human race as it seemingly hurtles unawares towards oblivion.
As I trek, I am elated to have removed the footprints of the litterbugs and their bad vibes. The forest has returned to its harmonious songs within itself. I hear the distant drumming of a partridge, the chatter of squirrels, and the peeping of some snipes at the edge of a meadow filled with dancing grasses. A porcupine scuttles over a log, parks it itself in a defensive posture and raises its quills as I pass nearby.
The walk to meet Sasquatch is over two miles of ever changing terrain. The forest is rife with organic smells and subtle changes of temperature. I have come to recognize many sun dappled openings verdant with ferns as well as copses of various species of trees. I am traversing the edge of the hardwoods that are easier to navigate than the thick cedars, tag alders and small pines that thrive next to the creek.
It is on the ridge where the hardwoods turn to cedars that Sasquatch appears. I am immediately struck by the aggressiveness portrayed in his muscular stance. There is nothing soft or serene in his posture towards me. My first instinct is to cut and run, but I will myself to keep my poise and hold my ground.
He vocalizes an unearthly bugle of screeching sounds that all but rattle my bones. Instantly there is movement to his right and another Sasquatch appears at his side.
I witness what seems to be a heated discussion with agitated sounds and hand motions before the aggressor reluctantly backs down and withdraws into the trees.
My body is literally vibrating from an overdose of adrenaline racing unchecked through my veins. My heart is pounding hard enough to make my eardrums jump, and I notice I have been probably holding my breath for the duration of the encounter. The combination of excitement and fear has me feeling woozy and wobbly on my feet. I have to kneel to regain my equilibrium, and before I can get back to my feet, I observe the remaining Sasquatch advancing rapidly towards me.
I have no way of defending myself. My stomach is doing flip-flops as I struggle to regain my balance and stand up. I abruptly toss my cookies, advance a couple of steps and fall flat on my face.
I don’t ever recall fainting or passing out at any time in my life up until now. I have been knocked unconscious by blunt force, but never by mental or emotional trauma. The heaviness that descends over me isn’t a total oblivion without sound or sensation, it is more like watching things unravel from a great distance. It reminds me of looking through the wrong end of a telescope. At the end of the tiny dot of light I see a face, the face of my friend, Loquius.
I know I have been lifted because I am gliding through the forest as if I have wings. There is a blur of green foliage and a strange tart smell like that of fermenting fruit.
I am aware of a drop in temperature a few seconds before I am completely submerged in the ice cold waters of Big Creek. The shock is enough to jolt me upright and make me gulp for breath. As I come fully awake, I am once again hefted into the air where I experience my surroundings from the strange perspective of what it was like when I was a child at the mercy of an adult.
I am whisked through the forest with a confidence and speed I have only experienced on a trusted horse. As a rider, you learn to never fight their inherent certainty of balance and instinct, you always strive to go with the flow and help their gait. So that is what I did. I put my trust in Sasquatch.
We travel some distance before Loquius slows his gait and speaks.
“We have crossed over,” he tells me. “I have risked a great deal. I could be exiled for breaking a sacred oath not to bring another human to our land. Our last attempt to help your world was not successful.”
“Help our world?” I ask, shaken, “In what way?”
“That is a long story,” he responds.
We come to a halt in a meadow filled with black-eyed Susan, Indian paint-brush and wild strawberry. As I take in the rich scenery, my senses are accosted by the shear brilliance of the flower colors and the way their auras illuminate the air above the plants. The aroma is exquisitely intoxicating.
Loquius lowers me gingerly to my feet. I become aware for the first time just how tall and broad in girth he is, towering over me by more than a yardstick. His thighs are as big around as my torso. His hair is glistening from grey to a bluish-black in the sunlight, and his skin is a radiant brown that I had not noticed in our previous meetings.
“Welcome to my home,” he says with a broad sweep of an arm.
The landscape appears beautifully wild and yet tamed. It does not resemble the Big Creek terrain I am acquainted with in my roaming. Things are all out of kilter. The sky is much too blue and there are gigantic trees I do not recognize. And as I have mentioned, the flowers are much larger and brighter than they should be.
