The Sasquatch and the Timber Baron

The Sasquatch and the Timber Baron

The café was quiet, the kind of place where secrets felt safe. Alan Hollister swirled his coffee absently, staring out the window at the rain. Across from him, a young reporter sat poised, recorder ready, her notepad already filling with shorthand scribbles.

“This stays off the record,” Alan said, his voice low but firm. “If anyone finds out, they’ll think I’ve lost it.”

She nodded eagerly. “Completely confidential.”

Alan took a deep breath. “It started ten years ago. Back when I was the king of timber—Hollister Timber was everywhere. I was scouting land in the Olympic National Forest, planning to greenlight the biggest logging contract of my career. Figured I’d hike the trails, snap a few photos for the investors, and call it a day.”

He chuckled ruefully. “Didn’t even make it halfway before I slipped on some muddy rocks, twisted my ankle, and cracked my head on the ground. When I woke up, I wasn’t on the trail anymore. I was in this strange shelter—walls made of moss, a bed of pine needles, and the smell of herbs thick in the air.”

Alan leaned back, his eyes distant. “And then I saw him. Harold.”

“Harold?” the reporter echoed.

“A Sasquatch,” Alan said simply. “He was massive, fur like cedar bark, and eyes… eyes like he’d seen the beginning of the world.” He gave a wry smile. “Introduced himself, then got to work smearing some awful-smelling paste on my ankle. When I tried to ask what was happening, he grunted, ‘Quiet. Healing takes focus.’”

The reporter’s pen raced across the page.

“He didn’t know who I was,” Alan continued. “Didn’t know I was there to carve up his home. To him, I was just another lost hiker who didn’t respect the forest. He called me a ‘wayward child of the Earth.’ Said my kind used to know better but had been seduced by ‘shiny trinkets and loud machines.’”

Alan smiled faintly. “He had a sharp tongue, Harold did. When I asked if he’d ever seen a human before, he muttered something about how Native Americans were the only ones who got close to understanding the forest, but they lost the connection they used to have ‘all those damn casinos, they forgot'

The reporter raised an eyebrow. “He spoke English?”

“Learned it from the tribes,” Alan replied. “Though he wasn’t fond of humans. Said we were ‘parasites who took without giving back.’ But despite that, he didn’t leave me to die. He fed me, nursed my injuries, and let me rest.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“Everything,” Alan said, his voice softening. “The balance of nature, the way every tree and stream worked together to keep the forest alive. He talked about the Earth like it was alive, like it was sacred. He said we used to understand that, but now we only see resources to exploit.”

Alan paused, a bittersweet smile on his face. “And then there was the humor. I mentioned Harry and the Hendersons once, and he growled, ‘Don’t call me Harry. I hate that movie. Perpetuates hateful stereotypes.’ When I asked how he’d seen it, he shrugged and said, ‘River Runs Through It and Purple Rain showed it to me.’”

The reporter blinked. “Wait, who?”

“Couple of hippies,” Alan said with a chuckle. “They live in a treehouse on the other side of the peak. Save the forest and all that. Good people. They’ve got a deal with Harold—leave him books and newspapers, and he lets them know when timber crews show up. Win-win, as he calls it.”

The reporter chuckled. “That’s… incredible.”

“He was,” Alan said. “But here’s the thing—he never asked who I was. Never asked why I was there. If he’d known, I doubt he would’ve helped me. And that’s what broke me. When I finally hobbled back to my car and left the forest, I couldn’t go back to who I was. Couldn’t sign another contract knowing what I was destroying.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I sold the company, poured the money into conservation projects, and joined every tree-hugging group I could find. People thought I’d gone nuts, but they didn’t know. They didn’t meet Harold.”

The reporter leaned in. “Do you ever think about going back? Trying to find him again?”

Alan smiled wistfully. “Every day. But I think Harold would say I’ve already taken too much from the forest. He taught me what I needed to know. It’s my job to pass it on, to fix what I can.”

He glanced at the reporter. “So you can write your story, but leave him out of it. Let him stay a ghost, a legend. The world doesn’t deserve him.”

The rain pattered against the café window as Alan finished, his coffee untouched. The reporter sat in silence, her notebook full, her recorder still running, and the weight of Harold’s words lingering in the air.