SO EP:694 The First Guest

plant corn. It's the version we learned in elementary school, the one that shows up on greeting cards and in school pageants every November. But what if I told you that's not the whole story. What if there was someone else at that table, someone the history books don't mention, someone that the colonists themselves decided to keep secret, asking the truth down through families for four hundred years. What if the first Thanksgiving wasn't just a meeting between two

peoples but three. Now I know what some of you are thinking. Here we go another wild theory. But stick with me here, because this isn't just speculation. This is a story that's been whispered in certain families since sixteen twenty one, a story about ancient agreements, about guardians of the forest, and about a promise that's been kept for four centuries. Today, on this special holiday edition of the show, we're going deep into a tale that will make you

look at Thanksgiving in a whole new way. This is the story of the first guest. The morning mist rolled across Plymouth Harbor like a living thing, thick and heavy with the promise of an early winter. It was late November sixteen twenty one, and the small settlement of English colonists had barely survived their first year in this strange

new world. Half their number had perished during that brutal winter, and those who remained looked more like scarecrows than the brave adventurers who'd crossed the Atlantic just fourteen months before. William Bradford stood at the edge of the settlement, his weathered hands gripping his musket as he surveyed the tree line. The forest was different here than anything he'd known in England. It was older, deeper, and it held secrets that made

even the bravest men whisper prayers under their breath. The trees themselves seemed to watch, their ancient trunks twisted into shapes that looked almost like faces in the dim morning light. Edward Winslow approached, his boots crunching on the frost covered ground. Governor Bradford Squanto has returned from his journey to Massasoit's village. He brings word that the Wampanoag will attend our harvest celebration. Bradford nodded his eyes still fixed on the forest. How

many will come? Ninety souls, perhaps more Massasoid himself will lead them. The Governor's eyebrows rose. That was far more than they'd expected. Their own number was barely fifty three, including women and children. We'll need more food, send men to hunt. We cannot appear weak or unprepared before our guests. Winslow hesitated. There was something in his expression, a mixture

of uncertainty and fear that seemed out of place. Winslow had faced starvation, disease, and the unknown terrors of this new world without flinching. What could unsettle him?

and said we would understand when the time came. But Governor, I've never seen Squanto nervous before, not one facing hostile tribes, not one translating difficult negotiations. But when he spoke of this first guest, his hands trembled. The two men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the unknown pressing down on them like the morning missed. Bradford squared his shoulders. We faced the impossible before edward. We crossed a nocean, survived a winter that should have killed us all,

and made peace with people we cannot fully understand. Whatever this first guest may be, we will face it with faith and courage.

to grow in their first successful harvest. The women, led by Susannah White and Eleanor Billington, worked miracles with their limited resources, turning corn meal and dried berries into dishes that almost reminded the colonists of home. Young John Howland, who nearly drowned falling overboard during the Mayflower's crossing, had

become one of the settlement's best hunters. He spent his days in the forest with Miles Standish and John Alden, tracking deer through the underbrush and learning the ways of this wild land. But on the morning before the feast, something strange happened that would haunt him for the rest

of his days. He was tracking a particularly large buck through a grove of ancient oaks when the forest went silent, not the normal quiet of animals hiding from a hunter, but a complete absence of sound that made the hair on his neck stand on end. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The buck he'd been tracking stood frozen in a small clearing ahead, its entire body rigid

with fear. Holand raised his musket, But before he could fire, something moved in the shadows beyond the deer, something massive. At first he thought it was a bear standing on its hind legs, but bears don't stand that tall, bears don't have arms that long, and bears certainly don't have eyes that gleam with an intelligence that seemed almost human. The creature stepped partially into the light, and Howland's musket fell from nerveless fingers. It was covered in dark reddish

brown hair, standing at least eight feet tall. Its face was neither man nor beast, but something in between, with deep set eyes that regarded him with what looked like curiosity. For a moment that stretched into eternity, hunter and creature stared at each other across the clearing. Then the thing did something that nearly stopped Howland's heart. It raised one massive hand, palm outward and what was un unmistakably a gesture of peace, the same gesture he'd seen the wampanoagues.

The deer bolted, crashing through the underbrush, and the spell was broken. The creature melted back into the shadows with a grace that seemed impossible for something so large. By the time Howland fumbled his musket back into his hands, it was gone, leaving only massive footprints and the memory of those intelligent eyes. He ran back to the settlement, his heart pounding, his mind racing, But when he tried to tell the others what he'd seen, the words died

in his throat. How could he explain, how could he make them believe. Captain Standish would think him mad. Governor Bradford would worry he'd been sampling too much of the beer stores. Only Squanto, when Howland finally worked up the courage to approach him, seemed unsurprised. The Ptuxi guide listened to his halting description with a knowing smile. You have seen the first people, the ones who were here before all others. My people call them by many names. When

to go to some though that name carries fear. Others say Genosqua or when Digo. But the oldest name, the truest name, is Saskets, the wild men of the woods. But what are they, Howland asked. Squanto was quiet for a long moment, looking toward the forest. They are our elder brothers. They walk this land when the ice covered the world. They taught the first humans how to survive, how to hunt, how to respect the forest. Most of your people would call them demons or monsters, but they

are neither. They are the keepers of the old ways, the guardians of the wild places. Will they come to the feast, Squanto's smile widened. The first guest always comes to important gatherings. It is tradition older than memory Massasoit would not dare hold such a feast without inviting them. And you English, whether you know it or not, have settled in a place they protect. They have been watching you since your ship arrived. Howland felt a chill run

down his spine watching us. How else do you think you survived that first winter? How many times did your hunters find deer exactly where they needed them? How many times did storms that should have destroyed your houses suddenly change direction? The Saskets helped you, just as they once helped my people. You are guests in their land, and they have chosen to let you stay. That night, Howland

barely slept. He lay on his rough straw mattress, listening to the sounds of the forest, wondering if those sounds included footsteps too large to be human. The morning of the feast dawned clear and cold. The colonists rose early, stoking fires and making final preparations. The long tables had been set up outside despite the chill, because there simply wasn't room in any building for the number of guests they expected. Around midday, a cry went up from the watchman.

