Sasquatch Story by Rachel Esser
3800 words, ~19 minutes reading time
Issue 10 (Spring 2026)
I am not real.
It is hard to remember this fact as I trudge through a fresh thicket in Fish Creek Park. The sun beats down on the thick hair covering my body, matted with the sweat and dirt of my journey. I am sure I emit some kind of incriminating odor by now, not to mention I am getting clumsy with my navigation. It's been centuries since I have been this close to so many humans.
Back in my youth, about 250 years ago, I was imperceptible, invisible, and by all accounts nonexistent to humankind. Still, I brush browning evergreen needles from the forest floor over one of my more defined footprints. No one should know I am here.
Except Carl.
He is the reason I am down here in the first place, away from the tranquil Crown land I have occupied for so long. He is the reason why I have thrust myself into the dangers of human awareness. Carl is my best friend and longest companion, a fact he is unaware of. We have never formally met, nor had a conversation, but Carl isn’t just a pen pal or a lost-in-translation friend; He is my most faithful believer.
As I said before, I am not real. You can search my name in any database, check every peer-reviewed paper for verifiable claims of sightings, but you will find that I do not exist.
Most people know me by the name of Bigfoot. Personally, I prefer to be described as a Sasquatch or Moot'immooyimi, the former because it is more flattering, and the latter because the word comes from the Indigenous people I lived near for years, the first people who saw me for what I was– a living, breathing creature of the planet. Those were simpler days, back before the European settlers came. After their arrival, being seen became perilous; what was food became fashion, and animals were slaughtered for their fur, pelts becoming the currency of the colonized world. In the face of this new brand of senseless killing, I decided to fade into the blurred landscape of legend.
Humans possess the desire to conquer, to control, to change the natural world around them. I watched other living things become enslaved to them, so I must stay nonexistent in order to secure my existence at all. It is a lonely way to live, but necessary for my survival.
In times of boredom or loneliness, I will leave small hints of myself in my wake, breadcrumbs for curious minds, taunting them into believing without validation. I purposely make my presence known, just to make one more believer join the ranks. I step a little heavier, leaving clearer footprints, or I move through the trees more noisily. Anything to stir up a healthy amount of controversy. I suppose you could say this is my vice.
Being a mythical creature means always being on the move, so up until I met Carl, I never stayed in one place very long. I have roamed all of Canada a few times in my life, from the rugged West Coast of British Columbia, to the untamed waters of the East Coast Maritime provinces. I spent a few years roaming the Northwest Territories, with a particular fondness for the densely forested area surrounding the town of Fort Smith. At one point, I wandered down to the United States, spending most of my time in the easy isolation of Montana’s wilderness, but my preference for the quiet beauty and polite determination of Canadian life drew me back up north once more. In spite of all of my travels, I have never had a true home of my own, nor a place where I could just be. Watching the divide my potential existence creates among adamant scientists and determined believers is the only thing that reminds me of my impact on the world.
Carl Abel Baskin is what I like to call a True Believer. While there have been many humans who believed in me before, all of them felt the need to prove their beliefs to others, whether through photographs or DNA samples. Carl was the first human I encountered who was satisfied knowing I existed but having no concrete evidence about it.
Carl lives on the same Crown land where I dwell, in a hundred-year-old old hunting cabin on a mountain surrounded by thick forest. The cabin has been in his family for generations, and when he was old enough for his own home, Carl moved in. While technically accessible by a shabby, but rarely traversed, dirt road that winds up the steep mountainside, Carl’s cabin is incredibly isolated from the rest of the world, a forgotten relic of the past, which is just the way he likes it. Heated by wood and sustained by well-water, the cabin is a preservation of early human settlement, its ritualistic daily maintenance breeding the deep satisfaction of self-sufficiency. The only thing marring the historical integrity of Carl’s lodging is the noisy generator he often runs for the sake of watching beloved tv shows, his one connection to regular human society. For the last 35 years, he has lived on his isolated property with a series of loyal-but-lazy hunting dogs, only hosting occasional pre-approved visitors, such as his niece, Sandy. I have lived with him since he moved in, not in the house but rather out in the surrounding forest, far enough away to be concealed from view, but close enough to wander up to the cabin at night and observe the household’s evening activities.
