Zada - In the valleys of the noble beyond: in search of the Sasquatch

Copyright 2019 by John Zada
Maps and illustrations 2019 by Briony Penn

Cover design by Cindy Hernandez
Cover photograph John Zada

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FIRST EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: July 2019

Quotations from Caravan of Dreams ( 1968, 2015 Idries Shah) and
Learning How to Learn ( 1978, 2017 Idries Shah) printed
with permission of The Idries Shah Foundation
Quotation from Mystical Poems of Rumi ( 1968 by A. J. Arberry) printed
with permission of the University of Chicago Press

This book was designed by Norman E. Tuttle
at Alpha Design & Composition.
This book was set in 12.5-pt. Bembo
by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

ISBN 978-0-8021-2935-2
eISBN 978-0-8021-4716-5

Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West

groveatlantic.com

19 20 21 22 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For the people of the coast.

The journeys chronicled here took place before the most recent changes in government in Canada and British Columbia, and among First Nations mentioned here; the narrative is told in the present tense and reflects some political and economic details specific to that period. In addition, a few names have been changed to respect the privacy of individuals living in the smallest of communities I visited.

They said, He is not to be found, we too have searched.

He answered, He who is not to be found is my desire.

Jalal ad-Din Rumi, Masnavi-i Manavi

All Faith is false, all Faith is true:

Truth is the shattered mirror strown

in myriad bits; while each believes

his little bit the whole to own.

Sir Richard Francis Burton,
The Kasidah of Haji Abdu El-Yezdi

In any field, find the strangest thing and then explore it.

John Archibald Wheeler, physicist

A froth of dark, roiling clouds churns above the swaying canopy. The rain begins, but as a gentle caress.

I am trudging through ground moss and rotting blowdown to the symphonic pitter-patter of reconstituted sea. Shouldering a flimsy daypack and holding a single-barreled shotgun, Clark Hans, my hiking partner, leads me along a high, forested bluff overlooking an expansive valley. We reach a lookout on the edge of the bluff with a commanding view across the floodplain, where limestone mountains dressed in a patchwork of cedar, spruce, and hemlock vanish under strangleholds of mist. To our right, the river meets the ocean, a sullen, blotted-out void.

Clark stares into the distance.

Here is right where it stood, he says. Where it looked down at me.

I say nothing, bearing witness to a reverie I can barely understand.

A cool gust of wind washes over us. The rain increases.

Lets go, Clark says, coming out of his trance. Well follow the creek back.

The creek? I say. But you said theres bears there. Why dont we go back down the rock face?

Too slippery now from the rain.

Clark heads back into the forest and marches in the opposite direction from which we came. I follow behind him, barely able to keep up. We come to the edge of a steep ravine, the slopes of which are filled with colonies of devils club, a spiky shrub as tall as a man. We skirt around the sharp-spined, broad-leaved plant, grasping at smaller trees and shrubs to avoid slipping down the hill in the ever-intensifying downpour.

We reach the bottom of the ravine, a narrow gully between the moss-encrusted walls of two mountains. Were completely drenched. All around us, a nightmarish tangle of salal and salmonberry bushes rises above our heads, partly concealing enormous conifers reaching for the narrow opening of sky above the gorge. We can hear the nearby creek running, but it is nowhere to be seen.

Clark, exhaling plumes of foggy breath, scours the surroundings. Suddenly his eyes dart left. There is a rustling in the bushes up the gulch. Its followed by the sound of something heavy moving.

Da-thump. Da-thump. Da-thump.

Fear clenches my chest. Clark remains frozen, his head cocked in the direction of the sound.

Da-thump.

There is something near us, waiting, watching, listening. I pick up what I think is a gamy animal smell mingling with the aroma of drenched evergreen. Clark takes hold of his gun with both hands. In almost zero visibility, the weapon offers little, if any, protection. Clark turns to me with an expression of muted alarm, trying to gauge my reaction.

Then: Da-thump! Da-thump! Da-thump!

Go! Clark yells, dashing through the berry bushes to a faint game trail. As I run behind him into the thicket sharp branches tear at my face and rain gear. All I can see is Clarks backside a few feet in front of me.

A heaving, growling bark explodes around us.

WOOF-WOOF-WOOAHHF!

WOOF-WOOF-WOOAHHFFF!

I break into a sprint with my arms held up to my head to protect myself from whatever beast is nearly upon us. The barking resumeslouder nowand the terror spikes. Then I realize its Clark making the noises. He stops and cups his hands to his mouth.

Hey, bear! Hey, grizzly-grizzly-grizzly! he hollers at the top of his voice, a ploy to ward off any bears nearby.

Clark drops his arms and ducks into a waist-high tunnel-like trail in the brush. Were forced to crawl on our hands and knees, past sprawling blooms of wet, rotting skunk cabbage, making loud noises, and occasionally having to untangle ourselves from the branches that snag our packs. I realize that at any moment we might be ambushed and mauled by a startled grizzly. Im awash in regret for what feels like a foolish undertakingrevisiting the perch of a legendary creature that also happens to be in the heart of bear country.