In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,75

another member of the Ocean Falls congregation outside the lodge in one of those intermezzos between downpours—intervals characterized by a testy, tepid rain that makes fat polka dots on your clothes but doesn’t come down hard enough to drench you outright.

“The name’s Darell Becker,” the man says, “but I go by the first name Darellbear.”

I offer my hand, which he takes in a rock-hard grip.

“The Bundjalung people in Australia gave me that name during a music festival when one of them saw the bear energy in me.”

“Bundjalung?”

“Aborigines. They knew I was coming. They said it was a prophecy.”

Darellbear looks to be in his mid-fifties. He has a mop of wavy, now rain-drenched, brown hair and striking blue eyes. He is solidly built and wearing a light khaki rain jacket over shorts and sandals. A white crystal hangs around his neck. He comes across as a wizened retired surfer transplanted into the mountains.

“I was in Australia for thirty years playing professional baseball and hockey,” he says. “Now I spend the warm months here.”

“What do you do?”

“Mostly hang out on my boat and go fishing. But I also sell miracle ointments for knotted muscles, cuts, and abrasions. I call it ‘The Goo.’“ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small jar, handing it to me. “That’s the hot Goo,” he says. “Great if you have aching hands or an aching neck.”

I turn over the red-labeled jar, trying to remember the last time I had aching hands.

“There’s cayenne in it. So don’t have a piss or touch your dick after using it. Or you’ll get a hot rod. Then you’ll need the cold Goo to put the fire out—and I’ll make a double sale.”

I hand the jar back to him.

“So, what brings you to this charming dystopian settlement in the middle of paradise?” he asks.

I tell him about my research.

“The big fellah, huh? Well, I haven’t seen anything around town. And no one living here has either, as far as I know.”

Darellbear’s answer adds to the collection of blank stares and shrugged shoulders I’ve accumulated in the last few days, seeming to confirm Glenna’s claim that the Sasquatches, if they exist, have neither stumbled upon nor ever intended to come to Ocean Falls.

“That’s what I’ve been hearing,” I tell him.

“The only Sasquatch stories I know are from the outskirts. A guy I know has a small cabin way behind Mount Baldy over there,” he says, pointing to a rounded, rocky peak in the distance. “It’s a bushwhack to get in. Super remote, secret spot. One day he found the place broken into. Stuff moved or taken that no bear could get to.”

“Thieves?”

“Thieving Sasquatch, more like. Human thieves rob jewelry stores and embezzle from taxpayers. They don’t point to an empty spot on the map and then go wandering there hoping to get lucky. A chopper pilot I met once who worked on a logging show in that same area saw snow tracks in the alpine. Massive. Huge stride. Absolute middle of fucking nowhere. Do you know what people told him? They told him: Maybe it was someone snowshoeing.“ He breaks into a chuckle, shaking his head.

“It could also have been that,” I say, without intending to be skeptical.

“Buddy,” he says, becoming serious, “take a look around. This is no weekend recreation area. These are big, dangerous mountains around us. Ranges upon ranges of them. Grizzly Adams territory. No one’s out wandering or going snowshoeing up there.”

The rain’s pitter-patter transforms into a steadier shower. We begin to get drenched. Darellbear starts shaking his mop of wet hair and laughing.

“Yeah baby! Now we’re talking! Wooo! Wooooooooooo!“

I crack a little grin. When I don’t join him in his hooting, Darellbear cuts his laughter short and puts a concerned expression on his face.

“People told you about the rain here, right?”

If clock time and calendar time become opaque in the Great Bear Rainforest, they effectively stop dead in Ocean Falls. They’re replaced by a suspended animation whose silent symbol is the whorls of vapor rising from the mountains.

Ocean Falls thwarts my expectations. It’s upside down in relation to the rest of my journey. For one thing there is rain here, where previously there was none. And it is no normal rain, with a beginning, middle, and end. It starts and stops in whims that are nonsensical, bereft of logic, and without a real prologue or epilogue. When the rain does stop, there is no knowing when it will return. But invariably it soon gathers itself for