The weather has won. The struggle that has plagued me this late winter over the accessibility of God has become hard to maintain in the face of the undeniable force of Spring. The soft maples are putting out their tiny red flowers, covered in swarms of minute pollinators flush with the promise of life and nourishment; the pussy willows are pushing out their gray, soft tufts, and the willows and other wetland bushes and trees are turning bright colors with the flush of sap released from their roots; and of course, the birds are everywhere, singing, fighting for territory, and somewhere mating to bring forth a clutch of new life. What can I say, but that I am defeated, and am glad for it. Life is good.
Oddly appropriate, I picked up a book at the library about Bigfoot, an encyclopedia of hundreds of different encounters with "cryptozoology," including everything from the outrageous - Mothman in Pennsylvania and floating, hairy hands in England - to the more standard depictions of Bigfoot (see The Bigfoot Book by Nick Redfern). In this book, the author strongly advised me, the reader, to buy Dennis Walker's In Search of Kutashka, which I did. It is, unfortunately, a slapdash work that desperately needs an editor, but last night it gave me one of the best real-life ghost stories I have read in some time (written by the "Chautauqua Hunter", who has a website of his adventures) Ghost stories, you see; campfires and tall tales - summer! Terrible, yes, this story, too, but no more so than the teen-age tales of the one-armed man with the hook who goes about trying to kill young couples necking in their cars out in the boonies. And better, too, because it is supposed to be real.
The writer claims that he is a Vietnam vet, who, with a head full of problems after the war, moved up to the south east Peninsula of Alaska, where Juneau and the Alaskan Waterway are located, looking for adventure and a change of life. In time, he comes to know the area, and the legends of the Tlingit Indians, one of which is about the Bay of Death, an isolated area where a village of Tlingit mysteriously disappeared in 1750. To this day, it is a cursed area, where no Indians go, and no one of any stripe lives. Now, in it live the Kutashka, or Land Otter people, who are shape- shifters who can appear as human, as animal, or as a combination of the two. Say those who know, they are different from Bigfoot - more spiritual than material, and usually full of evil towards humankind.
Of course, the author had to go there, but it took years and years before he got the exact location and the background information. Finally, he gets a posse of three together - a Tlingit buddy, an ex- biker (Jim) from California and himself, and they plan to travel there in the biker's houseboat. On the day before, the Tlingit decides not to go at the stern advice of his grandmother, who says, "those who make it back alive are never the same." The biker, however, has dreams of bravado, of capturing one of the creatures and putting it on display to become rich. As they approach the Bay, the author dissuades the biker from this, but he is still all bravado until they come into the Bay and sight a small cabin put up by the Forest Service. Jim wants to go there to sleep for the night, but the author, using binoculars, finds that the place has been shot up- not by yahoo hunters or fishermen passing by, but by occupants, for the rifle blasts created "exit" holes, showing that it was the residents inside shooting at something outside. Then the big chill begins.
That night, they hear strange and terrible howls and see odd lights that are NOT the northern lights. In the morning, Jim appears nervous and declares that they are leaving - no questions asked! The author takes a soda from the fridge and finds it full of sea water. A sense of evil prevails, and as they pull up anchor, they find that the steering barely works. Making it back to a town, the houseboat springs a leak, with no problem for it found. The biker sells it later, and the author goes back to his place in Sitka. Going to visit his Tlingit friend, the grandmother says, see? For those strong enough to withstand them, it is a life-changing experience. For others not as strong - and she knew this of her grandson - they mean death or madness.
Ah, I suppose you have to read the full account, but it sent tingles up my spine and a feeling of fear - of evil - but of "evil" that is far off and away from me. I loved it, of course, as most of us love such tales. And we know why: because it speaks of the mystery we know life is, and of its dangers beyond what we can understand, or are given to understand in our philosophies and religions. The ghost story, usually fake, is sometimes the more realistic version of life for its spookiness, for its elicitation of the unknown - for life is, after all, unknown. Huddled besides the campfire, we thrill to its dark depths - and then wait for the sun to bring us back. But the night never really goes away.
