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"My name is Luke. My job as a surveyor takes me into all kinds of places. This happened

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to me and my crew in the Allegheny foothills in Pennsylvania. The job is simple on paper.

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You close a gap between two old corners that don't agree anymore. Now that happens more

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often than you would think. Deeds copied from old deeds that were copied from even older

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deeds. And old landmark trees are now gone derot and you can't find them. And those old

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iron pens that were good enough when everyone shook hands on them. Well, you can't find

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those because they're mostly rusted to dust. So you go out, you cut a line, and you run

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a shot, and you make everything line up to bring the corners together, at least on the

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map. That was the plan. That day it was me, Cody, and the new kid, Ethan. I've been out

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on crews for a decade or more. It's long enough to know what kind of day you're going

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to have just by the way the dew burns off the grass. This day started cool and bright.

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The sun was clean overhead, but on the ground you wouldn't know it. The brush there was

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a shoulder high and stitched up tight. A green ceiling, ten feet up of heavy brush, most

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of it laurel. Now when you're in that kind of dense brush, the morning looks and feels

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more like late afternoon with what little light that you get through. And the sounds there?

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They're hard to pinpoint. We parked the trucks off a logging spur,

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shouldered up our gear and went in single file. Cody had the tripod and total station. I

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had the prism rod and lathe. Eden with a ribbon and a handful of brush takes. Now the line

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we were cutting ran northeast to southwest. The bearings from the office were good. We just

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needed to lay them in the dirt and make the two old corners meet up in the middle. Now

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you don't think about wildlife when you're out in the bush on the job. At least I don't.

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I do think about Hornets, ticks, and hidden holes. Unfortunately I have been the repeated

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victim of all of those many times before. Bears are around, sure, as are hogs. But you

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usually hear them before you see them. Experiences taught me if I hear something that could

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be either of those, I back up, I give up the ground. And I try to keep as much distance

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as I can between them and me. And if I can't do that, I try to keep the biggest tree

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I can find between me and them. And I hope it doesn't notice me. By 9 that morning we'd

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cut 50, 60 yards of line. Enough for Cody to throw some clean shots. We had a light wind

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in the tulip poplars around us. But where we stood, the air stayed damp and green smelling

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and very still. You know that smell is the smell of work to me. Crushed green from the cuts

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we've made. Leaf litter bruised and crunched under our boots. And a little bit of dirt

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that's floating in the air. That somehow gets in your mouth and your nostrils.

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Twice that morning we heard what I called nox. I said it that way too, real casual. Hey,

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Cody, your woodpeckers trying out something new today. Cody just snorted. And in case you're

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wondering, that was a weird inside joke for all of us. And I'm not going to explain that

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one. Anyway, what I heard was not the sound of branches falling. What we heard were two

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clean hits with a pause in between. It was the sound of hardwood on hardwood. Far to our

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left the first time. Farther left the second. Sort of like a heavily delayed echo. We didn't

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stop what we were doing, because we don't get paid to listen to things out there. We're

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paid to make the numbers agree on maps. Around noon we stretched the line another 40 feet.

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I said a lath. Drove it with three taps. Wood on wood. Then flagged it bright enough

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that a blind deer could have followed it. Cody called out. "Hold!" from the station.

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I lifted the prism rod, moved it just a whisker. Listen for the tone and locked it in. See,

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I like that part. Bring the world into alignment. Watching all the numbers settle.

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Now, that's when Ethan put a hand on my sleeve. Ethan wasn't some jumpy kid, but he did have

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that fresh higher earnestness, you know, the kind that makes you careful with what you say.

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So you're not the one responsible for corrupting him and teaching him bad ways. Or so our

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boss says. Ethan looked at me and nodded to the left and he said, "Hey, you hear that?

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At first I heard only the leaves shaking high in the trees from the breeze." Then I caught it.

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A forceful movement in the wall of brush, twenty yards to the left, and followed by another,

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closer to our right. It wasn't the leaf flutter that you get when a gust plays with the trees or

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bushes. This was a forceful sound of brush and branches being moved with deliberate carefulness.

