Scary Monsters and Super Creeps

by Dom Joly

  I know this all sounds like I’d either had a huge spliff or become a hippy overnight, but I have never, ever been so profoundly affected by the sheer presence of nature. These are the tallest trees you can visit anywhere in the world. There are individual taller ones, but most are on weed farms and protected by armed and paranoid hippies. One interesting fact (despite my not really liking Star Wars) is that the moon scenes of Endor, when we meet the Ewoks in Return of the Jedi, were filmed here. George Lucas lived in Northern California and it’s very obvious that the idea for Chewbacca was influenced by tales and descriptions of Bigfoot.

  We spent about an hour just chilling in this magical place before realizing that it was getting dark. We didn’t want to be stuck down here at night: it would definitely get very spooky. There was no sign of Bigfoot on the long, hard walk back to the car. Fortunately, we didn’t meet a mountain lion either.

  Back in Eureka, Corey and Kirsten headed off to find their hotel while I chilled in my cottage at Carter House Inns. I had an hour before I had to meet a guy called Richard, whom I’d contacted on the Internet, at the Lost Coast Brewery. Richard was the media manager for the Humboldt County Visitors Bureau and had promised that he could help me with accommodation and introductions to some Bigfoot enthusiasts who were known as ‘squatchers’. It was through his influence that I’d got the beautiful cottage to stay in so I liked him already.

  The Lost Coast Brewery was a big shed-like building about four blocks away from my hotel. I walked in and a good-looking, urbane guy of about my age stood up and greeted me. This was Richard and he’d clearly done some research on me, as he knew what I looked like from the Net. He looked a bit like a news reporter: square jaw and round glasses with a soft Southern lilt that betrayed his roots in Georgia. He was a very easy-going guy and we chowed down and got talking about Bigfoot. Richard said that a lot of Bigfoot ‘scat’ was found in the woods. A local Indian had confirmed that this was no human scat as it would have ‘split a human apart’. Some stools had supposedly been found that measured up to two feet long. Local wags claimed that this accounted for a lot of the screams heard at night in the forests.

  He also told me about Bigfoot ‘nests’. These are very similar to those gorillas build in Africa: thick branches bent over and made into a type of bed. This really got my interest and Richard showed me some photographs. They did indeed show quite intricate constructions with thick branches having been weaved together into a rather cosy retreat. Were Bigfoots really sitting and constructing such things? It was another thing to look out for.

  We poured over a very detailed map of the Bluff Creek area where the Patterson film had been shot. The place looked very remote – two hours’ drive from Willow Creek on tarmac road, an hour of off-road driving and then a two-hour hike. Richard seemed keen to come with me and, as he knew the area and could get me permissions, I was all for that.

  Corey and Kirsten turned up and I introduced them to Richard, who couldn’t get his head round the fact that they’d come all the way from Sacramento despite never having met me before. I think it somewhat increased my kudos as a world-famous monster-hunter. We had a couple of drinks before I called it a night and headed back to the hotel.

  The next morning, Richard insisted that Corey, Kirsten and I went to the Samoa Cookhouse for breakfast. This was a place that used to feed the hungry loggers three times a day and then, as now, they didn’t really go in for calorie counting. The food was homicidally filling, all doughy biscuits and beans and bacon and thick black coffee. We met the owner, Jeff Brustman, who told me that the local Indian tribes used to call the Sasquatch ‘Omah’. They were convinced that the creatures were a lost Indian tribe. They were also convinced, laughed Jeff, that hippies were living proof that Bigfoot had mated with humans. I told him that hippies were too skinny to be descended from any missing link – though they did share a pungent odour with the Sasquatch.

  He told me about the very first Bigfoot sighting, before he was even known as Bigfoot. It was reported in a letter to a columnist on the local paper. I found it later online.

  Humboldt Times, 21 September 1958

  I am writing regarding a queer situation my husband has encountered while at work. I have read your column for a long time and have noticed that you often dig into things of various natures. This happened when my husband recently took a land-clearing job up on Bluff Creek, near Weitchpec.

