By Michael Dolan

Tom cradled the ruined camcorder in his hands. His research had suggested this secluded corner of North Cascades National Park would be the ideal location to capture footage of a real-life sasquatch. But now his dreams of finding one had been crushed to dust. Just like the camcorder. He vainly tried piecing it back together.

“Whatcha doing?”

Tom wheeled around. Staring at him was a ten-foot-tall ape covered in dark brown hair. The creature almost melded into the mossy woods behind him.

Tom dropped the camcorder’s remains. “You!”

“What?”

Tom tried to collect himself, if not his device. “I’m going to get irrefutable proof that you exist!”

“In this day and age? You know about text-to-video AI, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Tom thought a moment. “You do too?”

The creature rolled his eyes. “I may live in a cave, but not under a rock. But that’s not the point. Why do you want this video so much?”

“Fame for myself and redemption for the field of cryptozoology. But mostly fame.”

“Is that it?”

Tom considered this. “I expect the fame would include money.”

“Oh sure, that’s great.” The creature stared at Tom. “But what about me?”

“Come again?”

“What. About. Me?” The creature crossed his arms. “Assume this video actually goes viral. That’s fine for you. But what about me?”

Tom looked sideways. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Of course not.” The creature shook his head. “You know the difference between you and me? It’s not the hair, or the height, or the size thirty feet.” He narrowed his eyes at Tom. “I’m happy, and you’re not.”

“Wow.” Tom raised his eyebrows.  “Wow. That was unnecessary.”

The creature raised his hands. “Sorry, you’re right. That was out of line.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Sammy, by the way.”

Tom accepted the shake, his hand getting swallowed up in Sammy’s hairy grasp. “Tom.”

“Walk with me, Tom.”

The pair forged a path through vegetation covering a slope. Sunlight and birdsong filtered through the coniferous boughs as they ascended, with Tom scrambling to keep pace with Sammy.

“You’re what, early twenties?” asked the sasquatch.

“Twenty”–Tom gasped for breath–“three.”

“Cool.” Sammy brushed aside a low-hanging limb and motioned Tom through. “I’m a hundred twelve.”

Tom almost tripped on a root. “Oh, uh, you look good for your age?”

Sammy chuckled. “I wasn’t fishing for that, but thanks. What I meant is I’ve seen a lot in the last century. I remember before this was a national park. Miners digging for silver and gold. Workers building dams for power.”

“Yes, I too read the exhibits at the visitor center.”

Sammy slapped Tom upside the head. “Hey. Respect your elders. I’m saying that I’ve seen a lot of humans, but not a lot who are content with what they have. They’re always wanting more. More wealth. More power. More fame. Sound familiar?”

“I think you misunderstand what kind of ‘power’ the dams provide.”

Sammy sighed. “You’re still missing the point. Look over here.” The cryptid led Tom through thinning trees, which opened out into a grand vista of a narrow river winding through steep mountains speckled by swaths of green and topped by snowy peaks stretching toward the cloudy sky.

Wordlessly, Tom pulled out his phone, but Sammy snatched it before he could snap a photo.

He smacked Tom again. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Ow! What?”

“I’m confiscating this until you’ve proven you know when to use it.”

“What do you care? Oh wait. I forgot who I was talking to.”

Sammy shook his head and looked back to the panorama. “As long as I’ve lived here, it’s barely changed. And things have been good. Food to eat. Shelter over my head.” He turned back to Tom. “But if proof of me gets out, that all changes. Suddenly I’m a celebrity and I can’t go anywhere without someone wanting a signature, photo, or cast of my foot.” He sighed. “That’s not the life I want.”

Tom pondered this perspective as he took in the view. “I think you’re overestimating how big you’d get.”

“Bigger than ten feet?”

“I mean, popularity isn’t what it used to be.” Tom’s mind raced to create a convincing argument. “You think crowds will converge on the park and start hunting for you? Maybe for a weekend. Then the next thing will blow up and you’ll be yesterday’s news. You can go back to your life of anonymous solitude.”

“You really think so?”

“Sure. Of course, the smart thing would be capitalizing on it. Get a meme coin going, maybe pivot to a podcast like ‘PodCascades.’ But you don’t have to.” Tom smiled. “’Course, that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“You really don’t give up, huh?”

Tom shook his head.

“Fine,” Sammy motioned him closer. “Come here.”

Tom stayed put. “What’s happening?”

“Calm down. Let’s get this selfie out of the way.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Tom fought a squeal, which instead sounded like a deflating balloon. He jumped next to Sammy while the cryptid held out the phone.

“It’s this button, right?”

“No, that controls the other camera.”

“This one?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Got it.”

“I’m not in it!”

“Your cowlick is.”

“Angle it down.”

“Like that?”

“Sure, if you’re into knees.”

“This is hard.”

“Can you squat?”

“It’s literally in my species name.”

Eventually Sammy got the picture. He grinned as he flicked through the photos. “Wow. These cameras get better every year.”

“I know, right?”

Sammy flung his arm back like Logan Gilbert and chucked the phone into the distance.

“What are you doing?” Tom clutched his hair in disbelief.

“A favor. You got your moment, I’ll get my peace.” With that, Sammy started stalking back into the woods.

“But… what am I supposed to do now?”

“Touch moss,” answered Sammy from the foliage.

Tom huffed, then reflected on the interaction as he began trekking back to his campsite. “I guess I know where the sass in his name comes from, too.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Dolan’s short stories have appeared in Splickety, Havok, and The Norwegian American. When he’s not writing marketing materials, he can be found hiking, reading, gaming, or writing some more. He and his family live in the Pacific Northwest.

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