I am discovering a few interesting things on the Internet. I have found that I have returned from Cross Over with two sacks of kenaf seeds, and a Google search has led me quite miraculously to a kenaf researcher just down the road in Onaway, Michigan, as well as a state of the art processor of industrial hemp and possibly kenaf in Gladwin, Michigan. This I find very intriguing, because it aligns with the third Sasquatch parchment that I am holding in my hands, it states: Nothing Is By Accident. This is an intriguing truth so easily dismissed by the weak of mind because responsibility for such an all consuming statement is hard to fathom. The parchment picture associated with this concept is an empty circle, or a zero.
I already have an intuitive grasp of this concept. I believe it means full responsibility boils down to zero. In the language of math, it is the equivalent of the denominator that cancels out every numerator by being equal to each other. In other words, taking full responsibility leaves absolutely nothing to which justifications or lies can attach themselves. The remainder is simply the truth. Nothing is by accident.
Onaway, Michigan, is the home of Kenaf Partners USA, a website loaded with information about the valuable Sasquatch kenaf seeds I have brought back from Cross Over. Unbeknownst to me, kenaf has been building a foothold in nearby Onaway for several years. The word Onaway itself is an American Indian term meaning “The Awakening”. I am certain that it is no accident that the hub for disseminating kenaf books, seeds and other information on regenerative agriculture happens to be located in Onaway and right next door to a Sasquatch portal.
The processing center in Gladwin is just icing on the cake. I am perfectly situated in the eye of the “The Awakening”.
I am wrenched from my thoughts by the rumbling sound of Tehcuseh’s motorcycle roaring up the driveway. I drop my research and hustle out the front door to meet him. It has to be something important for my friend to get all bundled-up and venture out on such a bitterly cold day to ride his bike. The temperature is in the mid teens with the first flakes of snow fluttering in the wintery wind.
“What’s up Tecumseh?” I call out over the chugga-chugga of his machine.
He throttles down and removes his gloves and googles. “We’ve got a Mita problem, my friend. Buddy Decker is on the war path. He’s forming up a vigilante posse to go after one of your Sasquatch friends he says busted up his cabin.”
“Buddy Decker?” I raise my arms in confusion.
“Ex-deputy Sheriff from Bay City. Him and his brother bought the old 405 Camp over there abutting Big Creek State land of which you are so fond. Said he saw a Bigfoot hightailing it for the trees when he arrived to open the camp for deer season.”
“I’ll be darned,” I say. “I’ll bet the pot that it’s a Squatch by the name of Demarcus. He was looking for a fight with me before my friend Loquius intervened just prior to my first trip into Cross Over. Demarcus is a rebellious sort, just recently exiled from Cross Over for supposedly kidnapping humans.”
“Now he’s gotten himself a bounty on his head. Decker was in the Party Store in Comins, talking up young Jeff Davies to get his buddies together. Decker wants them to come on out and flush-drive the woods while he and his brother set up in their tree stands along Big Creek with their rifles.”
“Give me a minute to get dressed and collect my gear,” I say. “We’ll head on down there in the truck, no need for the bike. You got your gun?”
“More than one,” Tecumseh admits.
I decide to get my Beretta out of the car and grab my lever action 30-30 rifle. The rifle is light and short, great for navigating through the woods.
“It’d be nice to beat those guys out there,” I say, “but if they happen to be there already, it might even be a good idea to drive up to their camp and volunteer for his posse. That way we can keep an eye on things, kind of mess with the works if need be.”
“You decide,” Tecumseh shrugs, “I’ll have your back either way.”
Tecumseh does not own a car, he has an old Indian motorcycle that runs on prayers and his constant tinkering.
“I’ll follow you back to your place,” I tell him and throw my backpack into the backseat of my Mazda where everything seems to be in order. My phone, gun and ammunition are all still safely sequestered in the floorboard tool box designed for that specific purpose.