  The rumor started among the men at once of the existence of a ‘wild man’. We regarded it as a joke and even added fuel to the story by passing on bits of information. It was only yesterday that my husband became convinced that the existence of such a person (?) is a fact.

  On their way to the job, the men found tracks going down to the road. The tracks measured 14 to 16 inches in length. The toes were very, very short, but there were five to each foot. The ground was soft and the prints were very clear. In soft places the prints were deep, suggesting a great weight. The tracks were quite wide as well as long and things such as fruit have been missed by the men camping on the job. There are at least 15 men that will swear this is true, among them, my husband. Have you ever heard of this wild man?

  The newspaper columnist replied:

  Well, honestly, no! I wonder if anyone else knows about this. Please help. Maybe we have a relative of the abominable snowman of the Himalayas, our own Wandering Willie of Weitchpec.

  Weitchpec was on our way to Bluff Creek and it was cool to hear about such an early sighting. I wasn’t quite sure why they’d called it ‘Willie’ but assumed that it was just good alliteration. Whatever, the report was a classic Bigfoot encounter. I couldn’t wait to get over the hills and into Bigfoot territory proper.

  But first I went for a wander round the ‘old town’ with Corey and Kirsten. They had made such an effort to join my curious adventure and I wanted to spend a little more time with them.

  As we walked around the four blocks of nice old buildings and reasonable shops that constitute ‘Old’ Eureka, I hoped that they weren’t too disappointed; but they were a quiet couple and didn’t say too much.

  We popped into a great bookstore and started browsing. I checked out some books from the seventies on Bigfoot. They were all pretty much the same. Like the ones on Ogopogo, they tended to be self-published, rather dry accounts of sightings. It was all part of this desperate need to be taken seriously, but it took all the fun out of it. In the far corner I spotted Corey and Kirsten looking at a book excitedly. I went over. They were the most animated I’d seen them yet.

  ‘What’s the book?’ I asked.

  ‘Only the greatest book ever written,’ replied Corey.

  I looked at the cover and a sudden, nauseous feeling swept across me. The book was called The Fountainhead.

  Wasn’t this that book so beloved by extreme right-wing Aryan Brotherhood types? I seemed to remember Louis Theroux doing something about it. I looked at Corey and Kirsten again. She was of Scandinavian origins while Corey had piercing blue eyes and slightly Preacher-esque sideburns. Oh . . . My . . . God . . . Were these two Nazis? Had I unwittingly been hanging out with a pair of white supremacists? On the way to Tall Trees Grove I’d found a Christian religious book in the back of their car but I hadn’t mentioned it. Thinking about it, they didn’t swear and seemed to eat only fish – but surely if they were white supremacists they would eat only raw meat? Corey had been to university in Humboldt State, hardly the epicentre of Nazi power. Maybe the hippy with the didgeridoo had sent him crazy? I didn’t want to ask them straight out but how could I broach this kind of thing?

  ‘Yo, what about them Negroes?’

  We left the bookstore and continued our walk but I found myself actually distancing myself from them. A Chinese man walked past us and I subtly watched to see if they showed any sign of disapproval. They didn’t and we walked on.

  ‘There’s a great bagel place here?’ said Corey.

  ‘The best in the USA,’ said Kirsten enthusiastically.

  I spotted my
chance.

  ‘That’s weird – why here? After all, bagels are a Jewish thing . . .’

  I really over-emphasized the ‘Jewish thing’ but they didn’t seem to flicker. We went into the bagel place. It was called Los Bagels. In the window there was a sign in Spanish saying that the staff spoke English. The staff were all Latinos. I tried again.

  ‘Jesus Christ, this place is totally run by Mexicans. Don’t any Americans work?’

  I looked across at them for a reaction but they were looking at me a bit weirdly. Maybe they thought I was one of them now? We walked out, munching on our Jewish-Mexican bagels, and headed back to my hotel. I was totally freaked out now. I wanted to dump the Nazis. I told them that I had to pack and head off for Willow Creek. This was something I needed to do alone, I said. They took a couple of photos of us all together and then said goodbye. They were going to drive all the way back to Sacramento . . . Probably for a Klan meeting.

