The Lost Yeti: Nine Years from Home

The Lost Yeti – Nine Years from Home

By Donald Cassidy

Copyright 2015 Donald Cassidy

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Chapter 1 - Snipe Hunting

Most fairytales start with, Once upon a time, long, long ago in a land far, far away, but not this one, for it is not a fairytale at all, but an accurate accounting of events.

It seems like it all started just one week ago in the hills of Kentucky, but it has actually been many years. My grandfather, James, my uncle Ivan and I were going coon hunting in the Valley of the Three Wolves. It was a beautiful spring day and the wind was light, yet it carried in it a coolness that we who lived in the hills recognized as a faint, lingering part of the harsh winters we would get in these parts. I lived in the rolling foot hills of Kentucky along with my grandparents who raised me. They raised me well and taught me how to farm, hunt and live off the land.

A coon hunt is not what you may think and is not much of a hunt at all. As far as I could tell, it was just a chance for a group of men to go out into the woods, build a camp fire, sit around talking while drinking coffee or moonshine and let the dogs run loose through the woods chasing raccoons or coons for short. There are many racoons around these parts, therefore it never took long for the dogs to come upon a scent, and then the chase would be on until the dogs treed the coon. At that point the barking would change and the hunters would whistle the dogs back to camp indicating the hunt was over. They’d all take one last swig from their cups or from the jug, spit in the fire and pack up for home.

The trek to the Valley of the Three Wolves was not an easy one. We always started just before sunset as this gave us enough time to find our way with natural light. We had to park our rusty old Jeep at the big red barn across a dirt road from Charlie Ratliff’s country store. This little store served all of the residents of our county and was the only store I remember knowing about for miles and miles. Ratliff’s sold household supplies, building materials and any food item its clientele didn’t grow, raise or hunt themselves – that wasn’t much. This store also sold the peppermint and horehound candy that I liked to buy when I saved up enough spare change.

When I was younger and only interested in spending the few coins I had saved from extra work around the farm for buying candy, my older uncles Bob and Jim would spend their extra money to occasionally buy a pack of cigarettes. We would all then hide in the woods until we had smoked the whole pack. To this day, I vividly remember how nasty those cigarettes tasted and how very queasy they made me feel when it was all done. At the time, I never thought anything good would come from that, but as it turned out it was a very good thing because I still can’t stand the smell of a cigarette and have never developed the habit of smoking. Even as bad as those store bought cigarettes were, they paled in comparison to the so called Indian tobacco or corn silk cigarettes my uncles smoked when they didn’t have the money for a pack of Chesterfields. I never tried those corn silk cigarettes and by the way they smelled, I’m convinced I am very glad I didn’t.

Upon leaving Charlie Ratliff’s country store on the way to the Valley of the Three Wolves, we crossed a swinging suspension bridge that was the only way across a small river and then waded across two small creeks, getting our boots and pants legs wet as we did. We trudged up Sugar Tree Hill and I tapped on the trunk of the huge maple tree that stood at the top and gave the hill its name. It was part of my routine to tap on the massive trunk of this long-standing tree. I thought it brought me good luck and boy did I think we needed luck for the next, and least favorite, part of the journey. This is where we had to walk through dreaded Mag’s holler.

Mag’s holler started at an old ramshackle house owned by old lady Margaret Westermarck, but everyone just called her Mag. The yard was always overgrown with weeds and briars so thick you wondered how anything could make its way through alive. It reminded me of every old witch’s house I had ever read about in fairytale books or seen in the movies. I always expected to see Mag out behind her house stirring a black cauldron or something sinister like that. The truth of the matter was however, that of all the many times over the years I had passed this way, I had never seen Mag. For this I was grateful, as it was said that anyone who did see Mag would die a horrible death.

Nevertheless, since it was the shortest and easiest way to the Valley of the Three Wolves, and since none of us had ever seen her, we always risked it and took this road. We were still very careful to keep our heads down with our eyes glued to the old, heavily-rutted, dirt road that passed her house just in case.

The Valley of the Three Wolves is bordered by large, hardwood trees such as oak, elm, maple and a few black walnut trees. There is a small river that zigs and zags back and forth through the sandstone rock and offers many deep pools where I had taken a refreshing swim on a hot Kentucky summer day many times. This was my grandfather’s favorite place to camp.

The night was even cooler than the day had been. The slight breeze continued which kept the mosquitoes and flies away and the moon shone so brightly we didn’t even need to light our Coleman lantern. We gathered small twigs and branches from the ground to start a small camp fire, and then we all settled down next to it to remove the chill. We sat for a while without talking, just listening to the loud noises of the hounds running through the woods barking wildly.

They only movement came when Grandpa reached over and poured himself and Uncle Ivan a cup of hot coffee, while I took out my very own thermos and poured myself a cup of delicious hot cocoa that Grandma had made for me.

Grandpa said he could tell by the barking that his favorite hound, Old Blue, was leading the pack as usual. Uncle Ivan chuckled at this then tucked another three fingers of Red Man tobacco in his mouth. My uncle Ivan was a very quiet man and tonight was no exception as he sat, not saying much, only leaning forward occasionally to spit into the fire.

My grandfather looked at Uncle Ivan and said Coon, Old Blue has a hook on the end his bark that you could hang a coat on.

Ivan had been given the nickname Coon as a young boy and his close friends and family still call him that more often than his given name to this day. Uncle Ivan only nodded and then he spit a short, straight, powerful spit right into the middle of the fire that caused a loud, sizzling sound.

I always wondered what that hook on the end of Old Blue’s bark would look like. It seemed impossible to put a hook on a bark, but people from Loss Creek, Kentucky were always saying strange things so I shouldn’t be surprised. The older people of the town would tell me that I look plum blank my daddy and if the day got cloudy you could hear them say it is really clabbering up out there. The former meant I looked like my dad and the latter meant it looked like rain – why they didn’t just say that was a curiosity to me, even as a young boy.

