At the Sasquatch Support Group

Being a magical trifecta of: a natually curious person, a writer who goes down research rabbit holes, and someone with a liberal sprinkling of ADHD, I arrive at most places via side roads and tangents. Did that sign say fresh pumpkin pie ahead? Excuse me while I conduct urgent field research.

This time, my fact-finding trip for the second Claryce Falls Mystery led me to Saschat, the monthly gathering of Bigfoot believers.

For the record, I’m Sasquatch-agnostic. But Bigfoot’s existence—or nonexistence— I can’t say keeps me up at night. I’m more of a “live and let lumber” kind of gal.

I attended the meeting with high hopes of coming away with quirky factoids and details I could use in the book. But it wasn’t what I expected; it was, in fact, dull.

The presenter clicked through slide after slide of crossed sticks next to a straight stick supposedly left by Bigfoot. Why is Bigfoot playing Lincoln Logs in the woods? No one knows. And frankly, he could stand a little variety in his repertoire. By the fourth photo of sticks, I was mentally calculating how many cups of coffee I needed to make it to the end. Finally, they opened the meeting for discussion—and that woke me up.

A man with long gray hair and a biker mustache spoke first.  He looked like the kind of guy who keeps a chainsaw in his truck just in case. He introduced himself as a lifelong hunter, a self-proclaimed tough guy who’d grown up in the woods. Then he described being deep in the backcountry. He was lining up his shot on a whitetail deer when, from thirty feet away, came an ear-piercing, eerie, metallic scream that vibrated his chest and filled him with fear. “It was a warning,” he said quietly. “I just knew it was telling me to leave.”

As he spoke, the room shifted. Other men—stoic, quiet types who looked more at home in front of their TVs watching football than discussing their feelings—nodded. One by one, they shared their own stories of strange, yet similar encounters with Sasquatch. Earie cries, feelings they couldn’t explain, and then, after, being mocked by friends for being afraid—or worse, for being crazy.

And suddenly, this Bigfoot meeting wasn’t really about Bigfoot anymore; it was a support group. It was about people whose experiences had fallen outside the norm. He felt alone, dismissed, maybe even a little foolish—finally finding a room full of people who understood and were willing to listen.

Somehow, in my search for Bigfoot myths, I’d stumbled into a unique little community built on acceptance. It reminded me how much we all need a place to share the strange, tender, or downright unbelievable parts of life without someone rolling their eyes or shunning us.

So, did all of these stories make me a true believer? I suppose it still doesn’t matter to me.  But I do believe in the magic of being seen, in finding your people—even if you have to follow a sign about pumpkin pie to get there.