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"Bear?" Ethan whispered. "I shook my head no." "Nah, if it is, it's got a brother with him."

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I told Cody, "Hold your shot." And he gave me one soft whistle. That was our copy, signal.

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The tripod creaked as he shifted his stance. The green wall went silent, and all movement back

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there stopped. "Hello?" I called out. "Not because I expected an answer back, but I've learned

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a human voice is sometimes a really good deterrent for any creature out in the wild. They do not like

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us, and I think it's with good reason." From the left flank came a single sound, it's hard to describe.

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Not a chirp, not a Twitter, and it wasn't a growl or some kind of humming noise. I really can't

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find a word for it. It was garbled and fast, but it didn't sound like speech or any type of communication

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that I recognized. While I'm thinking about that, about three seconds after that, from the right,

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came an answering sound, much like the other one. And then straight ahead, the green of brushwall

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parted. When it stepped out from the brush right into our cut line, I suddenly felt like a very small

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person. Now I'm not going to trot out my heightened weight like they're big deals, but I have never been

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accused of being small. And I have to say in my whole life, not too many people have ever tried to

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pick a fight with me in a bar, ever. Now if you're thinking I saw some guy in a suit that was playing a

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prank on me, you are absolutely dead wrong. I'll tell you why. Suits have seams in their baggy where

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they should be solid. Fur, even in the best suits, doesn't lay with a natural pattern. It will lay

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away from the seam, usually in a haphazard fashion. What I saw was a solid body. It was definitely a real

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body with eyes that were looking at me, and that face was no mask. Now over the years, I've seen some

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great Halloween costumes. I've seen Chubacca. I've seen Bigfoot. I've seen people trying to be bears and

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all sorts of things. But I'll tell you this. How on earth anyone could see any kind of a costume

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and broad daylight and ever be fooled into thinking it's a real thing such as Bigfoot or even a bear

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is beyond me. What I saw had a chest that was wide and solid, and the belly in the torso was firm and

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muscled. You could see that even with all the hair. The arms on it were long enough they hung past the

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mid-thigh. The hair had a deep brown base with some rusty red in it, and some of the hair around

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the top of the head looked almost blonde like the sun had bleached it out. The head was tilted forward

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just a little. Chin tucked, brows sticking out over the eyes like some big sun visor. I saw the

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eyes. They did a small circuit around looking. First at me, then Ethan, then passed us toward Cody,

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and it never moved the head hardly at all. Just the eyes. It stood 15, maybe 20 feet down the line,

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just inside the cut where the lights landed in across where it stood. There was enough light that

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I saw the skin where the hair was thin along the cheekbones. It was a seasoned chalky, deep brown

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smoother around the eye sockets, rougher toward the jaw. The nose was wide, and it had a bridge that

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you could see. The mouth line was wide and set. The lips just a shade lighter than the surrounding

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skin. It breathed in through the nose. I saw the ribs lift under the hair, and the exact same rhythm

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as a man, just deeper and longer. The smell that came after. It was earthy and wet leaves with a rank

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note like musty old wood chest that had been pulled out of a damp basement. It was a strong smell.

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It was the kind that stole your breath. Ethan's hand found the handle of his hammer. I heard him

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whispered just a single word, and it's not one I can repeat. Me, I heard my own heartbeat in my ears.

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The big foot or whatever your favorite pet name for something like this is, looked at the

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lathe in the ground that I had just placed. It walked forward a full step, slow and deliberate.

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I took a step back as did the other guys. Even with three of us, we knew if it came to a fight,

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we would not win, whether we had hammers and other tools or not. It came forward just that step,

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took another half step, then lowered itself with a small bend at the knees, right in front of the

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lathe. It reached out with two fingers and one of its huge thumbs and plucked the stake out of the

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ground and tossed it aside, keeping eye contact with me as it did so. Point made. My mouth worked before

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my brain did. Hey buddy, we're gonna move the line, okay? I said that and don't ask me why I said it.

