The Bigfoot Race
“The evidence of a sasquatch will continue to excite the imagination of many. Ever since those dubious photographs and prints of the twentieth century, how can we, as Earth’s championed scientists be certain we know this Earth until we answer the question of if we have hairy brethren in our backyards?”
-Cryptozoologist Alexa Simms during the “What is Left?” Symposium on July 24, 2124
I stand at the last landmark of our park that has not been ravaged yet. As I pace back and forth waiting for my shift to end, I have arrested five kids, seven adults, and cleaned up one body.
The eccentric deca-trillionaire Jimmy Electric started all of this chicanery. One day at one of his many manors, Jimmy Electric was sitting in his office. He was watching a documentary cartoon and saw a little sasquatch on his screen. The topic of an undiscovered mythical creature named Bigfoot excited him. No mystery could remain unanswered. And what did Jimmy Electric do to answer this curiosity of his? He created “The Bigfoot Race.” With his clever use of his hands and witty demeanor, he convinced the world that finding “Bigfoot” is an obligation to science. Because the world does not have a definitive answer on the existence of this ape-like species, we have apparently failed as an “advanced society.” His words, not mine. His prickly eyes and immature grin were televised to every American. He invited the entire world to satisfy his mid-life crisis in exchange for his wealth. “I offer 600 million shares of my own company to whoever brings me the corpse of Bigfoot!”
When the prize is a high-speed elevator ride up to being the world’s richest person, no one could resist trying to find that elusive beast. Since the broadcast, multitudes of eager hunters have been in a frenzied pursuit at the expense of national parks around the country. They turned the beautiful forest that I’ve had the honor of protecting for sixty years into a graveyard. I want to shake this Silicon Valley prick’s hand and see his yuppie grin writhe in pain as I twist his arm. Even though the forest has become a miserable wasteland of violence, I can’t quit my job as a park ranger. The forest is the spouse I never put a ring on. I can’t bring myself to divorce her.
My coworker Marcus relieves me. I hop on my ATV and head back to the Jay-Z Nature Center. For the next few hours, I am on break.
“So what if, like, someone created Bigfoot? Like in a lab or something.” My coworker Courtney is monologuing about her weird topics again. "Wouldn’t they be unable to turn the specimen down since they have nothing to work off of?" I release a loud sigh, hoping it serves as a sign of wanting silence during my break. Doesn’t she have reports to file?
There is no bigfoot, there is no sasquatch, there is no skunk ape, and after this mess, I am starting to think there is no God. I have lost faith in the decency of my fellow American men. I never expected that I would write “taser batteries” onto the office grocery list alongside “booze” and “granola.” The degenerate violence I have had to deal with has taken years off my life.
Many six-foot-tall beer-bellied dads have been shot at due to incompetence at night. The desperate hunters shoot anything that resembles Bigfoot. They’d rather kill than have their fortune run off. It was an atrocious sight to see a few weeks ago, but now it has become an extra chore for all of us. The best we can do is to defend the park’s historical landmarks. Unfortunately, the Chief-Key Theater became a habitat for hunters. One of them drank too much and burned down the park’s historical theater with their indoor campfire. Because of the fire, we focus our time on protecting the only landmark we have left: the ancient petroglyphs. I have been told that our park’s petroglyphs are one of the few cave drawings left in America. No one knows who drew them all those centuries ago, but I’ll be damned if I let any of these Bigfoot crusaders mess with them.
“Are you listening to me at all?” Her bratty voice breaks in.
I’m all out of tactics to avoid talking with Courtney.
“What do you think old man? Do you want to hunt for Bigfoot with me?”
I repeat my habit of shrugging. I check my wristwatch and get out of the office thirty minutes before my next petroglyphs shift. I’ll do anything to avoid talking about fictional folklore.
On my drive toward the petroglyphs, I hear a crappy techno mixtape blast from an ATV. Marcus, my fellow park ranger, lifts his straw hat to me. “What’s going on, old man!”
