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PRELIMINARY REPORT OF
Dear Friends and Associates:
We have recently returned from the 1999 Six
Rivers National Forest Expedition, our third annual field project to this
area. The purpose of this project was to attempt to produce new evidence
for the supposed Sasquatch or Bigfoot, a large, bipedal primate said to
inhabit the forests of North America. This e-mail is intended to summarize
the results of this year's project for many of our friends and colleagues,
thus saving us the time and energy it would take to write or call each
one of you individually. I will, of course, be in touch with many of you
anyway in the course of time. Meanwhile, if you have any questions at all
about our project, please do not hesitate to call or e-mail me. Ultimately,
a Field Report will appear in a future issue of the journal Cryptozoology.
Meanwhile,
there is nothing confidential contained herein, so please feel free to
share this information or this text with others, through e-mails, Internet
postings, or whatever.
PROJECT PHILOSOPHY AND INTENT
First, for those who may not be aware of the
philosophy and intent behind the Six Rivers National Forest Expeditions,
let me preface this communication with an explanatory introduction. Our
starting position is that, over time, interesting evidence has been produced
that runs contrary to theory in anthropology and expectations in
zoology—that is, that a
large bipedal primate occurs in North America. It would
be easy to dismiss the occurrence of such a species as "impossible." In
fact, this has been done—in my presence. My position, instead, is that
normal scientific procedure should be followed, and that involves testing
the hypothesis that such a species exists. This is obviously best done
in the field, despite the many financial, logistical, and physical difficulties
involved. Only by testing the hypothesis in this way, however, can it be
stated that the scientific method is being properly applied to the problem,
and that true objectivity is involved.
Through this process, my opinion or anybody
else's opinion concerning whether or not this species exists should be
of no interest whatsoever to other scientists—there already have been,
in any case, far too many opinions and appeals to authority on this subject.
What should be of interest to other scientists is new persuasive
evidence produced by sustained fieldwork, provided that such evidence is
collected under controlled conditions, following scientific protocols,
and subsequently published in a format that permits adequate analysis,
evaluation, and criticism by others. The question then is: Is the hypothesis
validated by such new evidence? If it is not, it shall continue to be a
viable hypothesis, one which still might be validated in the future. There
is no need to reject or dismiss such a hypothesis, as do many unthinking
scientists. The hypothesis simply remains invalidated, and that should
be sufficient for everybody. Furthermore, it will remain invalidated unless
definitive evidence—i.e., proof—is produced at some future time.
Such a procedure is simply part of the objective methodology of science—not
necessarily of most scientists, relatively few of whom, unfortunately,
have been trained in the fundamentals of the scientific process or the
philosophy of science—and that is what we are pursuing.
There is one final point I would like to make
on this topic, and that is because one of my procedures could be
misunderstood—or even misrepresented—at some
future time. When in the field, I
put aside all preconceived notions and theory, and proceed under the temporary
assumption that the phenomenon is real—that is, that the species in
question does, in fact, exist. The rationale behind this procedure is fundamentally
simple: if this species does exist, then the easiest method of collecting
pertinent evidence in support of this is to treat it as if
it exists. That is, to deal with it on its own supposed terms in its own
supposed environment. What I am doing, then, is temporarily giving it the
benefit of the doubt, bending over backwards in its own supposed habitat,
being Mr. Nice Field Guy, and allowing the supposed species to manifest
its biological existence as it sees fit—and I'll be paying close attention,
examining all evidence or factors that, under normal circumstances, might
be overlooked or dismissed out of hand. This temporary field procedure
in no way should be misunderstood or misinterpreted as an acceptance of
the reality of such a species. It is simply a useful operational methodology
in the field, and it has nothing whatever to do with my overall permanent
objectivity when evaluating scientific problems of this kind. At the end
of the fieldwork, I take off that Mr. Nice Field Guy hat and put on my
Mr. Nasty Scientific Guy hat. That is when all the evidence that has been
collected for an unknown species, if any, is objectively sifted, sorted,
analyzed, and evaluated, with tough questions asked and critical criteria
invoked.
The final product, then, is evidence that has
been collected in the field under conditions favoring the phenomenon—in
this case the Bigfoot—but then evaluated in a scientific setting
under conditions favoring strict and objective analysis. To my knowledge,
nobody has ever questioned our procedures. I simply wanted to convey them
clearly here, and thus avoid any ambiguities or doubts that could arise
in the future concerning our intentions or procedures.
