Sunday, October 4, 2015

Bigfoot Habituation: Scientific Baiting or Spiritual Offerings?

When it comes to bigfoot habituation, who is the subject and who is the object?

A great many researchers tend to use food as a way to habituate forest giants to become accustomed to interacting with human beings. Oh, if only they knew what is doing the REAL habituation! 

In such cases, it is the sasquatches that are, in turn, habituating humans by allowing the humans to believe they are in charge.

So-called baiting stations, where food is left, can certainly help to establish a connection.

Whether the researcher is acting from a scientific standpoint by leaving bait, or a paranormalist perspective by leaving an offering, is actually fairly irrelevant.  Yes, the latter is quite a bit easier for Intra Dimensional Entities (IDE's) to manipulate, but with time and patience even the most hardened scientist will come around, particularly if he or she returns often enough to check his or her "baiting station."

Such offerings are a form of wish fulfillment that sasquatches and other IDE's may or may not accept as a way to establish a psychic bond.  Often, the likelihood of "habituating" an IDE through such rudimentary methods has more to do with the type of psychic energy and body chemistry that the humans bring to the table.

The actual food that one leaves in such cases is fairly incidental. Yes, certain kinds of food are more tasty to a sasquatch than other kinds of food. Often, however, even if the food is taken it is not eaten.

Accepting an offering (or taking the bait) is a way of connecting with the mental signature of the human(s) involved.

Establishing rapport with sasquatches, ghosts and other Intra-Dimensional Entities (IDE's) tends to accelerate the "meet-greet" process, thereby greatly improving outcomes . . . that is, if one considers contact to be a desirable outcome.

Historically, many different terms have been used for the process of establishing rapport between intra dimensionals and human beings.  Everything from conjuring to invoking to simply offering a greeting or salutation is applicable.  When one realizes this all-important fact, a kind of veil is lifted from one's outlook. Such a vision of what lies underneath can be liberating or greatly discouraging. It all depends upon one's cultural, religious, and philosophical orientation.

Admitting that bigfooting is really just another form of initiating contact between humans and IDE's is a big step for many researchers. Apers tend to poo-poo this very real facet of bigfooting, whereas many paranormalists err on the side of deifying sasquatchs as quasi-gods.

Ubernaturalists forge a path through the rough in order to reconcile each of the two divergent views, as well as lending a helping hand to individual researchers regardless of their orientation. Every field researcher who is conducting research deserves an audience. There are always plenty of interesting details they bring back with them from encounters that transcend the rather pedestrian line of demarcation between apers and supernaturalists.

As I've said, both schools tend to exhibit their own set of weaknesses and strengths. But the data transcends such handicaps. That is why it's so important for apers not to self-censor vital details!  Likewise, it's imperative that paranormalists strive to learn some logic skills from apers. 

Lastly, I thought I would demonstrate how my understanding of the paranormal has evolved over the past twenty years or so. The above documentary was filmed before I understood how the "mind-body connection" applies to the field of bigfooting, as well as ghosting and other paranormal research. 
In fact, I mistakenly believed that my offerings of apples had more to do with the fruit themselves than with the intention by which I left them on the hiking trail. Kurt Lancaster's footage chronicles my pursuit of High Sasquatchery way back in the summer of 2002. Lancaster is currently a tenured Professor of Performance Studies at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.
As for the area where most of the footage in Kultus was filmed, it proved to be remarkably squatchy.  About one third of the film is nocturnal bigfooting at Kultus Lake, WA. I took the opportunity to leave offerings. However, none of the apples I left were accepted by sasquatches. It's worth pointing out that the trail on which I left them was a fairly busy one during the daytime.
A high amount of human foot traffic could have certainly reduced the likelihood that a sasquatch would be paying attention. This said, one spot in particular on the trail did seem to give the impression that a cloaked sasquatch was nearby, at least judging by the severity of my own personal "dread response," as well as the documentary film maker's anxiety in one particular spot.
The entire documentary can be found here: Kultus: A Search for Sasquatch.  And, yes, it was filmed before I considered myself an Ubernaturalist.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Herded Towards A Portal

In the summer of 2005, I got a crash course in portals. It was an experience that changed my life forever.

My girlfriend, Meg, and I drove up to camp by Tillicum Swamp in Southwestern Washington. The area is located in what I call "The Green Triangle."  Situated between Mount St. Helens, Rainier and Adams, it is filled with old forests, active volcanism, alpine swamps and bigfoots. There are also quite a bit of other strange goings-on there--everything from bizarre otherworldly animals walking (or flying) around to UFO activity to intra-dimensional portals. Even dinosaurs.

I say "intra dimensional" because it is my contention that such "folds" in space-time come from within rather than from without. In other words, we are talking about inner space.

So Meg and I assembled our put tent, and lay down to take a nap beside the swamp. Actually, there is an ancient pile of stones that seem rather mysterious near the campsite. It's occurred to me that they could possibly represent some sort of bigfoot cairn, although this possibility is probably remote at best. The area is certainly brimming with bigfoot activity, mostly of the "cloaked" variety.

Nearby, my friend Bjorn Johnson, who is the son of Jimmy Carter's White House librarian, once witnessed a huge cloaked sasquatch step on a tree branch that was lying in the road and break it in half. Immediately afterwards he came running into camp to tell another friend and I what had happened. He didn't explain it as a cloaked sasquatch (that was my interpretation), but he described the stick snapping in half on the ground near him and the sound of footsteps going off up the logging road away from him.

Paved road above Cayuse Meadow, and that's my "untrusty" KLR.

So the area is a pretty hot one for all things "ubernatural." As I said, the summer after Bjorn and I camped along the swamp, Meg and I set up camp and took a brief nap. Now, I was dabbling in what is called "remote viewing" at the time. This is a type of skill set in which one lets one's awareness exit one's body to "see" things in a non-corporeal way. Indeed, the CIA and the US military, in addition to the Russian military and many other military programs around the world, have spent hundreds of millions of dollars over the past sixty-five years experimenting with remote viewing (which is also called "astral flight").

Believe it or not, my father, Ed, experimented successfully with remote viewing after he had been etherized on an operating table to have a lung removed. He was twelve years old in Portland, Oregon. While under, the doctors were amazed to witness his lung re-inflate on its own, something that almost never happens. They called off the operation and my father eventually was revived from the ether. Ed told the doctors and nurses that he remembered everything they had done and said while he was unconscious. He explained how he had flown up over the table, watched them, and then passed back and forth through a wall a few times. The nurses laughed patiently, explaining to him that he had only been dreaming. When Ed proceeded to tell them verbatim everything that had been said and done, they were very uncomfortable with the fact that he was right, but they admitted as much to him.

Over the past week, upon returning from the hospital, my father experimented with remote viewing. After his experience with ether, it wasn't terribly hard to duplicate the effect without drugs of any kind. Ed conducted the experiments at night in his bed when he was getting ready to sleep. Each time he left his body to remote view, the experience caused worse and worse headaches when he returned to his body. The last time Ed tried it, he also inadvertently slipped forward in time to the next morning. In his astral form, he watched the sun come up through the living room windows. When he re-entered his body, still in the morning, and then traveled back to the previous night, a terrible migraine flared up. It did not stop for days. Ed abandoned his remote viewing experiments, never trying them again. He told me that he was lucky not to have died due to the fact that it was extremely difficult to regress back in time. He did not understand how he had slipped out of time during his final remote viewing episode.