The Wampanoagu were approaching they came through the forest like a river of humanity. Ninety warriors and their families, dressed in their finest deer skins and adorned with feathers and beads. At their head walked Massasoit, himself tall and dignified, his face painted in ceremonial colors. Beside him walked his brother Quadequina, and several other important men of the tribe. But it was the figure walking behind them that drew every eye

and stopped every conversation. He was a giant of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall, wrapped in a massive bear skin cloak that covered him from head to toe. His face was hidden in the shadow of a deep hood, and he walked with a strange rolling gait that seemed almost awkward for someone of his size. The Wampanoagu gave him a wide berth, treating him with a deference that

exceeded even what they showed to Massasoit. Governor Bradford stepped forward to greet the sachem, but his eyes kept drifting to the cloaked figure. Massasoit noticed and spoke rapidly to Squanto, who translated, the great Sachem says you honor his people with this feast. He brings his finest warriors to celebrate the harvest and the peace between our peoples. And he brings a special guest, one who must be shown the highest respect. This is the speaker for the first people.

He comes to observe and to judge whether the peace will hold. Bradford, Ever, the diplomat, despite his inner turmoil, bowed deeply. All who come in peace are welcome at our table. The cloaked figure began to speak. From within the hood came a voice unlike anything the colonists had ever heard. It was deep, resonating, like distant thunder, and though the words were in the Wampa Noag tongue, they seemed to carry meaning beyond language. Squanto translated. He says,

he smells honesty in your words, but also fear. Fear is wise and the forest, but honesty is wiser. He will sit at your feast. The next few hours passed in a blur of activity. The colonists and Wampanoag worked side by side preparing the feast. The native warriors had brought five deer, which they expertly butchered and prepared for roasting. The colonial women found themselves learning new ways to prepare corn and squash from the Wampanoague women, while the men

competed in games of skill and strength. Through it all, the cloaked figure sat apart watching the children. Both English and natives, seemed drawn to him, despite their parents obvious nervousness. Little Peregrine White, barely a year old and the first English child born in New England, toddled toward the giant figure with the fearlessness of the very young. His mother, Susannah, gasped and started forward, but the cloaked figure raised a

massive hand and she froze slowly. Gently, the figure reached out to the child. Emerged from the cloaked sleeve was a hand covered in thick, reddish brown hair, with fingers longer than any human should be, but the touch was gentle as a summer breeze. Peregrine laughed a pure sound of joy and grabbed one of the massive fingers with his tiny hands. For a moment, the clearing was absolutely silent. Then from within the hood came a sound that might

have been laughter, deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. The tension broke. If a baby could accept this strange being, perhaps they all could. As the sun began to set, the feast was ready. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted deer and turkey, bowls of corn and squash, platters of fish and shellfish, and bread made from the colonist's precious wheat stores. Massasoit stood and spoke at length in his own language, with squanto translating, we gather here

as two people's becoming one people. The earth has provided for us. All the deer gave their live so we might live, and stay tuned for more Sasquatch ott to see. We'll be right back after these messages. The corn grew tall so we might eat. The English have shown courage in coming to this land and wisdom in seeking peace. But there is older wisdom here, older even than the Wampanoag. Tonight we honor that wisdom. He nodded to the cloaked figure who stood. The colonists held their breath as massive

hands reached up and pulled back the hood. What was revealed was a face from the dawn of time. It was covered in hair, yes, but the features were noble, almost human, but not quite. The eyes were deep brown, filled with an intelligence and sadness that seemed to hold the weight of millennia. The nose was broad and flat, the mouth wide, with lips that seemed ready to smile or snarl with equal ease. Several of the colonial women gasped. A few of the men reached for weapons they weren't carrying.

But Governor Bradford, showing the courage that had carried him across an ocean, stepped forward and extended his hand. You are welcome at our table, friend. The Sasquatch looked at the extended hand for a long moment, then, with careful deliberation, it reached out and took Bradford's hand in its own. The Governor's hand disappeared entirely in that massive grip, but the shake was gentle, almost delicate. And then the creature spoke,

not in the Wampanoagu tongue, but in broken halting English. Friend, long time we watch you different from others who came before. You stay, you learn, you respect the land. The colonists were stunned. Winslow was the first to find his voice. You speak our language. The Sasquatch's mouth curved in what might have been a smile. We learn, always learn. Listen to your words in the forest, Watch you struggle, watch

you survive, Watch you choose peace over war. It turned to address both groups, switching between languages, with squanto translating when needed. Long ago, when ice covered the land, we helped the first humans who came here, taught them to hunt, to build, to survive. When the ice went away, we retreated to the deep forests, the high mountains. We became legend, story, myth. But we never left, never stopped watching, never stopped protecting

the land and those who respect it. The creature moved to the table, its movement surprisingly graceful for something so large. Tonight we feast together, three peoples as one. This is good, This is how it should be. As the feast progressed, the initial fear and awkwardness began to fade. The Sasquatch, who told them to call him by the name his people used among themselves, yah Yell, which meant standing tall,

proved to have an appetite that matched his size. He consumed enormous quantities of food with obvious relish, particularly enjoying the colonist's bread and the Wampanoag's special preparation of venison. But it was when the storytelling began that the evening truly became magical. It started with Massasoit sharing the story

of how his people came to this land. Then Elder William Brewster, his voice strong despite his advanced years, told of the colonist's journey across the sea and their reasons for leaving England. But when Yahiel began to speak, everyone fell silent. I tell you now of the first Thanksgiving, not this one, the first one, when my people and

the humans first shared food in peace. He spoke of a time when the world was different, when I stretched from horizon to horizon, and massive beasts walked the land. His people, the Sasquatch, had lived here for countless generations, adapted to the cold, living in harmony with the great mammoths and dire wolves. Then came the humans, small, weak, freezing, They followed the animals across the ice bridge from the old world. Many died. We watched from the forests, curious.

These new beings were like us, But they had no fur to keep them warm, no great strength to hunt the large beasts. But they had something else. They had innovation. They made tools, they made fire, They worked together in ways we had never seen the Wampanoa ignited, knowingly this was a story their eldest Shamans told, though most believed it to be myth. My ancestor, the one we call first Speaker, made a choice. He approached the humans like tonight.

There was fear at first, but hunger and cold make strange allies. He taught them which plants were safe to eat, how to track and snow, how to find shelter. In return, they taught us about fire that could be carried, about tools that cut better than claws. Yahiel stood and walked to the fire, his massive form casting strange shadows. That first shared meal, that first Thanksgiving was seal meat and roots, eaten in an ice cave while a blizzard raged outside.

But it began something, a partnership, a promise. My people would guard the wild places, keep the ancient knowledge. The humans would grow, spread, build, but always we would be connected. Young John Howland, emboldened by ale and amazement, asked, but why do you hide? Why don't more people know about you? Yahelle turned to him, and Howland was surprised to see sadness in those ancient eyes. Because humans changed. As you grew numerous, you grew fearful. You forgot the old agreements.