The one-month 1999 expedition included myself
(J. Richard Greenwell), Secretary of the International Society of Cryptozoology
(ISC); Angelo P. Capparella, a field biologist at Illinois State University;
Darwin A. Greenwell (my eldest son), a college student affiliated with
the School of Music at the University of Arizona; and Ronnie L. Roseman,
a Florida businessman who helped fund the expedition. This year, with over
500 lbs of specialized equipment, materials, food, and clothing, we returned
to the Siskiyou Wilderness—last year we spent a month in Bluff Creek,
with no results whatsoever. Obviously, one has many adventures during
a one-month period, but I shall try to keep the narrative brief. I can
report, to start with, that no sightings of such a supposed primate were
made by any of us, and no clear, unambiguous tracks were found. It should
be noted, at the same time, that only one clear, unambiguous track of a
black bear was found during the same period—I made a cast of it—this
despite the area probably containing the highest concentration of bears
anywhere in the world. The reason for this is the very low proportion of
terrain that will show a clear track, or any mark at all, due to a substrate
composed almost entirely of rocks, compacted soils, and forest duff. Only
mud flats around some limited water sources are good for track deposition.
We never conduct these field projects expecting
to prove the existence of this unverified primate. Our basic working philosophy
is that, if it were that easy to prove, it would already have been proven
a long time ago. All we can hope to do, though a number of strategies over
an extended period of time in a remote wilderness setting, is increase
the probability of obtaining further evidence—perhaps good evidence.
However, we are unable to predict by how far we are increasing that probability,
the reason being that practically nothing is known about the natural history
of the supposed species under investigation.
The evidence that we were exposed to this year
can be divided in to two categories: physical evidence and sound evidence.
Sound evidence can then be divided into three categories: calls, footsteps,
and manufactured sounds such as tree-knockings and "crashes."
PHYSICAL EVIDENCE
Unlike at Bluff Creek last year, we encountered
very few trees with their tops broken off. Only one of these had hairs,
and these were collected for microscopic analysis. We encountered many,
many fecal deposits from black bear, which we generally ignored. We did
collect suspected coyote feces, and, twice, unidentified feces, one specimen
of which was human-like. These will be submitted to a fecal analysis specialist.
On August 4, Darwin and I went on a nine-day
recon to the north. I realized afterwards that, even including my six years
in Peru, I had never before actually spent that many days with just
one other human being, without seeing anybody else on the planet. And this
was in California, the most populous state of the most industrialized country
on Earth. The reason, of course, is that the Siskiyou Wilderness is very
rugged and hard to negotiate. Even so, we were able to explore several
canyons and river drainage systems. We went about nine miles north of the
trailhead—which itself is about an hour's drive from the closest rural
habitation by humans. This may not sound like much, but in that country,
backpacking 90 lbs and descending and ascending 1,000-foot drops on heavily-vegetated
mountains with inclines of up to 60º and no trails, it's actually
quite a distance.
During these explorations, on August 9, we
encountered two "beds." The first one was in a small, flat wood. A conifer
tree about 6-7 feet tall had been forced down to ground level and had been
hooked under the bark of a nearby large tree; the result was a nice "bed"
to lay on. Would a bear do that? Perhaps. Could it have been the result
of heavy snowpack from the previous winter forcing the tree downwards?
Perhaps. We released the tree, and it sprang upwards right away, indicating
that it had been forced down quite recently. In trying to hook it down
again, it took both of us—or one of us standing on it—to do so. We
searched for hair very carefully, but only found and preserved what we
think are tree fibers. Photos and video were taken, and these will be shared
with bear experts for professional opinions.
About 100 feet from this wood, in a small meadow,
we found a large pile of broken conifer tree branches piled on top of one
another—another "bed." These limbs were between 1 and 1.5 inches thick,
and they would have been impossible for a human to break when the branches
were alive and green. A bear would have the strength to break such limbs,
but bears break limbs to "mark" trees, and they certainly do not carry
such branches the 30 or 40 feet that separated this area from nearby trees.
We therefore consider the finding of this "bed" quite compelling, as we
cannot provide a normal explanation for its existence. Unlike the other,
nearby one, this bed was quite old, possibly from last year, as all the
branches and needles were quite dead. It was about 6 feet in length and
several feet wide. It was very thick, and when I tried to raise it all
up with my hands, I found it was too heavy to raise very far. We shall,
of course, be checking with bear experts on this "bed" also, and providing
them with photos and/or video for their evaluation.
SOUND EVIDENCE
On the first full day of the expedition, July
20, at our first camp in a box canyon, we broadcast our usual Bigfoot and
primate calls—gorillas and howler monkeys—using our very powerful
broadcast system. We didn't really expect anything to happen right away.
However, at about 1 a.m. that night (now the early morning of July 21),
I was awakened by footsteps. They were similar to the ones I had heard
in this same box canyon two years before, on the first Six Rivers expedition,
but slightly faster. I didn't try to observe the intruder, as I knew that
one of our two remote video night-cameras was already operational. Our
strategy this year was to let the night-cameras do their job, at least
at first, without us alarming any intruders. Soon afterwards, however,
I heard what I interpreted to be loud tree-knocking a little north of camp.