When I was engrossed in training with remote viewing techniques while in my mid-30's, I bought quite a few books on the subject, along with an expensive military-grade DVD box set that I was able to purchase through Afterwards, I gave the materials to my father when I was done with that part of my training, thinking that he might be interested given the account he had related about his boyhood experiments. Later, Ed confessed that the material made him uncomfortable enough so that he put everything in a box and kept it in his basement.

I never suffered headaches during my experimentation with remote viewing, but then again, I was never able to slip forward or backward in time, either.  Right around the point at which I was camping with Meg, my girlfriend, by Tillicum Swamp, I was getting quite good at remote viewing experiments. The skill set tends to build through repetition and experience. If one doesn't practice it often, the ability withers and goes away. I had been practicing quite diligently and was able to "fly" up over Tillicum. As I did so, I let my mind also send out a signal to any sasquatches or old ones nearby (old ones are a more civilized form of sasquatch with rounder heads and often a more human-looking face).

My message seemed to be intercepted by a force that was directly to the northeast of where I was hovering in the astral plane over Tillicum Swamp. So I let the force pull me towards it. In my lucid dream state, I could see the topography of the area like never before. It was thrilling and also a bit disconcerting because I was not in control of an out of body experience for the first time since I had experimented with the technique.

After passing over Squaw Butte, I found myself coming down from the southwestern side of Cayuse Meadow, an area that I had camped many times before. In fact, Bjorn and I had camped there and made two discoveries: 1) the place was littered with elk bones as if it were some sort of "graveyard" where the beasts lied down to die, and 2) a huge sasquatch bellowed down at us at dusk as we set up our tents in the middle of the meadow on the area with the buried elk bones, which seemed to be the driest part of the meadow.

The view from "on high" was exhilarating as I soared over the meadow and up the eastern slopes towards the area where Bjorn and I had heard a huge forest giant bellowing during the previous summer. I was surprised that the pull on my astral body kept pulling me farther until I was nearly to the main paved road that led from the Wind River Highway to Tillicum Campground.

On a small gated fire road, I found my vision stopping at a place where the tops of the trees were all snapped off. A large number of Doug firs were affected, most of them about twenty-five years old and twenty feet tall. At this point, a clear voice telepathically called to me. It said, quite simply, "Come!"

The vision dream ended suddenly and I found myself lying next to Meg's unconscious body in the tent sleeping soundly. It was a warm afternoon. Insects were buzzing and the air smelled fragrantly of tree pitch and pine cones.  I got out of the tent and mounted my 250 KLR motorcycle.

On the motorcycle, I was able to take a few short cuts that I could not have done with my Jeep Liberty. In about thirty minutes, I found myself on the stretch of road near where I had seen the tree breaks from above as an extension of remote viewing and being guided by some unseen force.

It took another few hours before I found the precise spot with the tree breaks. In order to reach the spot, I'd looked up and down about a half dozen fire roads and paths. To my surprise, the tree breaks were located on one of the main fire roads that led down to a view point above Cayuse Meadow.  I was surprised because the road was obviously being used by forest rangers to keep an eye on the area. It was not deserted at all. In my dream state, since I had flown up over the meadow itself, the road had seemed more remote because I had not looked up to see the paved outline of Twin Buttes road nearby.

Aerial view of Lone Butte Meadow & Cayuse Meadow

As I rode into the midst of the tree breaks, my brand new motorcycle died suddenly, as if the electrical system had been cut off. The bike was a kick start, so I tried to turn over the engine with my foot unsuccessfully. In fact, the bike had been a bit of a lemon since I had first bought the thing, and it was known to die out in the middle of nowhere, but normally when this happened it was carburetor-related. As a result, the bottom of my hiking books had been nearly worn through by the ball of the kick start catching in the Vibram tread pattern of the soles.

I dismounted from the motorcycle, and removed my helmet. The air was very still. Something was different from the norm. An odd sort of heat seemed concentrated in the area, and no insects or birds could be heard. Indeed, a preternatural stillness had fallen across the forest. I walked about fifteen yards into the woods and immediately was greeted by a "Woo Woo" vocalization. It was a first for me at the time, and actually I had never read or heard of such a sound before.

As I walked slowly towards the sound, another "Woo Woo Woo" came from behind me, and then another to my left. At the time, I thought it was the same creature vocalizing, but how had it moved so rapidly?  In retrospect, there were most likely three cloaked sasquatches at the spot waiting for my arrival.

Considering the fact that the "woo woo woo" sounds came from three places, which seemed to rotate clockwise around me with all the military precision of a Seal team recon, it is highly unlikely that bears were involved.

At the time, I thought there was one sasquatch involved, which really makes no sense unless it was "warp jumping" from place to place with some sort of intra-dimensional ability. Be this as it may, the pattern of three "woo woo woo" vocalizations coming in quick succession around me probably indicates that three cloaked sasquatches were toying with me.

I became frustrated after about three or four minutes of the hide and seek "woo woo's" and eventually I charged one of the sounds. After that, there was silence. No more vocalizations. I went over to a nearby tree, picked up a heavy branch, and whacked it. The sound reverberated through the still and silent forest like the crack of a baseball bat on a fast-pitched hardball.

No response. I tried it once more. Nothing. At the time, I didn't understand that sasquatches rarely answered tree knocks when they were cloaked and that close to a human target. Evidently, there had been none in the distance interested enough to respond.

For some reason, I remembered a pair of "rattlesnake eggs" in my pocket. They were actually a child's toy that consisted of two oval magnets which would "sizzle" when thrown into the air by virtue of the way the two magnets came apart and together very fast in mid air. Just for fun, I threw up the magnets. They sizzled loudly, cutting through the forest like FM radio static.

The reaction in front of me was instantaneous: a huge sasquatch began charging me from about thirty yards into the forest. Trees and brush crashed as it pushed its way towards me with lightning fast speed. I was shocked. In my mind, I could only grasp the image of a bear charging. I didn't even have time to turn and run.

When the sasquatch reached the open clearing where I was standing next to the two magnets that had fallen to the ground, it stopped. I didn't see anything, and so I turned and ran back to my motorcycle. Thankfully, it started right up.

I took this pic while spinning around in a bigfoot hot spot (no effects, straight out of my iPhone). I think it conveys the sort of feeling one experiences near a portal.

Because my adrenaline was pumping, I didn't have the forethought to turn around and ride out towards the main paved road. Instead, I sped off down the fire road towards the viewpoint over Cayuse Meadow. The road took a turn to the right and then went down a steep hill with deep ruts from the winter rains and snows. I had to steer carefully to avoid the ruts, which would have thrown me over the handlebars of my KLR.

As I began to descend the hill, I began hearing a crashing coming towards me in the forest. It sounded as loud as the steam in a vintage locomotive!  I was terrified to eventually see trees pushing out of the way as something huge followed me! The sound was created by a huge amount of displaced brush and trees. A kind of supernatural power seemed behind the display, as if the creature was made of a denser kind of matter than terrestrial animals. Even a huge grizzly would have been hard pressed to match such a feat!

Riding as fast as I could manage, I followed the road as gravel turned to dirt and finally into a meadow laced with rotted deadfall trees. Eventually, the road ended. I turned and looked over my shoulder. Nothing. The trees were still with only a light wind ruffling the leaves. I removed my helmet in order to determine if the crashing sound was still coming from the distance. Nothing again. The forest was quiet, but not unnaturally so.

