In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,22

territory.

During the previous visit for my magazine assignment, I had spent my few days in Heiltsuk territory almost exclusively at the fishing lodge on the Denny Island side. I had managed a short day trip to Bella Bella, where I’d come across that first Sasquatch report, which set my travels on the coast that summer on a new trajectory.

I first spy Alvina in her backyard on the morning of her return from Vancouver Island: a large-framed woman with short gray hair, wearing an orange sleeveless shirt and laying assault to her lawn with a droning weed cutter. She is tough and brawny, often stopping to pick up and move garden furniture and other heavy items with astonishing ease. At one point she looks up at me on the balcony as if suddenly intuiting my presence. I raise my hand to wave just as she turns, uninterested, to continue her attack on the foliage. Soon the weed cutter goes silent, and the woman begins climbing the stairs to the balcony, where I’m seated eating breakfast.

“Boy, what a workout,” she says. “With all the grandkids coming through this house, you’d think a seventy-year-old woman would catch a break.” Once at the top, she stops and gives me a serious once-over.

“You must be Alvina Duncan,” I say, breaking the ice.

She cracks a slight grin. “And you must be the Sasquatch Man.”

We proceed to chat over coffee, while bumblebees and hummingbirds flit over the many potted plants and flowers around us.

There’s an inexplicably grand, dignified quality to Alvina. Her charisma and confidence are of the type found in movie heroes: strong, silent, understated—yet direct. I’d heard that Alvina, a retired tribal councillor and Heiltsuk matriarch, commands much respect in the community for her purposeful, no-nonsense approach to dealing with others. Beneath her firm demeanor, however, is a warmth that frequently rises to the surface.

Our conversation, unavoidably, turns to hair-covered giants.

“Have you ever seen one?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “But I’ve seen tracks. And Don, my late husband of thirty years—he and I once heard one whistling when we lived on Hunter Island.”

“So, you’re convinced they exist.”

“There are too many reports. You know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m trying to weigh the arguments as objectively as possible. To get as close to the truth as I can.”

“If you want the truth, just ask us,” she says. “We’ll tell you everything.”

“What about physical proof?”

Alvina snickers. “This is our backyard. We know it better than anyone else. That should be proof enough.”

“But your word alone won’t convince others,” I say.

“That’s all right, we’re not trying to convince anybody.”

Despite our congenial sparring, Alvina and I have taken to each other, and I realize I’ll need her help facilitating introductions with other people in town. An outsider suddenly appearing in a small, tight-knit community and asking questions is bound to cause discomfort and arouse suspicion.

I mention this to Alvina, and she responds with an understanding nod. “I’ll put in a good word, whenever I can.

“I’m no expert on the Sasquatch,” Alvina continues. “But there’s one thing I do know for sure. And you should write this down in your notebook: there’s always been an understanding between us and them.”

“Between your people and the Sasquatches?”

“Yup,” she says. “That’s what the elders say. It’s unspoken. We leave them alone, and they leave us alone. They don’t bother us, and we don’t bother them. That’s about it, and that’s the way it works.”

A few days later, I go to interview my first eyewitness: a Heiltsuk civil servant named Mary Brown. In the spring of 2008, Mary and two other adults led a group of nine girls from Bella Bella on a weekend camping trip to a wilderness cabin in Roscoe Inlet, a conservancy area north of town. A waterway flanked by mountainous fjords, Roscoe is legendary for its stunning beauty. Because old village sites are found there, it’s also culturally and historically important for the Heiltsuk. Mary claims she and her group had a frightening encounter with a Sasquatch during their trip to the area.

I’ve heard about Mary’s story from someone else in the community. When I phone her, she happily agrees to share her experience and invites me to her second-floor office in what she half-jokingly calls “downtown Bella Bella,” a short walk from Alvina’s.

On the way there, I pass the scene of the fire that consumed the band store complex. Though still standing, the building is largely destroyed, its charred remains reeking of the wet decay of food and