Around 9 p.m., a friend of my uncle Ivan’s, Fred Green, along with three other men, ambled up and joined us around the fire. That’s when the conversation turned to one of the favorite stories around these woods – Yetis. Yetis, also commonly known as Big Foots, were rumored by many to have been seen around these parts.

As my grandfather poked a stick at the fire to rearrange the wood and get the flames licking up again, Fred Green was talking, I may have never seen a Yeti personally, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Heck, I know for certain I have heard their blood curdling screams many times over the years.

There were tales of hunters actually shooting some of them, though no bodies of dead Yetis were ever found to my knowledge. It was as though they just vanished into thin air. Just then, we heard a noise in the woods – a long, low moan. It sounded sad and lonely, but not really scary except for the fact I didn’t know what creature was making it.

Now, that there noise sounds just like a snipe, said my uncle Ivan as he leaned over and spit into the fire again.

A snipe, I thought, now is my chance. I am here with them in the woods; they just have to let me hunt it with them. I had heard my uncle and grandfather talking about snipes recently and I was bound and determined I was going to help catch one.

With a wink at Fred Green, my grandfather said, It is a darned shame we didn’t pack a gunnysack this trip, so my grandson could catch this one.

Fred Green spoke up, I think one of my friends here may just have one in their back pack. As luck would have it, he did. I was beyond excited though my knees felt weak as I stood and took the gunnysack from the tall man.

I wasn’t really afraid, but I had to ask, Are snipes like snakes or bears? Are they little or big? Do they bite? They all assured me that snipes were small, cuddly, furry little animals that had never in the history of the world bitten anyone.

The reason you have never seen a snipe is because they would die in captivity, so no one has ever had one as a pet and they surely couldn’t keep one locked up in a zoo, said Fred Green in almost a whisper, so, today, we will catch this one, play with it, give it some food and release it again safely to the woods. I nodded in agreement, but I would have agreed to jump on one foot for 30 minutes or stand on my head in the rain if I thought it would get me closer to a snipe.

Sounds good to me, I said, so how do we catch one?

Fred Green crouched over a bit so he was closer to my face and said, The first thing we need to do is put out the campfire. Then he pointed to a dark place just north of the campsite, the place where the noise seemed to come from and said that I was to go into those woods and hold the gunnysack open and close to the ground. Once you signal you’re ready, we all will work our way to the other side quietly and chase the snipe into your open sack.

Grandpa added, The snipe will run right into your gunnysack to hide and that is when you close it up and lift it high.

I said, If that’s all there is to it, what are we waiting on? I couldn’t believe I was about to see what a snipe looked like and I couldn’t wait to tell the boys at school on Monday.

I took my place, just as I was instructed and was holding my snipe bag low to the ground as I was told when I heard all the men rustling through the woods, then all of a sudden, it got strangely quiet. All I could hear was the water as it went splashing over the rocks in the river bed to my right and the crickets chirping, singing their familiar song. Every so often there was a falling star that cut across the face of full moon begging for my attention, but I only took quick looks as the shining light flashed across the sky; I had to pay attention to my snipe bag.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only really an hour, I heard amongst the river and cricket noises a small sound like a gurgle or a whimper. I thought to myself, This is it. This must be my snipe.

My grandfather and the other men had given me strict instructions to not move. They said I must remain very still and very quiet until the snipe was in my bag. Doing as I was told, I stood there for the longest time, hunched over holding my bag open on the ground. When my arms were tired and felt like they weighed 300 lbs. each, and I couldn’t hold the bag open anymore, I slowly made my way back toward the campfire filled with defeat.

I stood there exhausted with my arms and back aching from hunkering down in the woods for hours, realized all the men had taken all their gear and left me and I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself as I understood I had been tricked. I folded up my snipe bag and pretty soon the hilarity of the prank hit me and I laughed right out loud. I thought of all those men sitting back on the porch at Charlie Ratliff’s store having coffee and laughing at the joke they played on me. I picked up my bag that carried my now empty thermos, a small pack of matches, some twine, a pocket knife Grandpa had given me for my last birthday and one Twinkie I had intentionally left as a snack for the walk back home. I swung the bag over my shoulder the best I could with my sore, tired arms and turned to start my trek home. Just as took my first step however, I heard that little whimpering sound again.

By now it was almost dawn and the sunlight started streaking through the trees. I realized I had a long walk back to the store, but figured I could take a few minutes and investigate what was making that little sound; maybe it was a snipe after all. From where I was standing, it sounded like the noise had come from behind a huge boulder sitting just 50 feet to the west of where we had enjoyed the campfire.

As I rounded the boulder carefully and quietly, I saw the smallest, fluffiest, little ball of fur lying in a nest of leaves and pine straw. It was the cutest little thing I had ever seen. It was a little bigger than a human baby with huge blue eyes and it was totally covered from its cute baby head down to its tiny baby toes in white curly fur. So, that’s what a snipe looks like. I thought to myself, Now, I will have the last laugh.

Since snipes die in captivity, I knew I couldn’t take it with me, but as it looked at me with big tears in its eyes I thought it must be hungry and that was why it was making all the gurgling sounds.

The only thing I had in my backpack was the one Twinkie I had been saving, but I was willing to share it with my gurgling snipe. As I carefully unwrapped my Twinkie, I had to take my eyes off the furry baby to make sure I didn’t drop it. Just as I took the last bit of plastic off, a furry little arm reached out, grabbed the Twinkie and swallowed it in three quick bites. Then with a wide smile and a big burp, it closed its blue eyes and fell fast asleep. "Well, thanks