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It was like I thought maybe it would understand me, but I know it wouldn't. So don't ask me because

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I can't tell you why I did. After I said that, it lifted its chin just a fraction, pressed its lips out

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and blew out a small puff. It wasn't a spit exactly. Not exactly a whistle either. It was just a puff of

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air. From the right flank came two more of those odd sounds like we heard earlier. They were low and

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spaced. As for me, I'd seen and heard enough, time to go. Back out, I said to my crew. Back out,

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nice and easy. I left the prism rod upright where it was and I didn't bend to pick it up. I wasn't

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going to drop my head and break sight line with what I was looking at and I wasn't going to turn my

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back on it either. So I took a half step backward and then another. As I did so, the thing took a half

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step forward. Not enough to close the distance and it wasn't minising or threatening, but it was

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just enough to show me it could close the distance and it could be threatening and minising if it wanted.

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I saw the muscles in the thighs roll under the hair as it moved. When its foot sat down,

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the leaf litter was compressed into a broad oval. We eased out back along our own cut.

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Cody broke the station down at a speed that I'd never seen before. He folded the tripod legs and

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kept the whole triangle between him and the line while walking backward like a man carrying

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expensive sheet glass. At about 30 feet of our retreat, my courage tried to rear its head and told

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me to stop backing out. But then the smarter side of me took over and I kept backing out. We gave the

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ground back to it as we retreated and no way it didn't think about it just like that. It knew what

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we were doing. I saw its eyes and expression. It seemed satisfied that we were backing up and try

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umpthent. We backed up all the way to the beginning of our cut and all the while it gave us a hard

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lingering stare. It sort of felt like it was telling us to get out and stay out. It gave us that look,

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then it took a long step and then another and it side stepped into the brush where it had first come

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out. Then we heard it, working its way away from us. Just as the sound of it walking and moving

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branches had faded away, the sound of the others in the brush nearby also moved away. I had almost

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forgotten about them, perhaps because we never saw them. We continued backing up all the way out of

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there. At the trucks, we didn't speak for a few minutes. Ethan sat on the tailgate, staring at his

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hands like all the answers were written there, like the way he cheated on his ninth grade test.

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I chugged a semi-warm gatorade just to get rid of the dry, thick feeling that my tongue and mouth

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had suddenly acquired. Cody stood there and stared at the tree line as I drank my gatorade.

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Then he said, "We going back for your rod?" "Yes, we are," I said. "A beat longer than it should have

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taken someone who was supposed to be the group lead. We're going to wait for ten, then we'll go

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in slow and get it." So we waited. I watched the shadows on the cut line. After more like 20 minutes,

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we finally went back in with the tripod out front, moving as silently as we could.

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The prison rod lay where I had left it, reflect or face down in the duff. When I picked it up,

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there was a smudge at the top edge of the reflector. It could have been my thumb from earlier.

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It could have been brush-sap. The smudge was oval and higher than my usual grip,

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but I didn't make any more of it than that. I was already thinking of too much at once, right then.

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Four yards off the line at shoulder height. There were the markings of the entrance and the exit

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of the creature, twisted and bent limbs, but not hard-broken brush. On the ground was a run of long,

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deep impressions that overlapped on each other so much that they could have been prints from anything,

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except we knew what had made them. There were a few clear, oval depressions that were clearer

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than the rest. They were spaced long enough that you have to stretch hard to stand one foot in one

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and the other foot in the other. We all three tried, and none of us could comfortably do it or hold

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that position that long. It was halfway to doing the splits, and none of us men were made for that.

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I measured heel to heel, and the average was almost sixty inches apart.

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We bent the line twenty feet west to avoid the area that we had been going in.

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We didn't know if it would be enough of a deviation, but we had to do something. We had to get through

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there and we had to finish this job. I already knew in my head the paperwork would say something like

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"Field fit due to extreme vegetation obstacles and terrain." I could have dressed it up with a

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paragraph about practical access and slope, and none of it would necessarily be a lie.

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The main truth was this, something didn't want us to take the straight shot.

