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Into the Northwest mystic

The tales are true: Scout deep in the dank woods of the Western Washington, through the dark groves of evergreen and over the hills forced barren by winter’s touch, and you, drifter, will enter his realm–he who walks upright like man, but with body blanketed by fur. Who haunts our backcountry traverses and trods across our perfect S-lines. Whose lumbering shadow and strange large footprints mark the path of the phantom creature whose elusive presence creeped into local myth and NW legend.

Beware: The Sasquatch!


Came upon this, here, one just outta bounds at Alpental last weekend. Turns out he was the friendly sort, so being the lone ripper that I was, I inquired: “Wanna shred?” He gave a nod, yanked out a tree trunk, tied the branches around his feet for binders and grunted heavily: “Shready.”

So we charged—down through the chute and into the fields of pow. Knowing the landscape better than I, he presented to me his own coveted stashes of pow—if I promised to respect their secret. He showed me the traverses that stayed up high and the drops with perfect landings. The snow was deep, thick and endless.

We lapped the hills until I could hike the vert no more. But happy, I, took respite by the big tree, the one with branches bearing burdens of snow, next to the other big tree with branches and snow on the wintry hill; and ate a cliff bar and a snowball, and smiled for the sake of the arcane nature of this beast—of a mountain, of a brute.

Then before dusk fell, before we called it on last run and before the yeti disappeared back into the hinterland whence he came, I captured this ghostly image of him boosting a drop off one of the many jewels bestowed on his kingdom. It’s the only picture ever published of the NW Sasquatch.

And then, just as mysteriously as he appeared, he vanished, leaving no evidence, except perfectly slashed walls and delicate slough. But echoing though the woods, if you listen carefully, you can hear his call: “Shred the gnarrrrrr!”

The end.

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