I’ve always been fascinated with the great outdoors and its mysteries, such as Bigfoot. Ever since seeing my cousin Boo’s size fourteen footprint in the snow, I knew other big feet must exist in the world.

My friend Ernie lived in Washington State, along the Yakima River, and constantly phoned to say he saw a Bigfoot. I told him I did, too, and his name was Boo. Captivated by his continuous stories of the wild creature, I flew there for Labor Day. 
Ernie and I packed our car for an extended weekend in the wild. Not only was I excited about seeing Bigfoot, or Skunk Ape, as they call them in Florida, because of the awful stench people have reported, I was also anxious to try a few recipes I had cooked up in my head, concocted especially for ease of preparation in the woods. 

The highlight of our first night in the woods was the pork chops with hot pepper sauce, brown sugar, and beer simmered slowly over an open fire. The meal was fantastic. We sipped a second twelve-pack after dinner with our noses to the wind waiting for any signs of Bigfoot.  We went to our tent near midnight somewhat disappointed but feeling good in the great outdoors.

I awoke around 2 a.m., my nostrils burning from one of the worst smells I’ve ever inhaled. My head still swimming in barley and hops, I bolted upright surmising that a Bigfoot was nearby. I was just about to shake Ernie awake when a blast of gas in his sleeping bag was pause for cause.

“Ah, Ernie!” I mumbled. I stepped outside to refresh my lungs and refueled the fire.
No sooner had I sat down to enjoy the fire when a high-pitched scream pierced the night. My heart beat double-time.  I waited on the edge of my seat, listening intently.  “Eeeee!” echoed in the dark. I burst inside the tent trying to waft the smell and awaken Ernie.

I violently shook him, triggering another blast of gas. “Ernie, wake up! I heard Bigfoot!”
Ernie shot out of his sleeping bag, immediately grabbing his nose. “Phew, yea, I smell him.”

“That’s you, you idiot. Come on!”

Ernie quickly followed me outside. “Man, it’s cold out here,” he whined, shivering in his boxers.

“Shhh,” I insisted. “Listen.”

Again, “Eeee!” 

“Come on. It’s coming from over here!” I grabbed a burning stick for light. We cautiously crept for fifty yards when we heard another scream.

“Up here behind this clump of trees,” I said softly.

In a small clearing a short distance away a lone tent silhouetted the night. We stood horrified as a hulking shadow rose and fell in the pale glow of light emanating from inside. “Eeeee!” Another shrill scream.

“Bigfoot!” Ernie gasped. “He’s mauling a woman!” Ernie grabbed a maple branch the size of leg and ran toward the tent, yelling as if speaking in tongues. As Ernie reached the side of the tent I could see the hulking figure inside turn toward him.

“Whump!” Ernie’s aim was true and the giant fell in a clump. Another scream. But it sounded different, was more of a shriek.

As my mind raced to differentiate the two distinct pitches of sound, a lump formed in my throat. My suspicions were confirmed when a naked woman darted from the tent and disappeared into the brush.

Ernie peeked inside the tent and dropped his club. He turned toward my direction, eyes bulging, his mouth hanging like a stretched rubber band. I could see him mouth the words, “Oh, no.”

We learned two days later that poor gent in the tent suffered a mild concussion from Ernie’s whack with the stick but that he’d be all right. As for Bigfoot, well, I brought

Ernie back East to meet my cousin Boo.

Anyway, try this easy and filling recipe:

You can contact Terry Miller at cookingbachelorstyle@mountainhomemag.com. His Web site is cookingbachelorstyle.wordpress.com.