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Bigfoot Brodown

 

The mystery of Bigfoot is synonymous with California; Northern California in particular. So that’s where it had to be. Our expedition would take us from the warm traffic-riddled expanses of Southern California to the cold embrace of Northern California’s coastline. We assembled the expedition’s crew at our fearless Captain’s humble abode off the 210. Captain Puto of Sweatshop Industries had arranged a chase vehicle and trailer for the mission. The plan was to send a few scouts on bikes ahead while the veteran rigs enjoyed the comforts of the trailer until we were north of the Golden Gate. Me, along with a handful of others, blasted up the coast toward our rendezvous with the trailerqueen team. The wind was hot and fierce. It made the neck ache, and the eyes rapidly fill with sand. Soon we would miss the heat, for as we approached the Golden Gate, the cold quickly made its presence known. San Rafael was a beacon of tacos and cold beer that warmed our spirits. Here we met up with our cohorts and headed to camp where the rest of the exploration vessels were unloaded and tended to.

 

 

The first morning we awoke before daybreak to ready ourselves for the long day ahead. Today’s mission was to make it to the heart of Bigfoot country by way of the coastal highway also known as “The 1”. Clam chowder, saltwater taffy, and numerous gas stops lay before us. The winding road snakes along the coastline, hugging cliffs and straightening out for only a mile or two at a time. The pace was slow as the old rigs chugged along. Being a scout and tracker on the mission, I would speed ahead to find ideal landmarks and scenic overlooks to photograph the expedition. Playing leapfrog with the party was not always easy. Bicycle races, road construction, and numerous blind curves made passing difficult. Lunch was a welcome recess from the road, a culmination of beer, warm clam chowder, and fried bread accompanied by a scenic view made for a memorable experience, but Bigfoot country was still ahead.

 

 

The road was eating up our sundial, and a detour was devised to make up time. Fortunately, the detour put us directly in the path of an abundance of Bigfoot sightings. The 20 Highway took us inland through thick groves of redwood pines. This trek through the pines had the whole party feeling the gaze of Bigfoot as we traveled through his wooded sanctuary. Breaking for dinner brought with it a shocking realization that one of our members was no longer with us. Dallas had recently finished his expeditionary vehicle. When the search party went to locate him, the only trace was a motorcycle on the side of the road with a tool roll next to the bike. It appeared an intake leak had stalled his vessel and in the process, he had disappeared.

 

 

On the third day, we awoke in a massive grove of redwood pines. Only catching glimpse of these behemoths with the flash of our lights the night before, we were struck by the grandiosity of the ancient trees. To our surprise, Dallas’ bike had made it’s way to camp as well, but instead of our noble compatriot, a large hairy beast had taken his place. This was Bigfoot.

 

After offering us beer and a flammable piney smelling substance that he said was part of his kind’s religious practices we decided to befriend the savage beast and continue on our journey to find more of his kind. Captain Puto quickly embraced Bigfoot’s company and mandated we take a group photograph with the recent discovery. Bigfoot informed us that the rest of his species were further North in an even less populated area on the coast. Unfortunately, a few of the expedition’s members fell sick with dysentery and died, or maybe they had to get home to work, I can’t remember. The rest of us pushed on.

 

 

The road took us back to the coast; greeted with strong winds and the salty air we pushed on. We discovered great horned beasts that the locals referred to as “Elk.” We took pictures of them. We also found a monument dedicated to Bigfoot’s late father who was killed by a poacher donning a white Safari hat. Other notable landmarks included more ridiculously big trees, Paul Bunyan and Babe his Blue Ox, a bridge adorned with giant golden bear statues, and a few meth addicts scampering through the streets of Crescent City.

 

 

On our approach to camp, my navigational devices failed; this leads to a prime opportunity to witness Bigfoot’s jockey shift skills on a cratered dirt road. He was able to take Dallas’s bike to near vertical alignment on a dirt cutout. Truly, an impressive feat by any standard. Some of our human counterparts were not as lucky; as their vessels were overturned they immediately died of cholera… or they dumped their bikes and were a bit sore, I can’t remember. Once our navigational devices were back in proper alignment we made our final approach to Bigfoot’s tribal camp. Bigfoot had arranged with Captain Puto for us to eat his kind’s native food. Pig anus, lips, and intestine wrapped in bacon or as they call them “hot dogs”, were on the menu. This meal mixed with beer, the green flower, and long days on our vessels sent most of the expedition’s crew into a deep slumber. Bigfoot too fell fast asleep and rattled the woods with his reverberant snore. The next morning everyone died of the common cold, or we went home… I can’t remember.

Cheers,

Ryan


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Commented on 11-14-2017 At 06:32 am
 

looks like a fucking blast!

Commented on 11-14-2017 At 08:46 pm
 

Great write up!

Commented on 11-15-2017 At 09:03 pm
 

You guys should check out Shovelfest West. Every June at Sparkplug's Motorcycle Campground.

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