You started to see us not as elder brothers, but as monsters. We became the thing in the dark that steals children, when in truth we often saved lost children and returned them to their tribes. He gestured to the Wampanoag. These people remember, they keep the old ways. They leave offerings in the deep forest. They teach their children respect, not fear. But others come with fire and steel, cutting down the ancient trees, killing without need. We learned to

hide deeper, to become shadow and story. William Bradford spoke up, and what of us, the English? You said we were different from others who came before? Yahel studied him for a long moment. Spanish came to the south, they sought gold, slaves, They brought disease and death. French came to the north, they wanted furs, trade. Some were good, some bad. But you came to stay to build homes, not just trading posts, to plant seeds, not just take This is interesting to us,

but we've cut down trees, Winslow protested. We've built houses, planted fields where forests stood. Yes, yeah, yell agreed, but you cut what you need not more. You plant food, not just take it. You sought peace with the Wampanoague when you could have tried war. These are good signs, but there will be tests ahead. More of your people will come. They will want more land, more trees, more of everything. The question is will you remember tonight? Will

you remember that this land is shared? Will you teach your children about the first people? Or will we become monsters in your stories too? The question hung in the air like smoke from the fire. It was Governor Bradford who answered, I cannot speak for all who will come after, but I can promise that we will remember. We will write this down, make it part of our history. Our children will know that we were not the first here, that we were welcomed, that we have obligations to both

the native peoples and to you. Yahiel nodded, writing, yes, this is powerful magic. You have stories that don't change with telling. Perhaps this will help. The night grew deeper and more stories were shared. The Wampanoague warriors told of hunting expeditions where they'd glimpsed the Sasquatch, always at a distance, always watching. One warrior, a young man named Hobamock, told of being saved from a bear by a sasquatch when he was a child, though his parents hadn't believed him.

The colonists shared their own stories of mysterious happenings. Mary Chilton told of seeing massive footprints near the stream where she gathered water. John Alden spoke of tools that went missing and then reappeared, repaired and sharpened. Stephen Hopkins mentioned finding when built around their shelters during the worst storms of winter, construction too massive for any colonists to have built in secret.

to reveal treasures beyond imagination. There were pelts from animals the colonists had never seen, So soft and warm, they seemed to hold the heat of summer. There were stones that gleamed with inner fire, crystals that caught and held the moonlight. Most remarkably, there were tools made from a black stone that was sharper than any steel the colonists possessed. These are from the old time, Yahel explained, made by my people when the world was young. Use them well.

They will never break, never dull, if used with respect. The colonists were overwhelmed. They had little to give in return that seemed worthy of such gifts. But young Peregrine White's mother, Susannah, had an idea. She went to her house and returned with something wrapped in cloth. This was my mother, she said, unwrapping a small mirror in a decorated silver frame. It came from London, from my family for generations. She offered it to Yahyel, who took it

with surprising delicacy. When he looked into it, his eyes widened with wonder. I see myself truly, not in water's reflection, but clear perfect. He looked at the colonists with new respect. This is powerful magic, to see oneself as others see you. This is a gift of great wisdom. The feast was supposed to last one day, but it stretched into three. During that time, extraordinary things happened that would change both communities forever. On the second day, Yahiel began to teach.

He showed the colonists and Wampanoague together secrets of the forest that even the natives had forgotten. He demonstrated how to find medicine plants that grew deep in the woods, roots that could cure fever, and leaves that could heal wounds. He taught them to read the signs of coming weather in ways more subtle than any farmer's almanac. See how the squirrels build their nests, he said, pointing to the trees. When they build low and thick hard winter comps, when

they build high and loose mild winter. The animals know, they always know. He showed the hunters both English and Native tracking techniques that seemed almost supernatural. With his massive hands, he could point out disturbances in the forest floor that were invisible to human eyes, could smell deer paths from impossible distances. But, perhaps most remarkably, he began to teach

them about cooperation. You, he said, pointing to the colonists, You know, building, making things that last, you know, writing, keeping knowledge, forever you, He turned to the Wampanoagg. You know the land, the seasons, the ways of plants and animals. Apart, you both struggle together, you thrive. He orchestrated work groups that combined both peoples. Colonial blacksmith John Turner worked with Wampanoag tool makers to create implements that combined European metalwork

with Native design. The result was tools stronger and more efficient than either culture had produced alone. The women, led by Susannah White and a Wampanoag matriarch named Singing Crow, combined their knowledge of food preservation. The natives techniques for smoking and drying meat merged with the colonist's knowledge of salt curing and root sellers, methods that would help both communities survive the harsh winners ahead. But it was with

the children that Yaquiel seemed happiest. They showed no fear of him after the first day, climbing on him like a great tree, listening with rapt attention as he told stories of the ancient world. He taught them games that both colonial and native children could play together, games that required cooperation rather than competition. One game involved the children forming a circle, holding hands with one child in the middle trying to break out. The lesson was simple but profound.

The circle was only as strong as its weakest link, and everyone had to work together to succeed. This is how it must be, Yaiell explained to the watching adults. The young ones, they don't see difference like you do. Teach them now, while their hearts are open, they will be the bridge between worlds. On the evening of the

second day, something unexpected happened. More Sasquatch arrived. They came out of the forest as the sun set, three of them, each as large as yah Yell, but clearly younger, Two males and a female, their hair ranging from deep black to russet brown. The columnist's first instinct was fear, but Yahielle raised his hand for calm my children. They wanted

to see for themselves to understand. The younger Sasquatch were more shy than their father, hanging back at the edge of the firelight, but the children, both English and Native, immediately ran to them with the fearlessness of youth. Within minutes, they were playing together, The young Sasquatch gentle as lambs despite their enormous strength. The female who Yahiel said was called Miska, meaning little Brook, seemed particularly interested in the

colonial women's activities. She watched with intense fascination as they spun thread and wove cloth, her large fingers surprisingly delicate as she attempted to copy their movements. Elder Brewster's wife, Mary took it upon herself to teach Misca and stay tuned for more sasquatch otta see, We'll be right back. After these messages, Despite the language barrier and the vast difference in their sizes, the two females bonded over the

simple act of creation. By the end of the evening, Miska had managed to spin a crude thread from plant fibers, her face lighting up with joy at the accomplishment. The two young males, called Taka meaning buck and Chayden meaning falcon,

gravitated toward the warriors and hunters. They demonstrated feats of strength that left everyone amazed, lifting logs that would take four men to move, jumping distances that seemed impossible, but they also showed themselves eager to learn, watching with intense concentration as Miles Standish demonstrated European sword techniques and the Wampanoag warriors showed their bow skills. On the morning of

the third day, the atmosphere changed. Yahiel seemed troubled, spending long periods staring toward the eastern horizon, where the sea met the sky. He called for a council of leaders, both colonial and native. I must speak truth now, my people. We see patterns, We sense the flow of what you call time. What I see coming troubles me. He stood and began to draw in the dirt with a stick, creating a map that showed the coast and inland territories.

