Bigfoot at BAR 717 Camp Trinity


Pay no mind that I was a sensitive Cosmos flower and
didn’t want to leave home. But my mother and 6th grade teacher
made it happen, and I was bussed off to Hayfork to camp at
BAR 717 Camp Trinity, in the summer of 1978.

Nestled in the Nor Cal hills with a bunch of
other gangly pre-teens, I rode dotted horses,
spun bad pottery, and I remember something about Edelweiss.
Not the flower, but the song. You look happy to greet me.

My camp counselor was a tall woman angled like a bent coat hanger,
with stringy hair, and wide gold glasses.
Her next stop was probably a commune.
I slept next to her in the long camp barracks, she our only doorstop to
the woods behind the camp. The barracks had no doors on either end, and
at night I would peer into the woods just beyond the tree of her long body,
before sleep overtook me.

I was already wide-eyed and impressionable when a week into camp the
hard-bodied blonde with the tight blue shirt told me Sasquatch
came down from the hills at night. That was all he had to say.
He could have said the monster from Alien was not far behind, and
I would have believed him.

After the news of our future demise broke, my face
became the fullest moon at night, white enough to
light up the woods beyond “no-door,” my eyes black unblinking stars.
At every twig snap a frog tried to leap out of my heart.

Sasquatch never showed, and I was bussed home again.
I never told my mother, but to this day I still have
night terrors. Large hairy shadows cross my kitchen at night,
leaving rectangular footprints for me to clean.
And still I stare wide-eyed and unblinking through
open-screened windows, Bigfoot my Chupacabra to
everyone’s angels.

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