Three transcendent days camped among the Sasquatch people.
In my last post, I promised that I’d share more details regarding what I think my relationship with the Sasquatch people is all about. I alluded to the fact the Sasquatch are connected to the Star people, and that by default, so am I. But I’m simply not ready to take you there yet. Besides, in trying to process all this wonder and put it neatly inside a little box to convince myself I have any idea about any of this, I’ve missed one very important detail. That is, to convey what it feels like to be in the presence of the Sasquatch people. To describe the feeling as pure unconditional love is accurate, but doesn’t convey the true magnitude of their love for us. It’s like calling the Pacific Ocean just a body of water.
The illustration in the masthead (with apologies to illustrators everywhere) was from a journal entry of my very first, in-the-flesh sighting of a Sasquatch person. In this case, the three year-old daughter of a pair of Sasquatch that are with me often. I knew I had a group of eight or nine Sasquatch (a horde? a klatch? a clan?) traveling with me that week in late July when I was camped in the northern Sierras, but I didn’t yet know any of their names beyond the name of my Ancient Sasquatch friend and guide, Haro.
I’ve since learned that the child’s father is Wango and the mother is Minchee. I don’t know the daughter’s name, but I’m told that she loves my dog, Stan, and I suspect visits him often when I’m not around. I also learned that their name for him (quite appropriately) is “Yellow.” Of course a yellow dog would be named Yellow! I’ve even started to affectionately call him by his Sasquatch name at times. He doesn’t seem to mind.
But I’m getting far ahead of myself, so let me take you back to those magical three days camped near Yuba Gap, CA, when I came to better understand the true nature of the Sasquatch people, and my own heart.
DAY ONE: “Littlefoot” and bumps in the night.
As I described in Go Big or Go Home, Haro had said they’d scare off the bear that was in the area. So there were no worries as me and a family member dropped the camper and erected a new four-person tent early that first afternoon. The original idea was for me to sleep in the camper, but the bathroom needs of my elder family member meant that I’d get the tent. As it turned out, it was a most fortuitous change of sleeping arrangements.
Our campsite in this established, yet nicely rustic RV campground (I’m a sucker for gravel roads), was up the hill and across the main road from the throngs of motorhome campers who’d shoehorned themselves into the spots nearest the lake. It reminded me of RV parking at a Wal-Mart, only with tall pines and marginal water views. Feeling a bit like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas high in our perch (and just as averse to the rumblings of diesel engines, slamming car doors, barking dogs, crying children and the needful spousal calls of “Hey, Honeyyyy?”), I took to calling the small mobile village sprawled below us “Whoville.”
It was after dark when a newly arriving couple gave up trying to find a waterside spot, settling for the adjacent camp down a slight grade below our own. It was just past 9:30, but my family member was already asleep in the camper, leaving me to nurse a whiskey in silence as I watched the stars sputter to life.
The couple went to work efficiently setting up camp, but not without a fair amount of bickering. They’d placed a lantern on the picnic table, and when I looked in their direction I noticed a small bush just above their camp now illuminated by the light. Had that been there earlier? I was sitting near the right rear of my camper, and this “bush” was close to my truck’s right front bumper some 25 feet away, on a slight knoll above their camp.
The sudden realization that I wasn’t looking at a bush at all caused me to catch my breath. Sitting stock-still with its back to me, a diminutive Sasquatch silently watched our neighbors, seemingly mesmerized, like a human child watching Saturday morning cartoons. The “bush” had the same outline of a baboon or chimpanzee from the waist up. Head. Shoulders. Torso. In place of leaves were short, spiky guard hairs that glowed like a golden aura in the lamplight.
Looking down at the small flashlight in the beverage holder of my chair, I instantly dismissed any notion of using it. No, my relationship with the Sasquatch wouldn’t be about trying to catch them unawares. Of course, one part of me wanted to “be sure,” but the deeper part of me already knew exactly what I was looking at. Instead, I turned in my chair and went back to viewing the awakening stars. I remember thinking to myself, “There’s a baby Sasquatch over there. This is coooool.”
