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Expedition #246: Bishop's Peak
I began the expedition at 0500 hours, feeding time for the California Sasquatchulus Prime, the particular species I was after on this hunt. Bishop's Peak is a known hotbed of Sasquatch activity, and I had received a credible report from the night before that a hiker had been on the peak after sunset, and heard a blood-curdling scream. In fact, he provided me with the audio, which after consultation with my colleagues, we determined to be authentic. I include the track here:
I knew time was of the essence, so I spent the remainder of the night preparing for the expedition. By the way, for those of you that would like to use the same expedition gear that I use, you can purchase our endorsed expedition kit for a great price here. Anyway, I arrived in the foothills while it was still dark and immediately I could sense that it was 'squatch weather. In the business we refer to nights like this as having a 'squatch moon', and this was definitely one of those nights. As i gained altitude the sun came up, and soon the entire mountainside was bathed in sunlight. Many Bigfoot hunters think that these mysterious creatures are nocturnal, but this is a misnomer: in fact, most sightings happen in broad daylight, and, obviously, it's easier to see things in the light than in the dark, so I don't really know what these other so-called "experts" are talking about, it's downright stupid to hunt for Bigfoot in the night if you ask me, only a total ignorant amateur would do that, but I digress. Anyway, just when I was in a remote grove I heard a rustle in the bushes, and what I saw startled me! Out of the bushes came a housecat, an obvious victim of an encounter with a Sasquatch. I had the presence of mind to snap a photo:
This poor cat obviously got the worse of the encounter. I did what I could to apply first aid using the official SLOBS first aid kit, which includes everything you need to treat any injuries incurred during a hunt, you can purchase the kit here and if you enter the promo code "SWA" you will receive a 15% discount with the mail-in rebate that you can obtain by attending one of our SLOBS seminars, held bi-monthly at the San Luis Obispo Elks Lodge. Anyway, after I patched up the cat, I suddenly heard a roar and I turned around, and there I was, face to face with my quarry! Being a professional, I had the presence of mind to snap a photo, which can be seen at the right. Believe me, i was scared seven shades of scat, so I turned and ran like a total wuss, which is NOT normal protocol for SLOBS, and if you
turned and ran like this during one of our in-the-field training seminars, you'd flunk out in a second, believe me, you won't last long in this field if that is your go-to move, but in this case, it was the prudent option so I took it. The creature engaged in pursuit, and I ran and took shelter in Fat Man's Misery, a known granite-rock crevice at the summit of the peak. The creature had me cornered. I spent 3 days and 3 nights cornered inside Fat Man's Misery while the creature brooded outside, drooling and growling, waiting for me to come out. Well, that wasn't about to happen as I was well stocked with water and food, so I sat tight, what we call "maintaining position." On the 3rd night the full moon returned, cancelling out the 'sqatch moon of the previous nights. Bigfeet don't like full moons so he (I think it was a he, I really can't tell them apart myself, and anyone who says they can is a damned liar. That's my biggest pet peeve in this business, all these so-called experts claiming they can tell the difference between male and female Bigfeet, that is the biggest load of bullcrap I've ever heard in my life, and I'll go toe to toe with the next know-it-all that makes this claim. Jesus Christ that pisses me off, those damn self-aggrandizing liars) took off and I emerged from my granite sarcophagus to give chase. Alas, it was to no avail, he (or she) eluded me, disappearing into the night. At that point I did a concluding reconnaissance of the immediate surroundings to collect hair, take pictures of footprints, and secure the area. That accomplished, I returned to SLOBS headquarters and filed my report. Another one in the books.
Fat Man's Misery, where I spent 3 days and 3 nights cornered and hiding from Sasquatchulus Prime
Expedition #109:
Theeb the Summoner
One of our more unusual expeditions occurred in the winter of 1998 when we were summoned all the way to the British Isles! As is well-documented, the eastern mountains in Scotland have a long and storied history of Bigfoot activity, only in that region the animal is known as the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui. He roams the rocky Highlands looking for victims of his wrath! Of all the hominid cryptids in the world, he is known as the most dangerous and unpredictable, and for good reason. The Pacific Northwest is a freakin' picnic compared to the Scottish Highlands, I'm telling you right now. I was a very young investigator in 1998 and I had no idea what I was getting into, I thought all hominid cryptids were as tame and friendly as those glorified pussycats we have in the Pacific Northwest...boy was I wrong. In fact I remember getting in a big fight with my arch-rival Bud Herman, that so-and-so Sasquatch hunter that wouldn't know a Bigfoot from a coonskin cap even if it came up crapped in his chili, that son of a bitch. I hate that guy. Anyway, The Greyman is no joke. The problem with the Greyman is that he is very elusive. I mean, it's true that he roams the rocky Highlands looking for victims of his wrath, but he is also quite elusive if you are looking for him; he's funny that way. We arrived at Cairn Gorm wet, weary and tired, the wintry winds of January cutting into our bones like knife blades.
