Pilgrimage to Bigfoot Country

I’ve been kind of obsessed with Bigfoot since I was a kid. I read all the books, checking the same ones out of three different libraries over and over again. I wrote book reports. I drew pictures. When I hiked through the woods alone growing up in rural PA, I thought I’d be lucky enough to see one if I wished hard enough. You’d think it would be something I have outgrown by the time I became an adult, but I never did.

In 2002 or so, I actually wrote an ”X-Files”-esque screenplay about Bigfoot that I consider one of my “passion projects” I someday hope to direct (A man can dream). In the course of researching that project, I took a trip to Western PA to visit an area with a number of reported Bigfoot and UFO sightings, and wrote a 30-page essay about the experience. I interviewed the son of the man who’s arguably the best known, non-academic Bigfoot tracker, Rene Dahinden. I read several more scientifically-minded books by academics and cryptozoologists about Bigfoot—or whatever real animal it might be. Even digesting all this new, less sensationalistic information as an adult and getting the screenplay written, I never really have stopped looking, and I probably never will.

Which is why when I recently arranged a road trip from California to Oregon with my fiancée, Becky, I knew I’d have to take 101 North, straight up through Bigfoot country. Our first destination before hitting Eureka for the night would be the Bigfoot Museum in Willow Creek, about a mile away from Bluff Creek, where the famous Patterson film—footage of an alleged Bigfoot quickly loping along the bank—was shot. En route to Willow Creek, we stopped to have lunch at the Chandelier Drive-Through Tree in Leggett, CA, and at the gift shop I noticed a “Bigfoot map” for sale (see photos). I asked the cashier if she’d ever seen a Bigfoot, or knew anyone that had seen one, and she said no. “But if I had, I’d be famous,” she added, something that might have been true before the age of reality television oversaturation.

Farther up the road, I took the shots leading this post of the giant Bigfoot carving at the roadside “Legend of Bigfoot” gift shop in Garberville. A few feet away, a teenager was sweeping a leaf blower at the pavement before him even though there didn’t seem to be any leaves on the ground. Was I in an episode of “Twin Peaks”? I stood there staring up at this creature-carving towering over me, Beck good-naturedly waiting in the Jeep. I stopped taking pictures and turned to beam at her like the proverbial kid in a candy store. Here I was, finally winding through the heartland of this modern mythology I’d obsessed over throughout my childhood spent on the opposite end of the country. I turned back to study the carving: impressive enough as a homemade work of sculpture, but it was its face that for me made it so genuine: not necessarily benevolent, but not unfriendly, either. Strong. Stoic. It was literally, patiently standing its ground under a line of multicolored plastic flags as it towered over this puny tourist, emanating some otherworldly patience and animal wisdom that made me believe it could come alive and walk off at any moment. This was, of course, insane, and my more rational mind reminded me that it was probably time to go.

[caption id="attachment_370" align="alignleft" width="271" caption="Bigfoot Museum in Willow Creek, CA"][/caption]

After several hours on the road, we’d reached our first official destination before a stay that night in Eureka: the Bigfoot basin of Willow Creek, CA. The gray, gloomy weather really couldn’t have set the mood better, what with the mountains looming as a backdrop behind the sleepy town shrouded in thick mist, rain pounding my Jeep as we drove down main street. I don’t recall more than one or two cars constituting what we’d normally refer to as “traffic” on the road, lending to the whole spooky, backwoods ghost town vibe. We drove for a few minutes and pulled into the parking lot of the museum, the only car in sight.

I hopped out and Beck took some of the shots you see here as I approach the giant Bigfoot carving guarding the museum—at least twice the size of the roadside statue—with my dog. A sign on the front door revealed that, in lieu of a special appointment, the museum was closed for the season. We had lunch at the Mexican restaurant next door and, looking out the window, I pointed out a strange, “off the grid”-looking couple using the outdoor rest rooms before they shuffled off to some unknown destination in the rain. Afterwards, I took those photos of me in front of the smaller Bigfoot on the lot outside. I wanted to stay longer to explore—try to find the actual Bluff Creek site, wait for the museum to open, maybe just live here until we saw our own Bigfoot—but it was getting late and we had to go.

As we got back on the road, I was struck by a certain sadness about having to leave so soon, and I still couldn’t give Beck a good reason as to why I didn’t call ahead to ask if the museum would be open. The fact is that I had forgotten, likely because consciously or subconsciously I didn’t care if it would be open or not. To be here in this weird place, visiting the landmarks along this elusive mystery and personal pilgrimage that I’ll probably never fully understand, was enough.