Last night, around eleven o’clock, Carl and his latest dog, Sue, sat watching an old episode of Corner Gas. They were sharing a bowl of popcorn, Sue sweeping the floor for any rogue pieces in-between offerings from her master, and Carl laughing at the characters on screen. Swigging his beer to wash down the kernels that stuck to his throat, a few droplets trickling into his long white beard, Carl suddenly clutched his chest, a look of strained consternation crossing his rosy features. His fingers gripped his shirt as if trying to rip his heart out from beneath its protective layers of cloth, flesh, and bone.
Sue was on her feet in an instant, nervously pacing around him, panicked but unable to help. She began to bark as Carl reached his hand down to his belt, where a small emergency cell phone sat in a leather holster, his fingers grappling at the button clasp uselessly. After a panicked moment, Carl’s hands went limp, his torso folding in on itself, his arms spilling over the edge of his easy chair. Sue’s barks became howls, sustained notes of desperation piercing the air. I could see it all from the window where I stood. Time felt lethargic, and yet Carl’s decline was so immediate, my thoughts could hardly catch up with my movement. Kicking in the front door of the cabin, I rushed into the room, unsure of what to do once I got there. I unclasped the leather holster on Carl's belt, picking up the cell phone and dialing the number I had heard the humans refer to on television countless times: 9-1-1.
By the time the ambulance arrived, I was adequately concealed by the foliage surrounding the cabin. Crouched behind a large thicket several yards back, with a small window of loosely entangled branches to peer through, I knew I should be positioned even further away from the humans. When it was just Carl at home, I often went right up to the window, trusting the darkness and Carl’s focus on his television shows to prevent me from being spotted. There was always a risk that he would turn around, catch a glimpse before I could move away from the window, but the prospect had become less frightening and almost thrilling. I kind of enjoyed tempting fate with Carl because I trusted him.
But this was different. These humans were unknown to me, and as far as I was concerned, their murderous and conquering instincts were as sharp as ever. I knew from the gnarling of my stomach that being this close to them was a risk I shouldn’t take, but the pounding of my heart commanded me to stay where I was. I watched as Carl was hauled out on a stretcher and into the ambulance with care and urgency, straining to see if he was conscious or not. I leaned closer, snapping a twig under my shifting weight, but I didn’t care about the noise. Fortunately, neither did the medics tending to Carl.
“Alright, let’s head to Rockyview,” one of the medics called, sliding into the driver’s seat of the ambulance. His partner nodded, closing the back doors quickly as the vehicle lurched forwards, the red and white lights dancing to the siren’s wailing accompaniment.
I watched them drive off and waited for the resounding silence of the forest to resume. The scent of the ambulance was thick in the air, all its medicines and supplies with potent odours tickling my nose and inspiring nausea. I could see Sue sitting in the front window, peering out , likely for a glimpse of her master. As if remembering my gargantuan presence and the helpfulness of my prehensile digits, Sue scanned the trees, locking her eyes on my own with such intensity I could not look away. Something about her eyes, the pleading stare caught within them, made my heart hammer, forcing blood through my body to awaken my shocked muscles.
The door to the cabin was still ajar, the hinges damaged by the force of my kick. I went inside and was immediately greeted by Sue, whining and leaning her torso against me, searching for reassuring pets. With the advanced capabilities of the canine nose, I was aware that Sue knew my scent by now, but I was pleasantly surprised to find she regarded me as an affectionate and familiar friend. I offered her a few awkward but loving back scratches in return and glanced around the room. Similar to the exterior, the inside of the cabin was modest, rustic and functional in a refreshingly simple way. The walls were lined with warm wooden planks, seemingly the only stylistic choice outside of the various conspiracy posters fastened to the boards around the space. Some promised alien encounters, while others warned of the presence of ghosts, but the majority were dedicated to caricatures of me. I wandered from the doorway into the living room, stepping carefully along the warped wooden boards, each movement a pointless request for permission. The scent of fire and buttered popcorn still clung to the warm air, and I breathed it in greedily, hungry for the sense of home that penetrated the space. Sue trailed behind me as I neared the kitchen.