After a full week of searching those God-forsaken barren rock Highlands, we had exactly nothing to show for it. To make matters worse, the Greyman had claimed 4 victims right from under our noses. That's right, the bloody, mangled corpses of no less than 4 local hermits were discovered in vicinities we had thoroughly searched: he was mocking us. This was when we first heard about the mystical Theeb the Summoner. The story goes that this mysterious Theeb, ageless as the moors, timeless as the plains, could actually summon the Greyman with his mystical flute playing. Well we tracked him down (being expert trackers this was easy, too damn easy really), and when we made our objective known, he was only too happy to help. Below is a sample of his haunting song:
We were surrounded! At every corner the howl of the Greyman penetrated the serenity of the night. It was the most blood-curdling moment of my young life. I knew it was a do or die moment, so I brought up my camera ready to capture this moment on film to preserve for all eternity and finally prove to the nay-sayers that the Greyman is real. I'm not proud of what happened next, but I must admit that I forgot my flash bulbs back at our campsite, so none of my pictures came out. They were just black shadows. Now, by today's standards of Sasquatch hunting, those photos would have passed muster just fine, hell, they'd probably be in the Smithsonian, but young and naive as I was back then, I thought they were were just black shadows and smudges, so I destroyed the negatives in frustration. Chalk it up to youth and inexperience. Anyway, so ends the story of the Greymen. When the flute music stopped, they disappeared as quickly as they arrived, and we never got back on the scent. Close, a very close, call, but at the end of the day I guess I'll have to chalk it up as a defeat. Another one in the books.
The Greyman can't resist this plaintive melody, it goes to the depths of his soul. The American Bigfoot, he couldn't give a crap about this song, but the Greyman, that's a different story. I knew that we had him. The trap was set. On the following night, as clear and cold as in recent memory, we set off to the most ancient and remote corners of the Cairngorms. It was as dark as a tomb; no squatch moon tonight: we were playing by other rules. We moved silently, careful not to alert him to our presence. It's hard to describe, but suddenly, I felt it; I knew we were close. Call it instinct, call it intuition, or just call it a sixth sense, but at that moment I knew we were no longer alone. It was time for Theeb to play his summoner's song. What happened next can be heard by clicking on the player below:
Expedition #409:
YETI
I had spent 6 tranquil months in the Himalayan foothills high above Kathmandu, studying with the world-renowned Yeti expert Dharmaloka Pragyananda, learning his secrets in hopes of applying them to my expeditions in the San Luis Obispo area. A steady diet of yak's milk and vegetarian stews left me newly reborn and invigorated mentally and physically; I was in the best shape of my life. But when I emerged from the monastery I learned of the global covid-19 pandemic and that I was effectively trapped in this faraway foreign land. Far from being distraught over this turn of events, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to apply my newfound skills and notch another first in my book: I was going to bag a Yeti. If I pulled this off, Bud Herman would have to eat crow for years. You have to understand, the Yeti 's reputation is one of infamy: nowhere on the surface of the earth is a more ferocious, antagonistic, loathsome foe. Even the Greyman shudders at his mention. This would be an expedition filled with risk and peril. My very life would be put on the table for barter. But I had an inner confidence and peace that my teacher had instilled in my breast through months of meditation and study. I was ready for the challenge.
I headed high into the most desolate and hostile regions of the snowcapped mountains. The weather was clear but the wind was oppressive and punishing--howling like a banshee and subjecting my body to an unrelenting subzero assault. I cursed myself for having left my survival kit back in San Luis. The sun became extinguished by snow, clouds, and night. I was utterly alone in a frozen hell of ice and brain-chilling cold. I knew I was going to die. I collapsed in the snow, feeling the life drain from my body. The last thing I remembered seeing in my mind's eye was the laughing face of Bud Herman. I couldn't believe I was going to go out this way, giving that lightweight wannabe squatch hunter the last laugh. There is no justice in this world. I said a final prayer and prepared to meet my maker, when I heard a sound above me.
I looked up and saw this monstrous beastly figure towering over me. I snapped a quick picture which can be seen to the left. I thought my goose was cooked and I remember thinking "I hope Bud Herman doesn't hear about this" and then I blacked out. When I awoke I was in a cave, warm from the howling wind outside, and safe under a bearskin rug. I looked around groggily and saw my Yeti captor tending to a pot of yak soup. He turned to face me and I blacked out once again. Was he preparing the soup for me to consume, or was I to be the main ingredient? I slept for several more days before I regained consciousness and got to know my Yeti host. Yes, host: he had in fact saved me and nursed me back to health. "Joe" and I got to know each other
well over the next several days, and developed a close, if guarded, friendship. I took the opportunity to ask him many questions about himself and his kind, and learned much from the answers. I found, contrary to the stereotype, the Yeti was a very gentle, kind, sensitive creature. Finally the day of my departure had come. But before I left I was able to coax a short interview with my friend, which I captured on my C.Crane Arctic-rated shortwave radio, the best radio on the market. Below is the brief interview:
Joe, in his home. Taken during my convalescence there, under his care.