Meeting Mr. Bigfoot

This bigfoot encounter is the high point of my cousin's life. I've never had the heart to tell him what I think.

Meeting Mr. Bigfoot

My cousin, myself, and a guy named Frank Bushyhead ran into Bigfoot one summer night down in North Eastern Oklahoma. My cousin and Frank Bushyhead were Indians, real Indians, Cherokee-Deleware Indians who lived on a real Indian Reservation. Well, sort of an Indian reservation. Actually, it was an Indian School. A large, rural, boarding school for Native American high school students called the Chilocco Indian Agricultural School. “Chilocco” means “Big Deer” in the Muscogee Indian dialect. Indian kids from all tribes and all over the country would come to study there.

The school was established in 1882 and the land was cordoned off at that time. Most of the land was under cultivation, but there were still woods along the creeks that had never really been disturbed. Woodland that lay as they had been before the coming of the white man. Plenty of places for strange animals to live and hide. Frightening beasts that you normally didn't see, and didn't even know existed. “Boogers”, as the Cherokee called them.

My cousin lived with my grandmother on my mother's side, who taught at the school. I lived with my dad in California, but would come to visit for a month every summer. Frank Bushyhead lived with his mom and dad in a house across from my grandmother's apartment building. His dad did something at the school's power plant and we would often see him when we were fishing in the large pond where the power plant water dumped out. He was a good guy. The three of us once cut the legs off of one of he school's picnic tables and tied inner tubes underneath to make a fishing raft. Frank's dad then made us a really nice paddle in the power plant's metal shop.

One summer evening, shortly after dark, my cousin and I were sitting on my grandmother's apartment building steps. Fireflies were out and it was so hot and humid I would sweat a little bit just sitting still in the dark. I had a light sun dress on and I could still feel the armpits getting damp. You could smell the plants growing everywhere. An overpowering green smell that didn't exist in cool, dry California.

At the bottom of the steps was a device we had constructed called a “gashunga”. This was an inner tube with a long clothes line tied to it. When the skunks came out to eat the June bugs that collected under the street lights, we would lasso them with inner tube whilst yelling “Gashunga!”. We would do this until the entire neighborhood reeked with that sour onion skunk smell. The skunks would finally run off to come back later. Come back after we had gone to bed. I knew this because I would watch for them from my bedroom window.

We saw Frank Bushyhead coming towards us from across the street. Upon his arrival, he said, “Eddie Pratt saw Willie Walkingstick last night when he was out fishing”.

“Where?” Asked my cousin.

“Where do you think?” Said Frank. “In the meadow where it happened. Eddie was cutting across after night fishing in the creek.” Frank pronounced this as, “Nawt fishin' in the crick”.

“What'd see?” Asked my cousin.

“Willie just standing there plain as day. Eddie said he took off like all hell was after him. Didn't see nothing after that.”

“Who's this Willie?” I asked.

“Dead Indian kid”, said Frank.

“Lots of dead Indians”, I said. “Why's he special?”

“Oh, he just died a couple of months ago”, said my cousin. “Someone gave him a pint of whiskey and he went out there in the meadow and chugged it. Killed him.”

“Only fifteen years old”, said Frank. “Now he haunts the meadow.”

“There's no ghosts”, I said.

“Bullshit there ain't”, both my cousin and Frank said, almost in unison.

“There's plenty around here”, said my cousin.

“Yeah, and back at my grandma's home in Georgia too”, said Frank.

Now I was intrigued. I half believed them. And probably would have believed them one hundred percent had I been out here alone in the dark.

“You want to go see?” Asked Frank.

“Hell no”, said my cousin. “I leave that stuff alone.”

“You're chicken”, said Frank.

“No, I'm smart”, said my cousin. “I don't mess with dead people. Nothing good comes of it.”

“We'll just stand at the edge and see if we can see him”, said Frank.

“Well, I might do that. But I ain't bothering no dead people.”

My cousin normally wasn't afraid of anything, and his hesitancy here intrigued me. It made the whole thing seem real and fascinating.

“Yeah, let's go”, I said. It sounded a lot more fun than skunks or television.

We crossed the street to Frank's yard and then went behind his house. It got dark without the street lights and our eyes had not adjusted. We pushed through some bushes at the back of the property and out into the meadow. We could see it well under the moonlight. We sat on a log and watched. Watched for a long time and Willie Walkingstick never appeared.

“Well I'm going closer”, said Frank, as he rose and began to cross the meadow. My cousin and I rose and followed. My cousin was now caught up in the adventure and less worried about offending the dead.

About mid-way through the meadow Frank stamped his foot on a patch of bare earth and said, “Here's where they found him”.

We stopped and looked in all four directions but saw nothing. We continued on to the other side of the meadow.

Then we saw it! Saw it as we approached the treeline on the other side of the meadow. It was between two trees at the edge of the meadow. Tall and wide as a coke machine and standing on two legs. With two long arms hanging down at it's side. A head that was not clearly visible, but was obviously not human. It took two steps sideways and stood behind a large bush. It peeked out at us.

We shouted, shrieked and ran. Ran in absolute terror. The two boys were older than I was and much faster runners. I recall screaming as I tried to keep up with them. Nothing could be worse at that moment than being left alone in the dark meadow.

We crashed through the hedge and into the back door of Bushyhead home.

“What's going on?” Cried his father. Our arrival had not been graceful.

“Ahh! Something chased us!” Said Frank. “Something out in the woods!”

“What?” Asked Mr. Bushyhead.

“We don't know!” We cried together.

“It was big!” I said. “Big and scary looking!”

“Big and scary looking?” Asked Mr. Bushyhead, “Well, that sounds like Frank's brother before he got his haircut. Come on in and watch TV.”

And things wound down after that. Only problem being that my cousin and I would not walk across the street to go home. When Mr. Bushyhead offered to walk us home we said no. That thing was a lot bigger than he was. He finally humored us by taking us the 400 yards to our building in his car. He risked trouble with the school by driving up onto the lawn to drop us off right by the front door. And we then ran like the devil to get inside.

I no longer watched outside my bedroom window at night. I feared seeing the creature. I had nightmares where I opened the blinds and saw the creatures horrible face pressed up against the glass of my window. I would listen for sniffing and snuffling around the flower beds below my window.

I learned about Bigfoot in seventh grade. My science teacher, Mr. LaRocca, talked about him. Said one of his friends had seen one. I related my story and he was interested. I found a book in the library with Bigfoot stories from the old west. But most of these were too wild to be believed. But the dark night still scared me.

But then, many things happened in my life, and I went many places and saw many things. And the Bigfoot story, that was once a big part of my life, was eventually forgotten. Forgotten until one day in my late thirties when I was hiking alone in Colorado. Hiking on Sheep Mountain above Big Thomson Canyon. I came through some brush and surprised a black bear at the edge of a meadow. He stood up on his hind legs and he was as tall and as wide as a coke machine. He sniffed the air with a head that wasn't quite human. And he then took a couple of steps sideways to slip behind a large bush. He peeked out at me.

Not wanting trouble, I turned around and went the other way. But this time I just walked. And there was no screaming.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Skunk roping? Ha! I'm not going to forget that! What a wild and woolly time you had in Oklahoma. The description "wide as a coke machine" is fantastic. Sorta like that football player they called the "Fridge". I really like this one. Great stuff, it is.

[Miss Fedelm]

Thanks. The skunk roping is real. One night my grandmother made us go take a bath in a fountain down the street before we could come in the house.

[LKBillips]

Really good story! Captivating and easy to get drawn into. Very well done.

[Miss Fedelm]

Thanks. Brought back all kinds of memories when I wrote it.