Not long after, our neighbors shut off their lantern and turned in. I didn’t last too much longer myself, the chill mountain air sending me to my cot and three-season sleeping bag. Sometime after midnight I heard (and felt) heavy footsteps on the road just 20 feet from my tent. More amused than anything, I playfully let my visitors know that I was awake and that if they were trying to be stealthy they’d missed the mark. “I can hear you…keep practicing,” I laughed. But the more I thought about it—there are Sasquatch over there!—the more I came to understand that they wanted me to know they were near. I was being shown great respect and trust. I dozed off, all smiles.
As suspected, in the morning the waist-high bush was gone, with only a 12-inch stump that had served as the youngster’s perch marking the event.
I’ll never forget my first sighting. And I’ll always be proud of myself for not traumatizing my young friend with the flashlight. I knew that a trusting relationship with my Sasquatch friends and hosts could only be built with one positive interaction after another. And, quite certain that her parents had been watching me watch her, I knew that I’d passed an important first test. I was elated, but had no idea the best was yet to come.
DAY TWO: Of rattlesnakes and midnight magic.
Emboldened by my guest’s visit and feeling a deep need to be with my forest friends on their terms, I set out from camp after a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and inky French press coffee. I even took the time to wash the dishes in the sink. The camper’s tight confines demand a level of diligence that I often let slide at home, bachelor that I am. I left Stan and my family member to enjoy the warming day, as I headed down the dusty gravel road to get away from the prying eyes of Whoville. I didn’t have to go far. A five-minute stroll took me past even the packs of tiny Whos racing around on their Whocycles, and after another turn in the road I seemingly had the forest to myself.
Taking a quick glance around, I stepped off the uphill side of the road into a sub alpine forest of Sugar pine, Douglas fir and California Black Oak. Rising to an unseen ridgeline some 500 feet above, the steepening forest floor was a soft carpet of long brown needles, knee-high blueberry bushes just off bloom, and countless oversized pinecones scattered about the base of each mature pine. In places, huge rounded granite boulders and outcroppings gave evidence to the glaciers that carved out nearby Lake Tahoe some two million years ago, with numerous lesser ice ages further shaping the region since.
Just a few steps off the road, I stopped and asked my unseen friends for permission to come ahead. It’s just good manners, and I didn’t want to have a first experience being energetically “zapped” for being rude (Sasquatch have the ability to shock and stun using infrasound, an unpleasant experience resulting in short-term memory loss, disorientation, nausea and fear). Besides, would you let anyone into your home that hadn’t politely announced their arrival, first?
The forest has eyes. And ears.
I came to be with my friends, and to be present. Safe from the many eyes of Whoville, I wanted to be seen—and heard—by the many forest friends who I knew were all around me. I came to speak my heart to whoever cared to listen, including myself.
I didn’t have long to wait.
After an easy 10-minute hike up the sun-drenched slope, I found exactly the spot I was looking for. I crept out on a large granite knoll that placed me some 15 feet above the unmarked trail I had just travelled. Like a hungry cougar watching a game trail, I could see everything in front of me and to the sides. Only my back was exposed, and I quickly sensed something watching me from behind.
After taking a few minutes to get centered, I began to quietly speak to the forest. I expressed gratitude for the incredible changes in my life since discovering I had a Sasquatch family. A reconnection with joy. A return to childlike wonder and unbridled imagination. I spoke as deliberately and openly as I knew how. I laughed. I told the Sasquatch people that I loved them. And I cried.
Somewhere in the middle of my soul’s dissertation, I heard the unmistakable sounds of something creeping up slowly and cautiously from behind. Nothing as a pronounced as a stick break, but more like a small bird scratching for insects under soft leaves. One slow, deliberate movement after another. Ever closer.
My mind rifled through possible scenarios. First, that if it were a cougar and I its intended prey, lunch was as good as served. I then remembered they were already protecting me from bears, so it wasn’t likely they’d let a cougar anywhere near me. I liked that idea, a lot. My final realization was that an unseen friend was sneaking up not to scare me, but to test their own mettle—to see how close they could get unnoticed. I knew in my heart, instinctively, that it was my young visitor from the night before. I just smiled, but also fought the urge to turn and look. What if I became frightened by REALLY seeing one, and ran off in fear? How rude would that be? A minute would pass, and another small step closer.