Insects whirred and buzzed and everything felt warm and safe there.  In retrospect, that sense of security I felt made no sense. Why would I feel confident enough to dismount from my motorcycle and walk around?  For whatever reason, that's exactly what I did. I looked out over the surreal view of the meadow hundreds of feet below. Elk grazed serenely in the grass. A raven flew by overhead. It was a beautiful spot that seemed almost too beautiful. I turned to regard the swampy field directly behind me, which emptied into a little stream that ran through a copse of hemlocks, many of which had died and withered into snags that jutted up against the sky like immense tombstones.

I was mentally exhausted from my encounter and my mind was working slowly, in a stunned way. It was all I could do just to walk around and catch my breath. I walked over to the stream, knowing that I shouldn't drink from it, but nearly thirsty enough to do so.

As I neared the water, a foul stench hit my nostrils. The odor was so strong, it lodged in my sinuses. Something about it was almost human. It reminded me of the smell of human wastes in the New York subway system, where eighty years of bum urine and feces created a ghastly reek near the subway platforms, out in the darkness of the tunnel systems. This same odor seemed to come from the direction of the forest up by the entrance to the cul de sac area.

With a heightened sense of awareness and smell, I detected something huge approaching from the same direction I had ridden into the area. A kind of dread took hold of my stomach. I leaned over and fought off the nausea. Was it triggered by my jangled nerves, or by the smell itself? I couldn't be sure. And then I felt a kind of stifling sensation that was very strange, almost like an energy field creeping up from behind.  The entity was stalking me!  My instincts told me to run for it!  Get the hell out of there!

I ran towards my bike, and as I ran, my invisible pursuer seemed to close in, gliding through the air like a shark encircling its prey. No footfalls, no crunching of vegetation or sticks. Nothing on the ground. But the presence was palpable. A hypnotic impulse seemed to take hold, pushing me towards the edge of the road.

As I looked over for a second, I could see a shimmering jellyfish-like shape hovering in mid air!  Colors were a bit distorted when I looked through it at the meadow far below, but the distortion itself revealed a circular contour that reminded me of gasoline on water in a mud puddle--a kind of rainbow effect that further revealed that a portal was right there, about five feet directly out from the steep embankment that was nearly a cliff, but not quite.

I leapt onto my motorcycle, kicked over the engine, revved my throttle and spun out a bunch of gravel as I lunged back up the road. Without looking back, I jumped the bike over punky logs that were fairly smooth, almost like speed bumps in the meadow and then the gravel started again, and I was making my way swiftly up the bank.

Riding my KLR with a kind of automatic muscle memory, I felt the jagged contours of the road as if my feet were running instead of tires. Adrenaline can work that way.  Time slowed down so that I was in control of every detail and yet also sped up because I didn't really remember doing what needed to be done after I'd done it.

The road wasn't that long, maybe a mile at most. In no time at all, I was back out to Twin Buttes road.  The sweating closeness of ubernatural terror was gone. As I paused at the edge of the asphalt, my thoughts went back to the events that had started the whole nightmare: losing power as my motorcycle entered the tree-snap area. Holy shit.  I was grateful that had not happened on the way out. 

Pausing at a stop sign, I recalled how, a few years earlier, while I had been whistling at night, a harsh shrill answering whistle had come from a clump of trees across the other side of the road, only a stone's throw away. After riding around for three night's worth of squatching, hoping for an encounter, when the seemingly impossible had happened, I had put my helmet back on and ridden off like a coward on my motorcycle (a different one from the KLR). 

There was something about being in the presence of a living, breathing sasquatch that stole one's courage like a vampire sucking blood. Such was the paradox of the ubernaturalist: he spends untold hours courting unearthly encounters, and then, when they actually came to pass, the old fight-flight instinct kicked in before a Class A visual sighting could take place.

Meg was still asleep when I got back to camp. She wasn't terribly upset when I told her that I would prefer to leave the area and hold off staying overnight. The whole rigmarole of camping was never really her thing anyhow; she'd come along with me in order to be agreeable. When I tried to tell her what had happened to me on the fire road with the crooked menagerie of tree breaks, I saw a look of amused disbelief on flash across her face. Since she had grown up with a schizophrenic mother, I knew that I'd better not push my luck in an attempt to convey what had just happened to me.

It would just sound crazy to Meg and ruffle her feathers.  I couldn't really blame her for that. Despite being a sweet lady, her mother was hopelessly out of touch with reality. Growing up like that had caused Meg to be extra dependent upon "staying inside the boundaries" of accepted reality, in other words, believing everything that modern science taught her as a veterinarian in training. Yes, she was a practicing vet, and eventually she rose to the position of lead vet at a large animal shelter in the Portland Metro area.

Trees near broken tops on the fire road

As I drove out of the main road, after packing up camp, I remembered the feeling I'd had, the way some unseen force had pulled me towards those tree breaks when I'd been remote viewing the area and sending out a psychic calling card. Would the intelligence follow me back to civilization? Would it hound me? Since I was a survivor of ghostly night smotherings, the notion of being hounded by some unseen thing that had attempted to herd me into a portal was terrifying.

To my relief, this dark scenario did not play out. In fact, a few months later, I attempted to telepathically "reach" the entity that I'd encountered in the forest that summer day while Meg as sleeping in our tent a few miles away. At the time, I was sitting in the front room of my apartment on Ladd Circle in Portland, hunkered back in my Lazy Boy chair. I'd just finished reading "Psychic Sasquatch" by Keewaunee. 

The book had been fairly inspiring and blanketed the whole telepathic-bigfoot connection with feel-good vibes. The familiar old "push/pull" of bigfooting proved too strong. While in the forest, I felt the urge to flee, but once back in the familiar confines of civilization, a kind of addictive desire for yet more contact took hold of me like a drug.  The view out of front window of century-old rhododendrons was so familiar and comforting. I felt as safe as safe could be, and so I decided to try out some of the techniques Keewaunee recommended.

My little experiment proved all to easy--much more so than I'd expected. The feeling I got was as if a presence had been waiting for me to initiate further contact. When I received what I thought was an answer from the creature or creatures involved, I asked them why they had chased me. The answer that came back indicated that I had not respected the proper boundaries for such an interaction. It also indicated surprise that I was able to remote view the area. I asked the creature's name and I was surprised at its answer.

The telepathic response indicated that the name was private and not to be shared with others. I looked up the name and was surprised to find that it was the ancient name for a Celtic priest!  I'd never heard it before. It didn't even sound like Celtic to me. Out of respect, I will not repeat the name here. Ironically, the word had came to be used as an insult for Catholic priests when Ireland had been converted to Christianity.

The "portal herding incident" was one of many that occurred at a time in my life when I was growing as an ubernaturalist, learning the boundaries of the playing field, so to speak. After my experiences dabbling in telepathy for a few years, I decided to cut off the communication. I found that it felt as though I were a child playing with matches next to entities that wielded the symbolic equivalent of fireworks . . . enough gunpowder and phosphorus to light up the entire night sky next to my puny sulfur match tip.

I also discovered that opening up psychic channels of communication often left one vulnerable to eavesdropping, and perhaps some things even worse. And so, I stopped experimenting with remote viewing and with telepathy, particularly in squatchy areas and in regard to the beings in squatchy areas of the forest.