More ships will come, many more your people. The colonists will spread like water across the land. Within seven generations, you will outnumber the native peoples ten to one, within twelve generations, one hundred to one. The Wampanoag stirred uneasily at this Massasoid's face was grim. There will be war, not this year, not next, but soon. The piece you have made here is good, but it is like a small flame and a great wind. It will be tested. Some will try to keep it alive, others will try

to extinguish it. He looked directly at Governor Bradford, Your son and his son and his son's son. They will face choices. Each generation will decide whether to honor the promise of tonight or to forget it. Some will remember, many will forget. And what of your people, Bradford asked, We will retreat deeper, The forest will shrink, the mountains will be climbed, the wild places will become small islands

in a sea of civilization. We will become legend, then myth, then forgotten entirely except by a few who keep the old stories alive. The sadness in his voice was profound, like the morning of the earth itself. But this does not have to be only tragedy. You here now you plant seeds, not just corn and wheat, but seeds of understanding, seeds of cooperation, seeds of respect. He turned to the

Wampanoagu massasoit your people must also choose. You can resist all change and be swept away, or you can adapt, learn, take what is useful from the newcomers, while keeping your own ways alive. To the colonists, he said, you must remember that you are not conquerors but guests. This land does not belong to you any more than it belongs to us, or to the Wampanoag. We all belonged to it. Teach this to your children. Yahyale then did something unprecedented.

He called for materials to write. John Alden brought out paper and ink, items precious and rare in the colony, with surprising delicacy for such massive hands. Yah Yale took the quill and began to draw. What he created was not words but symbols, pictures that seemed to move with life, even as still images. He drew the forest with its secret paths, the mountains with their hidden caves, the rivers

with their sacred spots. He drew his people, the Sasquatch, not as monsters, but as guardians, teachers, elder siblings to humanity. Keep this, he said, handing the papers to Bradford. When your people forget, when they say we are only legend, show them this, Tell them of this thanksgiving. Tell them that once, for three days, three people sat together in peace. He created another set of drawings for Massasoit, These on

deer skin with pigments the natives provided. They showed the same scenes, but from a different perspective, emphasizing the continuity between past and future, the eternal cycle of the seasons As the sun reached its zenith on that third day, Yahiel stood and called his children to him. The time for parting had come. We go now back to the deep forest the high places, but we do not disappear. We watch, we remember, and sometimes, when the need is great,

we help. He moved through the crowd, touching heads and blessing colonial and native alike. When he came to young Peregrine White, still toddling on unsteady legs, he knelt down, his massive frame, folding until he was at eye level with the child. You you are the future, born between worlds. You will understand both. Remember us when you are old and others say we were never real. Remember. He placed something in the child's hand, a small stone that seemed

to hold light within itself. For your children's children's children, they will need to remember. Standing. He addressed the entire gathering one last time. In the Old language, the first language. There is a word kitchi manitoud. It means the great spirit that connects all things. You call it God, Providence, Creator. The names do not matter. What matters as you remember that we are all connected. The English, the Wampanoag, the Sasquatch, the animals, the trees, the stones, the water, all one.

When you forget this, suffering comes when you remember, peace is possible. As the Sasquatch prepared to leave, the entire settlement gathered to bid them farewell. It was a moment heavy with significance, everyone sensing they were witnessing something that might never happen again. The colonial women, led by Mary Brewster and Susannah White, had worked through the night to

prepare gifts. They presented Miska with cloth. They had woven, needles made of bone, and most precious of all, a small pair of scissors, one of only three in the entire colony. Miska's eyes so human despite their setting in that massive hair covered face, filled with what could only be tears. She embraced each of the women, her strength carefully controlled to avoid harm, and spoken broken English she had learned over the three days. Teach daughters make beautiful things.

I teach my daughter same. The warriors, both English and Wampanoague, presented Taca and Chatin with weapons, not for war, but as symbols of respect between warriors. Miles Standish offered his own knife, its blade bearing his family crest. The Wampanoag gave arrows blessed by their shamans, each one decorated with feathers and beads that told stories of courage. The young Sasquatch accepted these gifts with grave dignity, understanding their significance.

Taka spoke in the Wampanoag tongue, which Squanto translated, we will remember the brave ones who do not let fear rule them when your descendants walk in our forests. If they carry courage and respect, they will be safe. But perhaps the most moving farewell came from the children. They had spent three days playing together, learning each other's games, creating a bond that transcended species and culture. Now they

clung to their new friends, crying at the separation. Yah Yell knelt among them, his massive frame somehow not intimidating at all. Listen, little ones, you think we leave forever, but we are always near. When you walk in the forest and feel watched but safe, that is us. When you are lost and suddenly find the path home, we helped. When winter is hard and you find wood stacked by your door that no one claims to have cut, think of us. He looked at the adults. This is my

promise sealed by this feast. As long as your people remember us with respect, not fear, we will help when we can. Not always, not obviously, but in small ways that matter. A storm that turns away from your ships, a child found before the cold claims them, A path through the forest when you need it most. Governor Bradford stepped forward on behalf of place, colony. I accept this

promise and make one in return. We will keep your secret when you wish it, share your truth when the time is right, and always always remember that we were not the first, and will not be the last to call this land home. Massasoit added his own promise. The Wampanoague will keep the old ways alive, the stories, the respect, the understanding that some things must remain wild. When your people are ready to remember, we will help them remember true.

As the sun began its descent toward evening, the Sasquatch moved toward the forest, but just before they entered the trees, Yahiel turned back one more time. There is something else, something for the far future, generations from now, when machines fly through the air and voices travel without bodies, when the forests are small and we are only stories. Some

will begin to search for us again. They will use new tools, leave offerings of their own, seek to prove we existed, he paused, seeming to look through time itself. When that time comes, we will begin to show ourselves again, not to all, but to some, to those who approach with respect, who understand that the wild must be preserved, who know that not everything should be explained or captured or owned. Tell your descendants, when they are ready to see us, not as monsters, but as teachers, we will

return with that. They melted into the forest, their massive forms disappearing among the trees with impossible grace. The gathered people stood in silence for long moments, straining to catch one more glimpse, But the Sasquatch were gone, leaving only footprints and memories that would burn bright for years to come. In the days following the departure of the Sasquatch, the colony was subdued, as if waking from a vivid dream.

