Bigfoot's Banjo
(The Hills Are Alive With The Sounds Of Sasquatch)
I.
The trees buckled under the twang of the roundwound strings. A furious fretboard shuffle called to the winds and generated a tumultuous rustling of leaves. The branches swayed as acorns fell upon solid earthen ground. It was a song of the elements. A song for the brokenhearted. For the outcast, the forgotten, and alone. Nature seemed to curb its appetite as the notes were plucked, one by one, in succession. The rhythm reverberated off of decaying tree stumps and pounded its way through thickets of overgrown vegetation. Housed in a chamber of solitude sat a large hairy creature.
II.
“Now this leaf, is known as poison ivy.” The field guide instructed her students. “Can anyone tell me what the scientific name of this leaf is?” She looked upon the crowd that had amassed before her. The majority of them she knew, but the rest were strangers. Just people that were interested in learning more about the trail paths and what they could expect to encounter when they travelled the soiled roads that had been beaten down by numerous generations before. A young man raised his hand and called out the answer before Josephine had a chance to acknowledge him.
“Toxicodendron radicans!” The young man blurted out, barely able to contain his excitement and enthusiasm. His knowledge of plant life and intrinsic desire to share what he had learned thus far in his relatively short lifespan, had gotten the better of him. “That’s correct,” Josephine stated. She pulled a map out of the back pocket of her khaki shorts and began to unfold it. “It’s important that while travelling through these woods, you try to avoid touching this plant.” Josephine had been giving tours and instructing people on the ins and outs of the forest for quite a number of years. Her knowledge of trails and what the common folk could encounter whilst traversing them was very extensive. She had seen so many things in her time as a field guide that she was an expert in what to do and also, what not to do, while hiking through this immense wooded jungle landscape.
“Hey, tour guide lady!!” an older gentleman shouted from the back of the group. “You ever seen Bigfoot in these here hills?!” His southern accent was very thick, and his words came across as if they were drenched in blackberry molasses and ignorance. Josephine paused as the image that this man had just conjured played a vivid video clip in her mind. “Bigfoot,” She finally said after a brief moment. “Bigfoot doesn’t exist. If I were to tell you otherwise, I would be misleading - and as one of the cardinal rules as your guide to these trails, states, I am not allowed to mislead you.” This remark generated a few laughs and chortles from the rest of the audience in attendance. All of the adventurers seemed to be in a good mood and ready to begin their expeditions. Josephine clutched her map and looked expectantly towards the landscape that was about to be embarked upon. If only she could believe those words she had just uttered. If only.
III.
The sun had risen from the east, tinting the sky with a pinkish hue. To the casual observer it might appear nice. Calm and serene, some might even go so far as to say the sky looked pretty. To Jack Worthington it just looked as if the Easter Bunny had vomited its pastel basket of dull eggs into the air to cover the world in a melancholy tone of boring. He got up and spit on the ground as a gesture to show his displeasure at the dawn of a new day. He had been camping for the better part of three months and his physical appearance reflected his disgruntled mood. Unshaven, unbathed, and unapologetic, he stood on top of a massive rock with his flannel shirt waving slightly in the breeze. Jack looked like he could have invented the grunge rock movement and much like the music that peppered the airwaves of the 1990’s, he wore his angst on his sleeve.
He had been searching for the elusive creature, most commonly known as Bigfoot, for quite a number of years. He had been to the Pacific Northwest, talked to, and more or less, interviewed (to use the term loosely) a countless multitude of people about the mysterious beast that was said to wander the woods. Forlorn, an outsider, misunderstood and misrepresented, Jack could identify with all of these characteristics and felt a strong kinship and connectivity to the “manimal” that went beyond what many others could assume. Some of the folks just wanted to see the thing with their own two eyes. To know that it truly existed as an alternative or a variation on the human form. Some people hunted the beast, like selfish misogynistic poachers that had the urge to kill and could disguise their lusting savagery as a warped sense of sport. Jack simply wanted to know the thing. To sit down and spend time in the presence of something genetically foreign but emotionally relatable. Ultimately, his experiences out west and the time he spent there had shown him that if the creature did in fact at one time live out there, he more than likely moved from that area and settled somewhere else, far away from all the hub bub and commotion that was perpetuated by the various seekers of Sasquatch.