Such tree-knockings have sometimes been reported by witnesses, including
Mark Slack and Jeff Meldrum on the first Six Rivers expedition; they are
generally interpreted as warnings or intimidations. My perception at the
time was that the sounds had a sort of hollowness to them, as if a bamboo
tree were being hit with a bamboo stick.
I awoke Darwin, as we shared the large work-tent.
Darwin is a student of music, both theory and practice, and he knows a
lot about the characteristics and interpretation of sound in regards to
pitch, timbre, as well as sound propagation. He immediately stated that
the sound we were hearing was not tree-knocking at all, but a strange call.
In fact, probably the most bizarre call I have ever heard. We have both
tried to recreate it, unsuccessfully. The best I can come up with is to
start with a hollow-sounding tock—the initial
"tree-knocking"—followed by a sort of guttural clicking as one may
hear in the Quechua language of Peru, and ending in a curious upswinging
oiiing.
The call in its totality is thus something like
tockkkoiiing. This
is a poor representation indeed, but does anybody have any idea what kind
of mammal or bird might make a call like this? It is the sort of call that,
once heard, will certainly never be forgotten. In our later meeting with
U.S. Forest Service personnel, the regional biologist had never heard anything
like it.
The calls went on for over a minute, and it
became apparent that two entities were involved, calling back and forth
to each other. We both interpreted the calls as coming from ground level
just north of our camp, and then moving away at a very rapid speed. The
calls receded towards the Dillon drainage, until they ended. Darwin tried
to get our digital disk recorder going, but, just having arrived in camp,
much of our equipment was not yet operational, including this disk
recorder—and the seismic detectors. However,
we knew that the digital remote
video night-camera would have captured the sounds. When we checked the
camera, we found that nothing had actually come into camp and been filmed.
The calls had indeed been recorded, but, although the audio recording capability
of the camera, being digital, is nearly as good as that of the digital
disk recorder, the quality of the camera's speaker left much to be desired,
and not much more than the initial tock was apparent to us in the
recording. Ideally, to benefit from the quality of such a recording,
one should play back a digital videotape on a domestic or industrial machine
back home, which, of course, we did not have in the field.
What we did have with us in the field, on digital
disks, were the calls of all Western birds, and Angelo, a professional
ornithologist, tried the next day to identify what it was that we had heard
and had been recorded. This attempt was unsuccessful. However, a bird call
heard a few times in our canyon that day convinced him that what we had
heard was that particular bird. Although he was not able to see the bird
at the time, he was confident that we would be hearing it again over the
next few days, and that he would then be able to see it and identify it.
Although at the time of the event we were certain that the calls were coming
from ground level, not from the air or from trees, we finally and reluctantly
conceded to Angelo's expertise, and his opinion that what we had heard
had come from that still-unidentified bird—or two of them. Thus, the
digital videotape with the recording of the calls was taped over repeatedly
when it was used for further night-time surveillance. As it turned out,
that proved to be a tragic mistake which we now regret having made.
On the morning of July 26, at our new camp
to the north established the evening before, Darwin was awakened at 6:58
a.m. by the sound of heavy footsteps moving southwards on the trail behind
the work-tent, and he assumed it was a hiker. The steps stopped abruptly,
as if our tent had been spotted, and for a while he heard quiet steps to
the north and south, as if the visitor were trying to peer into the camp.
The steps then quietly receded to the south. After I awoke, Darwin told
me about hearing this "hiker," but I was dubious. First, who in his right
mind would hike alone through the Siskiyou Wilderness? Second, our camp
area could not be reached from any water source in the north that early
in the morning. Moving southwards from a water source, a hiker would not
be able to reach our camp till mid-morning at the earliest. And third,
when we radioed Angelo and Ronnie at the first camp, to our south, they
stated that they had seen no hiker coming through. Yet, because of the
topography, any hiker moving south through that area of the Siskiyous
would necessarily have to have gone through their camp. Darwin stated
that the footfall of this "hiker" had a strange double-strike sound; it
had a consistent cadence, thus: du-dum, du-dum, du-dum, du-dum,
as if his feet were hitting the ground with a fast double-impact footfall.
He also said that the steps sounded extremely heavy. I think it is to Darwin's
credit that he immediately thought these steps were being made by a heavy
hiker, not jumping to any Bigfoot conclusions. It is I who questioned this,
and have invoked the "Sasquatch hypothesis."
Later that day—the 26th—Angelo and Ronnie
moved to our third camp, by an alpine lake still to the south of the new
main camp manned by Darwin and me, and we installed remote night-cameras
in each camp. That night, at about 1 a.m. (now the early morning of the
27th), Ronnie was awakened by calls from two entities on either side of
the lake, which is less than 200 feet across. He stated that they were
at ground level, and his description of the calls was identical to that
heard by Darwin and me that night at out first camp—the mysterious
tockkkoiiing.
