Bigfoots and Boy Scouts

Gronk, a Sasquatch of respectable girth and even more respectable grilling ambitions, squinted into the rising smoke. The smoke plume, rich with the smell of scorched venison and pine sap, was majestic. Or, depending on the wind direction, alarmingly visible from three counties over.

“Floofie, darling!” Gronk roared, adjusting his chef’s apron—a repurposed blue tarpaulin tied with surprisingly elegant square knots. “Are the fermented berries chilled? And tell Barnaby if he touches the grill again, I am revoking his invitation to the Annual Bouldering Competition.”

Floofie, Gronk’s wife, a matronly Sasquatch whose dark brown fur always seemed freshly combed despite living under a perpetual drizzle, swatted a hovering mosquito the size of a hummingbird. “They are chilling in the ravine, Gronk. And Barnaby is arguing with the boombox again. He thinks the cassette tape is absorbing the bass.”

It was the annual Extended Family Summer Summit—the Fuzzies of the Cascades, the Hairy-Foot clan from Shasta, and the perpetually complaining Swamplings from the lower valleys. This year’s theme, decided by Gronk after a protracted debate, was "Relaxed Rustic Rendezvous."

The setup was chaotic perfection. The centerpiece was the grill: an ancient, rusted-out engine block stolen from a logging road, perpetually stoked with damp driftwood. Surrounding it, the rest of the family—more than two dozen hirsute giants—were engaged in various forms of merriment.

Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Barnaby were engaged in a fierce game of ‘Pine Cone Toss,’ which, due to their size, involved throwing pine cones the size of small watermelons thirty yards onto a target the size of a Subaru.

Teenage Smudge, a lanky youth with a perpetually bored expression, was sitting on a downed log, fiddling with a salvaged human item.

“Smudge! Did you find the USB stick that Uncle Zorp lost last year?” Floofie called.

“No, Mom. But I found something better,” Smudge muttered, holding up a cracked iPhone 4. “It’s sticky. I think I’ve almost figured out the password. I just need to stop hitting the ‘Emergency Call’ button.”

The music—critical to the ‘Relaxed’ theme—was being supplied by the aforementioned boombox, currently blasting a highly compressed recording of 1980s soft rock, interspersed with high-pitched feedback whenever Barnaby got too close.

“This is marvelous, Gronk,” Floofie sighed, surveying the scene. “Just marvelous. I only hope we don’t attract any… Humans.”

Gronk scoffed, flipping a hunk of questionable meat onto the scorching metal. “Pffft. Humans only wander into this territory if they are lost, suicidal, or wearing matching green shorts. We’re deep enough. Let the revelry commence!”

And with that, the Sasquatch family reunion reached full volume, an auditory symphony of rough laughter, competitive grunts, and the unmistakable, high-pitched wail of the family's youngest member, Pipsqueak, who had just managed to jam a fistful of glow-sticks into the grill.

Miles away, cloaked in the deceptive tranquility of the twilight forest, Troop 999 of the Boy Scouts of America—the ‘Pine Cones’—were having a very different evening.

Scoutmaster Doright, a man whose life ambition was apparently to achieve the rank of Quartermaster Sergeant of Preparedness, stopped dead, holding up a hand in a gesture that meant, "Halt. Triangulate. Refer to Handbook Section 7, Subsection C: Unforeseen Obstacles."

“Troop, halt!” Doright whispered, adjusting his perfectly knotted neckerchief. He smelled like DEET and anxiety. “Does anyone else detect… an anomaly?”

Twelve identical khaki-clad boys stopped, their expensive hiking boots crunching on the pine needles. They were on the final leg of their ‘Extreme Night Orienteering’ Merit Badge exercise.

“Scout Ethan? Your observation, if you please.”

Ethan, a perceptive fifteen-year-old who preferred astronomy to actual camping, sniffed the air professionally. “Scoutmaster, I detect: A) High concentration of unburned hydrocarbons, indicating a large, inefficient heat source. B) Significant odor of… swamp musk and possibly scorched elk. C) A high-decibel aural disturbance, consistent with a very bad rendition of ‘Africa’ by Toto.”

Percy, the troop’s resident rule-enforcer and walking Handbook reference, pulled out a notepad. “Section 4, Page 82, Scoutmaster: ‘Be aware of natural wildlife. Do not approach animals exhibiting signs of nesting, territoriality, or rhythmic hip-shaking.’”

“Quite right, Percy,” Doright muttered, drawing a compass. “But whatever this is, it is decidedly not natural wildlife. It sounds like a rave organized by extremely large, tone-deaf squirrels.”

They pushed forward, using the cover of a thick patch of rhododendrons. The source of the noise—and the smell—was just thirty yards ahead, in the secluded clearing known locally as ‘The Horseshoe.’

Doright motioned for the troop to drop to their bellies. They formed a tactical line, twelve pairs of wide, terrified eyes peering through the foliage.

What they saw defied not only the entire curriculum of the Boy Scouts Handbook but also roughly 95% of known mammalian biology.

The Scouts were witnessing the climax of the Sasquatch dinner hour.