In the next day or so I will print out the chapter in my book, Dream Weaver, that speaks of my own real (I swear!) encounter with Bigfoot. I'll let ya'll know when I get it together. Until then, enjoy the coming weather and never tread on land where the Evil Ones have settled - for to do so, your life, if it remains, will be changed forever! FK
Oddly appropriate, I picked up a book at the library about Bigfoot, an encyclopedia of hundreds of different encounters with "cryptozoology," including everything from the outrageous - Mothman in Pennsylvania and floating, hairy hands in England - to the more standard depictions of Bigfoot (see The Bigfoot Book by Nick Redfern). In this book, the author strongly advised me, the reader, to buy Dennis Walker's In Search of Kutashka, which I did. It is, unfortunately, a slapdash work that desperately needs an editor, but last night it gave me one of the best real-life ghost stories I have read in some time (written by the "Chautauqua Hunter", who has a website of his adventures) Ghost stories, you see; campfires and tall tales - summer! Terrible, yes, this story, too, but no more so than the teen-age tales of the one-armed man with the hook who goes about trying to kill young couples necking in their cars out in the boonies. And better, too, because it is supposed to be real.
The writer claims that he is a Vietnam vet, who, with a head full of problems after the war, moved up to the south east Peninsula of Alaska, where Juneau and the Alaskan Waterway are located, looking for adventure and a change of life. In time, he comes to know the area, and the legends of the Tlingit Indians, one of which is about the Bay of Death, an isolated area where a village of Tlingit mysteriously disappeared in 1750. To this day, it is a cursed area, where no Indians go, and no one of any stripe lives. Now, in it live the Kutashka, or Land Otter people, who are shape- shifters who can appear as human, as animal, or as a combination of the two. Say those who know, they are different from Bigfoot - more spiritual than material, and usually full of evil towards humankind.
Of course, the author had to go there, but it took years and years before he got the exact location and the background information. Finally, he gets a posse of three together - a Tlingit buddy, an ex- biker (Jim) from California and himself, and they plan to travel there in the biker's houseboat. On the day before, the Tlingit decides not to go at the stern advice of his grandmother, who says, "those who make it back alive are never the same." The biker, however, has dreams of bravado, of capturing one of the creatures and putting it on display to become rich. As they approach the Bay, the author dissuades the biker from this, but he is still all bravado until they come into the Bay and sight a small cabin put up by the Forest Service. Jim wants to go there to sleep for the night, but the author, using binoculars, finds that the place has been shot up- not by yahoo hunters or fishermen passing by, but by occupants, for the rifle blasts created "exit" holes, showing that it was the residents inside shooting at something outside. Then the big chill begins.
That night, they hear strange and terrible howls and see odd lights that are NOT the northern lights. In the morning, Jim appears nervous and declares that they are leaving - no questions asked! The author takes a soda from the fridge and finds it full of sea water. A sense of evil prevails, and as they pull up anchor, they find that the steering barely works. Making it back to a town, the houseboat springs a leak, with no problem for it found. The biker sells it later, and the author goes back to his place in Sitka. Going to visit his Tlingit friend, the grandmother says, see? For those strong enough to withstand them, it is a life-changing experience. For others not as strong - and she knew this of her grandson - they mean death or madness.
Ah, I suppose you have to read the full account, but it sent tingles up my spine and a feeling of fear - of evil - but of "evil" that is far off and away from me. I loved it, of course, as most of us love such tales. And we know why: because it speaks of the mystery we know life is, and of its dangers beyond what we can understand, or are given to understand in our philosophies and religions. The ghost story, usually fake, is sometimes the more realistic version of life for its spookiness, for its elicitation of the unknown - for life is, after all, unknown. Huddled besides the campfire, we thrill to its dark depths - and then wait for the sun to bring us back. But the night never really goes away.
In the next day or so I will print out the chapter in my book, Dream Weaver, that speaks of my own real (I swear!) encounter with Bigfoot. I'll let ya'll know when I get it together. Until then, enjoy the coming weather and never tread on land where the Evil Ones have settled - for to do so, your life, if it remains, will be changed forever! FK
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