My advice to those interested in remote viewing and telepathy is to take baby steps first. Practice in places one is familiar with, is the best strategy. Yes, experimenting in hot zones of squatch activity will greatly boost one's abilities, accelerating the learning curve nearly exponentially, but the price one can pay for such assistance is daunting. Any native American shaman worth his salt would discourage such foolishness.

Not counting lenticular clouds (see above), UFO's and strange lights are often seen in the "green triangle" which lies between Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Adams. I've been camping in the Cascades mountains with an eye out for supernatural goings-on ever since I was a kid. Curiosity about the supernatural runs in the family. My paternal grandfather was born in the shadow of Rainier. My maternal grandfather was born in the shadow of Mt. Shasta in the southern Cascades, which is also known for paranormal activity. He is rumored to have been a "time traveler" of sorts, but that is another story. Before she died, my paternal grandmother, Veta, told me about how she had witnessed a glowing portal full of "squirming beings" open up in my parent's kitchen while everyone else was at church on Sunday morning. Veta's father was nearly seven feet tall and immigrated to America from Wales before the turn of the Twentieth Century.

In fact, the very idea of dabbling and baiting "spirits" would cause them to shrink back and go the other way. I should know, I've tried asking some trusted native American friends about such techniques and scenarios and the conversations have never gone very well, except perhaps with the Millennials that are not in touch with their tribe's longstanding traditions (caution) about such things.

Down in the Southwest, things are different. A handful of skin walkers initiate contact with the spirit world, allegedly developing the ability to shape shift and read people's minds. But up here in the Pacific Northwest, I have yet to come across a tribal member who approves of my experiments in High Strangeness. Nay, such wise men and women have never advocated messing around with remote viewing and telepathy in a place like Cayuse Meadow, which is known as being "Kultus," a no good place full of dangerous influences and things. 

Be this as it may, more than a few of my native American friends have shown quite a bit of curiosity to learn about what I have come to know the "hard way." Uber is as uber does. Such is the plight of the ubernaturalist: friend to the underdog, outcast of humanity. One or two Indians have called me lucky to be alive after what I have done for the sake of uncovering hidden and lost knowledge in a bid to help the plight of mankind as livestock for top pyramid IDE's (intra-dimensional entities) that rule our sense plane from beyond, and through human vessels.

The youngest generation of Indians, like their mainstream American contemporaries, are more interested in the hype of "all things supernatural" than their parents and their grandparents usually are. The farther one goes, back into the bloodlines of a people that has come from a longstanding tradition of protecting itself from the supernatural on a regular basis, the less such folk seem interested in associating with a renegade squatcher like myself. Ironically, they are the ones I most like to chill out with. For they hold some match sticks worth lighting . . . in a safe place, and on their own terms.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

The Mysterious Men in Plaid

Two accounts of bigfoots & aliens

Something very strange happened when I was about an hour south of Crescent City, California, vocalizing on a lone and deserted stretch of road in the winter time.  Even in the chilly weather, the redwoods were awesome to behold, creating their own layer of fog that nestled over the foothills like a baby’s blanket.  I had been vocalizing out of my Jeep’s window (without a bullhorn) for a few nights, in areas that I had associated with particularly dramatic bigfoot sightings that were mentioned online.  

Three days of squatching were rewarded finally with a loud call-back.  By that time, my voice was rather hoarse.  After responding to my calls, a bold sasquatch began approaching from across a brackish swamp.  Its calls got louder and louder, until I could also hear the loud sloshing gait of something huge moving towards me.

I was thrilled and a little caught off guard by the gusto of this particular sasquatch, which made its northern relatives in Oregon seem timid by comparison.  Its voice was deep, resonant, and its actions were unabashedly bold—moving directly towards my somewhat feeble calls, which must have carried just right, out over the swamp, due to my location and the acoustics of the high bank. 

Right as the sasquatch began pushing up towards the hill upon which my Jeep was situated (behind thick layers of foliage), a car appeared in my rear view mirror.  The sight of it caught me off guard because I hadn’t seen another car in hours.  The area was fairly deserted due to the fact that it was a weeknight and the weather had been rainy and misty in wintertime.  Much to my shock and surprise, a man in the passenger side, pulled out what looked to me like a scuba diver’s light, and began flooding the swamp with the brightest strobe light I had ever seen. 

Out in the water, the reaction from that sasquatch was dramatic.  It bellowed, as if in pain, and rushed away across the swamp at a very fast rate, even for a sasquatch. 

Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to really think about the likelihood that a small car would appear seemingly out of nowhere, zero-in on the sasquatch that had responded to my calls, and then shoo it away with a gadget, which, aside from its unwieldy size, could have appeared in the film, Men In Black. 

I was angry, downright furious actually, on the verge of leaping out of my Jeep to give the strangers a tongue-lashing.  I nearly did open my door, when the other car pulled slowly out into the road and drove forward, until it stopped alongside my Jeep. 

The chilling expressions on the faces of those men instantly put my temper in check.  They peered at me with a kind of detached disdain, as if I were a lab rat in some sort of Skinnerian experiment that had gotten out of its cage and was threatening to chew threw a computer cable.  When the man in the passenger side raised his strobe light, I was horrified, and looked away, but the piercing strobes merely reflected off the trees and bushes on the other side of my Jeep, blinding me.  I don’t know if I lost consciousness, but the next memory I have is of the car, up ahead of me, flashing that strobe out over the swamp from atop a little bridge.  I have no clear memory of passing the car to leave the area. 

Even now, I can move towards the fuzzy outlines of what feels like a memory, but nothing is definite.  There is a nagging sense of the orange-red compact car returning and parking directly behind me, and of my foot jamming down the accelerator to get the hell out of there, but I can’t pin anything down.  My usual ability to recall details in an orderly and a clear fashion seems disturbed somehow—muddy, diffuse, uncertain.    

In a way, the terrifying experience reminds me of the way my friends reacted to sasquatch encounters with me, events that I could recall quite clearly a few years in the future, and which they had no recollection whatsoever, their memories seemingly wiped clean—tabula rasa.    

At any rate, getting back to the aftermath of my otherworldly encounter in the Redwoods, I drove sixty miles to a motel on the southern outskirts of Crescent City in record time, even though I have no memory of speeding. 

As I pulled out my credit card to pay for a room at the motel’s lobby, I noticed my hands were covered with mud, even under the fingernails.  Once I had checked into my room, I felt like crying.  A kind of smothering depression overcame me.  I desperately wanted to sleep, but no sleep would come.  I bought myself various odds and ends from the vending machine but could not hold down any food.  My favorite brand of soda tasted terrible, especially the carbonation.  
The left side of my face was sunburned in a way that felt unusual, and my left eye kept twitching involuntarily.  The eyeball itself seemed a bit sore, as well, especially in the outside corner.  (Even to this day, the corner of my eye continues to twitch occasionally.  Sometimes a numb burning sensation causes me to itch it with my finger, which always makes the condition worse rather than better.) 

What is perhaps even more surprising than the recurring physical discomfort in my left eye is the fact that I quickly suppressed the memory of what had happened to me that bizarre evening in the California Redwoods when the Men in Plaid drove up behind my vehicle, apparently in an effort to stop me from making contact with an unusually interactive sasquatch. 