But the evidence of their visit was everywhere. The tools of blackstone that never dull, the pelts that kept their wearers warm even in the bitterest cold, the drawings that seemed to move when viewed by candlelight, Governor Bradford called a meeting of all the colonists. The question before them was momentous. How much should they share with the wider world. Should they write to England about what they had witnessed, should they include it in their official records. The debate

was intense. Some, like Edward Winslow, argued for full disclosure. We have witnessed something miraculous. To hide it would be dishonest our sponsors, our families back home. They deserve to know the full truth of this land. Others, led by miles standish counseled caution. They'll think us mad, or worse, they'll send ships full of hunters seeking to capture these beings. We gave our word to protect their secret. It was

Elder Brewster who proposed the solution they ultimately adopted. We write too account, one for the public, one for ourselves. The public account tells of our feast with the natives, and of the peace we've made, of the bounty of this land, all true, but not all of the truth. The second account, the full truth, we keep among ourselves. We share it with our children when they're old enough to understand. We make it a sacred trust pass down

through families, and so it was decided. William Bradford wrote his official account of the First Thanksgiving, speaking of the Wampa Noag, the feast, the games, and the alliance formed. It became the version history would remember. But he also wrote a second account, Sealed and Hidden, telling of the first guest and the promises made. Each family head was given a copy of Yahiel's drawings to keep and protect.

They were told to share the story with their children when the time was right, to keep the memory alive, even if the world was not ready to believe. The Wampa Noag, for their part, incorporated the three day feast into their oral traditions. They already had stories of the Sasquatch, but now they had witnessed proof that the English too could be trusted. With such knowledge, it created a bond deeper than any treaty. In the weeks that followed, subtle

changes occurred in the colony. Hunters reported better luck, as if the game presented itself at just the right moments. Guards on night Watch spoke of feeling protected of shadows that moved with purpose but brought no threat. When little Peregrine White wandered off one December morning. He was found hours later, warm and safe in a shelter made of branches that no colonist had built, clutching the glowing stone

Yahael had given him. The winter of sixteen twenty one to sixteen twenty two was milder than the previous year, but when storms did come, they seemed to bend around Plymouth, spending their fury elsewhere. The colonists had enough food, enough word, warmth, enough hope to not just survive, but thrive. The Wampa noag too, noticed changes. Their hunters found new trails through

the forest that shortened travel time between villages. Children who went mushroom picking in dangerous areas always seemed to return safely, sometimes with stories of large gentle hands guiding them away from poisoned plants or unstable ground. Spring of sixteen twenty two brought ships from England, including the Fortune and the Anne. With them came new colonists, eager for land and opportunity. Among them were some who viewed the natives with suspicion

and contempt, who spoke of conquest rather than cooperation. A man named Thomas Weston led a group of these newcomers. He scoffed at the treaties with the Wampa. Noag called the colonists weak for sharing their feast with savages. He brought guns and men who knew how to use them, speaking openly of taking what they wanted by force if necessary. The original Plymouth colonists tried to counsel patience and respect,

but Weston's men laughed at them. They set up their own settlement at Vesgust, ignoring native territories and customs, and stay tuned for more Sasquatch ott to see.

darkness in their hearts, greed instead of need. But this is your test, not ours.

Now you begin to see. But even more you must make these new ones understand that this land itself opposes them, that their way brings only failure. Over the next weeks, a subtle campaign began. The original colonists and the Wampanoague worked together, guided by occasional glimpses of massive figures in

the forest. They did not attack Weston's men directly. Instead, they made their lives impossibly difficult game fled from Weston's hunters, Warned away by signals passed between Native scouts and colonial woodsmen, fish seemed to avoid their nets. Their crops, planted without regard for local conditions or native advice, withered and died. When they tried to take food by force from native villages, they found the villages empty. Warned in advanced by a

network of cooperation. But it was what happened at night that truly broke their spirits. Strange sounds surrounded their settlement, breathing like giant bellows, footsteps that shook the ground, tree branches breaking at impossible heights. They would wake to find massive footprints circling their buildings out right up to windows and doors, but never entering. Tools would go missing and reappear bent or broken. Their gunpowder was repeatedly found scattered

and useless. Though no one could explain how it happened, The men grew paranoid, fighting among themselves. They spoke of demons in the forest of cursed land. Some claim to have seen giants watching them from the trees, creatures that couldn't possibly exist. Weston himself lasted until July. One night he woke to find a massive, hair covered face looking through his window. The scream he let out was heard throughout the settlement. The next morning, he announced they were leaving,

returning to England on the next ship. The land was cursed, he said, it would never accept them. As they left, Governor Bradford met with Weston one last time. The land is not cursed, but it does have guardians, and they judge whether newcomers are worthy. You came with conquest your heart. We came with cooperation. That made all the difference. Weston stared at him, understanding dawning in his eyes. The stories the natives tell they're real. Bradford neither confirmed nor denied.

I will tell you this, respect the land and its first peoples, all of them, and you will find welcome. Seek to conquer and dominate, and you will find only failure. After Weston's departure, Yahiel appeared once more to Howland, this time in full daylight, though deep in the forest where none but them would see. You did well. You found a way without bloodshed. This is wisdom. But know this

test was small compared to what comes. More ships arrive even now, thousands will come than tens of thousands each group will bring their own ideas, their own prejudices. You cannot stop this flood, only guide it when possible. Will you continue to help, Alan asked, when we can, when those who remember ask with proper respect. But our time in the open is ending. We must become more careful, more hidden. The world is changing and we must change

with it or perish. He handed, Howland, something wrapped in deer skin for your children when they face their tests. This will help them remember. Inside was a piece of crystal that seemed to hold starlight, similar to the stone given to Peregrine White, but uniquely different. How will we find you if we need you, Holland asked, You won't, We'll find you. Keep the old promises. Teach your children respect for all beings, protect the wild places when you can.

That is how you call to us, not with words, but with actions. As Yahiel had predicted, more ships came, the Massachusetts Bay Colony was established. Town spread along the coast and slowly inland. The original Plymouth colonists, aged had children, watched their small settlement become just one of many. But those who had been at the first Thanksgiving kept the secret and the promise they taught their children privately showing them the drawings, the tools, the stones that held light.