My nerves beginning to get the better of me, I uttered a “Hello!” and told her that I was glad for her company. I waited for a reaction—anything—to indicate that she now knew that I knew. But there was no running off, or childlike squeals at being found out. By this time I’d already shared what I’d come to say, so I made preparations to leave. Taking a last swig from my water bottle, I slowly rose to my feet and without scanning the area behind me, walked the spine of the rock outcropping back to softer ground.
You city folk are kinda clueless.
Dressed only in a blue nylon fishing shirt, khaki shorts and ankle-high hiking boots, I took off downslope at an angle different from the one I’d taken on the way up. Letting the pull of gravity and the contours of the hillside dictate my exit, I was carried toward a slight ravine that would have gently funneled the snowmelt just a month or two earlier. The uneven terrain was decidedly rockier, and though I watched my footfalls, I foolishly hadn’t given much thought to snakes at this altitude (some 5700 feet), and particularly this time of day. Almost noon, the temperature was pushing 80 degrees, and snakes would be safely holed up waiting for cooler evening temps.
So it was that I merrily sauntered down the slope, my heart full of connectedness and my mind somewhere in the puffy cumulus clouds drifting lazily overhead. Within a few minutes I was down to the road, about to jump off the three-foot berm to the road below.
Not just any snake, a three-foot rattlesnake lay stretched out in the exact spot where I was planning to land. Not road killed or coiled defensively, this snake was caught out in the open in the full sun and was desperately searching for cover and shade. Making certain he was alone, I jumped safely past and stopped to take pictures.
As I admired the intricate markings on this Northern Pacific Rattlesnake traversing the shallow ditch, it at one point stopped and tested the air with it tongue, then averted its spade-shaped head as if to avoid some unseen object. Only, there wasn’t anything there. Still, it acted evasively, and as I took pictures I realized the significance of this moment. This was no coincidence. Someone had placed this snake intentionally in my path, and my mind worked overtime trying to uncover the meaning. Was this malicious, or some Hairy Person’s idea of a practical joke?
I deduced that the snake was placed precisely in my path, yet with enough visibility and forewarning that I was never in danger of missing it and being bitten. So, not malicious. What then? Well, like a young Native American warrior trying to prove his great bravery and worth by stealing horses from the enemy, I believe a fully cloaked young Sasquatch had just “counted coup” at my expense. Perhaps it was the same unseen friend from the rocks above, but I can just imagine them deftly dropping the snake in front of me as if to say, “I am the greatest Sasquatch who has ever lived! I am so brave, I left this venomous snake in your path and you cannot even see me!” I was honored by the gesture.
A right of passage for them, and an important warning for me that I was indeed in rattlesnake country. I watched my every step from that point on, and kept a close watch on Stan, as well. Thank you, unseen friend. But yeah, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d also wondered if I hadn’t left the ledge just moments before someone tried to pull the old, rattlesnake-over-the-shoulder gag. You know, among friends.
“It went OFF last night!”
Thus read the first line of my journal entry the following morning. Around midnight I was awakened by the sound of something high up in an ancient, weather-gnarled cedar tree singing me a sort of lullaby. The camp was completely quiet and still, and down from the tree came a gentle cooing sound as if from an enormous dove, followed by a nasally exclamation you might expect from a raven. Coooooooo…RAAAAANK! I actually wondered if my dragon friend had come for a visit, so intimate and alluring was the lullaby. Sounds carried easily on this clear and warmer night, so my serenade was at low volume that I was sure was for my ears only. Even half asleep, it occurred to me that only owls are active at night, and this was no owl. Coooooooo…RAAAAANK! Someone knew I was awake, and was saying hello.
I fell back to sleep, but not long after a most incredible thing happened. Deep from the thicket just above camp came a “Wildman” yell, sort of like the short staccato screech from a parrot, only at a considerably higher volume. Not soft and rolling like a “Tarzan” yell, but a sharp, primal scream lasting a full five seconds. I thought for sure that lights would go on down in Whoville, but to my amazement, only a couple of dogs barked loudly in acknowledgement.
