I have a story to tell of a Bigfoot non-enounter, more like a sensory evidence event than anything else.

It is both unusual and entertaining in that it took place before I knew of the reality of Bigfoot.

There I was in the woods confronted with the evidence of that exact reality and was utterly

unable to process it. It was the summer of 1975 in the northeastern United States. I was hiking the Northville Lake Placet Trail in New York's

Adirondack State Park. Just for scale, I'll tell you that the Adirondack State Park is a bit

larger than the entire state of New Jersey where I was living then. I was hiking alone for a few days, letting my pioneer

spirit have its way. I was on my first day. I was in good physical shape and the miles melted

under me. The hike was fantastic and the trail was in very good repair. I felt as though I was

bounding along.

Nature was all around me, and thankfully the black flies had not yet appeared.

As long as I kept moving, the sweat I produced evaporated nicely with the occasional forest breeze.

So far, I had met no one.

My pack didn't feel too heavy, and I was really enjoying

myself. I had arrived on the trail around 1 p.m. after the drive up from New Jersey, and I walked

the afternoon until near dusk, and then I set up camp. I didn't build a fire, so I was able to watch and see the forest around me without the glare

of the fire's bright wall holding back the night.

No need for a tent fly.

The weather was perfect.

The stars were everywhere.

So far, what a trip.

Later, to evade some persistent mosquitoes, I went into the tent and zipped the mess shut.

I settled on top of the sleeping bag, and I took out my map and pin light for a once

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