“Where, exactly is this place you call home?” I ask, and run my hand over my head to check for any knots that would signify the possibility of a concussion.
“You have entered Cross Over,” he tells me. “This is the alternative path that Earth is traveling under the care of the Sasquatch. It is not the Earth path from which your mechanistic and technological race has evolved.”
Sasquatch reaches down and scoops up a handful of organic matter and soil. It is literally pulsing in his hand and through his fingers with a myriad of living organisms. There are worms, grubs and an abundance of small wigglers I have never seen. It smells pungently organic and fresh. It is black, moist, and rich as my sister’s chocolate cake.
“This is your planet in Cross Over,” he states. “You will not be able to stay. There are those in the Council that feel man is undeserving of Sasquatch help. They want nothing to do with your rapid descent away from natural law and your selfish ascent into narcissism. They believe you are committing suicide.”
I am caught off guard and offer no defense to these blunt charges coming from a Sasquatch.
“Some members of the Council do not think that your demise will effect our demise,” Loquiis continues, “but I believe differently. I have supplied to the council, indisputable evidences of the technological poisons that have been seeping through at the Cross Over edges. There is evidence that shows that man-made poisons are rapidly eroding and shrinking not only your world but ours. Your human selfishness, pesticides, herbicides, 5G microwaves, pharmacopeia and genetic engineering is rapidly destroying your world and will destroy ours along with it.”
I decidedly want to wake up and get back to a place called Sanity. This is nuts! I am being lectured by a Sasquatch.
“Do you recognize the name Ted Kaczynski?” Loquiiis asks.
Somewhere in my brain the name rings a bell, but I cannot put a finger on it. “Sounds familiar,” I say, shrug my shoulders and relinquish to not remembering.
“In your world he is known as the Unabomber. In our world he is known as “The Man Who Crossed Over”. He unexpectedly came to our world without any help from our kind. How he found his way, we can only guess. Subsequently he was invited back many succeeding times by the Council and acquired much knowledge that was to be translated for the benefit of mankind. It was our goal to help reverse the downward spiral in which your race is caught. We were hopeful. Unfortunately, he lost his way as well as his sanity. His frustrations led to a warped attempt through force to get your world’s attention. It continued to escalate when the wisdom he had to offer was continually ignored and ridiculed.”
My memory is finally jogged and it all comes back to me. Ted Kaczynski was an ex-Harvard professor arrested by the FBI after his anti-technological manifesto was published by major newspapers. He had disintegrated into a domestic terrorist and a murderer targeting business executives with sophisticated letter bombs. I remember a picture of a disheveled character being led away in handcuffs from a mountain cabin in Colorado.
“Mankind rejected the knowledge and warnings we helped him author as the ramblings of a psychopath,” Loquiis imparts, spinning his finger at his temple in one of our symbolic gestures for craziness.
I would find what I am hearing to be too incredulous to believe if it weren’t coming from a Sasquatch in a place called Cross Over. I find myself seeking solace by rubbing my recently acquired lapis lazuli stone between thumb and forefinger. It is a habit I have fallen into at odd times. I am now coming to some understanding of the meaning of Loquius’s wry smile when I had taken the stone as a gift. In some way, I had already crossed over.
I haven’t a clue about what Ted Kaczynski had tried to communicate besides an anger potent enough to maim and kill people with his sophisticated packages.
“You can’t stay long,” Loquiis says, “but I want you to meet my family.”
We enter the grove of giant shade trees at the edge of the meadow. The leaf shape on these unusual trees is that of an oak and I can see clusters of small acorns in their formative stages. The trees themselves have long interwoven branches of which some of them touch the ground and then bend skyward once again. It is hard to distinguish bouncing limbs from trunks. Underfoot is a lush carpet of moss and ground cover very similar to what I am accustomed to on my treks along Big Creek.
Within the grove is a circular clearing where a substantial mound twice my height dominates the opening. It is covered in flowering shrubs in various stages of bloom. Loquiis uses his arm to brush aside a tangled mass of branches and exposes a woven and braided grass doorway that leads into the mound. I am ushered into a room filled with soft light, filtered through portholes that appear to be extremely large translucent fish scales. There are hanging log and pottery containers rife with herbs, cucumbers, tomatoes and melons. The atmosphere is humid, warm and totally welcoming to my human senses.
