The Call Of The Unknown

more than adventure that he was seeking. It was a truth hidden beneath bark and soil, a secret that waited at the edge of every trail. When he left the East Coast for California, it was with a hunger for more than mountain views and a new hike. He had heard of the Sierra Nevadas and the forests that stretched north into Oregon and wan Washington, ancient places where the trees grew taller than buildings and fog drifted like a

living ghost through the valleys. And he had heard the whispers too, the ones that followed hikers back to town after long nights in the woods, stories told in lowered voices about a presence watching from the trees, a thing with strength beyond reckoning, that lived where man rarely walked, bigfoot sasquatch, the wild man of the West. The stories were too numerous, too strangely consistent, to ignore, and though most laughed them off, Brian carried them like kindling, waiting

for the spark of proof. He settled in a quiet town at the base of the mountains, where a single grocery, a diner, and a hardware store seemed to hold the pulse of the community. Locals were kind but guarded when the subject of the creature arose. Some claimed to have seen it just at the edge of their headlights on an old logging road. Others of hearing howls unlike any

wolf or coyote, their voices trembling as they spoke. A few swore that boulders had been hurled at them, massive stones, crashing through the trees as if thrown by giant hands. Most shook their heads and changed the subject, but Brian could tell by the way their eyes flicked to the dark horizon of forest that they believed, even if they refused to admit it aloud. He began to push deeper into the wilderness with each hike, as it following a

trail of breadcrumbs no one else could see. The land itself seemed older, more dangerous here, and the deeper he went, the more he felt as if he was being tested. His boots pressed into earth that smelled of pine and rain, while shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy like holy light through stained glass. Sometimes the air grew so still that his own breath seemed loud. He often stopped, certain he had heard something, a footfall, a low rumble, the creak

of branches underweight too heavy for deer. The silence always returned, thick and deliberate, and he would walk on with his pulse quickened. One misty morning, he set out with more purpose than ever before. He had heard whispers of a forgotten trail that wound toward a hidden waterfall few had ever seen. The idea of it tugged at him like a lure. He packed a small bag, tightened his laces,

and set out Before the first light. Hours passed under towering furs and sequoias, the path narrowing until it seemed to vanish altogether. The deeper he went, the more the forest, pressed in trunks thick as pillars, roots like serpents. Underfoot, he felt smaller with each step, swallowed by something vast and timeless. That was when he found them. The first print lay in a patch of soft loam at the base of a cedar. He crouched and blinked, unable to

trust what he was seeing. It was wide, easily twice the width of his own boot, and flat in a way no bear track could be. Five distinct toes pressed into the soil, each one round and thick. The depth of the impression told him the weight behind it was immense. Followed it, finding another print a full stride ahead, and then another, moving with a precision and length that no man could match. His stomach flipped. They were fresh. A

strange awareness pricked at the back of his neck. The forest felt too quiet, as if it were waiting for his reaction. He straightened slowly, his breath shallow, and looked into the shadows of the trees. Nothing moved, yet he could not shake the certainty that something was there. As he pressed on, the feeling of being watched grew unbearable.

Every few minutes, he stopped, straining to hear and each time the noises ceased, Yet in the spaces between he heard them, the faint crunch of weight on needles, the snap of a twig, the low scrape of something brushing against bark. Once he thought he heard a grunt, deep and chesty, like a bear, but longer more deliberate. By late afternoon, he stumbled at last into a clearing where the waterfall thundered into a pool of glassy water. Mist hung in the air, cool and heavy, and moss blanketed

the stones like ancient velvet. It should have been a place of peace, untouched and serene. Yet Brian's skin prickled with unease. He had not arrived alone. Without warning, a massive stone came crashing down the slope above, striking the pool with an explosion of spray. Brian staggered back, soaked and stunned. The rock hadn't rolled, it had been thrown. His eyes darted to the ridge line and scanning for movement, but the trees revealed nothing except trembling branches. His heart

beat thundered in his ears. He knew now that the stories of boulders hurled from the dark were not just camphire talk. Then it came the sound that hollowed his chest, A howl, guttural and resonant, so deep it vibrated through his bones. It rose into the canopy, echoing down the valley like a sign to something unseen. It wasn't a coyote, wasn't a wolf, wasn't anything he could place in the

catalog of known animals. It was older, more powerful. It was a voice that belonged to something that had lived in those forests long before man had drawn maps. The light faded. He built a fire near the falls, the flames snapping weakly. Again, it's the creeping dark. He tried to reassure himself that the fire meant safety, but the circle of light felt fragile, as if it only marked him out for whatever watched from beyond. He sat with his back to a rock wall, clutching his knife, though

he knew it was useless. The crack came not long after, the sharp explosive snap of wood breaking under immense pressure. His flashlight beam swung up in time to catch the moment. A branch thicker than his arm tore free from its trunk. It came crashing down just yards from his camp, sending needles and bark sprang his throat closed. No man could break green wood like that, and no ordinary beast had