They maintained especially close relationships with the Wampanoagu families who had been present, creating bonds that lasted generations. There were sightings, of course. New colonists would return from the forest with tales of giants covered in hair, of impossible footprints, of

feelings of being watched. Most were dismissed as imagination or too much drink, but occasionally someone would tell such a story in the presence of one of the original families, and they would see a knowing look, a subtle nod, though nothing would be said publicly. The children who had played with the young Sasquatch grew up different from others. They were more likely to befriend natives, to argue for

peaceful solution, to respect the forest and its mysteries. Peregrine White became a noted interpreter and peacekeeper, always wearing the glowing stone on a leather cord around his neck, though he told no one where it came from. John Howland's children became known as exceptional trackers and woodsmen, seeming to have an uncanny ability to find their way in the deepest forest. His daughter Hope, claimed she once became lost as a child and was led home by a kind giant,

though adults assured her it was just a dream. Mary Chilton, who had been a teenager at the feast, grew up to marry John Winslow and raised children who were known for their unusual tolerance and wisdom. She kept Yayelle's drawings hidden in a wooden box, taking them out only on special occasions to show her family and remind them of their obligation. As King Philip's War erupted in sixteen seventy five, the descendants of the original feast tried desperately to prevent it.

Some claimed to have sought help from the forest, performing rituals their grandparents had taught them. While the war was devastating, Plymouth itself was notably spared the worst of the violence, and several stories emerged of colonial families being mysteriously warned before attacks, or of Native families finding safe paths through

hostile territory. One account, never officially recorded, but passed down through families, tales of a group of children, both colonial and native, who became trapped between opposing forces during a battle. They fled into the deep forest, certain they would die. Instead, they found themselves herded by unseen hands into a hidden cave, where they waited out the fighting. When they emerged, they found food and water left for them, and clear trails

leading to safety. All they ever saw of their rescuers were footprints three times the size of a man's foot. As the eighteenth century dawned, the Sasquatch retreated deeper into myth. The original witnesses of the First Thanksgiving had all passed away. Their children kept the stories alive, but their grandchildren began to doubt. The Age of Enlightenment was beginning, and tales of forest giants seemed increasingly like superstition. Still, certain families

maintained the tradition. The stones that held light were passed down as heirlooms, though few remembered their true origin. The blackstone tools, which never dulled or broke, became family treasures. They're making a mystery. The drawings were carefully preserved, though some began to claim they were merely artistic interpretations of

native legends, not depictions of real events. But in the deep forests of New England and later in the mountains, as settlers pushed westward, people continued to have encounters they couldn't explain. A pioneer family in Vermont, descendants of John and Mary Chilton Winslow, told of surviving a brutal winter when mysterious gifts of firewood and fresh meat appeared at their cabin door during blizzards. The footprints in the the snow were quickly covered by new snowfall, but not before

the family saw them and remembered the old stories. During the French and Indian War, a group of colonial soldiers, including a great grandson of John Howland, became separated from their unit in the wilderness of what would become New Hampshire. They were lost, out of food, certain to die. On the third night, one of them remembered a song his grandmother had taught him, a song she said came from the first Thanksgiving. He sang it into the darkness, feeling

foolish but desperate. In the morning, they found a clear trail marked with stacked stones, leading them to safety. One of the men swore he saw a figure watching them from a ridge, impossibly tall and covered in dark fur, but when he looked again, it was gone. As the Revolutionary War approached, some families who knew the old secrets gathered to discuss whether the knowledge should be shared more widely. The world was changing rapidly. Science was explaining me mysties

that had been attributed to magic. Perhaps it was time to reveal the truth about the Sasquatch. But an incident in seventeen seventy changed their minds. A naturalist from England, having heard rumors of wild men in the American forests, organized an expedition to capture one. He brought nets, cages,

and men with guns. The expedition disappeared entirely. Their equipment was found scattered through the forest, but of the men, no trace was ever discovered, except for a journal with a final entry that read, they are real, they are watching. We should not have come with chains. The families took this as a sign the world was not ready. The secret must be kept longer. As America became a nation and began its westward expansion, the descendants of the original

Thanksgiving spread across the continent. They carried with them the family stories, the mysterious artifacts, and the obligation to remember. But with each generation, with each move further from place, the stories became more distant, more like fairy tales than history. Yet the Sasquatch had not forgotten. In eighteen hundred and four, when Lewis and Clark were exploring the Louisiana Purchase, they recorded in their journals encounters with native tribes who spoke

of giant hairy men in the mountains. What wasn't recorded in the official journals, but was written in private letters, was that one member of their expedition was a descendant of Peregrine White. He carried with him the stone that held light, a family heirloom he didn't fully understand. One night, camped along what would later be called the Columbia River, this man, Jonathan White, wandered away from camp, drawn by

something he couldn't explain. In a clearing lit by moonlight, he met a Sasquatch, not Yahiel, who had presumably passed on, but one who knew the story, who recognized the stone. Through a combination of gestures and broken words in multiple languages. The creature communication that his people had spread across the continent long before humans, that they watched over the land from the Arctic to the desert. They had hoped that the new American nation would be different, would honor the

wild places. But they saw the signs, the hunger for land, the disregard for native peoples, the belief that everything could and should be owned and used. The Sasquatch gave Jonathan a warning to carry back the western lands had their own guardians, their own agreements with the native tribes there. The mistakes of the East should not be repeated. But he also gave a promise those who carried the light stones, who remembered the First Thanksgiving would find help if they

sought it with pure hearts. During the California gold Rush, numerous miners reported seeing giant, hairy figures in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Most of these stories were dismissed as tall tales, but a few miners, those who happened to be descendants of the Plymouth colonists, told differentes Privately. They spoke of being warned away from unstable mine shafts, of finding fresh water when dying of thirst, of being guided to gold deposits,

but only enough for need, not greed. One family, the Aldens of Massachusetts, had moved to Oregon Territory in the eighteen fifties. They settled in the deep forests of what would become the Pacific Northwest, the region that would later become most associated with Sasquatch sidings. They built their homestead with unusual features, offering platforms at the forest edge, certain trees that were never to be cut, paths that seemed

to lead nowhere, but were carefully maintained. Their neighbors thought them eccentric, but the Aldens prospered where others failed. Their crops grew when others withered. Their livestock never disappeared to predators. Their children could play in the forest without fear. They knew they were being watched over, honoring an agreement made two hundred years and three thousand miles away. Stay tuned for more Sasquatch ott to see. We'll be right back