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So we moved. We were trying to be respectful. We worked the rest of the afternoon with a layer

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of silence under our normal talk. Ethan asked no questions, and he earned my respect for that.

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Once, maybe an hour after the siding, we heard a single distant knock to the north,

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but nothing answered. Once a squirrel tried to scare at least a decade off my life,

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it darted out across the cut, exploding leaf litter at my feet as it did so.

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Every time the wind gusted, we three froze and listened, making sure the flutter of leaves wasn't

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hiding something coming toward us. On the way out near where the cut met the logging spur,

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something threw a small branch into the line from twenty feet off. It wasn't hard or close.

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It hit a tripod leg with a tick and then fell. If you'd asked me before lunch whether a throne

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stick could make my mouth go dry, I would have laughed, but I wasn't laughing then. I yelled out,

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"We're clear!" and I kept the crew moving. I would not look to where the stick had been thrown from.

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I did not want to see. Back at the shop, I wrote the field notes clean and careful.

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The real story was left out, of course. What I did do was talk to Ethan the next morning before

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we rolled out. "Hey, you ever feel weird like that again? Or you hear something that just doesn't

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seem right while we're out there?" You say it out loud. We'll back out first, talk about it later.

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No questions at the time. He nodded hard enough that I thought his cap would fall off.

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Two days later, we had to tie in the West Offset with a short cross line. We went in early with

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low light and colder temperatures. Nothing was moving out there but us. We set the cross, we shot it,

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and we got out. Now, I never told the game-morden. I didn't call a biologist. A lot of people will say

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that I should have. And maybe I should have. I don't know. But I didn't feel the need.

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I was not alone when this happened, so I have no doubts about that day what I experienced or what I saw.

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I do not need science to tell me what I already know. I don't need everyone else in the county

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knowing and possibly jeopardizing my job. So if you need a word for it, I'll do the best I can and I

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will describe it for you. If you need to find the best fitting word for it, well, maybe this will help

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you. To me, it was Bigfoot. Here's what I can tell you. It was a hair-covered biped, taller than

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any man that I've ever stood next to. It was built a little more like a muscular runner, more so than a

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big bear. It had a face that you could read expressions from. It looked at my crew the way an old man

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looks at kids running on his perfect lawn. It had strong hands with the poseable thumbs.

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It didn't really want us hurt, but it also didn't want us where we were or where we were going.

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So we've been our cut line and I'll go to my grave believing that was the correct professional decision.

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I've had folks ask what scared me the most that day. I can tell you, it wasn't the size,

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and it wasn't even that nasty smell. It was the suddenness of it all, if I had to say.

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It was being smacked in the face with something that I never thought was even real.

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To a guy like me who lives his whole life in quantities, arcs, measurements, degrees, numbers,

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and solid things that you cannot argue with, the suddenness of something that shouldn't have been

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there was what was scary. We finished the corridor the next week and our client was happy with the

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as built. If they walk the line in five or ten years, they'll see that twenty-foot bow,

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and they're going to think it must have gone around a huge clump of massive trees or something that

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is suddenly no longer there. And I guess that's kind of true though, isn't it? We did have to go

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around something. So why did it react like that? And why was twenty feet of an arc enough of a deviation?

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Look, I don't have any solid answers. I've got some firm guesses. I think maybe we were

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heading straight for its home. It's nested. Maybe that twenty feet deviation carried us just far

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enough away on the cut that we bypassed it completely by the time we came back to the line for the

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straight cut. I think it reacted the same as any of us would if we woke up and found out someone was

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bulldozing straight through to our house. You would go out, confront them. Do anything you could to

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stop them. Tell them to move it on down the way to somewhere else. Whatever you had to do, but you

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had to stop them. Now that's just a guess, but it's the firmest one I've got yet. I still work,

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still doing the same thing. I still go into the thick, heavy brush, but I talk more, not less while I'm

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out there. I tell Cody where I'm stepping before I step. I call out back out sooner than I normally

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would have five years ago, even if all I'm hearing is wind on the leaves. I'd rather be safe than sorry.

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So that's the whole of it. Thank you for listening. Luke.