“How was it this afternoon?” Our ATVs nearly kiss. Despite him driving ATVs every day, he drives it like a sixteen-year-old.
“Wonderful, sir. No arrests!”
I don’t buy it. Marcus is sort of an oaf when it comes to arresting trespassers. “Alright then. Have a good evening, Marcus! I’ll see you tonight.”
“Do you think anyone here is going to find Bigfoot?”
“I hope so. I want to go on vacation at some point.” We both let out a laugh, but it convinces no one. No one is going to find a Bigfoot because it doesn’t exist.
This shift is surprisingly peaceful. No arrests yet. My old back feels like mush so I rest it upon the red-rock wall next to the ancient Native American cave drawings. Further in the cave belongs a nest of endangered bats that we are responsible to protect
My ranger tablet chirps at me. “What’s up, Courtney? You good?”
“Check the news, old man. Big news for us.” She hangs up before allowing me a chance to say anything. I don’t understand why she doesn’t tell me what the news is. My tablet reads the latest breaking news for me.
A researcher discovered a Bigfoot in a cave in Antarctica an hour ago. The poor animal received an ambush of bullets from behind. I glance at the leaked pictures taken from paparazzi drones. Ew. The cadaver looked exactly how the folklore had depicted Bigfoot’s appearance down to the ape-like face and the enormous toes. Jimmy Electric’s Bigfoot Council is still in the process of reviewing the dead specimen. I chuckle at the phrase “Bigfoot Council.” What credentials does one need to be part of that? No check has been written out yet. I feel pity for the beast that had to be ambushed in such a cowardly way, but this must mean that The Bigfoot Race is over! It was a sacrifice to protect the lives of many. The park is at peace again thanks to some lab coat tucked away in Antarctica.
I originally believed that the existence of Bigfoot only amounted to a mythical creature in some stoner’s legend. But in Antarctica? The location makes no sense. Previous “sightings” of Bigfoot have him inhabiting the forests of Washington or California. I would assume a Bigfoot wouldn’t have enjoyed the cold climate of Antarctica. I suppose since a Bigfoot has been found, I won’t have to work the strenuous overtime hours protecting the glyphs.
“Is there a Bigfoot hiding in there?" A brat comes out from under evergreen shrubs yards away. Binoculars hang around his neck.
“No. Try Antarctica, kiddo.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“The hunt is over. Some guy found a Bigfoot.”
He mocks my old age, saying names that I am used to with this generation. I attempt to chase him away. I spark my taser in front of him to stir up some fright.
“Whatever, old man. That mindset will keep you poor.” The squeaky kid leaves but not without the last insult. “Check the news, you old coot! You’re wrong!”
I don’t invest any attention in the kid’s rambling. I continue pacing back and forth for a couple more hours, whistling some old tunes and doing some old man stretches to alleviate my back pain. ATV headlights shine upon me as wheels travel at a reckless speed. The bad driver must be Marcus. When he pulls up, I say, “This calls for a celebration.”
Marcus’s raised eyebrow stirs concern within me. “For what?”
“No more Bigfoot hunters since the race is over!”
Marcus snorts. “Oh, that Antarctica finding? That one was a hoax!” Marcus briefs me. “It was a mauled-up frozen gorilla with makeup.
“So is the hunt still on?” I stare at his disappointment.
Marcus nods.
There goes my vacation. We are not out of the woods yet, literally and figuratively.
Back at the Jay-Z Nature Center, I rest my achy old body. I witness Courtney gathering pairs of night vision goggles, infrared cameras, and tripwire. I pour grounds into my hard-working coffee machine as she goes back and forth in our creaky closets, raiding our tools. She stops at my furrowed brow and begins preaching.“Think about it. Who is better suited to capture Bigfoot than us?” I look at her wide-open eyes. There is some truth to what she says, but in all the years of giving out nature tours, never have I seen any clues that allude to the existence of a sasquatch.
“You’re kidding me.” I return to flicking Sweet & Low sugar packets. “It’s a waste of time. Focus on defending the turf!”