On the floor beside a small cabinet sat Sue’s food dish, and it occurred to me that it was far past the time when Carl typically fed her. I looked up at the large kitchen window as though I expected to be caught, and instead saw in its blank and darkened frame the space where I usually stood to watch Carl prepare meals. As though mirroring him in some surreal performance, I retrieved the bag of kibble from the cabinet, clumsily tipping it the way I had seen Carl do countless times, pouring the strange, dry circles of food into her bowl. After a moment’s consideration, I tipped the bag again, offering an extra helping of kibble, just in case.
Straightening up once more, I came face to face with yet another portrait of myself, this time hand-drawn, pinned to the cupboard above the counter. I nodded my head in agreement with myself, knowing my next course of action. It was time to find Carl.
Now, as bugs flicker in front of my vision, drawn in by my musty dampness, I am losing a bit of the staunch determination I was feeling last night. For one thing, the scent of the ambulance and its course has been fading with every minute. It takes more concentration and focus to navigate to the hospital where Carl is being kept. Not only that, but I have no plan for when I get there, no scripted speech, no clever disguise, just my disheveled and exhausted self. I am not entirely sure what I will do when I find Carl, or even why I am tracking him in the first place. I guess it's a particular fondness for the man, or perhaps a loyalty due to our thirty-five years of silent companionship. Whatever the reason, I am in too deep to turn back now.
As I reach the top of the hill overlooking the southwest area of the city, I plop down to the ground in an ungraceful heap of frustration, heat, and despair. I stare out at the expanse of civilization before me, my fingers absently picking at a patch of grass at my feet. To my left, there are statuesque skyscrapers and bustling business towers, the air heavy with the stench of corporate class and capitalism. To my right, a more suburban landscape of houses and local shops, traffic lights rotating diligently to allow errands to be run and homes to be returned to at the end of the work day. Everywhere I look, there is commotion and chaos, thousands of humans with thousands of scents living thousands of individual lives and stories. There is so much of everything in a human city, I can understand why Carl chose to forgo social interactions and regular engagement with society for the secluded tranquility of his cabin in the forest.
The breeze picks up, brushing my fur, and I close my eyes and tilt my face towards the sun overhead. Taking calming breaths, I remind myself that I am a capable tracker, that I have instincts honed over hundreds of years that can help me locate Carl if I only concentrate on accessing them. I ball my hands into fists at my side, fighting the doubt that creeps into my consciousness, casting shadows over my path to success.
Sifting through my cluttered thoughts, my mind puts forward an image of Carl’s face. For thirty-five years, he put food scraps outside in the hopes I would find them and decorated his home with my likeness. This is the man who faced ridicule and condescension from every human in his life, who gave me blind faith and asked for nothing in return. This is the man whose loyalty to me has never wavered in the face of adversity. This is the man I have come to love. If he can believe in me against all odds, then I can believe in myself too.
Rising to my feet, I turn my face in the direction of the wind, closing my eyes again to focus my senses. I breathe in, I breathe out. I wait.
And suddenly, carried on the back of the persistent breeze, I catch it– the scent I am looking for: Carl.
My eyes snap open as I register the direction of the odour, down the hill and nestled in a patch of trees in the center of the suburb. I charge down the sloped landscape with renewed verve, hysterical relief pumping energy through my body, powering my descent. Staying a few steps off the bike path at the bottom of the hill, I ensure I am adequately concealed by the surrounding foliage. I follow the length of it, tracing its curvature through the reservoir park and into the patch of trees I could see on the hill. I quicken my pace as the scent grows thicker.
A windsock and helipad appear first, then the entire brick and concrete building emerges from the trees, and I emit an alleviated chuckle in spite of myself. I did it. Once again, Carl was right.
I feel compelled to charge forwards and enter the building, run through the cluttered halls of the hospital and shout Carl’s name until I locate his room, but instinct roots me to the earth under my tired feet. I need to be smart about this, strategic in my approach. The risk I am about to take prods at my subconscious, urging my faculties to react appropriately and seek out safety again. But my heart, swollen and sentient, holds me steady, numbing all potential anxieties in the face of newfound purpose.