Now fully awake, my ears strained to pick up all the other night sounds coming from the hillside. I heard rocks presumably the size of bowling balls being rolled a short distance down the hill. Also numerous stick breaks and rock clacks, and even one large limb breaking as if it were being torn from a tree. Like kids being turned out at recess, I sensed that the youngsters were finally being allowed to play now that the camp was asleep. The hillside came alive with activity.
Yet it soon quieted down as before, and I again drifted off for an hour or so. Suddenly, I was awakened not by a sound, but a feeling. Like the bow wave pushed ahead of a large boat, an enveloping wave of pure, unrestrained joy washed over, through, and into me. Taking a gasp as if truly submerged and suddenly coming up for air, I was instantly awake, alert, and awestruck. They were here. And like that same old reclusive Grinch, I felt my heart grow at least seven sizes in an instant. I have never in my life felt a love as palpable, tangible and certain as I did in that moment.
I can’t say that I was completely at ease, but I knew that I was safe. And loved beyond measure.
Still, my mind worked overtime pushing down any latent fear, and what transpired next will forever be etched in my heart. I lay face-up on my cot some 18 inches off the ground, peering through a mesh screen. I never saw movement, but suddenly the corner of the tent below my field of vision started undulating. The tent bottom was being pulled across the brown plastic ground tarp, making a rhythmic swoosh, swoosh, swoosh like the sweep of a dog’s tail across a floor. Risking a peek, I found Stan curled up sound asleep in the tent corner down by my feet, his tail tucked tight to his body. It wasn’t him.
A few moments passed, and again, the playful and inviting swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. I somehow knew it was my visitor from the night before, inviting me out to play. To come be among my loving Sasquatch friends in their nighttime world. Though I felt only love and a child’s innocent persistence, it was too much. Instead, I whispered to her that I loved her and was so glad for her visit, but I simply was not ready. And that I was sorry. I felt the tinge of her disappointment, but she accepted my decision and went to join the others. A moment later I heard one of them pick up an empty mug that a few hours earlier contained hot chocolate, making a dejected thunk as it was replaced on the picnic table.
Do I regret not unzipping the tent door and stepping through that thin nylon membrane into a world of complete unknowns? To say to my unseen friends, “I trust you completely and am ready to meet you on your terms, in your nighttime realm?” Absolutely, I do. I don’t know that I will ever get another invitation, but I also felt in the moment that somehow, I had not “earned” it yet. This blog was only then at a conceptual stage in my mind, though I had just begun journaling my experiences. But mine is a very human way of looking at it—of paying my “dues.” They already knew my heart in a way that even now I am just beginning to, and had long ago decided, “You are family. We are kin. You are welcome to walk beside us.”
So yes, much regret, but I’ll be forever grateful for the invitation. And I hope that should there be a next time, I will indeed come out to play the role of the childless uncle at the niece’s birthday party; the one who all the kids want to dog-pile on while the parents just laugh and think to themselves, “Poor bastard, glad that’s not me.”
DAY THREE: A last secret council.
The next morning we spent a couple of hours drowning neon pink-and-cherry PowerBait® in an effort to entice one of the stocked rainbow trout purported to be in the small lake, to no avail. Under a full sun we headed back to camp for a final lazy day of reading and napping.
After breakfast I once again snuck off to talk to my friends, this time choosing a hidden grove on the downhill side of the road. I only had to move off the road 50 yards to find this private amphitheater, where I could just imagine my large friends holding their councils under the midnight summer moons. Intently scrutinizing the forest floor for snakes, I made my way to this sun-dappled glade, complete with a small creek running along its edge.
If you look at the bottom of this photo, you’ll see a greenish-white figure. Not quite round like an orb, and I don’t believe a camera flare. Quite possibly an energetic Sasquatch moving through dimensions. Mysteries are always a part of being around these amazing people.
I again spoke my heart, and my gratitude. Not long into my speech, I heard a muted wood knock from across the road, then another just 10 seconds later, much nearer now and quickly closing the distance. I understood it to mean, “I’ll be right there—hold up!” After another minute I resumed my soliloquy, suddenly feeling self-conscious that I’d drawn a crowd.
