In the Valleys of the Noble Bey - John Zada Page 0,92

storm,” he says, pointing up, “when the birds fly like that.”

We introduce ourselves. The man tells me his name is James Hans.

“Hans? You must be related to Clark,” I say.

“Clark’s my cousin.”

As I tell James more about myself, I remember that Clark had been duck hunting with cousins the day he had his Bigfoot encounter and fled across the river.

“Were you with Clark when he saw a Sasquatch, years ago? He told me the story.”

“Yeah,” he confirms, pulling his bag off his shoulder and placing it on the ground. “We got separated that day, so I didn’t see the Sasquatch. But we all got smoked when we got back to town. Our people think that if you see or come near a Sasquatch, something bad will happen to you. That you’ll get out of your right mind. Our family didn’t want any of us to lose our spirit.”

“Have you ever seen one?” I ask.

“Seen and heard them. Once down the inlet at Taleomy. Another time over here in Piisla. I also seen one on the river near Four Mile, at night, up close, with a flashlight. We came back, and my grandmother smoked us that night too.”

“You must spend a lot of time in the bush,” I say.

“I grew up around Nickle-Sqwanny,” he says, pointing toward the Necleetsconnay valley. “My parents used to carry me around there in a packsack when I was a kid. Now I go there all the time by myself to hunt deer and ducks and go exploring around.”

A rumble of thunder echoes up from the inlet, rising above the sound of the river.

“I’m gonna go before it rains,” James says, reaching for his bag.

“Hold on,” I say. “When are you going out next? Into the bush, I mean?”

“Not sure. I just go when I go. I decide the same day.”

“Could I come along next time? I’m staying at the motel here,” I say, pointing down the road.

James hesitates. He’s on the cusp of saying yes, but then something holds him back. I realize, as I’m sure he does, that he knows absolutely nothing about me.

“Let me think about it,” he says, uncertain, taking a step back.

“I spent time with Clark. He’ll vouch for me if you contact him,” I say, grasping at the opportunity. James deliberates to the first drops of rain.

“Can you swim?

“Swim?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking of drifting the river in my rowboat sometime this week. The water’s pretty rough and cold. In case anything happens, you’ll need to make it quickly to shore.”

“I’m a good enough swimmer.”

“All right,” James says. “I’ll drop by the motel and let you know.”

At the moment it starts to pour, a wooden skiff floats into view on the river. It’s carrying two men untangling nets, likely fishermen, who suddenly freeze and stare at me, as the unceasing torrent carries them downriver into tree cover and out of my field of view.

When I turn to look at James again, he’s gone.

Days later, James and I are driven by his wife fifteen miles up the valley to a gravel side road running to a small tributary of the main river. A billowing drizzle bordering on rain hangs over the length of the valley. James takes the wheel from his wife when we arrive and backs the truck, and the trailer carrying his rowboat, down a steep incline to the creek. I walk down the knoll ahead of the trailer and am instantly throttled by the smell of rotting fish. It is rancid, like the humpback whale breath I inhaled while traveling on Achiever. I see then that the shoreline is littered with the pale, bloated carcasses of spawned-out chum salmon. It looks like the aftermath of a biblical plague.

James and I have become better acquainted since meeting days before. A forty-nine-year-old Nuxalk man, he is married to an archaeologist, is the father of seven kids, and once worked, like Leonard, as a bear-hunting guide. James is gentle and kind, but there’s also an underlying intensity to him. He seems to move back and forth between the present moment and some other place in his awareness—as if he inhabits two worlds simultaneously. His long experience on the land is manifested as fluid ease and confident mastery.

“My family and I sometimes go into the bush to have supper at night,” he told me earlier. “We’ve even walked home in the dark without a flashlight. Some people think I’m pretty nuts doing that. But I was raised not to be afraid of the dark.