Yeti Search

On our drive north the sky transitioned from blue to the murkiness of dusk. The landscape of birch, spruce, pine and alder lost its detail. Yard lights illuminated the occasional house but mostly we passed boreal black.

The smell of a cooling  pizza, bought an hour earlier in Grand Rapids, was only faint now. It was slated to be  the following day’s lunch for a snowshoe trek.

We finally approached the small community of Northome, population 199, which is located just east of the massive Upper and Lower Red Lake. Up ahead, I spotted the small, isolated motel with an infinite wild backyard. We eased into tracked  parking lot. The snow had not been plowed and by the looks of the tire marks in the snow. Easing the truck  into the nose of  a snowdrift, I was glad we had driven our four-wheel drive Toyota Tundra, known fondly in our household as “Big Ass.” It’s really not such a big truck, but compared to our 10 year-old Prius, which we fondly call “Sipper” (sips gas), the truck is a big ass.

The porch where the Office entry was located was crowded with stored bicycles of various colors, a battery charger, coils of electrical cords and a winter-retired gas grill. While the place might have looked deserted or a little ominous like the famed Bates Motel in the Hitchcock classic thriller, Psycho, its owner, Mike, dispelled any moments of creepiness. His loquacious and pleasing manner was a relief.

“My Bobcat is broken down so I can’t clean up the parking area very well,” he explained.

As he registered us to a small but tidy room we made small talk. He wondered if we were going ice fishing over on Red Lake. “No,” I answered and then hesitated to admit, “we’re going snowshoeing up into the Red Lake Peatlands.” I noted the slight raise of Mike’s eyebrows. With a polite sneer, he said, “Well we don’t see many snowshoers. . . mostly ice fishing folks and snowmobilers.” Tearing my receipt from his book and handing it to me he queried, “Are you going to look for the Sasquillions?” Momentarily puzzled , I saw the twinkle in his eye and somehow quickly deduced that he was referring to a family unit of Sasquatch or Yetis. With an equally polite sneer, I answered, “That’s my hope. And one good photo . . . and move over Bill Gates!”

“Well, have a good night’s sleep,” he said as he handed me the room key. “And good luck up in the big bog!”

This Yeti fascination is a North American phenomenon. However, I suspect every culture has their bogie man that roams the wilds and is super shy of human encounters. But the fact that it is there adds to the mystique and dread of exploring wild, dark places. While Mike might have joked about our looking for the Sasquillions, some folks shudder at the thought of such critters.

We have a burly neighbor, up at our Yukon Territory Outpost, who is generally a nice guy but he can be brusque, mean, and isolated. One night he and his family of four kids and his wife had stopped by for an impromptu visit. We were just sitting down to eat a late supper. We explained that we had been out for almost 12 hours on a mountain biking exploration on an old mining exploratory road known to locals as the Alligator Lake Road. There are no gators or for that matter no reptiles in the Yukon and only a handful of amphibians. The lake, shaped like an alligator head, is in the midst of some very remote country.

Burly Neighbor looked startled upon learning where we had gone. “You went to Alligator Lake!?  Are you f—–g nuts!” Nancy and my vacant, puzzled looks only fueled more expletives that I would be hard pressed to use in front of manly miners. “Don’t you know there is a Yeti that lives back there?!” And just to be sure we understood he heaped even more searing expletives while his family looked as calm as a Sunday picnic. I wanted to calmly respond, “Cool,” but my ancient reptilian brain would not allow such an answer. Survival was paramount.

Ten minutes later, the conversation was successfully steered towards more urban matters and my digestion resumed. Less than two weeks later, I was talking with three of Burly Neighbor’s  oldest kids and they asked, “Tom do you believe in Yetis?”

“Well,” I enthused, “I hope they exist because I thing it would be really cool to see one.” That was not the answer they expected but I like to think that hearing a positive response might give them another perspective.

So now here we were again facing the ever-elusive phantom Yeti. The next morning we left the Northome Motel with fresh snow falling in the predawn blackness. In less than an hour we would be at the edges of both the Big Bog and the imagination. With luck, we would come across the Sasquillions and get a family portrait.

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