  I waved from my porch as they drove off. I very nearly gave a Hitler salute to see if they responded but decided against it. The moment their car disappeared round the corner, I rushed inside and googled the book.

  The Fountainhead is a totally legitimate ‘classic’ about an architect who fights against the system. There’s nothing right wing or dodgy about it at all. The book I was thinking about was The Turner Diaries. I’ve absolutely no idea why I confused the two. Corey and Kirsten were not Nazis and I was a complete idiot who appeared to be in the early stages of mental illness.

  I packed up and checked out of the hotel. I got into my car and drove the hour inland to my final goal: Willow Creek, considered to be Ground Zero for squatchers. There was the Bigfoot Museum to go to and Richard had kindly set up a meeting with Al Hodgson, a local Bigfoot expert who had made plaster casts of Bigfoot feet. He was the guy who told Patterson that Bigfoot had been spotted in the area and prompted him to set off on his expedition.

  The town’s pretty much a one-street affair, so as I drove in I quickly spotted the museum: there’s an enormous wooden statue of Bigfoot outside that must be thirty feet tall. I parked up and was let in by a woman called Peggy McWilliams, who let me look round. She told me that the museum was normally closed from October to May but that she opened up for visitors if they contacted her. She was very chatty and told me that there had just been a Bigfoot sighting over the border in Oregon. A woman saw a Bigfoot cross the road right in front of her car. I was thrilled and pumped her for more information – had anyone taken a photo? She didn’t know much more about it.

  I asked her whether there had been a dip in sightings.

  She made the point that the only dip had been in footprints, because more and more roads were now tarmac and early sightings were all on fresh-cut dirt roads that had been built into new areas for logging.

  She also told me that Al Hodgson was a bit doddery and had just lost his wife so he might be a bit late. I told her not to worry and started looking around the museum. The exhibits were mostly casts of big feet, which was probably to be expected. There was a tape on loop playing an old black-and-white TV show about Bigfoot. It was quite interesting and showed some new footage that I hadn’t seen of a hairy figure running fast over a prairie-type landscape.

  Having finished watching the tape I read some of the newspaper clippings that were pasted on the walls, one of which was the article that coined the term ‘Bigfoot’.

  Al Hodgson eventually turned up after Peggy phoned him. He was a nice guy but a bit deaf and, yes, a touch doddery. I asked some pretty stupid questions and he seemed to be on autopilot. He told me that at the time of the Patterson film there had just been a huge flood in which Bluff Creek had been stripped bare. He said that, should I try to go there now, I’d find it was very different and totally overgrown. It would be very difficult to find the actual spot where the Patterson film was taken. He understood why I wanted to go to the actual site but, if I wanted to see a Bigfoot, I had as much chance anywhere in the surrounding area. He told me about a recent sighting only four miles from where we stood. A local lady driving a produce vehicle had spotted a Bigfoot on the road at four in the morning. He knew this woman and said she had no reason to lie about it. I asked him if this was the same incident that Peggy had just told me about. He replied that no, this was a different one and happened very near to where we stood. I was really excited. I was definitely in with a chance of at least spotting Bigfoot. This was the stuff that little boys’ dreams are made of.

  Al started asking me about where I was from. I got the distinct feeling that he was a bit bored of talking Bigfoot. He told me that his family was originally from Leeds. I nodded as though Leeds was my favourite place in the world. In the end the conversation went a bit dry and I thanked Al for meeting me and he pottered off to talk to Peggy.

  I had another look round the exhibits before wandering over to where Peggy and Al were shooting the shit. Al showed me a plaster cast of a Bigfoot print that he had taken himself at Notice Creek in 1955. I fell in love with it instantly. This had to be the best travel souvenir I’d ever seen and had to have one. I asked him if it was for sale and he said that he had one I could buy. For twenty dollars, this was the best thing I’d ever bought on my travels. Al’s lift turned up and we said goodbye but I stayed on chatting to Peggy who was turning out to be a lot more interesting than Al. She said that Hoopa, the nearby Indian reservation, had the most Bigfoot sightings and that I should go and talk to people there – although, she warned, they were not that keen on ‘snooping strangers’. A local man came in and said hello to Peggy. On a whim I asked him if he had ever seen a Bigfoot.

