My husband is chasing Big Foot. First it was gar fish. He bagged that. Good, fine, wonderful. But now he's after a creature supernatural.
So we went Big Foot spotting on Sunday. And it was snowy but beautiful up in the Ozarks. The whole time I kept asking myself: Can I be with a man who believes in Big Foot?
(I believe in My Pal Foot Foot, by the Shaggs. But that's art! Not myth and legend.)
I'm not a believing woman. I want a spaceship to land in front of me and take me on board, examine me. I want to see the Virgin in the tortilla. Like Mulder, I want to believe. But I need proof, evidence. Last week my husband interviewed some old-timer who told him about foot prints and Big Foot screams and Big Feet living in hippie communities and that was enough for him. Now he's blowing distressed rabbit calls in the snow hoping to attract a yedi:
It was cold on Sunday. The snow was white and crunchy. On the way down the mountain, the Jeep bounced and slid in the rutted, icy road, and I looked through the pines. I squinted, I conjured, I clenched my stomach. I wanted to see Big Foot. I willed him to exist. He wasn't there.