the hands to do it. The light swept the trees again, and for the briefest instant it found the shape, a towering figure, easily eight feet tall, shoulders broad enough to blot out the trunk behind it, fur dark and shaggy. The eyes glowed back at him, amber and unblinking, before it melted into a shadow with the speed that belied its size. His body went rigid. He had seen it, not a suggestion, not a rumor, but the creature itself. The night became endless. Stones landed at the edge of

the firelight tossed deliberately, never random. Twice he heard the echo of wood knocking against wood, like signals sent into the dark. Once, the pungent odor of wet fur and earth drifted across the clearing, strong enough to turn his stomach. A second hawl farther away confirmed what he dreaded. There wasn't just one, he whispered to himself. There are two of them. The words evaporated into the mist, meaningless against

the vastness of the forest. He thought about running, but even instinct warned him that movement might trigger a chase, so he sat back, pressed to the rock, listening to his own breath quicken, while the unseen watchers tested his nerves. Time dissolved, minutes stretched into hours. He swore he saw the shape once more, crouched low near the tree line, before it slipped silently away. Another time, he heard something heavy exhale in the dark, a wet, rattling breath that

raised every hare on his body. At one point, a tree far off to his left shuddered and swayed, as if something massive had pushed it. The groan of wood carried throughout the night, and he knew the message was clear, this is our place. He wasn't just trespassing, He was being weighed and judged. His mind wandered in those long hours, darting from fear to awe. He thought of his father back east, who used to tell him the woods were

alive in ways most never noticed. He remembered being a boy camping with friends, and how the dark seemed endless then too. But this was different. This was not the imagination of a child. Something was out there, massive, intelligent, and aware of him. He whispered fragments of prayer, asked himself if he was ready to die, then laughed bitterly at the thought. The sound seemed too loud in the silence, and he clamped his mouth shut, terrified it might draw attention.

The hours dragged into slow torture. He began speaking under his breath, not just prayers, but confessions, admissions of how small he felt compared to the vastness of the forest. You're real, he whispered, I see you, I believe. He felt foolish, but also strangely compelled, as if words of acknowledgment might appease the unseen shapes circling beyond the fire. The forest gave no reply, except for the faint crunch of something moving with patience and purpose. At last, dawn

crept in the trees. Pale light touched the mist, painting its silver, and the forest seemed to exhale. The knox stopped, the stones stopped, even the smell was gone. It was as though the night had been erased, folded back into the deep wilderness where such secrets belong. He packed quickly, his hands still shaking, and made his way down the trail. Along the way he found more signs, prints deeper than the ones before gouges in bark, where something had peeled

it back with thick fingers. A bowlder balanced on a stump, as if placed there with intention. He stopped before it and stared. It was no accident, He felt it was left for him, a reminder, a marker that his presence had been seen, tolerated, but not entirely welcomed. By the time he stepped back into the realm of roads and houses, he was not the same man. The wilderness had spoken to him in languages of howls, stone and broken wood, and he had no choice but to believe. Bigfoot was

no story whispered by firelight. It was flesh and blood, cunning and powerful, a being that chose when to reveal itself and when to vanish into the unknown. Brian would never forget that night. He did not carry terror from it, but reverence. He had glimpsed something beyond the reach of human understanding, a keeper of the deep forest. It had tested him, shown its strength with rocks and trees, but it had not armed him. Instead, it had left him

with a truth few dared to hold. As he walked away, he carried the echoes, the thunder of a boulder, striking water, the crash of a limb torn free, the glow of amber eyes locked with his. He remembered the silence between the knocks, the deliberate stillness of a predator that did not need to prove itself further. The forest would never be the same again. It was older, more alive, and filled with secrets far greater than he had ever imagined.

Somewhere out there, hidden among the endless ridges, Sasquatch remained watching, waiting, part of a world that refused to surrender its mysteries. If you kind of know my style, I like to leave the drop ins and credits at the end because I like to get the story out there and make sure everybody gets to hear what Bigfoot's Wilderness is about.

But I just wanted to let you know that I'm excited to share that I've been working on something special, my new book, which is inspired by my own childhood. It's a heartfelt journey through memories, stories, and the moments that shaped me into who I am today. I can't wait to invite you along for the walk down memory Lane. My book is coming soon, so stay tuned and be

ready to experience these stories with me. Now, this will be in eReader fashion as well as a hardcover book, probably a paperback, but we'll not be coming to audio anytime soon. We'll have to see on that. I also wanted to reach out and say thanks to Dave over at We're Bigfoot Roams. Please give him a listen. He's on YouTube as well as streaming on your favorite podcast like Spreaker, Apple, Spotify, etc. Hope everyone has a great night. Take care. Did you hear that?