Years later, I finally began to go over the event in my mind, eventually sharing it with Thom Powell, Henry Franzoni, and Joe Beelart—some close bigfooting friends of mine.  All of them were quite interested to hear the details, but as the parallel with "Men in Black" clich├ęs from the Hollywood film became apparent, their interest waned. It's not as if they didn't believe, they just lost interest, as if they had "heard it all before." 
Be this as it may, the act of sharing was liberating. I began to think more and more about what had happened to me. After a few weeks, I stumbled across a hand-drawn sketch of a Nordic alien that really caught my attention.  Their high cheekbones held a striking resemblance to the Men in Plaid: the same large pale eyes, the same fine hair, high cheekbones, unusually gold-tinted skin, full lips, heavy brows, square jaws, and strong necks.   The hair length of the men I had seen was admittedly shorter than the ones in sketches, which sported a medieval type of garb that struck me as corny. 

And there were some other noteworthy differences, as well: The two guys in that Datsun wore lumberjack-style “square” plaid, not true Scottish plaid with stripes.  Their fabric of their shirts seemed new, and the vehicle they drove also seemed quite new considering its approximate model year of manufacture.  Their posture was conspicuously upright, and their arms and shoulders were fairly muscular, as if they lifted weights regularly.  The strobe light looked quite bulky in a heavy-duty sort of way, and yet the man in the passenger side of the vehicle handled it nimbly, as if it were made of lightweight aluminum, a metallic-looking type of plastic, or some sort of high-tech material.             

My drawing of one of the "men" I witnessed
Be this as it may, similarities with that sketch of Nordic aliens online were striking nonetheless—enough so that I quickly realized the two men I encountered on that forlorn stretch of back road in the California Redwoods did not look anything like classic depictions “Men in Black” at all, even though the strobe light they used was remarkably similar to the device made famous in the Hollywood film, despite the fact that it was large and unwieldy by comparison.

Of course, I am well aware that the surreal encounter seemed to draw upon memories that I already possessed: the car looked almost identical to the one my mother drove when I was a boy, and the strobe light could have passed for one of the scuba diving lights that my instructor had owned when I went through my Oregon Diving Schools certification at age thirteen.  The two men also seemed a bit too well groomed and their long-sleeved plaid wool shirts identical. 

The modus operandi of such a scenario is nothing new to ufologists, but to a bigfooter like myself, it was quite disconcerting to consider the possibility that my own memories could have been manipulated to cover up what really happened.  I began to weigh the likelihood about whether recollection had been "manufactured" in some way, or, at the very least, altered with technology far and above mainstream human capabilities. 

Had a hovercraft touched down behind my Jeep with aliens aboard?  Were they keeping their big hairy “employee” from fraternizing with a member of their “herd,” so to speak?  Was a black budget program going on out there in the redwoods with covert technology?  Were the “Men in Plaid” humans with advanced black budget gizmos?  Were they a splinter group of humans from a previous technological age, hundreds of thousands of years in the past, that went underground and remained on earth today? 

In a weird sort of way, science fiction scenarios like that seemed to make more sense than what actually happened to me, at least in terms of my recollection of the events in question.  There is no way that I will ever feel entirely comfortable with the memories of that particular evening when my unbridled joy of squatching was quashed forever.  

Looking back, I can’t say that toning down the overnighters to hot spots was an entirely negative thing in my life.  In some ways, it allowed me to get on with other things that were more important, as unpopular as that might sound to my fellow bigfooters.  Squatching is more than simply an “extreme sport.”  It is a way of life when taken to the extreme.  The adrenaline rush of being in close proximity to a sasquatch is far greater than any drug known to man.   

In my case, the rush mainlined into my brain, and, yes, it seemed to bestow after-effects, which endowed me with a fun little boost of “ESP” that was even more addictive than the actual squatching tended to be.  It was almost as if being around sasquatches in close proximity reawakened a dormant part of my brain that gave me an edge on human interactions, allowing me to anticipate what others were thinking, at least to a minor extent.  I’m not sure if this propensity has much in common with other squatchers. 

After I stopped squatching regularly, the ESP abilities seemed to die down for the most part.   Even when I went back into the woods and heard them, “feeling” they were near, I just couldn’t achieve the same level of sensitivity that I once had before my run-in with the Men in Plaid.  Could they have taken away some sort of bond I had formed with sasquatches?  Probably not, but I will never know for sure.  

Be this at it may, I certainly have seen more than my share of the most die-hard bigfooters come down with horribly debilitating diseases, lose their jobs, neglect and ruin their marriages, lose their other friends, etc.  In contemporary American society, at least back in the mid-200's, it simply wasn’t a culturally acceptable activity to pursue squatching—especially when it took up so much valuable time that would normally be spent fixing up one’s house, going on normal vacations, playing with one’s kids . . . the list goes on and on. 

In my case, I spent a great deal of my adult years bigfooting, and if I were to be honest it's probably cost me the opportunity of raising a family. Then again, it's never too late. So perhaps my run-in with the Men in Plaid wasn’t all bad, even though it sure was hell on earth to go through—both during and after it happened. The trauma associated with the Men in Plaid helped me to move on because I simply couldn't go squatching aftwards for several years without feeling nauseated and sick.
The biggest down-side in the scenario was the fact that I had to shelve my novel Kultus until I no longer felt nauseated when I dwelled at length on the subject of sasquatches. Thankfully, I was able to finish the novel in late 2013. This said, it's worth mentioning that I originally wrote an afterward which talked about the Men in Plaid episode.

Very shortly after writing it, I was hospitalized by a mysterious illness that was finally completely healed with the use of antibiotics. The illness went undiagnosed by puzzled doctors that could not figure out what was wrong with me. I finally demanded antibiotics. Ironically, it was the first time I had ever needed them. Yes, that's right, I'd never taken antibiotics before, partly due to being raised by parents that didn't think very highly of them unless them were absolutely necessary.

Needless to say, I removed all mention of the Men in Plaid from the afterward of Kultus

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Lo and Behold

Most people don't know about the Paracas skulls (above) or the fact that King Tut also had an elongated skull. Was King Tut's misshapen head the product of "binding" in infancy? Were pharaohs imitating the appearance of a previous age of giants?  Modern archaeology refuses to deal with these sorts of questions.
High Strangeness abounds . . . monsters of all shapes and sizes folded between dimensions. Sometimes they straighten out their lots by accident.  Sometimes they spend thousands of years seeking a way to enter our sense plane. Such are the hidden realms that bump and grind like rusty clockwork behind the fascia of every day reality.  
Steampunk Scientists are not shackled by rules, regulations, and peer pressure. They can pursue knowledgecraft in the comforts of their own space. Believe it or not, some of the greatest technological leaps in history were not made in corporate or academic labs. Most people have not heard about the really big private discoveries that occurred after the Nineteenth Century. Why? Because the information was occulted on a "need to know" basis.
Knowledge is power, lest we forget, and powerful inventions can be priceless. Ironically, many brilliant inventors over the past century were not aware of these all-important facts. Nicola Tesla found out the hard way.
Discoveries about supernatural beings and phenomenon are no different, and many of these were made long before the Nineteenth Century. Rare instances of alliances and friendships between supernatural sentients and humans have often been manipulated and abused by other supernaturals or by greedy third party humans for as long as our species has trod the globe. C'est la vie. 
Ubernaturalism is a system of analysis that acknowledges ancient knowledge of such things, while drawing from modern evidence and scientific reasoning. This said, it is more than a bunch of rules. Ubernaturalism, as a kind of psychic altruism, embraces the need for humanity to transcend livestockhood. It seeks to awaken the dormant sense of psychic awareness in all people.
The ubernaturalist, like the "steampunk scientist," commands scientific dogma to "Sit! Roll over!" But this does not mean that the virtues of science are overlooked or undervalued. Intuition and imagination are as important to the 21st Century as it was to the Seventeenth Century when Sir Isaac Newton spent as much time studying alchemy as he did calculus.  
Just because evidence of the paranormal does not fit neatly inside our present frame of reference, scientifically speaking--this does not mean it should be ignored . . . or worse, covered up. 
And so it goes . . . turn a screw, bust a nut.  Ubernatural data gathering, analysis, and interpretation is a lot hard work. There's no room for armchair philosophers or scientists in this new and budding post-scientific age discipline.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Ghosts, Spirits, and a Ouija Board