I am led down a stone hallway deeper into the mound where a miniature Sasquatch dashes out and leaps into Loquiis’s arms. The verbal exchange is indecipherable, but physically I see much intimacy and warmth. Loquius sets her back on the ground at his knees.
“This is Pureesis, she is my youngest,” Loquius beams. “My mate and eldest are in the weaving room making seeding mats.”
I smile at the shy youngster as she clings to Loquius’s huge leg.
The weaving room is draped with fibers hanging from pole frames. The strands are multi-colored in an assortment of lengths and widths. At a wooden table stand his mate and eldest lifting and shuffling wooden slats in a rapid-fire slap-dance. They are totally engrossed in their work and remain unaware of our presence until Loquiis makes a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth. Both look up and lose control of their precise rhythm when they see me standing next to Loquius.
I notice that his eldest is a young Sasquatch, tall, but not nearly as heavyset as Loquius, himself. His mate is much shorter with pronounced breasts and a smaller head.
Loquius says something I cannot understand, pointing me out with his hand. A small discussion ensues and then they indicate an acceptance with a nod and a smile.
“Glad to meet you,” I say cordially.
“My eldest, Leeitus. And Loquiili, my mate.”
Loquiili gestures towards me and speaks, again an incomprehensible language that eerily sounds electronic.
“She wants to know if you would like some tea and snacks?” Loquius asks.
The mention of food makes me realize that I am starving as well as parched. Not knowing what to expect, I respond, “Please.”
Leeitus fetches a wooden cup and Loquiili pours me an amber colored liquid from a sun heated bamboo tube. The tea is earthy, sweet and tangy.
“Delightful,” I tell her with a smile.
Loquiili looks pleased and gestures me into a dining area to sit at a bench positioned before a hanging table. Pureesis lets go of her daddy’s leg and ventures over to sit on the bench near me. Her big eyes filled with a shy curiosity.
A huge platter of vegetables is carried in by Leeitus and placed in front of us. There are thick slabs of tomatoes dressed with herbs, cucumbers and radishes sliced diagonally, covered with what look like flower petals and green peas still in their pods. All are deeply colored and vibrantly fresh.
Loquiili gestures towards the plate and rubs her belly. I take this as a green light invitation to eat and gingerly pick up a tomato slab. When I take a bite, the taste is robust and delicious. I devour it in four more bites.
Again, Loquiili looks pleased.
I sample a radish which is pungent and mildly hot. The cucumbers are crisp, cool and juicy. Most of all, I am enamored by the peas, they are tender and bursting with a musky, deep, sweet flavor. I cannot withhold myself and eat them all as my body craves for their nourishment and rejoices in the fulfillment.
Soon, everyone is nodding and smiling. My tea cup is replenished and Loquius joins me with a generous helping of tomato slabs. Pureesis edges nearer to me and reaches out with a finger to touch my flannel shirt. We both recoil, then smile, before she once again extends her timid hand. I oblige by offering my arm and fingers for her exploration.
“As I said,” Loquius interjects, “You will not be allowed to stay beyond a quick perusal of our border. We must cross back over, shortly.”
“There are no other humans here,” I query.
“None that I know of,” Loquiis says quietly. “You are not supposed to be here.”
I nod. Coming to grips with the idea that I have entered an alternate Earth universe where no humans are allowed is not a comfortable nor everyday occurrence.
“It is crepuscule hour, our sacred time of positive affirmations and no one will be out and about at this time,” Loquius states. “It is now that I can and would like to give you a glimpse of Cross Over, the land that lies between our two diverse worlds.”
He leads me out into the dusky half-light through a different egress from his many chambered home. Leeitus has joined us and we walk along a mossy path back into the trees and follow the stream that is most likely Big Creek as it has evolved over time between our worlds. We emerge into an orchard grove of fruit trees, grapes, berries and plots of other crops turning to purple-black in the diminishing light.
