I breakfast on the remaining fruits left over from my trip. I am excited about getting the electricity turned on and the well primed, everything up and running later in the day. But first, I have time for a nostalgic trek into my newly inherited forest. I can still recall some of the game trails and the trees in which I had built platforms and forts as a kid. I had spent so much time in these wilds back then, I still know them better than the streets of nearby towns like Atlanta or Mio.
Are all my childhood friends still out and about, I wonder? Were they figments of my imagination or real? I am starting to get the idea from Cecil’s journals that they were equally as real as my adult life spent in San Francisco, for the simple reason those four decades lost in the city are now fading away and seeming more imaginary than my childhood.
As I enter the cedars where the spring feed creek gurgles and giggles it way south toward the AuSable River, the autumn air is heavy and laden with dampness. Dew droplets trickle down my arms and neck as I part the cedar bows and follow the wending stream. ( Continued at: https://www.conversationswithsasquatch.com/bigfoot-book-the-beginning.html )
I immediately sense that a disembodied Cecil has been waiting for this day, excited and giddy to see me. He has invited all his Sasquatch friends and a myriad of supernatural little people that he once introduced me to when I was a kid. I am blasted by their ethereal scrutiny and eerie frequencies as I step out of the car to take inventory of my inheritance. My whole body feels their eyes and begins to throb like a bee sting. My forehead prickles with a cold sweat.
I walk gingerly and take pause on the cobbled path, overwhelmed by nostalgia. Several barn swallows shatter the spell as they suddenly dart from beneath the house’s eaves and swoop at me in angry defiance. I have disturbed their peace. They cackle and shriek, making an all out effort to drive me away. I wave my arms at their bomb runs and duck under the sanctuary of the porch, there I turn and momentarily chuckle at their antics of persuasion.
The porch boards have separated and have been rubbed raw, but easily take my weight without a moan. There is a padlock on the door to which the court has granted me Cecil’s ownership key.
Inside, though a thick patina of dust has accumulated on the floors, the place looks mostly at peace and undisturbed. There are patches of swallow and pigeon poop on some areas of the walls directly beneath their nests, but all in all, I feel a wave of gratitude that it has not been ransacked by transients or teenagers with a lust for breaking and entering. I think its condition speaks (continued at https://www.conversationswithsasquatch.com/conversations-with-sasquatch-the-beginning.html )
The only person I trust to share my Sasquatch experiences with is Tecumseh. If my mother were still alive, she would be the other, but she passed on an unbelievable twenty years ago.
I meet Tecumseh at his trailer west of Comins. He lives on the edge of a Michigan State Forest he calls Tecumseh’s Reservation. For all intents and purposes, it really is his personal playground. No one else hardly ventures there and if they happen by, Tecumseh has ways of scaring the crap out of them and they seldom come back. I have had lots of laughs about his stories of city folk dropping their drawers to take a dump and then hightailing it bare-assed back to the nearest civilization.
The weather is drearily overcast, but humid and warm. I break out into a sweat as we light a fire in the stone pit that will retain a cache of hot coals for a fish fry. I have never seen Tecumseh sweat. It can be a hundred degrees with 100% humidity and he still looks cool and comfortable.
“Caught some real orange beauties,” Tecumseh offers, “you should have come with me.”
“Sorry, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say, seeing my opening to broaching my recent encounters with Sasquatch. “I was a bit engaged. I’ve had a couple of conversations with a Bigfoot.”
Tecumseh stops what he is doing and gives me that penetrating look only a man of high virtue can give. My eyes don’t waver.
He nods, “Chiha Tanka, My Elder Brother. Did Sasquatch have anything significant to say?”
“Yes, he said the human race is blowing it.”
Tecumseh laughs mirthlessly. “The same warning I have been poking into your ears since the day we met. Do you believe him?”
“I believe you, don’t I?” I counter with a jab.
“My Elder Brother only speaks to deliver important messages about a turn of events or a prophesy of magnitude. What he says should be regarded with utmost respect. He is a special Being. He is translator and mentor into the consciousness that runs through all of life.”
“I didn’t know you had such inside knowledge.” I exclaim. “Have you met this Chiha Tanka, as you call him?”
Tecumseh shakes his head negatively. “That connection is the domain of medicine men. It is for those that guide us between the physical and spiritual worlds. I am a hunter not a healer.”
“He is troubled about man and the future,” I say. “He has invited me back for further conversations. I am eager and believe he has much more to impart to me, and, in his own words, “to my brethren”. I am a good listener as well as an astute and sensitive interrogator.”
“You are worthy,” Tecumseh replies, “but, be careful.”
“What harm could possibly come in talking to him?” I reply.
“If you should wander and get lost between this world and his, I may not be able to bring you back,” he says.
I believe I am first witness to seeing sweat on Tecumseh’s brow.
He turns abruptly to the task of melting some fat and peanut butter in his cast iron skillet. Fresh caught brook trout fried in peanut butter is a meal worthy of the gods themselves.
If there are words you are unfamiliar with or don’t know, there is a glossary of terms contained from this episode at the end of my Sasquatch webpage for your convenience. You can also find out more about and purchase my books there.
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