after these messages. As the nineteenth century gave way to the twentieth, America transformed from a rural nation to an industrial power. Forests were cleared, mountains were mined, rivers were dammed. The wild places shrank, and with them the spaces where the Sasquatch could exist openly. But they adapted as they always had. In nineteen twenty four, a group of miners in Ape Canyon Washington, claimed to have been attacked by

epe men after shooting at one. What the newspapers didn't report was that one of those miners, Fred Beck, later privately admitted to descendants of the Thanksgiving families that the attack only came after they had violated clearly marked sacred grounds, ignoring warnings both from local natives and from signs that

someone who knew the old stories would have recognized. The Sasquatch had become more defense more protective of their shrinking territory, but they still honored the old agreements when they could. During the Great Depression, families across America struggled to survive, but certain families, those who had carefully maintained the old stories and artifacts, reported mysterious help. Gardens that should have failed produced food. Children found berries and nuts in places

that had been barren. Firewood appeared stacked by homes of the elderly and infirm. In rural Vermont, an elderly woman named Faith Howland, great great great granddaughter of John Howland, lived alone in a cabin at the forest's edge. She had maintained the old ways, leaving out offerings, singing the old songs her family had preserved. When the bank came to foreclose on her property, the men sent to a

victor reported that they couldn't approach the cabin. Every time they tried, they became disoriented, lost, ending up back at their vehicles. Trees seemed to move, paths disappeared, and terrible sounds came from the forest. Faith lived in that cabin until she died peacefully in her sleep in nineteen forty one. The local native tribes, who had always respected her, said

she had been protected by the old Guardians. When the cabin was finally entered, investigators found dozens of journals filled with accounts of regular visits from beings she called the first people, detailed drawings of Sasquatch families, and linguistic notes on what appeared to be a complex language of wood knocks and calls. World War II brought its own stories. Several American soldiers, descendants of Plymouth families, reported inexplicable survivals

in Pacific Island jungles and European forests. One private from Massachusetts claimed that, while lost behind enemy lines in the Ardennes Forest, he was guided to safety by following massive footprints in the snow that appeared just for him, leading him around German patrols. In nineteen fifty eights, something significant happened. A man named Jerry Crwe found massive footprints at a construction site in northern California. He made plaster casts of them,

and the story went national. The term Bigfoot was born, and suddenly the Sasquatch were no longer just a local legend, but a national phenomenon. For the families who had guarded the secret for over three hundred years, this was both a crisis and an opportunity. The secret was out in a way, but distorted, commercialized, turned into a joke or a monster movie plot. They held a gathering, the first

in decades, bringing together descendants from across the country. The meeting was held appropriately in Plymouth, in a church built on land that had been part of the original settlement. About forty people attended, each bringing their family artifacts, the stones that held light, the tools of black stone, copies of Yahael's drawings, journals and letters that had been preserved.

The debate was intense. Some argued it was time to reveal everything, to show the world the evidence they had guarded. Others feared that doing so would lead to exactly what Yahyelle had warned against exploitation, hunting, the final destruction of the wild places where the Sasquatch still survived. The decision

they reached was a compromise. They would not publicly reveal their evidence, but they would quietly support serious researchers, those who approached the subject with respect and scientific rigor rather than sensationalism. They would also work to preserve wilderness areas,

understanding that protecting the land meant protecting the Sasquatch. One attendee, a professor of anthropology named Margaret White Standish, descendant of both Peregrine White and Miles Standish, proposed creating an informal network. Families would stay in contact, share information about sightings and encounters, and pass on the responsibility to the next generation more form normally than before. They also decided to reach out

to native tribes who had their own Sasquatch traditions. Many of these tribes had maintained continuous relationships with the Sasquatch, never having forgotten or doubted their existence. The Plymouth descendants had much to learn from them. When Roger Patterson and Bob Gimlin filmed what appeared to be a female sasquatch in nineteen sixty seven. The Plymouth descendant families watched with

particular interest. Several of them privately confirmed that the creature in the film moved exactly as their family stories had always described, with that distinctive rolling gait that Yachiel had demonstrated at the first Thanksgiving. Margaret white Standish, now elderly but still sharp, managed to interview Patterson before his death.

the Pacific Northwest. Most found nothing, but a few those who approached with genuine respect and often guided by cryptic hints from Plymouth descendant families or native tribes, had encounters that changed their lives. Doctor Grover Krantz, the anthropologist who risked his career studying Sasquatch, received anonymous packages containing detailed anatomical drawings that helped inform his theories about the creature's physiology. He never knew these came from families who had been

secretly documenting Sasquatch anatomy for three centuries. John Green, another prominent researcher, was mysteriously guided to the best locations for finding footprints, receiving unsigned letters with specific coordinates and optimal times to serve. Many of these tips came from a network of Plymouth descendants who had learned to recognize Sasquatch territorial markings and travel patterns. But the most significant development

was happening quietly in the background. Children and grandchildren of the Plymouth families were becoming wildlife biologists, park rangers, conservationists. They used their careers to protect Sasquatch habitat without ever mentioning the true reason. They knew that preserving wilderness was the best way to honor the old agreement. As the twenty first century began, the world had changed in ways that neither the Plymouth colonists nor Yahael could have imagined.

The Internet connected people instantly across the globe cameras were everywhere. DNA analysis could reveal secrets hidden in a single hair. The wilderness that had once seemed infinite was now mapped by satellites. For the Sasquatch, hiding became nearly impossible. The sightings increased not because there were more so Asquatch, but because there were fewer places for them to remain unseen. In two thousand and three, a remarkable meeting occurred. It

was arranged through intermediaries, taking years to coordinate. Three representatives of the Plymouth descendant families met with three Sasquatch in the Olympic National Forest. It was the first direct contact in over a century. The Sasquatch who spoke for his people was ancient, claiming to be a great grandson of Yachiel himself. His English was perfect, learned, he said, by listening to generations of humans speaking in the forests. His

message was sobering. We are dying, not quickly, but surely each generation. We are fewer. The forests are islands now, not the ocean they once were. We cannot travel between our groups without crossing human lands. Our genetic diversity fails within one hundred years, perhaps less.