Gronk, beaming, was leading a highly intoxicated sing-a-long, punctuated by the rhythmic thudding of Uncle Barnaby trying (and failing) to use a hollowed-out log as a drum. Floofie was attempting to organize the ‘Post-Prandial Recreational Activities,’ specifically a game of volleyball.

“Scout Ethan,” Doright breathed, his voice a strained squeak. “Initial assessment. Are those… bears?”

“Negative, Scoutmaster,” Ethan whispered, pulling out his field binoculars, the kind usually reserved for identifying migratory sparrows. “Bears do not typically wear aprons, nor do they possess the opposable thumbs required to operate a grill. Also, they are playing volleyball.”

The volleyball game was a spectacle of physical ineptitude. The Sasquatches were too large, the net (a length of industrial chain-link) was too low, and their depth perception was nonexistent.

Barnaby served—a move that looked suspiciously like spiking the ball straight into the dirt—causing a geyser of dust and pine needles. Pipsqueak, the young Sasquatch, retrieved the ball by sitting on it, then hurled it haphazardly into the canopy, where it promptly dislodged a sleepy owl.

“Note the sporting equipment,” Ethan dictated softly to Percy, who was shaking slightly. “Regulation volleyball, appears severely deflated. Note the footwear: none. Note the sheer, unadulterated body odor: pungent, complex, hints of wet dog and fermented berry.”

“They are… laughing, Ethan,” Doright whispered, gripping his whistle so tightly his knuckles were white. “They are laughing and celebrating. Like… like people.”

“Perhaps they are a highly evolved tribe of forest dwellers who have chosen an isolationist lifestyle,” Percy offered, desperately trying to categorize the event using the little knowledge he had.

“They just used a car battery cable to jumpstart the boombox, Percy,” Ethan countered, lowering his binoculars. “This is not a tribe. This is a family reunion gone horribly, wonderfully wrong.”

Suddenly, the music volume increased dramatically. Aunt Beatrice, in a fit of competitive enthusiasm after winning the latest round of wrestling (disguised as tag), had cranked the dial. The speakers shrieked into the night, momentarily drowning out the crickets.

Scout Tommy, who was prone to hay fever, chose this exact moment to sneeze—a loud, wet, explosive sound that echoed off the surrounding trees.

The entire clearing went silent.

Gronk froze, mid-cheer. Floofie stopped halfway through spiking the defunct volleyball. Every single Sasquatch head turned slowly, eyes gleaming yellow-orange in the last light of the setting sun, directly toward the rhododendron bush containing Troop 999.

Silence hung, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the occasional sputter of the engine-block grill.

Scoutmaster Doright, demonstrating the instincts that had earned him the ‘Bronze Pine Cone of Leadership’ (Minor Category), did the only thing he could think of: he stood up, pushed his glasses back onto his nose, and straightened his uniform.

“Good evening, sirs and ma’ams!” Doright chirped, his voice two octaves too high. “Troop 999 apologizes for the intrusion! We appear to have taken a wide tangent on our navigation exercise. Excellent turnout, by the way!”

Gronk, the patriarch, stared down at the tiny, khaki-colored human. His jaw hung slightly open, exposing a surprisingly white set of molars.

“Floofie,” Gronk rumbled, his voice like rocks grinding together. “Did you invite the small, highly organized creatures?”

“Of course not, Gronk! Look at their footwear! They’ll scuff up the forest floor!” Floofie hissed, crossing her massive arms.

Pipsqueak, seizing the moment, broke the tension. He darted from behind Gronk and waddled toward the Scouts. He was drawn by the reflective aluminum of Scout Ethan’s canteen.

Pipsqueak reached out a massive, furry hand. Ethan, paralyzed by fear but driven by the instinctual need to protect his gear, gripped the canteen tighter.

“Scout,” Doright whispered, panic surging. “Rule 3, Section B: ‘Never engage in passive defense with local fauna. Offer a peace offering. Do you have a granola bar?’”

Ethan, trembling, pulled out a tightly wrapped, name-brand peanut butter granola bar. He held it out.

Pipsqueak stopped, sniffed the bar with disdain, and then promptly snatched the shining metal canteen from Ethan’s hand. He ran back to his mother, shaking the canteen triumphantly.

“Hey!” Ethan yelped, forgetting fear for a moment. “That’s stainless steel! I need that for my potable water filtration badge!”

This outburst seemed to register with Gronk. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Water filtration? Are you boys… lost?”

“No, sir!” Doright corrected instantly, puffing up. “We are precisely where we intended to be, which is currently re-evaluating the accuracy of our GPS triangulation data against the visible constellation of—”

“He means yes, we are totally lost,” Ethan sighed, stepping out from the bushes.

The Sasquatches, previously intimidating monsters, suddenly looked less ferocious and more like a large, hairy crowd listening to a complicated tax lecture.

Floofie, seeing the distress on the small boy’s face, softened slightly. “Well, you can’t navigate on an empty stomach. Gronk! Get these little things some grub! But they sit over there.” She pointed a massive finger toward a clean patch of dirt next to the makeshift grill.

Gronk looked affronted. “Floofie, they are wearing green shorts! They look awfully… clean! They might contaminate the mood!”