Angelo awoke and also heard the calls, but later described them to us as
more like a tock. The entities making the calls rapidly joined up,
and the calls then receded to the west and ended. The sequence of the
movements involved was similar to that perceived by Darwin and me at the
first camp; that is, two entities at ground level calling to each other
from separate locations, then meeting up, and then rapidly leaving the
area together. It is interesting, too, that these entities, whether mammals
or birds, visited the vicinities of both camps in the middle of the night,
and immediately after such camps had been established.
With other logistical tasks needing to be accomplished,
there had still been no time to install the seismic detectors at the main
camp manned by Darwin and me. This was unfortunate, as that night, July
27, at about 2:20 a.m. (now the early morning of the 28th), I was suddenly
awakened by heavy and very rapidly-approaching footsteps similar to the
ones Darwin had described. As in Darwin's case, the footsteps suddenly
stopped. They then changed several times from a very slow step to a very
rapid step—essentially running—but always with the same du-dum,
du-dum, du-dum, du-dum fast double-strike sequence. Further, the second
part, the -dum, had a strange "floppiness" about it during the slower
walking, as one might hear when somebody walks by a swimming pool wearing
flippers. My impression was that the steps were being made by a very heavy
and powerful entity, but also a very fast one with a rapid step when necessary;
this did not compute well in my mind, as one normally associates heavy
animals as being slower than smaller or lighter animals in their ability
to change speeds. I lay perfectly still, not wanting to alarm the intruder,
hoping, again, that our video night-camera would catch it. Had we had time
to install the seismic detectors, of course, I would have had some warning
of a heavy entity approaching our camp, and I could then have better prepared
myself to possibly observe or film it from the tent itself. After some
minutes of silence, I quietly awoke Darwin, and slight retreating steps
were then heard.
Several hours later, a little after 7 a.m.,
I was again awakened by steps, but this time they were soft. After a while,
as it was now daylight, I carefully and quietly got up and moved to a northern
zippered peephole—we had had these custom-installed in the
work-tent—and peered out. I saw nothing
unusual, but, at that very moment, I distinctly
heard the old tockkkoiiing call some distance north of camp. The
call was made only twice, but I think two entities were again involved
as the second call seemed much closer—or at least louder—than the
first one. The calls lasted only a few seconds, far too fast to activate
the digital recorder, followed immediately by a "crashing" sound. I heard
nothing else. The "crashing" sound convinced me that a bird was certainly
not involved, but, unfortunately, because of the five-hour time gap, I
cannot directly link the entities making these calls to the very heavy
and fast footsteps I had heard earlier that night. This was the first time,
incidentally, that these entities, whatever their affinities, had visited
a camp area and made the tockkkoiiing calls in daylight—and it
was the last time I was to ever hear such calls. Of note too is the fact
that, as far as we know, they were the only unknown entities to have
visited—and vocalized at—all of the three camps that we established
in the area at different times. There was nothing unusual on the video
night-camera. So, whatever entities had come by our camp, twice that night/morning,
had not actually entered it.
That night, July 28, at about 10 p.m., while
returning to their camp from ours, Angelo and Ronnie heard a call that
they described as a kouk, repeated numerous items, and coming from
a small, nearby wood. As with the tockkkoiiing calls, Angelo was
unable to identify these kouk calls as that of a bird, either at
that time or since—based on the description, the regional U.S. Forest
Service biologist could later not identify them either—and I predict
that, just as with the tockkkoiiing calls, he never will, the reason
being what Darwin and I heard in association with such calls during our
recon north (see below). This same wood happened to be the abode of a female
mule deer, which we named Hazel. Last year, in Bluff Creek, we were essentially
forced to adopt a camp pet, another doe, which visited our camp almost
daily. We called her Chestnut, and she would often spend hours in our
company—in the last week she
even brought her fawns with her. Hazel was no Chestnut,
however, keeping very much to herself in that wood. Even so, we have no
reason to suspect that it was she making the
kouk calls.
The next night, July 29, time indeterminate,
Ronnie heard what he believed to be two tockkkoiiing calls near
their camp by the lake. If so, they were to be the last such calls ever
heard—and the only recording we had of them, from the first visitation
on the night of July 20-21, had already been taped over and lost
forever. In fact, no other strange or unidentified calls or sounds were
heard until Darwin and I were up north. While on that nine-day northern
recon, on August 7, in a small canyon and waiting for two days of drizzle
to end, I first heard, in the early morning, a large "crash" in the forest
above our tent. This was near the area where Jeff Meldrum, a professional
primatologist, and Mark Slack, a professional hunter/tracker, were "visited"
in camp in 1997 on the first Six Rivers field project. The visitation involved
rifling through a backpack, tree-knockings, and whistles. It should be
noted that, as with other informants in the past, they interpreted such
disturbances, especially a "crashing" quite close to them while they were
resting on their return trip, as intimidation displays or signals, and
a general desire for them to leave the area. While such interpretations
are, of course, subjective, the presumed displays have a tendency to rapidly
assume serious meaning when vulnerable individuals, alone in the wilderness
and little concerned at the time with theoretical propositions, are suddenly
exposed to them!