Even though in my experience drinking booze and lighting up pot pipes in the woods tends to reduce interactions with bigfoots, this trend does NOT hold true with other Intra-Dimensional Entities, such as ghosts and spirits.

After having lived in two haunted houses, I can confidently say that drinking alcohol tends to intensify interactions with these two latter forms of Intra-Dimensional Entity (IDE). 

In 2001, I moved into a house on Woodward Street in SE Portland, Oregon. Hauntings in that house were such a problem that its landlord verbally warned my roommates and me, after signing the lease, that we would not be released from our legal obligations if we experienced ghostly visitations. My other three other roommates thought this verbal “clause,” after the fact, was hilarious. Needless to say, I wasn’t very happy to hear such a thing due to my childhood run-ins with ghosts, and a few other odds and ends. 

In a short while after we moved in, I was trying to impress a woman that I met on through a newspaper advertisement in the Willamette Week. She was studying to earn a Ph.D in social work, and I found her incredibly sexy. So what did I do?
The haunted house on Woodward Street
What else: I went out and bought a Parker Brothers Oui-Ja board, a bottle of champagne, strawberries, and whipped cream. My date was impressed. We sat at the dining room table drinking champagne and trying to reach the spirit world. An entire story materialized. A baby had fallen out of a window and died. The name of the child was furnished by the game board. 

After the date, my relationship with that woman escalated quickly into a passionate relationship that lasted for over a year. At the time, however, I was curious to push the supernatural possibilities in the house even farther. 

You see, I still was laboring under the (false) impression that my experiences growing up in a haunted house had merely been a product of my young child's imagination. 

After a few months had passed with no ghostly activity at all, I was bored one weekday afternoon when everyone else was at work. Just for kicks, I took out my friend’s synthesizer microphone and made a somewhat half-hearted attempt to record ghostly voices. I repeated the name we’d gotten from playing on the Oui-Ja board (which I will never repeat again), along with the invitation “Come out and play!”

The microphone was very sensitive and would only record if a person sang or spoke directly into it from an inch away. I walked around the house with the microphone on. Nothing happened. When I walked over to the stairwell, the synthesizer “plinked,” indicating the mic had recorded something.

What I played back on the synthesizer’s record feature was bizarre. It reminded me of my grade school cafeteria at a two room country school house that I attended out by the Willamette River near Salem, Oregon. In the distant background, behind the children’s voices, a deep sound rolled and warbled, almost like whales under water. The child-like voices, dozens of them, seemed oblivious to the deep and sonorous calls. I played the recording over and over.

Despite living in a haunted house, my roommates and I found ample time to party

Each time, the whale-like sounds seemed a little more sinister. They didn’t change, of course, in the recording, but my attitude towards them did. They felt malevolent and dangerous to me. A kind of primitive fear prickled at the back of my head and down my spine. But, instead of leaving well enough alone, I duplicated the experiment once more.

The same thing happened: I walked around the living room and dining room to no avail. But when I reached the stairwell, my friend’s synthesizer plinked. This time, I jumped when I heard the recording register because I had been expecting it to happen and when it did, I couldn’t believe my suspicions had been correct.

This recording was very similar to the first, along with a few notable exceptions: the children’s voices were screaming and the whale sounds were very loud indeed, as if whatever had been making the sounds had reached the place where the “children” were. I only listened to this recording a few times.

When my friend, Ken Merhar, came home, I played both recordings for him. He laughed and asked me which movie they’d come from, Poltergeist? I repeated my explanation, and he still wouldn’t believe me. In fact, Ken seemed immune to all ghostly events that happened in the house after that terrible afternoon. 

On a side note, year later, I took Ken Merhar bigfooting to The Dark Corridor of Goat Mountain. As he was off by himself, a cloaked Splintercat leapt up into the sky near him, shattering branches like fire kindling. He came running back and yelled at me for "playing a trick on him." It took me about a minute to cause him to realize there was no way I could do such a thing, nor would I. He grudgingly accepted the veracity of what had happened to him. Even though he was very interested in UFO's, he was a bit put off by bigfooting stuff in general. Because I had taken him on a "bigfooting" trip, the encounter with a cloaked IDE was somehow anticlimactic, but he had to agree that it was supernatural for sure.

Woodward House: Surrounded by heavy foliage and trees
By the time another two months had gone by at Woodward House, one roommate had moved out due to ghostly traumas, and another had saged the entire house in an effort to get rid of the pesky things. Unfortunately, I ending up suffering the most. The fact that I had the strongest imagination was not lost on me. Contrary to what most people think, imaginations do not cause normal rationale people to see things that "are merely in their heads."

Rather, they facilitate a heightened awareness to detect and identify paranormal activity. Children are nearly always born with active imaginations. Yes, they sometimes imagine things that are "not there," but they also detect supernatural agencies that are there--things that adults, in general, have been trained to ignore as being unreal and foolish flights of fancy. 

Modern society tends to stamp out this sort of extra-dimensional creativity as well as intuition. Peer pressure and imprinting behaviors transform young intuitives into lackluster cookie cutter adults--not unlike factory workers on an assembly line that are trained to act like robots (although actual robots are slowly replacing their human counterparts in factories). Healthy imaginations function like a reservoir of "power" deep inside the groundwork of our beings.

Rather than crushing out these vital essences, we can learn to harness them. Our imaginations are then allowed to get out and breathe without being suppressed. In time, this can supercharge our abilities to sense danger from supernatural threats to ourselves, our families, and even the society in which we live. 

