Falls to Roscoe Inlet is a pockmarked, rock-strewn gravel track. A couple of miles in, past a cataclysmic rockslide of boulders the size of Great Pyramid blocks, the path begins its gradual disappearing act. From here it continues as a fading avenue of weeds that reach higher and thicker with each step.
I’m walking with Lucas and his dog, Gnarly—an energetic white retriever who’s constantly ducking into and out of the bush ahead of us. There is an on-and-off pitter-patter of rain. The goal of our micro-journey is to reach Roscoe Inlet. Our plan on the way back is to reconnoiter the two lakes along the road, where Bartender Bob saw the small tracks similar to those I came across at Old Town in Bella Bella.
We push along the path and reach a washout thick with deadfall. We spend what seems like forever crawling both under and over the debris. From that point forward the path is barely visible, continuing through thick second growth choked with blueberry and huckleberry bushes. We plod through the dark, claustrophobic corridor, having to crawl at times, coming across bear prints and what we think are cougar tracks.
“If I saw a Sasquatch and got evidence of it, I’m not sure I’d tell the world,” Lucas says, voicing a sentiment I’ve felt more than a few times. “It would probably put them in danger. That’s probably why they hide from people.”
Some Sasqualogists take for granted that proving the existence of Bigfoots would result in eventual protection for the species—and the forests they inhabit. But what if the discovery were to have the opposite effect? It’s hard to imagine the chain saws and mining machines going silent for the sake of a few remaining wild men. The announcement would be earth-shattering from a scientific point of view and would probably also result in a thousandfold more attention being heaped on the creatures and their habitat from hordes of tourists, government officials, newsmongers, scientists, and hunters.
After much effort, bruised and scuffed, we emerge into a clearing. In front of us is a creek coursing through a dark, spacious, and mossy old-growth forest. To our left, immediately downstream, lies a pulverized wooden bridge—presumably part of the old road we tried to follow and lost. Lying on top of it is an enormous Sitka spruce, one of the largest trees I’ve ever seen. The tree had somehow fallen over, splitting the bridge in half as if with a karate chop. The trunk is so wide that a small car could drive along it. The almost deliberate precision of the impact is eerie.
Just beyond the bridge, several miles from where we started, there is no sign of the road—not even the faintest whiff or vestige of a track. Lucas, heroically, wants to push on. But we have no maps or navigational equipment—nor sufficient provisions. I make the decision to turn tail rather than risk getting lost in an unfamiliar landscape whose depth, after one wrong turn, could become nothing short of infinite.
On the hike back, we arrive at Ikt Lake—the second body of water along the logging road out of Ocean Falls. We saunter along the sandy shoreline scanning the ground. This is where Bartender Bob claims he saw the unusual, small humanoid tracks. But there is nothing here save loads of goose shit, deer and wolf tracks, and a plague of baby frogs on the move. The rain ended hours ago. Except for the intermittent breaks made on the surface by cutthroats catching bugs, the lake is as still as glass. The sky is in the throes of post-rainfall tumult. Thick foggy vapors rising from the drenched rain forest churn in cottony swirls. This captivating scene, mountains and all, is reflected in the lake.
Lucas and Gnarly, lost in their own investigations, wander farther down the shore, appearing to grow punier in the surrounding gigantism. I quickly tire of searching the ground for tracks and decide there’s far greater reward in just sitting and watching the Rorschach-blot reflection of the mountain scene in the water.
And then something strikes me. When I tilt my head, turning the mountainside and its reflection in the lake sideways or vertical, the scene takes on the contours of a head and torso. I keep looking and discern facial features, which materialize in the lighter patches of alders and shrubs beside the lake, where the “head” is. There I see eyes, a fat nose, and lips. The bushiness creates the impression of matted hair. The head rests on