“That mindset will keep you a park ranger, man!” Courtney places granola bars into her knapsack while she peeks at my computer screen. “Imagine winning all those Jimmy Electric stock. Do you even know how much money that is? Do you want to be sending boring emails until you’re dead?”
“Someone’s got to do them because you guys don’t!” Courtney ignores my jab at her and moves on to a different topic.
“You staying the night again?”
I nod as I focus on finishing an email to the higher-ups. She turns off her desk lamp, leaving my computer screen as the only source of light left in the dark office. “You should visit a doctor for that sleeping problem of yours. My boyfriend could hook you up!”
“No thank you.”
“Alright. Have a good night!” She finally leaves.
I am much happier in the lovely forest than in my man cave. Natural sleep doesn’t come to me anymore. I have suffered from insomnia for a while, and it has seemed to worsen ever since The Bigfoot Race took off. I’ve tried all of Courtney’s weird herbal medicine, but I cannot sleep a wink most nights. It has gotten to a point where I have stopped fighting my insomnia problem. I’d rather be around in case the forest or Marcus needs me. Instead of staring at my apartment’s gross popcorn ceiling for hours, I prefer spending the sleepless nights at my park. After sending more emails to landscapers and administrative folk, my radio chirps. “What’s up, Marcus?” Silence. “Marcus? Hello! You there?”
Out of boredom, I decide to check in on Marcus to figure out if he needed anything. My wheels crush gravel as I reverse and zoom forward into the night. Headlights are a man's best friend in this infinite darkness. The group of insects consisting of crickets, wasps, and moths is my only source of sound. I have listened to the nighttime symphony of insects scuttering for the past sixty years and never get tired of it. My ranger vest which rests upon my thigh upon my thigh shakes from the cool night wind. Today is supposed to be the last pleasant day until it will become freezing and miserable. I see the Drake Trail marker and turn left. The Drake Trail is difficult for the amateur driver, but my time at the park has turned the trail into a familiar friend. Or at least, that is what I assumed.
I run over a mysterious substance and fly off my ATV. My back lands on a soft shrub, but my breathing turns heavy and exaggerated.
Something caused my ATV to steer off-road and fall on its side. I look in every direction to confirm that no one saw the world’s most experienced park ranger make a mistake driving. I look to see what I ran into.
Nothing. Whatever I ran into left the premise. An outrageous dent now inhabits the front end of the ATV. I catch my breath. After recovering my strength, I muster up my might only to fall on my butt, but this time, my shin lands on a piece of broken glass.
“Marcus!” I weep into my handheld radio. “Can you hear me?”
“Woah, man, Marcus speaking. You’re still here?”
I give Marcus the rundown of the accident. After ten minutes of groaning and being bitten by mosquitoes, he loads me onto his own ATV, takes me back to the Jay-Z Center, and applies some first aid, which takes him too long to find.
“You were driving to the petroglyphs…and you hit something, but when you looked back nothing was there?” Marcus wraps a bandage around my bleeding shin. I get the feeling that Marcus is mocking me.I bet Marcus thinks I am a senile old man who should be placed in a home. These guys are the crazy ones for playing along with this sasquatch schtick. Marcus’s mouth wears a playful smirk.
“Was it a Bigfoot?” Marcus suggests.
“I ran over a branch or something else! That's all to it!"
"Something else? Courtney's going to love this."
“No, please don’t tell her!”
“It must’ve been some massive branch to make that ugly of a dent. Bigfoot owes us a new ATV!” Marcus toys with that preposterous notion. An icepack rests upon my wound as Marcus heads back to the petroglyphs. “If you run into Bigfoot on your way to the bathroom, tell it that Marcus said hi!”
I recline in my office chair until morning, staring at the line of spruce trees through the window. Hours become seconds as my mind shuts off for the night. It waits for the next morning of work. Despite all the exhaustion, I cannot sleep.
Black Cuban coffee drippings serve as the music for today’s morning as Marcus and Courtney walk in.