Closing my eyes once more, I breathe in deeply, slowly, savouring the scent of my life partner. I open my eyes and tilt my gaze upwards. High above the treetops I spy a window that I assume leads to a patient room. My gaze follows the wall down below the window to find a vent, an unnoticeable vessel through which the scent of Carl emanates. Scaling the building is not a challenge. However, doing so without being seen in the middle of a clear September morning, is. I contemplate my options for camouflage or alternate routes into the building, but decide that the inefficiency and additional challenges involved in each are not worth the risk. The only logical answer that presents itself to me, dancing before my eyes with promised potential, is speed. If I climb as fast as I can in as few movements as I can, there is less chance of being seen.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I begin my ascent.
The bricks of the building are slicker than I initially imagined, thanks to the sterile white paint coating them. Grasping tightly onto each brick, my rough skin offers more grip as I scale the building, heaving myself higher and higher until Carl’s window is almost within my reach.
A nurse comes out of the building from a side door I had not noticed before, and begins walking along the path below me. I hold my breath and freeze for a moment, fingers gripping a small ledge, and I contemplate falling into the nearby bushes and running for cover. The nurse must be on a break, her eyes fixed on her phone screen, a coffee held leisurely in her free hand. If I am quiet, she will have no reason to look up. Besides, hanging here on the side of a hospital building, the scent of Carl weaving its way through my nostrils, I know I am closer than I have ever been to him. This fact alone justifies the risk of being spotted.
A few more swift movements, and I have reached a larger ledge about two metres below the window. I plant my feet firmly, and cautiously peer in.
The room is empty, save for the bed in the center. Carl is lying very still, his eyes closed, hands resting limply on top of a crisp white linen sheet. A monitor by his bedside displays a red line spiking and falling in a staccato rhythm, as though conducting the symphony of his heart. The pounding of my own heart rattles my chest.
Staring into the tiny, impersonal room where the shell of the man I love lies motionless in defeat awakens something deep within me. I no longer care about being seen by the nurse below, or by anyone for that matter. Seeing Carl this close, a victim of his own mortal body, I realize why I am here.
I know that I cannot save him; I inferred long ago from his daily ingestion of medication that his heart is a fragile beast. From the looks of him now, I can tell he is too withered, his heart too frail to sustain the spirited man he once was. I may not be a nurse or a doctor, I may not possess the power to heal what has been broken, but I can do something for Carl that no other living creature can.
I knock on the window.
At first, there is no movement, so I knock again, this time louder and more assured. After a moment, I see a flicker of life cross Carl’s features, prying his eyes open just enough to look towards the source of the sound. Standing as tall as I can on the narrow ledge, I stare right at him.
It takes a moment for him to register my presence, to understand who I am and why I am here. Shifting almost imperceptibly in his bed, a feeble attempt to gain a more upright position, I can see the perplexed expression on Carl’s face morph into doubt, the trust he has for his sight wavering in apparent recognition of his medicated state. A shaking hand passes over his gaunt face, rubbing his eyes as though trying to erase the hallucination trapped within them. He looks at me again, eyes focused.
Without breaking eye contact, I lift my hand and wave, a gesture I have only ever observed from afar. Carl’s eyes widen, and his pale features crease into the most euphoric smile I have ever seen. His jubilance is contagious, embedding itself in my skin and spreading warmth through my whole body. I smile back, a toothy and self-conscious grin. A noise escapes him, muffled by the glass of the window, and I can see his body quaking with its exodus. He is laughing, a deeply satisfied chortle, and though I cannot hear it well, it makes my heart sing.
When he is through, a contented smile rests upon his lips, and he looks into my eyes once more. He gives me a nod, and I nod back. Lowering his head back onto his pillow, he closes his eyes in blissful rest. I look at him for a moment longer, memorizing his contented features. Carl Abel Baskin is the first person in 250 years to really, truly, see me.
Later, when the nurse on duty arrives at Carl’s room, she will find him dead. His niece Sandy will learn that she inherited his land and house, but only on the condition that they be left vacant and untouched by modern development; she will never visit the house again. Later, I will sit upon the dilapidated couch in Carl’s living room, my hand stroking Sue’s soft fur as she rests her head in my lap, remembering him.
But right now, as I settle back into the forest at the side of the hospital, staring up at the window from the nearest thicket, all that matters is Carl. I know I will never see him again, but that doesn’t matter. I know that he will be with me from afar, watching me, caring for me, cheering me on.
All I have to do is believe.