under strict conditions. Conservation efforts would be increased with the secret knowledge of protecting sasquatch habitat Most importantly, the public perception would need to be shifted from seeing sasquatch as monsters or myths to understanding them as an endangered fellow

primate species deserving protection. The families were divided. The weight of three hundred and eighty years of secrecy was not easily set aside, But they also understood that maintaining the secret while the sasquatch went extinct would be the ultimate betrayal of the first Thanksgiving promise. Now, in the third decade of the twenty first century, the situation has reached a critical point. Environmental DNA studies have found unknown primate

genetic material in areas of known sasquatch activity. Thermal drone footage has captured images that are increasingly difficult to dismiss. The secret is unraveling on its own. The Plymouth descendant families, now numbering in the hundreds and spread across the world,

have made a decision. They are beginning carefully and gradually to release information a journal here, a photograph there, each piece adding to the mounting evidence that Sasquatch are real and have been known about by certain groups for centuries. Museums in Massachusetts have begun displaying certain artifacts with new context. Items previously labeled as ceremonial objects of unknown purpose are now being identified as gifts exchanged between colonists and unidentified

indigenous groups at the first Thanksgiving. The Blackstone tools, which modern analysis shows are made from a type of obsidian that shouldn't exist in New England, are generating intense scientific interest. Wildlife corridors are being established in the Pacific Northwest, officially for known endangered species, but actually designed using centuries of

accumulated knowledge about sasquatch migration routes. Conservation groups quietly directed by Plymouth descendants and native tribes are purchasing land in key areas, creating connected habitats that might allow Sasquatch populations to interact and maintain genetic diversity. Some indigenous tribes, with the permission of their elders, have begun sharing their own

Sasquatch knowledge more openly. They speak at conferences, consult with scientists, and help reshape the narrative from one of monster hunting to one of species preservation and cultural respect. The stones that hold light those gifts from Yahiel at the first Thanksgiving have been submitted for scientific analysis. They appear to be a type of crystal that exhibits unusual properties, storing and releasing electromagnetic energy, and patterns that suggest they might

have been used for communication. Some theorists believe the Sasquatch have always been able to sense these stones, using them to identify friends across the centuries. This year, on Thanksgiving, something unprecedented is planned. Representatives from the Plymouth descendant families, members of various native tribes, and selected scientists and conservationists will gather at a location in the Olympic National Forest. They have spent years preparing, following the old protocols, making

the proper offerings, sending the ancient signals. If their hopes are realized. For the first time in four hundred years. The first guest will return to a Thanksgiving feast not in secret, not in shadow, but witnessed, documented and protected. The meal will be simple, traditional foods, prepared in traditional ways. There will be there no cameras at first, no instruments beyond human eyes and hearts. The first meeting will be as it was in sixteen twenty one, beings of different

species sharing food, building, trust, making promises. But this time the promise will be different. Not to hide but to help, not to separate, but to coexist. The Sasquatch will gradually reveal themselves to a world that desperately needs to remember that there are still mysteries, still wonders, still connections to

the wild that technology cannot replace. The families who have kept the secret for four centuries will become bridges, translators, ambassadors between two intelligent species trying to find a way forward in a world that belongs to neither and both. Scientists will learn that the Sasquatch possess knowledge about forest ecosystems, about medicinal plants, about survival and adaptation that could benefit humanity.

The Sasquatch will receive protection habitat, preservation, and perhaps most importantly, recognition as fellow travelers on this planet, deserving of respect and rights. The story that began at Plymouth in sixteen twenty one is not ending, but transforming. The first Thanksgiving was about survival, about different peoples coming together to share

resources and knowledge. This new Thanksgiving will be about something greater, the recognition that humans are not alone, have never been alone, and that the indigenous peoples of this land include beings. We are only now ready to acknowledge. As the sun sets on this new gathering, as it's set on that first feast four hundred years ago, the same truth remains. We are all connected, the colonists, the native peoples, the Sasquatch, the land itself. The promise made by Jahael standing tall

echoes across the centuries. When humanity is ready to see the Sasquatch not as monsters but a teachers, they will return. That time is now. The first guest is coming home, and somewhere in whatever realm, the spirits of the departed dwell. Yahayel watches and approves. The seeds planted at that first Thanksgiving have taken four centuries to flower, but they have survived, the promise has been kept. The sacred trust continues as

families across America gather for their own Thanksgiving feasts. Most will not know the true story of the first Thanksgiving, but for those who do, for those who have guarded the secret and kept the promise, this year's gratitude runs

deeper than ever before. They give thanks not just for the harvest, not just for surviving another year, but for the privilege of living in a world where wonder still exists, where ancient promises still matter, and where beings as different as Pilgrims, Native Americans and Sasquatch can still gather in peace,

sharing food, stories and hope for the future. Feast continues, the story goes on, and the first guest, patient and enduring as the forests themselves, reminds us that some things are worth waiting centuries to reveal, and that the greatest thanksgiving of all is for the connections that bind us to each other and to the wild heart of the world itself. Now, look, I can't sit here and tell

you that everything you just heard actually happened. There's no secret society of Plymouth descendants guarding four hundred year old drawings there's no glowing stones passed down through generations, and as far as we know, there was no eight foot tall forest guardian named Yahyel sitting at that first Thanksgiving table. This was a story fiction, a what if scenario, spun out of holiday spirit and a love for the unexplained. But here's the thing. Wouldn't it be something if it

were true? Wouldn't it be remarkable to live in a world where there are still genuine mysteries out in those forests, where not everything has been cataloged and captured and explained away, Where somewhere in the deep woods of the Pacific Northwest or the remote hollows of the Appalachians, there might be something ancient and intelligent watching us, waiting to see if we finally learn to approach the wild places with respect

instead of conquest. I've spent nearly forty years researching sasquatch encounters and interviewing close to one thousand people who claim to have seen something they couldn't explain. And what strikes me most about those conversations isn't the footprints or the vocalizations or the blurry photographs. It's the way these experiences

change people. Almost everyone I've talked to comes away with a deeper respect for the wilderness, a sense of humility about humanity's place in the natural order, and a genuine hope that there's still room in this world for mystery. Maybe that's the real gift the Sasquatch gives us. Whether they're flesh and blood or folklore, they remind us that we haven't figured everything out. They give us permission to wonder.

They suggest that the forests might still hold secrets worth protecting, even if we never fully understand what those secrets are. So this Thanksgiving, as you sit with your family and friends, maybe take a moment to think about what kind of world you want to live in. One where every shadow has been illuminated and every question has been answered, or one where there's still something out there in the darkness, something old and wise and patient, waiting for us to

be ready. I know which world I choose. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, stay curious, stay humble, And if you're ever deep in the woods and the forest goes silent, maybe leave a small offering at the base of an old tree. You never know who might be watching until next time. Take care of yourselves, take care of each other, and take care of the wild places. They might be taking care of us too.