  He looked at me and said, ‘Nope – but then again, I’ve never seen a mountain lion and they exist. There’s something out there; I know too many people who’ve seen stuff.’

  I was getting hungry and left the museum and had a look round town for somewhere to eat. I walked past the Bigfoot Motel, which looked suitably awful. It had a large cage in the car park supposedly there to capture a Bigfoot should one wander into town. After lunch in a little Mexican place I went into a coffee shop to get an espresso. On the television hung on the wall behind the counter was a show about the ‘Skunk Ape’, another creature that’s supposed to roam Florida. I presumed the show was on a loop and that this was part of the local monster industry. It wasn’t, though: it just happened to be on the telly, which was a weird coincidence. I’d read all about the Skunk Ape when I was thinking about where to go on my trips. Florida certainly has a lot of ‘wildlands’. I wondered whether an ageing Bigfoot, bored of living among the weed farmers of California, had decided to retire to Florida?

  I had very little left to do for the rest of the day. Willow Creek is a town that can be ‘done’ in well under an hour. Richard had organized for me to stay in one of a series of rather posh cabins that were normally for people coming up to fish in the nearby river. He was joining me the following day so that we could head off on our trip to Bluff Creek.

  I checked in and sat outside my cabin reading until it got dark and then went to bed to watch yet another Republican Presidential Hopeful debate. When it had finished I despaired for America.

  The next morning, Richard turned up in a decidedly dodgy-looking car. It was quickly agreed that we should take my rental on our expedition as his had seen better days.

  We first went to my Skunk Ape café, where we had some muffins and coffee. We looked at maps again and Richard started talking quite loudly about Bigfoot, causing several local heads to swivel round to look at us suspiciously. Richard certainly seemed to know his stuff. It turned out that his father-in-law had a cabin near the mouth of Bluff Creek. I had lucked out and seemed to be with something of an expert. Before we set off, I popped into the local mini-mart and bought some beef jerky and water. There was a huge sign outside saying that they sold buffalo meat. I took a picture of the sign. When I got to the checkout the woman working there was looking at me distrustfully.

  ‘They say you took a photo of the store . . . Why?�
� I think she suspected me of some Federal Government snooping.

  I over-Brit-accented and told her about how weird it was to see buffalo for sale. She immediately warmed up and started to chat.

  ‘Do you guys not eat buffalo, then?’

  I told her that, no, we didn’t and that this was clearly our loss. I asked her my default question: ‘Have you ever seen Bigfoot?’

  ‘No, sir, I’ve never seen him, but I know a lot of good folk who have round here.’

  This appeared to be the default answer to the default question.

  I joined Richard in the car and we set off out of town on the so-called ‘Bigfoot Highway’. We hadn’t been driving for long when Richard asked me to pull over at a forestry station. He wanted to find out which roads were open and which were closed, as there was still snow in the mountains. Forest Ranger Jim was behind the desk and was busy issuing permits to a group of Mong (a displaced Burmese border tribe, not a bad Ricky Gervais joke) who were off mushroom picking. The Mong were taking ages and quibbling about the fee.

  Forest Ranger Jim eventually finished with the Mong and we had a chat. He told us that we were better off asking at the forestry station in Orleans as it was much closer to our destination.

  I asked him about Bigfoot and he went very weird with us.

  He announced that he didn’t speak to the media since the National Geographic Channel had come to talk to him.

  ‘They reduced my hour-long interview to just twenty seconds, then they got my name wrong, and then the bastards ignored all my referrals to serious people who have really seen Bigfoot. Instead they talked to some woman who claimed she fathered a Bigfoot in Arizona. So I’m sorry, but I don’t talk to media no more . . .’