“Gronk, they are lost children. We feed lost children. It’s in the Sasquatch Code of Conduct, Subsection Alpha!” Floofie commanded.

And thus, Troop 999 found themselves seated awkwardly at the edge of a Big Foot family reunion.

The following twenty minutes were an exercise in surreal cultural immersion. Gronk served them charred, unsalted elk jerky and mystery tubers that tasted faintly of mud and regret.

Scoutmaster Doright, ever the diplomat, attempted polite conversation. “So, Mr.—er—Gronk. I notice your cooking method relies heavily on radiant heat transfer from a repurposed V8 engine block. Have you considered convection cooking for better interior moisture retention?”

Gronk squinted. “I consider what works. This works. It also keeps the wolves away because they think the forest is burning down.”

Meanwhile, Barnaby lumbered over to Ethan. Barnaby was struggling with the boombox, which had started emitting a strange, high-pitched whine.

“Little human,” Barnaby grunted, leaning down, causing a powerful wave of swamp musk to wash over Ethan. “You’re the organized type. Why does this contraption hate ‘Mr. Roboto’?”

Ethan, still mourning his canteen, examined the boombox. “Well, sir, if you stop feeding the cassette player sand, the gears might engage properly. Also, you need new batteries. And that rubber band you’re using to hold the antenna on is compromising the frequency modulation.”

Barnaby’s eyes widened. “The frequency modulation! I knew it wasn't the bass absorption!” He clapped Ethan hard on the back—a gesture that nearly launched the Scout into the nearby ravine.

As the Sasquatches began setting up for ‘Bouldering Horseshoes’ (tossing literal boulders at a marked tree trunk), Scout Percy, who had overcome his initial shock, found himself talking to Smudge, the teenage Sasquatch.

Smudge showed Percy his collection of lost human artifacts: two rusty fishing lures, a broken drone propeller, and the cracked iPhone 4.

“See, I’m trying to access the maps, so I know where the good berry patches are,” Smudge explained. “But I can’t get past the four-digit code. Every time I fail, it locks me out for longer.”

Percy, remembering his brief foray into amateur cryptography, peered at the phone. “Try 1-2-3-4. Humans are terrible at security.”

Smudge tapped the screen. The phone chimed triumphantly. The map of the Pacific Northwest glowed brightly.

“You… you just saved my summer,” Smudge whispered reverently.

Scoutmaster Doright looked at his watch. It was past 21:00. The boys had witnessed enough Sasquatch merriment—including a confusing game of ‘Hide-and-Smell’ and Aunt Beatrice demonstrating her impressively loud belch.

“Troop 999! Form ranks!” Doright announced, finding his courage. He turned to Gronk. “Thank you, Mr. Gronk, for the… hospitality. We are now well-fed, and I believe we have successfully recalibrated our position. We must depart.”

Gronk, now beaming with the pride of a host whose party hadn’t completely failed, waved a meaty hand. “You little things be careful! And don’t tell anyone about this, understood? Humans get very confused when they think we are organized enough for a potluck.”

“Our lips are sealed, sir,” Doright promised, though he was already composing the highly classified, sanitized incident report in his head. (It would describe a "large, unusual congregation of elk behaving strangely.")

As the boys filed out, Pipsqueak ran up, holding Ethan’s canteen. He had polished it using mud and saliva, rendering it marginally less sanitary than before.

He held it out, and then, slowly, pulled out the sleek, new aluminum whistle that Doright wore on a lanyard—a whistle he hadn’t noticed missing. Pipsqueak had apparently traded the canteen for the whistle during the food service.

“Keep the whistle,” Ethan mumbled, taking the sticky canteen. “You need to practice your signaling.”

As the Scouts marched back into the woods, guided now not by GPS but by a clear, Sasquatch-provided path marker (a perfectly bent cedar tree), they could hear the party erupting again.

The boombox, thanks to new batteries and the removal of the sand, was now playing ‘The Final Countdown’ at an ear-splitting volume. The Bouldering Horseshoes were crashing loudly.

“Scoutmaster,” Percy said, adjusting his neckerchief, his face pale but thoughtful. “I believe we just violated the ‘No fraternization with non-recognized wilderness entities’ clause in Section 12.”

“We also learned that Bigfoot families hold grudges over casserole recipes and that fermented berry juice is surprisingly strong, Percy,” Ethan corrected him, wiping the mud off his canteen.

Doright sighed deeply, running a hand over his neatly parted hair. “Troop 999, you are all officially instructed to forget everything you have seen tonight. If anyone asks, we merely observed a particularly large family of unusually loud, very hairy bears. And for the love of all that is civilized, we are pursuing the ‘Advanced Bird-Watching’ merit badge next year. We need a simpler, less life-altering hobby.”

Deep in the woods, under the chaotic starlight, the sounds of Sasquatch celebration continued, safe in the knowledge that the only humans who knew their secret were twelve very confused, very organized little boys whose official report would undoubtedly be filed under ‘Delusional Wilderness Encounters.’

They were organized, the Fuzzies figured, but ultimately, they were still just Scouts—and who ever believes a Scout?