A creature that big should be easy to find. That is exactly the problem.
For a hundred years the story has held its shape: a giant form at the treeline, a line of footprints far too large and far too deep, a smell, a snapped branch, then nothing. No body. No bones. Just the woods closing back up like a door. Whole mountain ranges in the Pacific Northwest are big enough to hide something that does not want to be found, and the people who live there mostly quit trying to prove it and started simply nodding at it.
Bigfoot endures because some part of us needs one place left on the map where we are not the only thing doing the watching.
Cut here as an old field woodcut among the pines. Printed heavy on garment dyed cotton, for the ones who keep one eye on the treeline.