“You ran into Bigfoot on your ATV!” Courtney exclaimed as her eyes became dollar signs. I give Marcus a side-eye as he clocks out. Courtney is now riled up by my mysterious accident. “We have got to hunt for Bigfoot now!”
“Stop worrying about your Bigfoot and worry about the damn park instead! You need to get to the glyphs, Courtney. It's your shift!” I snap, slamming my computer mouse on the hard wooden desk. The jolly morning mood is now gone. The Cuban coffee drippings decrescendo to silence. Courtney runs out of the office. Marcus gives me his version of a side-eye.
“Man, c’mon. I know you don’t like us but we’re trying here.”
“What? No, I like you guys.”
Marcus sits next to me. “Courtney and I haven’t been feeling the love.”
“I don’t care. We need to focus on the park instead of chasing around some fictional beast!”
“I know, I know, we need to protect the petroglyphs. I get that. It’s just that Courtney has been struggling.”
"Struggling?"
Marcus fills me in about Courtney's third job and how her boyfriend is unfaithful, but because of the poor economy, she can’t move out of his apartment.
“The Bigfoot Race is like the lottery to her. She knows it’s ridiculous, but the prospect is a nice distraction from her crummy situation. Can you play along?”
I spot Courtney hiding in her car and reapplying her teal eyeshadow. I motion for her to roll down her window. “How can I make it up to you?” Courtney sparks back to life.
“You’re asking me?” Courtney makes a quick recovery to her cheerful self as if her crying was all staged. “Let’s go squatchin’!”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Squatchin’! It’s slang for Bigfoot hunting!”
“No.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun!”
Marcus watches our interaction through the window. Courtney’s weird teal eyes focus on mine. I give in.
The next day, Marcus covers my next shift so I can prance around the forest with Courtney to find the bogeyman. For one day, I agree to play along with her crackpot dream. If we find something during the “squatchin’ session,” the prize earnings will be split 50/50 and we will toss a few grand at Marcus for his moral support. She insists on formulating a contract drafted from printer paper and lodges it within a glittery fanny pack.
The two ATVs bump off the gravel road and onto the muddy dirt trail. After feeling the penetrating wind invade and tickle my limbs, I regret not wearing more layers.
“I know you think this is stupid, but hey, we could get lucky! You even saw it last night!” Courtney’s binoculars bounce as the dirt road becomes bumpier.
My mind speeds up rampantly to correct her nonsense, but my conscience curbs myself. I’m only here to satisfy her. Let her live in her fantasy cryptid world. We pass the Drake Trail.
“We missed the turn!” Our ATV’s motor drowns me out. As soon as my ears pop, I realize what trail Courtney selected for our romp throughout the woods.
Durk Ridge is the least traveled trail out of the entire park. Years ago, I took the location off of our park pamphlets to hide its existence. Only the most experienced hikers could survive this dreadful trail, and even they do not have fun. Even the mountain men who lust for the thrill despise this trail for its potent population of slippery stones. One time, a veteran hiker told me he barely made it out of Durk Ridge. He believed that the forest consciously messed with him. Any sort of markings he would etch into the ground would vanish.
“Courtney! Can we pick a different trail?”
No luck. Her glittery lips smile at me as our ATVs slow down. I look to the left and spot the Jay-Z Nature Center leagues below us. "We're going back. This is Durk Ridge, for heaven's sake!"
“Exactly! The Bigfoot you ran into last night lives here!”
I don’t care how many jobs she has to work anymore. This is insane.
Her head jumps up.“Be quiet! Did you hear that rustling?”
"No. We need to get back!"
“Shut it, old man. It’s here. Keep up.” She runs off into the forest, leaving me in her tracks. I reach for my radio.
“Marcus? We’re going to be up here for a while. We’re at Durk Ridge.” No reply. “Marcus?” My call gets greeted by static. My breath becomes a tangible white. I heave up the hill as the snow begins to fall. “Come on back, Courtney!” The path becomes less visible the further I move along. Damn it, Courtney!
