All right, we got a Bigfoot story.

Sure enough, show enough, Bigfoot.

All right, here we go.

I'm a 78-year-old young woman living in Ontario, Canada.

I was fascinated by the stories of the Yeti when I was in my teens in the

1950s, and I read everything I could find about them at the time. Now, back then, libraries

and National Geographic were the only references we had about the anomalies in the world.

I was always a believer in the possibility of this

creature, although I did not speak openly of this. I'd have been ridiculed to no end. I was

secure in knowing that I knew and I felt no need to convince anyone. I had an odd experience in the summer of 1966. We were vacationing

with my mother at a cottage 100 miles north of Toronto. The woods of Ontario are thick and lush

and quite undeveloped, and our cottage was rustic and remote.

My boyfriend drove up from Toronto to spend the day with me and to enjoy the energy of the forest and the river beside us. After a nice lunch, my mom encouraged us to go exploring, and so we

took the boat and traveled up the river. The further we went, the narrower

and shallower the river became. At some point, we came to a slightly wider spot bordered on

one side by a gravel beach. We decided to stop there for a while before turning around and going back.

We pulled the boat up on the bank and ran the docking rope to a stump that had washed up on the river's rocky edge.

I wandered around looking for interesting stones, pausing at one point for an embrace.

And right then, there was a huge splash in the middle of the

river, halfway between us and the other wooded shore. The splash was sudden and loud as if a large

flat rock had hit the surface, and it shocked to both of us. We could see waves from the impact,

visible and meandering toward us. At first,

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