At any rate, during my one year stint in Woodward House, I experienced the following supernatural events:
  • Saw a ghost walk through a table in the dining room was I was watching TV in Living room. It was very tall and walked out the front door, which was open in summer time at about one o'clock in the morning.
  • "Lady in Red" (dress) haunted my dreams. The dreams would always start out with her looking through a crack in the door and then coming inside, where she would watch me sleep and then look out the window. She seemed to want something from me, and there was a slight sexual feeling to the ghost's hunger (like a succubus).
  • Touched by ghosts that always felt my legs and torso through a sheet or a blanket. Light pressure, as though by a hand, to determine if I were asleep.
  • Bed would creak when the ghost got on the mattress with me.
  • Ghost would sometimes sit on my back as I slept on my stomach. I later learned it was called "night smothering," which is the third most common type of ghostly encounter according to some books on the subject. Once the ghost was on top of me, it would prevent me from waking up. When I did finally awaken, I would be out of breath and drained of energy.
  • One time, I "rolled" the ghost off my back and it hit the floor with a thud before vanishing. I estimate its weight/bulk to be similar to that of a small chimpanzee.
  • After I moved out, the night "touching" of my leg and foot through covers continued for a few months in my new house, and once when I went down to Salem, Oregon, to visit my parents (in my childhood house).
  • I eventually befriended the wife of a guy who also suffered from night smotherings ever since he had been working on a documentary about the White Eagle Tavern in Portland. The woman was very helpful and a lot of her advice worked. I never met her husband, but I would like to thank him for the advice he told his wife for me if I ever do meet him. She was a bartender at Greater Trumps, a bar near where I was living in Portland at the time.
  • Cliff and I performed a few songs for Finding Bigfoot at the White Eagle Tavern, by the way. The White Eagle is known as one of the most haunted places in Portland. I recommended the location to scouts on the program because I thought this would be an interesting aside. I think I alluded to the haunted nature of the setting in my interview for the show. Not sure if that part was cut from the final footage that aired. I've never seen the episode unfortunately although I would love to see it sometime.

As for the Woodward House, I wasn’t in a position to move out of the house because I had found it, and I was the one that had asked my friends to move in. So, in a way, I was trapped in the lease for another few months until it expired (thankfully only a one year rental agreement).

Darkness without, shadows within

Just today, I dropped by Woodward House to take these pictures around dusk. I spoke with Mike Baker, a next door neighbor. Mike told me that his house had been built in 1885, right around the same time as the house I'd lived in.

When Mike learned why I was taking the pictures, he told me that a few years earlier, a woman who had been making a documentary about ghosts in old Portland buildings stopped by his house and offered to hire a medium to check to see if there was anything unusual cohabiting with Mike and his family. 

The medium said that a "harmless" entity was quite upset with the way Mike had converted the attic into a living space for his family. Incidentally, my bedroom window in the Woodward House faced Mike's attic and was the same height, as well.

The above video was taken in front of Woodward House. After I recorded the account of my run-ins with a succubi that drained me of energy with "night smotherings," I walked in front of the house and then across the street. A woman down the hill spotted me, and then approached quickly from the east.

When this woman reached me, she began repeating the word "Lost, lost" a few times with a thick accent. I asked if she had lost a pet, and she shook her head. I have no idea what she was talking about.  She fit the part of an Old World type of person, if you know what I mean (a gypsy). Her accent sounded distinctly Romanian. I'm fairly familiar with the difference between a Romanian and a Russian accent. There are quite a few Russians who work out at my gym. Three Romanian carpenters have helped me to fix up my house over the past year, so I am fairly familiar with each accent and the subtle differences (to the American ear since Romanian sounds quite a bit different from Russian to people who live in Eastern Europe).

As I drove home, the rather odd encounter with that Romanian gypsy-type woman who said "lost, lost" was weighing on my mind just a little. However, this paled in comparison with a nagging concern that the succubi from Woodward House might somehow be able to follow me home.  I only live a few miles away from there.  Actually, I've lived in the same three mile radius of Southeast Portland since I moved here in 2000 from Wilsonville, OR.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Knick Nacks & Brick-a-brack

Before Mods: Beat up tank with cracking paint, crooked frame, crushed tail pipe, torn up seat, old factory paint, cracked mirror on one side, shredded rear tire, etc.

My 2009 Triumph Bonneville: after the final mods (modifications). I suped it up, and modded the shit out of it until it was truly a work of art. People stopped me on the street to marvel. I loved that bike. Sold it in 2013 because I was nearly t-boned twice on Powell Boulevard near my home. Portland drivers are not very good at paying attention to motorcyclists.
If I lived in the country, I would have kept the bike forever. A part of my soul left with that bike and I almost wept to see it drive off down the street with a new owner that barely knew how to ride, and, gods forbid, was bound to drop 'er, sooner rather than later. . . .
The original KLR Kawasaki "mud thumper." It got me across rockslides next to sheer cliffs for bigfooting field research. Great low center of gravity for offroad but the kickstart was a lemon, so it had to go. If I counted the number of times I had to push it back to basecamp, I would run out of fingers.

My second mud thumper. This one was too high off the ground for me. Kind of a "goldie locks" syndrome. The first one was too low, and the second one was too high. It was a 2012 KLX 250. Bigfooting requires slower speeds through deep mud and other challenging terrain that just did not work for this bike. It was designed for races and tracks more than deep woods off-road squatching.
This third mud thumper is "just right" in terms of the goldie locks syndrome. A 2013 Yamaha TW200.  Just the right height and perfect for squatchy swamp buggin, while also doubling around town as a really nice super moto scooter.  Big ole phat tires. Umm hmmm. I can't wait to mod my Tee Dub with a bunch of Japanese factory extras. It will soon be "bad azz" on trail or in town. This ultimate "dual sport" thumper Sig's Seal of Approval.
Properly modded  Yamaha TW200 Squatch Buggin'  Thumper.  Someday mine will be like this . . . with a few exceptions like a side chrome pipe to make it swamp worthy, and a bigger aluminum tank.
As  a kid, I used to love to build tree forts. Here I am building a fort for my two nine year-old nephews.
And here I am at nine years of age building my own tree fort. Time keeps on slippin' into the future.
Here is one of my favorite bigfooting spots on the Sandy River about 45 minutes east of Portland.  I took a friend along in August 2015. We heard some knocking and moaning up Gordon Creek, which empties into the Sandy. In fact, my friend her the moaning before I did and called my attention to it. Very unusual to hear in daylight.
This spot bisects Gordon Creek canyon. It's a swamp that runs down a steep hill into the Gordon Creek drainage.  Awesome bigfooting. Cliff and I went to check out a sighting report not far from here in 2009.  It was an especially interesting case, and I helped Cliff to put up game cameras on the property, which featured a duck pond that was bringing in bigfoots.
I've been bigfooting quite a bit on Gordon Creek road, and other parts of the Sandy River, over the past decade. Cliff began focusing on the area after he bought a home within a short distance from it in 2009. Since he now lives so close, this part of the Sandy is the perfect "squatchy" place for him to take his dog, relax, and to be around the big'uns, as well as steelhead and rainbow trout.
I took newlyweds Seth and McKenzie to this particular bigfooting spot near Gordon Creek in 2012. We heard two pair of bipedal footsteps out in the brush. They flanked up and followed us back to the road. Seth took off running, but McKenzie stayed another five minutes until she got so spooked, she followed her husband, Seth. 
On another occasion, a year earlier, I took McKenzie up to Goat Mountain and we saw bigfoot eye shine in the trees when we shone our flashlight on a spot where a big knock echoed out over a big quarry. Ironically, that very night, McKenzie's husband, Seth, was robbed at gunpoint while working at Subway sandwich shop on SE Foster road in Portland, OR. The shop is one mile from The Lodge, my Portland home. Yes, I live in a rough neighborhood.
Anyhow, I'd been up to The Goat with another friend two years earlier in the dead of winter with snow on the ground. A series of knocks, above and below the quarry broke out when we first arrived on the scene. Because there is cell service up there, I called my dad and Thom Powell, both of whom heard the knocks on the cell phones. My dad advised me: "Stay in your Jeep. Don't be a hero. Play it safe and live to see another day." Needless to say, I did not play it safe. I walked out towards the knocks in two foot deep snow, and eventually they stopped.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something squatchy this way comes. . . .  Did I just capture a genuine blogsquatch on film that remains stubbornly out of focus when photographed? 
No, just kidding. The above picture was taken of Guy Edwards, founder of Bigfoot Lunch Club and HopsSquatch. Before the weather turned cold, I took him to a hotspot near Goat Mountain, Oregon. We didn't hear any knocks that day, but the bigfoot "vibe" was strong. This spot is just below the rock quarry I was talking about where there is cell service.
If Guy had walked down through the "dark corridor," a path through a one mile alpine swamp on the side of the mountain, as I advised him to do after sunset, then he most likely would have experienced a "watcher haunting" (my word for a bigfoot encounter).  Guy's reluctance to facilitate a Watcher Haunting is more the rule than the exception. Humans have a built-in reflex to avoid bigfoots. I believe this instinct is ancient and powerful, like a fear of poisonous snakes and spiders. 
The reason for this is quite interesting: it is likely that humans, in ancient of days, rubbed elbows with sasquatches a great deal more than in modern times. And my hypothesis as to why that might be is equally surprising: because the high tier IDE's that rule this planet, and which sasquatches often serve, have purposefully phased in a new era in which bigfoots and other IDE's have been  marginalized as "fiction" to the average human.
In time, this "agenda of disbelief" (which sometimes amounts to willful ignorance) will change as a new world belief system is phased in.  This new world view will reintegrate IDE's into a pantheon of lesser gods, so to speak. The process may take hundreds more years to accomplish if things progress at the present rate.  Or it might be greatly accelerated by something like an "alien invasion," which will "threaten" the well-being of humanity.  In the meantime, humanity is still in a neutral zone when the existence of bigfoots and other IDE's is regarded (publicly) by academia and other authority figures of our present world as fiction rather than fact.  
Guy and me (above pic) at Slingshot Lounge on August 24, 2015.  I proposed a fun event for Cliff, Guy, Flippy, Glen (who specializes in military pyrotechnics), and Doug (who is a professional hypnotist). We will camp up on Goat Mountain overnight at a quarry. Guy will shave his head and dress in his old Buddhist monk robes from when he was a monk in Thailand (he is half Thai).
He then must "walk the gauntlet" through the Dark Corridor, and retrieve a picture tacked to a tree at the end of the trail. He will only be allowed to carry an infrared and night vision. No flashlight allowed. Flippy will film it. The rest of us will be partying up top at the quarry awaiting Guy's triumphant return. I predict that, if Guy actually does this, he will "loose his cherry" thereby having first bona fide BF (bigfoot) encounter in the Dark Corridor. Nobody who stands in the present of a sasquatch is every the same again. The memory is haunting and the body also has a physically tangible "memory" of the encounter. Word.
Guy (left) during his two year stint as a Buddhist monk in Thailand, circa 2000.
Speaking of the Dark Corridor . . .  I took a newlywed couple there several years ago and they heard moan-like talking from behind a tree. I was there with Seth and McKenzie and the talking was indeed an authentic bigfoot interaction, albeit in a partially dematerialized state.