Loquius reaches out and picks a multi-fingered leaf off a waist high plant. When he shows it to me, I think I recognize it as marijuana.
“Kenaf,” he says with reverence, “millions of years old. It is the best for creating most everything of use to our culture. Leeitus and Loquiili were weaving its fibers into seed mats when we arrived.”
“Kenaf?” I query. “I believe in our world it is called marijuana.”
“No, it is not Nawak’osis, The Dreamer. Unlike humans we do not need or want such substances to alter our thoughts or emotions. We embrace all thoughts and emotions as proper and good as long as they are appropriate to the circumstance. Nawak’osis is lazy and irresponsible, he does not allow a farmer or warrior to do what is necessary if and when it is necessary.”
I recall weed’s addictive indulgences and remember it did make me lazy and irresponsible when I was a young man. Dope had been a juvenile trap that I had had to learn to grow up and out of.
“I understand,” I respond.
“The kenaf plant has the same properties as nawak’osis minus the temptations. It does not contain any mind altering properties, only nutritional and artisan properties that enhance the quality of our lives.”
Loquius pops the kenaf leaf into his mouth, picks another and hands it to me with a gesture to give it a try.
I nibble on one of its fingers. It is unlike anything I have ever tasted, very earthy, spicy and tender.
“Very good,” I say.
“Not only is it eatable, it has thousands of other uses from cleansing and invigorating the soil, to feeding and healing life itself. It is in your world but mostly ignored.”
I am unfamiliar with ever hearing about such a plant. Even industrial hemp contains measurable amounts of the drug THC that induces the euphoric high so sought after by millions of humans across our world.
Darkness is quickly descending over Cross Over and Loquius and Leeitus are beginning to blend into the background. Their hides are becoming completely lost in the dark silhouettes of trees and all I am able to discern are their slightly lighter faces and gesturing hands.
“We must go,” Loquius states. “I will help you cross over near your machine so you do not have to flounder about in the woods of your dark world.”
Once again I am scooped up into his strong arms and speedily whisked off and back into the forest. I am overcome with a feeling of child-like helplessness. It is scary and fun at the same time.
I hope you have enjoyed my Sasquatch Book thus far, but also understand that I have to make a living like everyone else. If you feel my work is entertaining and warrants a donation, please make a deposit to my PayPal Account at: paypal.me/quickturtlebooks.
Mary and I are also the authors of "Sasquatch" the children's book. Your support of our endeavors to create family oriented books with values is greatly appreciated and does not go without thanks. May the force be with you, now and always.
abhor*- regard with disgust or hate
abject*- experienced to the maximum degree
Al Kaline*- Detroit Tigers baseball power hitter that batted fourth in the lineup back in the 1960's and 70's. He had many homers during that era
Anishinaabe*- Native Americans, ancestors of the Chippewa
auras*- the electrical and emotional emanations surrounding a body
beefsteaks*- an edible mushroom similar to the morel but much larger and irregular of shape, reddish brown in color
Beretta*- a brand of handgun
brethren*- archaic plural of brother
cache*- a hidden collection or store of items of some type
chiha tanka*- Native American name for Sasquatch or Big Foot
crepuscule*- the hour of twilight
DNR*- Department of Natural Resources
egress*- action of going out or leaving
Ernie Harrell*- Radio announcer for the Detroit Tigers
Giigooh na*- Native American name for big fish
kenaf*- a variety of hibiscus plant valuable for its fibers and thousands of other useful properties
makwa*- Native American name for black bear
manifesto*- a public declaration of aim or intent
massasauga rattlesnake*- rattlesnake the north present in Michigan
Mida*- Native American name for a medicine man or sorcerer
mirthlessly*- without humor
morel mushrooms*- an edible fungi with a conical head and deeply pitted crevices
narcissism*- an excessive interest in or admiration of self, selfishness
Nawak'osis*- Native American name for marijuana
perchance*- by some chance
perusal*- a brief glance over
pippsissewa*- Native American name for wintergreen
ruminating*- chewing on
supermax*- federal prison for the most dangerous of criminals
tyke*- a small child
unequivocally*- in a way that leaves no doubt
usurp*- take illegally by force