twisting her full lips.
“I’m good with accents and local dialects,” I explain. “Kind of a hobby.”
She just opens her door and hops out.
I follow quickly, nearly falling out of the SUV as I open and close the door. Mr. Johnson is already on his feet, standing at the top of the porch. He waggles his hand at me. “What’s wrong with this one?” he says to Collins. “Looked like he was having a seizure in the car there.”
The accent is thick and slow. A Mainer through and through.
I straighten myself up and put on a grin. “Mr. Johnson.”
The man’s eyes widen slightly and his white caterpillar eyebrows rise. “You told him my name?”
“Mr. Johnson,” Collins says. “This is Jon Hudson. He’s an investigator with the—”
“U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I say, climbing the steps. I hold my hand out to shake his.
He looks at my hand, then back up at me. “ Jeezum Crow, boy, you look shot at and missed, shit on an’ hit.”
I nod. “Had a run in with a rack a poundahs .”
He returns my smile and shakes my hand. “Ayah.” We’re speaking the same language now.
“How ya doin ’ this mornin ’?” I ask him.
“Oh, fair t’ middlin ’,” he says. “Be a lot better if not for that shoot’n an hollr’n last night.”
“Won’t happen again,” I say.
Johnson gives me a one-eyed squint. “How’s that?”
I nod to Collins. “Officer Collins here was just telling me about it. Couple of kids up to no good. She ran them out of town.”
“That right?” he asks.
Collins clears her throat uncomfortably. “Won’t be bothering you again, Mr. Johnson. Made it clear I’d throw them in jail next time.”
“But that’s not why we’re really here,” I say. “Is it Mr. Johnson?”
He walks along the porch, aided by a cane. “Follow me.”
Collins pulls me back and lets Mr. Johnson get a few feet ahead of us. “What’s a rack of pounders?”
“Six pack,” I say. “I was being honest.”
“Over here,” Johnson says. He stops at the side of the porch, leaning on the railing. He points out at the woods. “Seen ’ em walking out there. At night mostly. Sometimes during the day, though they keep to the shadows. Just shapes. Sounds.”
“Sure it’s not a bear?” I ask.
He whips around toward me and hitches a thumb at Collins. “You already sound like her!”
“Just trying to consider all possibilities.”
“ Ain’t no bear. I’ve seen bear. Hunted bear. Whatever it is out there, it walks on two legs. Comes ‘round least twice a day. Usually dawn and dusk. Maybe in the night, but me and Sally—that’s my wife—turn in ‘round nine, so I wouldn’t know.”
The man’s testimony is plain and simple. He’s not claiming to have seen brown fur, a large head or any other traditional Sasquatch feature. He just knows that something is walking in his woods, and that it’s a biped.
“Served in Vietnam, sir?” I ask.
“Walked the Ho Chi Min Trail. Yes, sir.”
“Then I believe you,” I say.
“Well, damn,” he says. “It’s ‘bout time someone did.”
“But,” I say quickly. “There is one other possibility I’m not sure you’ve considered.”
“What’s that?” he says.
“Only other biped out here, aside from ol ’ Squatch , that I can think of.”
He thinks for just a moment, but then shakes his head. “Damn, son, you’re right. People.”
I can see that this idea bothers the man even more than Sasquatch. To him, Bigfoot is probably just another denizen of the forest. Like a bear. Or a cougar. But people, in his woods? Those are trespassers. And now that I’ve put the idea in his head, he’s probably going to spend the night on the porch with a shotgun. And since I don’t want to be the reason Mr. Johnson spends the rest of his life in jail for murder, I turn to Collins and ask, “Feel up to a hike?”
7
After getting some basic information from Mr. Johnson, we strike out into the woods. I put on a good
“I’m good with accents and local dialects,” I explain. “Kind of a hobby.”
She just opens her door and hops out.
I follow quickly, nearly falling out of the SUV as I open and close the door. Mr. Johnson is already on his feet, standing at the top of the porch. He waggles his hand at me. “What’s wrong with this one?” he says to Collins. “Looked like he was having a seizure in the car there.”
The accent is thick and slow. A Mainer through and through.
I straighten myself up and put on a grin. “Mr. Johnson.”
The man’s eyes widen slightly and his white caterpillar eyebrows rise. “You told him my name?”
“Mr. Johnson,” Collins says. “This is Jon Hudson. He’s an investigator with the—”
“U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I say, climbing the steps. I hold my hand out to shake his.
He looks at my hand, then back up at me. “ Jeezum Crow, boy, you look shot at and missed, shit on an’ hit.”
I nod. “Had a run in with a rack a poundahs .”
He returns my smile and shakes my hand. “Ayah.” We’re speaking the same language now.
“How ya doin ’ this mornin ’?” I ask him.
“Oh, fair t’ middlin ’,” he says. “Be a lot better if not for that shoot’n an hollr’n last night.”
“Won’t happen again,” I say.
Johnson gives me a one-eyed squint. “How’s that?”
I nod to Collins. “Officer Collins here was just telling me about it. Couple of kids up to no good. She ran them out of town.”
“That right?” he asks.
Collins clears her throat uncomfortably. “Won’t be bothering you again, Mr. Johnson. Made it clear I’d throw them in jail next time.”
“But that’s not why we’re really here,” I say. “Is it Mr. Johnson?”
He walks along the porch, aided by a cane. “Follow me.”
Collins pulls me back and lets Mr. Johnson get a few feet ahead of us. “What’s a rack of pounders?”
“Six pack,” I say. “I was being honest.”
“Over here,” Johnson says. He stops at the side of the porch, leaning on the railing. He points out at the woods. “Seen ’ em walking out there. At night mostly. Sometimes during the day, though they keep to the shadows. Just shapes. Sounds.”
“Sure it’s not a bear?” I ask.
He whips around toward me and hitches a thumb at Collins. “You already sound like her!”
“Just trying to consider all possibilities.”
“ Ain’t no bear. I’ve seen bear. Hunted bear. Whatever it is out there, it walks on two legs. Comes ‘round least twice a day. Usually dawn and dusk. Maybe in the night, but me and Sally—that’s my wife—turn in ‘round nine, so I wouldn’t know.”
The man’s testimony is plain and simple. He’s not claiming to have seen brown fur, a large head or any other traditional Sasquatch feature. He just knows that something is walking in his woods, and that it’s a biped.
“Served in Vietnam, sir?” I ask.
“Walked the Ho Chi Min Trail. Yes, sir.”
“Then I believe you,” I say.
“Well, damn,” he says. “It’s ‘bout time someone did.”
“But,” I say quickly. “There is one other possibility I’m not sure you’ve considered.”
“What’s that?” he says.
“Only other biped out here, aside from ol ’ Squatch , that I can think of.”
He thinks for just a moment, but then shakes his head. “Damn, son, you’re right. People.”
I can see that this idea bothers the man even more than Sasquatch. To him, Bigfoot is probably just another denizen of the forest. Like a bear. Or a cougar. But people, in his woods? Those are trespassers. And now that I’ve put the idea in his head, he’s probably going to spend the night on the porch with a shotgun. And since I don’t want to be the reason Mr. Johnson spends the rest of his life in jail for murder, I turn to Collins and ask, “Feel up to a hike?”
7
After getting some basic information from Mr. Johnson, we strike out into the woods. I put on a good
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