Divining rods are an indispensable part of the Ubernaturalists' way of Bigfooting and Ghosting
Hey, man, like I always say, "Materialize ain't just in yo head." You need to use intuition! Things can pass in and out of our space/time. Sometimes your third eye (pineal gland) sees more than the other two:
For the sparrow, a flock.
For the crow, a murder.
For the raven, an unfortunate.
For the squatch, First Tribe.
And for humanity, the World Wide Ranch.
If I ain't a genius of "outsideness," that sweet and sour place between worlds, then somebody call me a frickin' genie. . . . Ironically, most people do not realize that the word genius comes from the word genie. The two go hand in hand.
Elk Spirit Strong: new decorative cast iron hook for my frame drum so that I can mount it on the wall. It also doubles as a totem spirit when I get bored. The woman who made my elk hide drum said that I am an "elk man in the spiritual sense." I have no idea what that means, but I will take it as a compliment. My elk forest drum kicks ass, fo sho. In 2005, I came face to face with a huge bull elk on the edges of Skookum Meadow. It stepped out from behind a tree.  I backed away slowly, and the bull proceeded to chase after a cow (female elk) out in the watery meadow. It was a serene moment. These days, I pay more attention to elk mating season when I go bigfooting.
Do I really think I'm a "genius?" No, not really. Life is too short on this planet to focus on such distinctions, which can only breed reptiles of the mind in the standing water of one's ego.
You gotta have red blood to go bigfooting and mine is redder than Babe Ruth's sox . . . Speaking of which, a person used to be said to "have" a genius for a certain skills, rather than "being" a genius. The reason for this distinction is simple: in the Middle Ages folks believed that a genie would perch on the shoulder of especially bright or especially charismatic people and whisper advice into their ear. Hey, that's cheating! Heh, heh, heh. 
My master's thesis at New York University's Literature Department was called "A Gothic Approach to Lovecraft's Sense of Outsideness."  Due to my exposure to the supernatural at a young age, growing up in a haunted house, I gravitated in the direction of supernatural literature for the rest of my life. I earned a master's degree from NYU and then entered the PhD program at Columbia University.
Despite the fact that 85% of my tuition was paid for, I got restless and moved back to the Pacific Northwest, taking a job as a ghost writer at the University of Washington's Suicide Prevention program in the main hospital there. The stint lasted for a year, and then I moved to Portland, Oregon, where I became a college professor at Chemeketa in Salem, and then a professor or writing at Portland Community College. 
Despite a deep love of horses, I sometimes deign to wear horsehide jackets. They are just so darned comfortable and no animals are sacrificed to make the garments. All hides come from old animals or wild horses on forest lands that would be destroyed anyhow. Yes, sometimes life and its travails makes you feel guilty. Not everything can come out on top all of the time. It's just one of those things.
Sometimes I wonder if human misery and suffering is harnessed to feed intra-dimensional entities (IDE's)--not entirely unlike the way horses are sometimes converted into horsemeat and leather. The main difference in the above analogy would be that humans supply an energetic resource, both psychically and electromagnetically, where as livestock are utilized by humans for material food and material resources like hides and bones (which Elmer's uses to make glue, for example).
Be this as it may, the physical bodies of livestock are tokens of the energy output of their lifetimes. Cows spend a lot of time and energy growing bigger, eating, caring for each other, struggling with each other, and sniffing and exulting in simple joys like sunshine and fresh air.
In this way, might the advent of 21st Century factory ranching have a few things in common with the future of humanity, which seems to be headed towards bio-chemical mechanization and increased genetic modification?  Well, that famous old classic film, The Matrix, seemed to think so.  For the time being, such hypotheses are relegated to the virtual realm of science fiction for the most part.
There's no way to tell for sure whether humanity is being at least partially utilized as a resource for IDE's, but if I were a betting man, and the correct answer was assured by a neutral third party in the know, then I would have no problem laying down a few thousand bucks on the wager. I hope it's not true, but I suspect it is true. C'est la vie.
Turn a screw, bust a nut. Matrix is what Matrix does. The nature of existence is not easy to figure out, whether you're an aper or an ubernaturalist. In a way, humanity needs both camps working in their own specialties to help make sense of the world. 
Each camp can teach a few things to the other.  But that doesn't mean "it's all good."  A healthy debate, with plenty of evidence to back up both sides, and perhaps a bit of drama, is part of what makes life interesting.  Kirk out.