He stood there staring against the trees, attentively listening to the birdsongs as they chirped and chattered and shared their flighty wisdom amongst each other. He knew that today he would travel farther north towards what he suspected was a possible stronghold or hideout of the hairy hermit, a large cave known to the locals as Henderson’s Haven. His research had told him that the area used to be inhabited by an old mountain man by the name of Henderson that was renowned as a bit of kook to the people in the overdeveloped and populated towns nearby. Henny, as he was commonly referred to, lived in the woods by himself, totally self-sustained and self-sufficient. This was many years ago. The man had to be long since deceased at this time, but to Jack’s way of thinking, if a man that was thought to be mildly insane could live and survive for years in that small bit of woods, there must be something about the spot that was special. Maybe it was special enough for a burly ‘ol Bigfoot to call it home.
IV.
The molecules around the instrument shifted, zoomed, dispersed and congealed at a dizzying rate. Electrons, protons, neutrons, and ions were zipping around in a furious dance of scattering reorganization. Each string was a gateway to a different locale, and Bigfoot knew how to handle his instrument like a true master. With a blazing nine note solo, he could cause himself and his mystical banjo to disappear and teleport across time zones, quicker than you could say, “Beam me up Scottie.” Once, he was a huge presence in the foothills of the great Pacific Northwest. He lived out his days mostly in peace and tranquility, until the time came when the commotion of his existence became too great and the folklore finders got too curious and overbearing. He used his banjo to transport himself to the other side of the country and escape all of the camera flashes, the bullets, the arrows, the clever traps and snares from curious campers waiting in camouflaged anticipation to cash in on the discovery of his location.
On the east coast, things were a lot less dramatic and he felt more comfortable running through the forests with the scuttling squirrels and the meandering majestic mountain lions; racing butterflies, wrestling bears, and serenading the songbirds with his blistering banjo anthems. He had even met someone special and for the first time, felt the blossoming pangs of love. She hadn’t seen him right away, as his massive form was blended into the mouth of his cave like a shaggy silhouette against the darkened entrance. He had been looking for a sign that food was nearby and there she stood. Her long scarlet hair was rippling in the wind and immediately he was stricken by the beauty and grace that emanated from her pores like a thick perfume of perfection. The thought had crossed his mind to run towards her, to scoop her up in his strong hairy arms and feel the strength of her heart, beat against his own. Instead he walked slowly and deliberately back inside of his cave and picked up his battered, benevolent banjo and began plucking a tune. His fierce emotions and unspoken desires came through harmoniously in this rhapsody of unfettered innocence that was created on the spot. The woman in the woods heard the amazing sounds that were being projected from within his solitary shelter and began walking towards the cave, curious and spellbound. It was as if his music had entranced her mind and she wasn’t even conscious of her movements and actions. She just had to move closer, to see what kind of being was responsible for this heavenly hillbilly overture. She got to the front of the cave, following the notes of the song as they cascaded through the wind and bounced off the branches of the surrounding trees. She peered anxiously inside the cave as her already widened and awakened eyes sent a signal of shock and amazement to her brain. There he was, sitting on a rock. His long, furry fingers were frantically moving across the instrument in a mesmerizing and flawless display of musicianship. It was as if time had stopped altogether. Their eyes met and Bigfoot gave off a sheepish grin as he continued his melodic swooning on the banjo.
A gunshot rang out of nowhere and broke the Sasquatchian spell that elucidated love from Bigfoot and his enchanting instrument. Josephine was startled by the ringing out of gunfire and no matter how impressed she was by the sight of a creature that was thought to only exist in the imaginations and drunken hallucinations of wannabe believers, her instinct was to run. So that’s what she did. She fled the mouth of the cave and back towards the safety of the trail that she had been hiking before the music touched her soul. She never forgot that moment however, or the feeling that was shared between herself and the magnificent beast. For weeks afterward, she would ponder the possibilities of what would have happened if she was able to sit down and have a discussion with the creature. Could he speak her language? Did he know about the legends and myths that surrounded the nature of his existence? Where was he from, how old was he now, and were there others like him? She was full of so many questions, but for the sake of her reputation and career, she didn’t dare to try and search for answers or tell anyone else what happened that day. It was a moment she relived frequently in her mind, but one that she denied sharing with anyone else. They wouldn’t understand and she couldn’t possibly articulate, with any sense of accuracy, the feeling and emotions that were given off by the sounds of his playing. It was truly a once in a lifetime moment that couldn’t be recreated or disseminated with any justice to the actual experience itself.
TO BE CONTINUED………
Written by : Brad Schoeneman
For : S.T. Publications – a division of C.S.I. Industries