I'm not sure how high up towards the ridgeline
the "crash" I heard took place. An identical "crash" occurred in the late
morning, and was heard by both of us. We do not think that these "crashes"
were the result of falling trees—and no wind was blowing anyway—as
trees, when they fall, create more than a single crashing sound due to
all the branches smashing individually through thick vegetation. The "crashes"
we heard sounded more like individual logs or rocks being thrown through
vegetation. That evening, after the rain ceased, we managed to move to
another canyon, and, just as we were finally setting up a camp video night-camera
before going to sleep, at 11:50 p.m., we distinctly heard a tree being
knocked, just briefly. This sound came from the forest up towards the ridge,
on the south side of this box canyon. Over the next hour or so, I stayed
awake and continued to hear small breakings and disturbances—but no
more tree-knockings—coming from the same area. I was very aware of this
as I have extremely good hearing, and one could hear a pin drop in the
stillness of that night. No visitations into camp occurred, however, and
nothing was captured on the night-camera.
The next day, August 8, at 4:30 p.m., five
distinct and very loud kouk calls were heard coming from the very
same area on the forested canyon hill. These calls were presumed to be
the same as those heard and described by Angelo and Ronnie as having been
made on the night of July 28, and whose origin remains unidentified. We
heard five such kouk calls, followed by what sounded like the smashing
of large rocks and then small rocks crumbling. Nothing else was heard,
and, again, the calls occurred too fast to be recorded. As with the "crashing"
sound following the last
tockkkoiiing calls I heard on the morning
of July 28, the rock-smashing is certainly beyond the repertoire of known
bird behavior. The next day, August 9, in the afternoon, Darwin heard tree-knockings
twice in another canyon we were exploring—where we found the "beds."
Unfortunately, I did not hear these, as I was talking at the time. That
is the extent of the sounds we heard on the recon north.
It may seem strange to some that we would pay
so much attention to such simple sounds in the wilderness. This is because,
after enough experience in such an environment, one becomes very attuned
and aware of what sounds to expect and what sounds not to expect. At any
given time, unless it is windy and/or rainy, the wilderness is absolutely
silent, with the exception of bird calls, which are, of course, identifiable
by the knowledgeable percipient. Large mammals are rarely encountered,
and the slightest sound should tell the experienced wilderness explorer
that something is going on, and usually what it is that is going on. When
this cannot be determined, even by highly experienced and professional
hunters/trackers such as Mark Slack—on the 1997 expedition—then we
can rightly suspect that something
unusual is going on.
A good example is the rock-throwing episode
in our first box canyon camp in 1997, where we were again this year. During
the first days of the 1997 expedition, individual rocks were thrown down
from the canyon about every half-hour or so in the early evening; the rocks
did not tumble or roll down, but flew through the air until they hit other
rocks. Mark was very puzzled by this phenomenon two years ago, but at first
I paid little attention to it, assuming that there was a natural explanation.
It was only later on that expedition, after other "things" happened, that
I attached more importance to the rock-throwing, but by then it was too
late, as we had already moved on to the next camp. Incidentally, there
was not a single instance, in this same canyon, of rock-throwing this year.
If it was a "natural" occurrence in 1997, why not in 1999? All we heard
in this canyon this year, twice, was small rocks rolling down a
little—probably dislodged accidentally by
passing animals—and a rockslide
early one morning (see below.).
On August 15, after returning to our original
camp in the first box canyon, following a three-week absence—and
the day before the final day of the expedition, when preparations were
beginning to be made for leaving the Siskiyous—several events occurred
which may or may not be related. The first event was that, between 7 and
8 a.m., both Angelo and Ronnie were awakened by the sound of a rockslide
in the canyon—where the rock-throwing occurred in 1997. This canyon
had had many rockslides in the past, as evidenced by the multitude of rocks
of all sizes at its base, but I am not sure how common these are. This
slide may well have been a natural occurrence. The second event was that,
in the afternoon, we hiked down the creek from this box canyon towards
the Dillon drainage. Our trip was uneventful, although we found interesting,
lush terrain, including flat ground with meadows and many edible plants.
Curiously, this was the first time that we had ever descended down that
hollow, although this was the fourth time that we had camped in the canyon
above it—and we had often wondered what was down there. It should be
noted that the last "visitations" to our camp further north in 1997 actually
began the night after we first hiked down a similar hollow towards the
Dillon drainage. This may be coincidental, of course.
