Let’s just get this out of the way first thing: I believe in Sasquatch. Go ahead, scoff away. I’ll wait. Okay, are we ready to be mature about this? I believe in Sasquatch for many reasons. For one, the idea of a great ape that exists as a forgotten rung on the ladder of evolution between more primitive hominids and modern humans fits easily within the boundaries of rational science. Even more so than a lot of more widely accepted theories, such as the rhythm method or pasteurization. Another reason is that much of our grand stretches of majestic wilderness are sparsely populated and little-explored, and would make an ideal setting for a creature to live and thrive, and, if it had a measure of intelligence and the drive to do so, remain unseen. Most importantly, though, I believe in Sasquatch because I want to believe. I want to believe in Sasquatch for the simple reason that I want him to be my friend.
Not just my friend, my best friend. I’ve never met Sasquatch, but I’m pretty sure that if I did we would get along famously. We have many things in common. There are the obvious similarities between us, like how hairy we both are, and the powerful musk we both exude which causes rivals to tremble and females to swoon. Or the strong bearing and virile poise with which we carry ourselves, and the unrestrained swagger in our stride. And let’s not forget our disdain for wearing pants.
There are less glaring similarities as well. Seemingly disparate behaviours that have more in common than you might at first think. I spend a great deal of time posting on Facebook and tweeting, for example. Sasquatch doesn’t have a computer, and even if he did the wi-fi reception in the middle of his mountainous forest kingdom is spotty at best. But, Sasquatch does leave clawed markings smeared with feces and clumps of fur on towering spruce trees for others to see, and if you’ve ever seen any internet posts from me, you’ll probably agree that these things aren’t so different.
We wouldn’t speak the same language, Sasquatch and I, but we’d be so attuned to the same way of life that we’d hardly need to communicate at all. Have you ever known someone with whom you can spend hours, not saying a word, and it feels perfectly natural and not awkward? That’s what it would be like for us. We’d cavort away our days picking berries and chasing otters. I’d teach him how to catch fish, and he wouldn‘t judge me for not watching sports. We’d snare some rabbits and I would skin them and cook them, and Sasquatch would make us matching hats out of their fur, which we would wear all the time so everyone in the forest knew we were best pals. At night, we’d build a fire in our cave and make shadow animals on the cave wall. He would make a wolf or a deer, and I’d make another one that came up behind it and started humping it, and we’d laugh and laugh. He’d never get tired of that one!
Of course, as with any friendship, there would be tough times, too. Sasquatch has a notoriously short temper, and, truth be told, I’m not the most patient guy either. When it came to things like whose turn it is to dig a new poop hole, or whether throwing rocks at the sun makes night come faster, we’d definitely have a few blow-outs. He’d probably be right about the sun thing, but I’d be too stubborn to ever admit it. Our biggest point of contention would come whenever we encountered hikers or campers or park rangers and had to make sure they didn’t tell anyone about his secret existence. I’d want to tie rocks to their feet and throw them in a lake, he’d want to tear their limbs off and scatter them around the countryside. Quick to anger, quick to forgive, though, and we’d hardly have finished killing the person before we’d be laughing together at the antics of some silly squirrel in a tree.
Is it in vain that I wish and hope for a Sasquatch friend? Some of you skeptics would likely say yes. But is that because you disbelieve the presence of this noble, mighty being, or is it that the years of cynical doubt and nay saying have caused you to lose faith in the existence of love and brotherhood altogether? Are you so offended by the idea of me and this furry beast becoming close that you reject the entire idea of friendship as a concept? Is that what this is about? If not, maybe we could be friends, ‘cause I’ve been looking for Sasquatch for, like, years and I don’t have any real friends.
Photo from the 1967 Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot footage