I was happy being with my friends, doing my best to tell them how magical it felt to know that they were joining me now, and protecting me always. I pledged that I’d do my best to be worthy of such love and guardianship (there I went again, paying my “dues”). I shared that their presence in my life was confusing to me. Every bit of it. That it made no sense to me, but that I would keep searching for answers until it did. I was just beginning to formulate a theory that whatever work I was doing astrally in my sleep, had to be a part of the “Why.” That there was important work being done to assist Earth’s Ascension (as nicely explained here by QHHT practitioner Allison Coe), and my own energy and efforts had to be of value to them as the original shepherds of Planet Earth. But as I said at the onset, that’s a post for another time.
Having again bared my soul, I stepped into my boots and quietly departed. I had removed them earlier; standing barefoot on a piece of smooth granite while I spoke was my way to forever ground myself to this place, and this moment. I departed refreshed, recharged and utterly new. For me it had been a rare, “take me as I am” disclosure, and I felt only acceptance coming from every direction of the clearing. Unlike ESPN College Game Day host Kirk Herbstreit in his TV commercials promoting Dove® body wash, I’d never before felt so comfortable “in my own skin.” Among these loving people the only person I needed to be was Me.
I believe this sort of forthright nature is how our big friends live each day. Because of their ability to instantly communicate telepathically across any distance using mindspeak, there can be no secrets. Not to say deception doesn’t exist in their world, but truth is ferreted out more quickly than in our society. I feel my exchange that day was a sort of verbal contract; that I’d somehow agreed to serve as something of a human ambassador on behalf of my unseen forest friends, as best as I knew how. And, here I am.
No pie. But we’ll have cookies, thanks.
The last night was anticlimactic, to a point. I did end up sneaking off to the woods at dusk to leave the apple pie that I’d promised Haro, along with some organic pistachio nuts. However, I was disheartened the next morning to find the brown paper bag still tucked in behind the fir tree where I’d left it. I sheepishly collected the untouched offering left just outside camp and strolled past the awakening Whoville on my way to the dumpster.
But it was not a total loss. We’d left out a plate of 10 striped shortbread cookies on the picnic table that were completely devoured. The empty blue plate was found just where we’d placed it (a bear or even raccoons would surely have moved it), with only telltale pools of saliva hinting at their feast. I chuckled as I retrieved the plate, knowing the “Scofftics” would have wanted to collect the saliva for DNA testing. Screw that. My friends had helped themselves to a treat, that’s all.
I did recall hearing footsteps and sounds of muted laughter in the middle of the night. Cookie party! I just loved knowing that my young friend had likely gotten her first taste of human “delicacies” that we take for granted. Sasquatch love baked goods.
A possible look into my future.
In the morning we broke camp and headed down the hill to Grass Valley, where I spent a few more nights at the local fairgrounds that I had largely to myself. Besides taking pictures of orbs and seeing an eight-foot “shadow” jump an irrigation canal (see “A thousand words”), the highlight for me was hearing mindspeak for the very first time.
It was past 10 o’clock and completely dark when I climbed up into the berth to sleep. Suddenly, a couple of fire engines sped past on their way to some unknown emergency. First, the local coyotes joined in from all directions, easily a half dozen howling at the top of their canine lungs. Except, I heard them more in my head than through my ears. Plus, there was something about their howls that was a bit off. It was more like someone imitating a coyote call, only at a much higher volume.
Next, what can only be described as a high-pitched female wailing joined in, like so many witches beside a cauldron. The screeches made by these Sasquatch ladies reached a crescendo just as the engines turned a corner, and then their own cries began to fade out, proportionately. Just as the cries ended, I heard one of the Sas ladies say to the others, “Oh, I bet they enjoyed that,” and they all broke out laughing.
I heard it as clearly as if they were all right there inside the camper with me, and I suppose they were. If they weren’t so damn cute about it, I’d have been freaked out. I didn’t hear a peep the rest of the night.
So, who wants to go camping with me? Come on, it’ll be fun. I promise.
See, even the Sas are smiling. This cropped selfie was taken the day we broke camp, and as I’ve shared in other pieces, these magical people can’t seem to resist appearing on reflective surfaces, like the rear window of my camper. The larger of the two is all smiles. We were, too.