The third event was that, in the evening, we
finally deployed the infamous orang-utan urine. This urine was obtained
from a menstruating female orang, courtesy of a major American zoo, to
serve as an attractant to possible wild apes—a wild idea, for sure!
We deployed the urine on bushes and trees near an animal trail starting
near a drop towards the Dillon drainage and heading towards our camp. So,
on the same day, we had a rockslide, a penetration down towards the Dillon,
the deployment of orang urine near a drop to the Dillon, and, finally,
the last event, also related, I think, to the Dillon, which I will now
relate. Again, it may all be coincidental.
That night, at about 11:30 p.m., we were still
sitting around the campfire talking, having had a late dinner, with Darwin
planning to soon broadcast calls all night and stay hidden behind a large
rock on that same animal trail near were we had just deployed the orang
urine. Suddenly, we heard a tremendous bellowing call. My own first impression
was: "How could we be broadcasting, when we were still sitting around the
fire?"—a silly notion, of course. I myself cannot fully describe the
call in technical terms. My interpretation, however, was that it came from
a very powerful animal at some distance, possibly thousands of feet away,
maybe even a mile, and from the southeast—the direction of the Dillon
drainage. The bellow turned into a long, drawn-out howl which lasted at
least 10 or 12 seconds, and possibly 15 seconds. There was a curious pitch
fibrillation towards the end of the call. After a very brief period, maybe
just one or two seconds, the call was repeated. This second call was essentially
identical to the first. Thus, the total duration of the two calls ranged
from 20 to 30 seconds.
As Darwin is far more qualified than myself
at evaluating these calls, I have asked him to provide his interpretations,
which he has done as follows. He states that he heard two identical bellowing
howls, each one lasting approximately 15 seconds, with a two- or three-second
pause in between. Based on the volume of the calls, and the associated
background distortion—which increases rapidly as a function of both
volume and distance—he estimated that the calls originated from a point
about half a mile to a mile distant, probably from near the top of a ridge
to the southeast—generally, the direction of the Dillon drainage. He
states that the howls had both the volume and power of three or four opera
singers, such as Pavarotti. He also states that, if a human listener had
been standing directly in front of this entity when it made the howls,
he or she subsequently would have had trouble hearing properly for quite
some time. He estimated that the volume output of the howls at ground zero
was probably in the range of 100 decibels.
He states there were five distinct components
of the two calls. The first component was the initial bellow, which had
a mid to low range, starting at about the second G below middle C on
a piano (98.00 Hz). It then crescendoed both in volume and in pitch until, after about
three seconds, it hit what he calls its peak volume and most consistent
range, which represents the howl, the second and loudest component of the
calls. This howl was in the mid-range of human hearing, hovering around
the D directly above middle C (293.66 Hz), with very strong harmonics surrounding
the main pitch. Along with this consistent line, he identified a third
component, a screeching sound, similar to that of the mid-range line being
played through a cheap two-way radio with static, about one and half octaves
higher, and with a fluctuation in pitch up and down in the range of a perfect
fifth. The fourth component of the calls was a distinct underlying
rumble throughout, which he interprets as being the actual vibration and
rumbling of the entity's chest cavity. He estimates that the amount of
rumble and power of these calls was about two or three times that of the
broadcast system that we were using to propagate supposed Bigfoot calls
into the environment—and this is quite loud in itself. And, finally,
he interpreted a fifth part to the calls, the endings, which lasted three
or four seconds and consisted of a descending tremolo effect which decreased
in volume as the pitch got lower.
The ability of a presumed hominid voice to
produce two or three distinct sounds at the same time reminded Darwin of
the "throat singers" of Tuva, who do much of their singing by this method,
producing more than one tone and/or sound at a time. This effect is accomplished
by using distinct sound chambers in the human body, namely the nasal cavity,
the throat, and the chest. Used in various combinations, Darwin states,
this might be how the Sasquatch accomplishes such feats of multiple simultaneous
sounds. Finally, Darwin has asked me to quote his conclusion on these calls,
thus: "In my opinion, after having heard audio recordings of supposed Sasquatch
calls, which I myself was broadcasting in the field, and from what I know
of different properties of sound, including many specific aspects of the
human vocal system, having studied it for years, I can think of no animal,
other than, perhaps, the purported Sasquatch, that can produce such sounds."
When we first heard the beginning of the first
bellow, Angelo was about 50 feet south of where the rest of us were sitting,
having gone to soak the pots and dishes in the pond. Darwin, Ronnie, and
I first sat there a few seconds, speechless. I then tried to get Darwin's
attention, but he ignored me, and I learnt later that he was concentrating
intently on analyzing the call. At one point we all stood up, transfixed,
staring up at the southern star-studded sky across which the howl was crossing.