I slip a few times during my ascent on Durk Ridge. The environment becomes more difficult to ascend. Throughout the hike, I spot a torn-up body of an elk. I stop for a second to observe it. The sight makes me ill, but I couldn’t help but be curious. A coyote or bear doesn’t kill its prey with such cruelty. I can’t dwell on it for too long. I need to bring Courtney back.
I spot some fresh boot tracks upon the moist mud. I encounter Courtney huddled on the ground. “Courtney, I’m sorry for all that mean stuff I said again, but we need to head back. You know what they say about Durk Ridge!”
She pays no notice. Her sharp purple nail points toward a gorge twenty yards away. Suddenly she screams.
“Oh my god, we won! We won! Stay here. Don’t move! We need more artillery!”
At least, that is what I thought she said—her rapid breathing makes her speech incoherent. She chokes me as she uses my collar to pull herself up, using my weight to get herself off the ground. Whatever else she was muttering was incomprehensible.
“Courtney! Come back!”
She runs back toward where we parked the ATVs while I advance toward the ravine to see what had possessed her into a frenzy. A stench comparable to a thousand dead deer ambushes my senses. Coughing outbursts halt my march. I wipe my ranger jacket to dry my watery eyes. The winter breeze becomes a winter onslaught. The combination of snow and wind hinders my senses. I peer my head over the ravine.
No words or idioms can properly represent the horrible abomination in front of me. I look around the wreckage. Human-like apes perform blood-freezing dances around the destroyed RV. The only resemblance of humanity those monsters had was purely in the fact that their stature consist of limbs. Even the classification of “ape” fails to describe those brutes. It is impossible for me to determine whether or not these beasts were tickling each other with fingers or feelers. Their lengthy arms fold in a direction that is impossible for the normally jointed human or gorilla to achieve. Senseless grunts and toxic odors fill the air. The beasts’ foot size come to my attention.
We have won The Bigfoot Race but I don’t feel like a winner.
“Help! Come back!” A man’s cry forces me out of my sweaty retreat. I peek my head over the ledge to avoid looking at those monsters in their entirety again. Tears, blood, and mud are his attire, nothing else. His Hawaiian shirt is torn to shreds, serving as a band-aid to slow his bleeding. He stands on top of his crashed ATV.
“Help me!” are his last words before the animals amalgamated an assault. I place my hand over my mouth to ensure that his screams would be the only one made. These paradoxical creatures stomp with their giant feet in an indescribable dance. One wields a crowbar and repeatedly folds a map while another studies a compass.My trembling legs disturb any attempts of a smooth escape. I misstep and slam my head on a pointed rock. Bleeding, stumbling, and whimpering, my old body faints.
An inch of ice suffocates me as I come back to life. I wake up to a dusky gray sky dropping heavy amounts of snow. I rub my hands against red skin to shake all the snow off. I ponder returning to the ATV, but all sense of direction becomes lost due to the new appearance of the forest wearing a sheet of snow. My tablet still receives no reception. I walk toward a direction I believe would get me to the ATVs. Never in my sixty years have I been in a situation like this. The thoughts of what I witnessed down that ravine flood back to my memory. I fall to my knees and cry. I couldn’t save that man. All I did was run. Why did I have to witness such a terrible sight and live?
After waddling around for a few minutes and drenching my boots, I give up. Still no reception. The further I walk the more lost I get. This place served me well, and I couldn’t have picked a better gravesite.
Suddenly, I hear a motor.
“Help!” Headlights dance back and forth along the road, bumping into rocks and shrubs. Courtney is driving like Marcus. What the hell is she doing? I run toward the light.
I sprint down the ridge toward the dancing headlights. Reception returns to my tablet. I am greeted by Courtney and Marcus.
“Hey, where are you? Where’s the Bigfoot now?” Courtney’s questions are distorted through bad reception. The arms, upon second glance, appear to be girthier than any of the park rangers here.
I stop. “Courtney, where are you guys?”
“I’m back at the Jay-Z Nature Center. Where are you?”
