Bigfoot?

Last Sunday, while pulling onto the start hold on Mars Roof at Priest Draw, I felt something go wrong in one of my fingers. When I woke up the next morning and the dull ache was worse, I made a doctors appointment and expected bad news. But the appointment went better than expected, I’d only sprained a joint, and a week later I was already halfway through the recovery time.

I’ve had some time to devote to more serious, intellectually demanding activity, namely Bigfoot sightings in Arizona. Zeke Smith is the kind of guy who will always have a moustache, wears wacky polyester shirts, regularly smokes a pipe and goes to cryptozoology museums at every opportunity. It was Zeke who told me about a town hall meeting to be held in Payson, AZ by some Animal Planet TV show I’ve only watched about ten minutes of.  The people whom, without an ounce of skepticism, believe in Bigfoot, the Mogollon Monster, Sasquatch, or any other variation on that theme, tend to be exceptionally bizarre. And throwing in the possibility of appearing on a popular television show really does something to people. Couples bring infants and ask for pictures; the true fanatics wear Bigfoot jewelry or roll their sleeves up to show off their tats. Bigfoot believers are as interesting as the creature itself.

To make things clear, I am not one of these people and neither is Zeke. I am a Bigfoot agnostic, and until I have some kind of experience that makes me lean either way, I’m firmly planted in the middle. But the thing about Bigfoot, and all such creatures for that matter, is that I find them incredibly interesting. In a world almost completely explored, Bigfoot is the last hoorah of the unknown. In some ways finding Bigfoot is the same as falling into fame and fortune; the American Dream. So who to expect in a dimly lit bar whose every wooden surface is etched with bland biblical names, whose stage, for once in its long life of county music and bad covers of Hotel California, will hold some real live b-list television celebrities, and a free opportunity to finally find out if being on TV makes you look fat.

These people name their sons Remington and take them hunting before they can walk, they wear non-ironic moustaches and real tree camo and blaze orange hats and underwear. Corona, in this demographic, is exotic and savored, and Bud Light flows steady like the meandering Amazon. This is the America that likes Rick Santorum’s family values and is stubbornly still returning to the non-issue of Obama’s birth certificate. And, when everyone who has had a Class A Encounter—seen Bigfoot—raise their hands, it’s clear that a lot of Arizonians not only believe, but have also rubbed shoulders with that famously elusive biped.

Zeke and I, we order beers and find a place to stand where we can see the stage. The place is packed. People are huddled up outside the windows to watch, to get a glimpse of someone vaguely famous. We talk about Bigfoot, the great, sparsely populated swathes of land in the West, and these giant herds of forest buffalo in Canada thought to be extinct until recently. If an entire herd of enormous animals could evade the hand of science, then surely an intelligent ape can as well. But why, we began asking ourselves, are the people who see Bigfoot and come forward generally the uneducated or intoxicated? In that room of Carhart clothing and slimy polyester sports team jackets this became a real question. Why is it that with all the field scientists out there in the most remote parts of the wilderness surveying wildflowers or grasses, no one sees the same mystery animal as the people in that room? Perhaps it takes ignorance to have the courage to come forward; there’s no way a true scientist, whether they’d seen something or not, would tell anyone without undisputable evidence. The scientific method and peer review is clearly gumming up the process here.

The stars come out, take center stage, and the testimonials start. This was everything I’d dreamed it would be. The same people whose entries on BFRO (Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization) I’d read that morning were there, and they spoke more eloquently than they wrote. There really was a little boy named Remington who saw Bigfoot with his Dad and whose story was perhaps the cutest thing I heard all night and will most definitely make for some great television. Some of these people didn’t follow the same archetype of Bigfoot Believers. There was a chiropractor that fondly admired Bigfoot’s posture as he crossed his headlights. This small handful of sightings that came from people whose professions demanded college degrees made me wonder. Maybe its true, and many made the same point that night, maybe many of us have seen Bigfoot as just another bushy sapling on the side of the road or a trick of the eye on a moonlit night. Maybe we all need to be as open as Fox Mulder of The X-Files and let the unproven into our minds.

There was one testimonial that really rung loudly though, and really just because of its absurdity. A woman stood, and I could tell immediately that this would be a good one. She was the kind of Sedona, new age type that smiles at everything and wears too much dangly silver jewelry. She was from the Verde Valley, and was “a fairy,” this was her profession and I’m pretty sure it didn’t require more than an online degree. She claimed to go down to the river and see fairies every night, all flying and buzzing around the cattails and reeds. This was where she saw what she figured everyone else thought was Bigfoot. In a part in the reeds she saw two great, glowing eyes, and in the moonlight realized the answer to all of life’s persistent Bigfoot related questions. The creature, she claimed, was a Hobgoblin, and because of this no one would ever capture a photo or video or find a bone. You can’t capture evidence of a spirit.

The crowd of Bigfoot Believers scoffed at the fairy woman in a great collective judgment. “Fairies, yeah right,” some grumbled. Her smile unwavering, she went to her seat, got her coat and sort of glided out of the room. Zeke and I loved this. Never had I seen a group of people so unqualified to judge someone’s paranormal beliefs do so in such incredible time.

The night dragged on and many more got on stage and mumbled about their mostly bogus encounters. It was easy to pick the fabricated ones out; incongruent details gave the poor storytellers away and a few seemed almost rehearsed. But there were a special few whose details were consistent and sources seemed credible. So on the way home, driving though the windy dark, Zeke and I gazed out the windows and looked between the trees for whatever we wanted to see. Unfortunately it wasn’t there.