As the first howl ended, I recovered my senses a bit, and quickly told
Darwin to start the digital recorder, which had sat by us every night by
the campfire—but this night, with preparations to leave, it was in the
work tent! He dashed to the tent, and ran out with it as he turned it on,
but we missed recording the second call by just a few seconds.
Soon afterwards, Darwin set up the broadcast
system on the large rock from which he had been planning to observe all
night. We broadcast similar, purported Bigfoot calls in a southeasterly
direction, but there was no response. Later, we all retired to our tents
for the night, and Darwin stayed up till dawn. He then returned to the
work-tent and told me he was so cold he could no longer feel his feet.
He had broadcast all night, every half-hour or so, but nothing had responded.
He had also manned one of the video night-cameras personally, hoping that
something would come down the animal trail from the direction of the Dillon
drainage towards our camp. However, to his knowledge, nothing approached
the camp, and our second video night-camera, pointing to the open hill
to the north of our camp, also did not film any intruder. I stayed awake
all night too, but in the work-tent monitoring the seismic detectors. Detector
number 3, not far from Darwin's position, did signal twice at one point,
and I then heard small disturbances in the bushes in his direction. I assumed
it was him, and thought nothing of it. However, he informed me at dawn
that he had never left his position behind the large rock at all, and had
not once stepped heavy enough to set off a detector. So, another unresolved
mystery remains.
There is also an unresolved aspect to the calls
we heard. After the calls ended, Angelo wondered what all the excitement
was about, as he had simply interpreted them to be made by a pack of coyotes
yelping and howling in unison very close to us on the hill to the north.
We compared notes repeatedly over the next minutes, and days, and he was
adamant that he had never heard what we described. Yet the three of us
are adamant that we heard a tremendous bellowing/howling by a single entity
at great distance. I have heard coyotes many times, both in Arizona and
in Mexico, both singly and in packs, and I am absolutely certain that what
I heard did not resemble a coyote or a pack of coyotes in the slightest.
It is true that Angelo was in another part of the camp at the time, but
I think that, even taking into account possible different acoustical effects,
these are insufficient to explain how one percipient can report hearing
something so different from three other percipients. I have no explanation
for the disparity. All I can relate is what I interpreted as having
heard—which seems to correspond fully with what two other persons reported
hearing. The tragedy is that we did not get a recording of the calls, despite
our having with us a state-of-the-art digital recorder. Such a recording,
of course, could then have been subjected to subsequent analysis by sound
engineers.
SOME FINAL THOUGHTS
As in 1997, most if not all of the above evidence
and incidents could perhaps be conventionally explained individually, but,
added together, a pattern begins to emerge. As an old British military
maxim goes, "twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action." On the
other hand, one has to be very careful that the "pattern" is not simply
a misperception in the mind of the investigator, as with Percival Lowell
when he was sure he saw—and drew—the non-existent canals on Mars.
I personally think that it is very important not to make a Type I error—a
concept borrowed from statistical theory. That is, to assume that
something special is going on when, in reality, it isn't. However, in our
haste to be properly skeptical and avoid making a Type I error, it is easy
to succumb to making a Type II error; a Type II error occurs when one assumes
that nothing special is going on when, in fact, it is, even if the signal
is hard to detect within the noise.
After carefully evaluating all of the evidence
that we were exposed to, however, I am still unconvinced that the Sasquatch
exists as a biological species, although I am closer to accepting it now
than before this field project. The second "bed" we found and the howl
we heard at the end of the expedition were particularly persuasive. I am
frustrated though, that, in the first year, we deployed cameras
outside
of camp, and the visitations by entities unknown occurred inside
of
camp, whereas this year we deployed the cameras
inside of camp,
and the visitations by entities unknown occurred
outside of camp.
If we return in the future, I suppose we are simply going to have to deploy
cameras both inside
and outside of camp!
I don't remember who among you know of our
specific strategies, but one of them, in order to stimulate visitations,
is to avoid displays of "unnatural" colors or sounds, including gunfire.
Unfortunately, that did not occur this year. On the third full day of the
expedition, July 22, we had to deal with an aggressive bear which wanted
all of our food—and it was eating about a pound a minute. I tried everything
to dissuade it, from throwing rocks and hitting it with a campchair to
shooting into the air and into the ground. It got only bolder and bolder,
increasing its threats to harm us physically, and I think that it would
have done so quite soon. We ended up having to shoot the bear. I am not
a hunter, and I do not like killing animals, but I am always well prepared
to defend my safety and that of those around me when necessary. I want
to state, however, that shooting that poor bear was a very sad and upsetting
experience for me, one I hope I never have to repeat.