Tecumseh’s bike roars to life, does a donut and zips up the two-lane trail out of the woods.
I feel both elated and in shock, elated to be home from Cross Over, but in shock in having learned that I have apparently been gone for two weeks instead of my vivid recollection of only being gone a couple of days.
Tecumseh said there has been some worry and anger bubbling up at home. Though my wife is used to my absences lasting for several days, two weeks is way beyond our agreed upon behavior. Fortunately, she is well grounded and was able to keep her anger in check, she contacted Tecumseh for consultation instead of the local police. Tecumseh reassured her I was simply away on a vision quest and would return as soon as possible. When Tecumseh and I finally appeared before each other next to Big Creek, he had been searching for signs of my whereabouts for several days. He said he had even begun to worry and wonder himself, if I would successfully navigate my way back from Cross Over. I don’t know how, but I apparently spent way longer wandering around in the dark between worlds than I have memories to recollect.
Tecumseh’s town of Comins is a tiny place, it has a Post Office, a bar and a convenience store, not much else. Tecumseh lives in a trailer with a few acres bordering State land on the edge of town, and that is where he offers me a meal of smoked salmon, crackers and a cold ginger ale.
I am still somewhat shocked and reluctant to join the human race, so the respite before dealing with my domestic issues is a welcome gesture. The smoked salmon is delicious with a hardened coating of brown sugar, maple syrup, pepper and salt.
“Tell me,” Tecumseh beckons. “How are my brethren the Chiha Tanka doing in their world?”
“Hang on,” I say, and hustle back to the car to retrieve my bag with the Sasquatch parchments, seeds and roots. On my return, I pause and call my wife to apologize with a sincere promise to be home in an hour.
“Check this out,” I tell Tecumseh and hand over the first of the Sasquatch parchments.
Tecumseh looks it over. “It’s a teepee,” he says. “If you take the star points and fold them all vertically, you have a perfect teepee.”
“Hmmm,” I respond. “Now that you mention it, I can see that. What do you make of the caption?”
“The Secret of Time,” Tecumseh mouths and ponders. “A teepee is sister to The Stone Without Time. It’s a spirit catcher. It preserves our memories and passes them down. I have claimed the memories of my father and my mother, and the memories of their fathers and mothers before them. Time does not exist in the realm of the spirit.”
“Yes, my friend. That’s what the world is like over there, timeless. Somehow preserved. It’s like a step back and a step forward at the same time. Cross Over exists somewhere beyond man’s everyday concept or perception of reality.”
“And you are their conduit and messenger.” Tecumseh says with certainty. “You are Mida, a Chippewa out of time, like me.”
A QuickTurtle Book hot off the press is Conversations With Sasquatch, The Encounter. This is my new Big Foot novel set in Lewiston, Michigan.
I had my first encounter with Sasquatch when I was six years old. I was fishing for sunfish is the Thunder Bay River when Big Foot appeared. I didn’t Really think much about it for many years until my adult encounter while hunting for morel mushrooms near Big Creek where the story unfolds with this excerpt:
“I have had to readjust my beliefs and rethink many an opinion since I met a Sasquatch while out hunting for morel mushrooms in Lewiston, Michigan. I had no idea that these mushrooms were high on their list of dietary delicacies. They prize and love them.
I would have been afraid and crapped my pants if it hadn’t been for the long outstretched arm that offered me a half eaten morel. There was nothing aggressive or hostile in this gesture. He effused a welcoming aura of curious friendliness.
I took the half-eaten morel and popped it into my mouth. As I shook my head affirmatively, I offered him my paper sack that contained about twenty morels and two or three beefsteaks I had gathered along a cedar ridge beside Big Creek.
It was then that I noticed the pure silence that had fallen over the forest. The crows look-out caws had vanished, the squirrels had shushed their chatter and rattle in the trees. Not even a bluejay or a mosquito was daring a peep.” (Purchase here)