As I stand in the presence of this former fairy tale, I realize that ancient civilizations have been wrong about Bigfoot’s true characteristics. It wasn't their big feet that made them special, but their rapid rate of development. When I see this transcendental beast teaching itself how to drive an ATV, I realize the question shouldn’t have been “is Bigfoot real?,” but rather “how does it keep getting away?” I witness the true characteristic of Bigfoot that sets it apart from man. It was teaching itself how to drive with no outside help, and even drives better than Marcus. The true characteristic is its rapid rate of evolution.
The increased traffic of hunters in pursuit of winning The Bigfoot Race has allowed the species to experience accelerated evolution. As each hunter tries to take down a Bigfoot, the species become more educated. How far do we have until they learn how to fight back? At what point will Bigfoot become a predator instead of prey? Marcus’s voice from the radio grabs me out of my revelation. “Where are you? Now, tell us where it is!”
“Do not come here. Please believe me.” I whisper.
“What?” Marcus’s inquiry is distorted by static.
“We need to leave them be. Have a little faith. It’s for our own safety.” I say as I inspect the forest.
Marcus pauses for a second. I hear muttering from Marcus’s end.
“Did you tell him our three-job story?” A feminine voice pops up.
Marcus shushes what I assume to be Courtney. I hear a clicking noise that has been unfortunately familiar in these parts.
“No guns!” I yell into my radio. The biggest one of the tribe perks up and marches toward my direction. Even if Marcus kills one of them, this will introduce the tribe to warfare. If they can learn how to ride an ATV, how long would it take for them to form a coalition to avenge their fallen brethren? And who would this “coalition” strike first? Marcus and Courtney. I can’t even begin to imagine the hell that my forest would become if it ever came to that. The petroglyphs, the Jay-Z Center, Drake Trail, and the wildlife would be ransacked by hunters once it becomes known that a Bigfoot family lives here.
A banshee-like screech shakes the forest’s foliage. I cover my ears, but the sound still punctures my eardrums. The tribe’s leader dons a white beard and is broader than the rest of its disciples. The congregation converses in a language beyond vocality. Its buddies understand each other within milliseconds and march toward me.
My forest should not become a battlefield.
“Please old man, tell us Bigfoot’s location!” Courtney conceals her wrath in the form of begging. I’ve always hated their nickname for me.
“I can’t do that, Courtney.” The beasts circle around my voice. What looks like berry juice or blood rests on their maws. I look behind my shoulder. One of them has a Hawaiian shirt wrapped around a wound. These beasts must’ve survived many attacks, gunshots, and traps. Their scarred skin displays a history of ancient battles.
“You are throwing away a lot of money with your dumb hippie act.” Marcus begins his turn of yelling at me.
The leader of the tribe towers over me. Its featureless face judges my strengthless body from up above. From the slits on its face, bloodshot eyeballs emerge from its folded face flaps. The eyeballs weren’t focused on me, but on my tablet.
“I’m going to kill you, old man.” Courtney’s voice carries a vitriol that I have never heard before. The voice wore a violence that was nearly as frightful as the beasts in front of me.
The horde bangs their bodies in a frenzy. The leader calms the commotion with a singular hand motion. It waits on my next move.
These Bigfoot are part of the forest too. Why would I stop doing my job of protecting the forest now?
“I think they are heading toward Drake Trail.” My gruff tone becomes playful. “Or are they still at Durk Ridge? Perhaps I am getting a bit senile, Marcus?"
Using the last bit of my strength, I hurl the tablet down the slopes of Durk Ridge. My legs give out and I collapse on the ground. I hope that our Bigfoot masters forgive Marcus and Courtney, for they do not know what they are doing. The congregation transforms into blurs as snowflakes stack upon my eyelids. I fall asleep.
My name is Jonathan Owens. I am an English major and a German minor at Belmont University. The motivation for “The Bigfoot Race” came from a childhood of watching bigfoot hunting shows like Finding Bigfoot on Animal Planet with my father when I was younger.