Upon examination, I determined that the bear
was an old male, with most of the incisors worn away. It was very skinny,
weighing only 200 lbs. It almost certainly was having trouble eating enough
food, and I doubt if it would have survived hibernation next winter. A
full report has been made to the California Department of Fish and Game,
as required by law concerning bear killings out of hunting season. In any
case, the gunfire, which echoed around our box canyon and down towards
the Dillon, may have conveyed a somewhat different message than the one
we had intended. Is it possible that night-time visitations into the camps
themselves did not occur because of increased caution due to this
gunfire—and the obvious nearby
physical evidence of the dead bear carcass? It
is all speculation, of course.
There is one further point I would like to
make before ending. The territory we covered in one month, including the
nine linear miles, would barely cover the thin end of a pushpin
on a map of the Siskiyous and its surrounding regions. It is a vast area
of some 1,000 square miles. With its rugged terrain, it may as well be
10,000 square miles. Humans, who rarely enter it, will travel just a few
linear miles. The large Dillon and Herrington drainages, just to mention
two of them, are enormous. Darwin and I spent two days dropping into and
coming out of one valley in the Herrington drainage. This valley had obviously
not been visited by humans for many years, if at all, and we didn't even
try to explore its creek as it descended down towards the drainage—it
simply got too rough for us. Such valleys and associated drainages, which
contain lush, edible vegetation, are very difficult for humans to enter
and leave safely, as many deadfalls, huge rocks, cliffs, and other obstacles
are present.
One team of professional forest firefighters
that took a "short-cut" through Dillon Creek a few years ago had to end
up being extracted by helicopter by the Forest Service. I'm not saying
that there are, but there
could be dozens of Bigfoot subsisting
in these Siskiyou drainages without anthropology or zoology having any
notion of it at all. And the Siskiyou Wilderness is only a small part of
Northern California, and Northern California is not even considered part
of the U.S. Pacific Northwest by some ecologists! This expedition has certainly
given me a greater appreciation for the remote terrain and rugged conditions
available to such supposed primates. Certainly, the statement by the erudite
Stephen Jay Gould, that "there isn't a single square foot of the North
American continent that hasn't been extensively trampled over," is nothing
less than uninformed nonsense.
I know from previous post-expedition discussions
that some will wonder why we didn't do this, or didn't try that. One very
critical anthropologist, for example, once told me that, if we really had
Sasquatches in our camp during those cold, rainy nights of the 1997
expedition—when we couldn't even get our work-tent into the
field—we would certainly
have made a greater effort to see them, and, in fact, would have. What
is hard to convey in a report such as this are the real-life difficulties
in just trying to survive and simultaneously run a field project in wilderness
conditions for a month. The heat sometimes reaches over 90ºF in
the day, only to possibly drop to freezing at night—there was still
snow in some spots when we arrived in late July. The exertion expended
by all of us in moving hundreds of pounds of equipment and materials
to different camps in that kind of terrain is enormous. The priorities
of safety, health, acquiring clean water, cooking, eating, protecting
delicate and sensitive electronic equipment from rain and humidity—not
to mention one's few personal belongings—and maintaining such in daily
operational condition, trying to stay warm enough at night, trying to get
sufficient sleep, and, through it all, trying to stay good-natured while
working with others—all of these priorities detract from an expedition
being in continual optimal condition.
It is almost impossible to successfully be
on top of everything all the time under such conditions, and one is never
in optimal form in the middle of the night, when one is cold, maybe exhausted,
and without having had enough sleep. But those middle-of-the-night periods
are the "safe" times when one or two individuals of this unverified species,
assuming it exists, may drop by for a visit, perhaps out of primate curiosity,
or perhaps looking for discarded food, or both. The visit may last only
a few minutes, but if there hasn't been enough time to install the seismic
detectors, or if the rain or humidity have shut down the remote night-cameras,
or if they simply don't walk where the night-cameras are operating, or
if you sleep through the whole thing, exhausted, then another chance at
providing new evidence is lost forever. Ideally, it would be nice to spend
such nights in a pleasant, air-conditioned and heated laboratory, perhaps
underground, one which is well-stocked with good foods and nice beds, and
from which one could continually but leisurely observe and film different
parts of a camp and surrounding areas through video surveillance monitors
conveniently set up on a desk—as building security guards do. That,
of course, is not the reality of the Siskiyou Wilderness, so we try to
do the best we can under the existing conditions.
The bottom line, then, is that all we came
out of the Siskiyous with are more stories of things that go bump in the
night (and the day!); some strange, unidentified calls, one of which
we recorded and erased and one of which we failed to record at all; and
some unidentified "beds." But we have also returned with continued confidence
in the scientific method and how we have applied it to this particular
problem. We have tested, through this field project, in an unbiased, objective
way, the hypothesis that a large, unknown primate species exists in the
forests of North America. We have not been able to validate the hypothesis.
The truth is that the testing of this kind of hypothesis in a wilderness
setting is physically difficult, exhausting, time-consuming, expensive,
and frustrating. But nobody ever told me it would be easy.
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