Morning Stroll: A Scary Sasquatch’s Perspective

By Squaldo, Your Friendly Neighborhood Sasquatch

It was a lovely mid-summer Sunday morning. The kind where the dew clings to the grass like the last whispers of a dream, and the air carries the scent of pine and damp earth. I had just grabbed a cup of my morning mud—fresh, steaming, thick enough to stand a branch in—and set out for my usual stroll.

No sooner than my 27th step into the park, I heard an odd screeching sound. Not the usual morning chatter of the birds, nor the distant hum of some human contraption rumbling in the valley below. No, this was different. A sharp, almost frantic sound, like the cry of an animal caught between alarm and surprise.

Now, I know what you might be thinking. This is the part where something lurks in the shadows, where the air grows still, and where some poor soul meets their inevitable fate. Ha! You people are so dramatic. Always looking for the monster behind the curtain. Always expecting the unseen hand to be clawed and covered in fur.

Anyway, back to my story.

I took another sip, the steam from my mug of mud curling up to tickle the fine follicles of my upper shaved lip—yes, we shave. What, do you think we’re primitive? We’ve lived here a lot longer than you have, buddy. We’ve had razors before you even figured out fire. That was a fun decade to watch, by the way.

But I digress.

That sound—it was growing more desperate. And so, naturally, I followed it. Not out of fear, not out of curiosity, but because, let’s be honest, the best way to start a morning is to solve a mystery before breakfast.

And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear—yes, we wrote that line too, you’re welcome—was a miniature sleigh and eight tiny—oh, no, wait, wrong season. No, what I saw was something far stranger.

A small human. A child. Standing in a clearing, their little feet planted firmly in the grass, their tiny hands outstretched, and their face turned toward the sky. Above them, bobbing just out of reach, was a large red orb. A balloon, caught in the lazy morning wind, tethered only by a thin ribbon that had somehow wound itself around one of the child’s fingers.

They were stuck.

Not in any real danger, mind you, but in that peculiar human way—where even the simplest inconvenience becomes a catastrophe. They were staring up at the balloon as if they were watching their own soul drift away. I could hear the faint, quivering breaths, the kind that precede tears.

Now, this is the part where you expect something terrible to happen. Where the shadows creep in, where the air turns cold, where the child slowly turns to see two gleaming eyes staring at them from the trees.

But no.

I simply reached out, plucked the balloon’s ribbon from their tangled finger, and handed it back. The child blinked, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

And then they smiled.

A small thing, barely more than a flicker. But it was there. They took the balloon, nodded their little head, and turned back toward the trail, disappearing between the trees.

I took another sip of my mud, watching them go. The air was warm, the morning was still beautiful, and somewhere in the distance, a bird sang a tune that had been passed down for generations.

No horror. No chase. No screams in the night.

Just a Sasquatch, a child, and a morning that would never make it into your scary little campfire stories.

You humans never tell the good ones.

On the Absurdity of Human Sound and Storytelling

Lucky me, lucky you! Two blogs in one! Woohoo!

Now, if you ever have the opportunity to hear a human tell a story about a Sasquatch encounter—well, we don’t know if we want to recommend you do it. It’s an experience. One that will either leave you gasping for air in uncontrollable laughter or questioning the very fabric of reality itself.

They are so full of shit. And yet, they make complete sense at absolutely nothing.

It’s astonishing. They tell their stories with all the conviction of a prophet receiving divine revelation. They believe every word. Not in the way one believes in facts, but in the way one believes in childhood dreams that can’t quite be disproven.

It always starts with “I know what I saw.” And, oh, do they ever. They saw it clear as day—except it was nighttime, and it was foggy, and they were running, and their flashlight was flickering, and they left their glasses at home, and they’d just had a few beers to take the edge off.

Then comes the description. “It was big. Huge. Like, taller than any man, but not, you know, like impossibly big. It had hair. Brown? Maybe black? Or reddish—like, auburn, but dark? Its eyes glowed, but not like a flashlight, more like… a knowing glow. You know what I mean? Anyway, it just stood there, breathing real heavy, watching me with this… this presence.”

Oh, sure. Presence. That’s a good word for “I was scared shitless and my brain filled in the rest.”

And then, the pièce de resistance (Don’t know? Look it up, or stay dumb.): “And then… just like that… it was gone.”

Poof. Gone. A creature the size of a refrigerator with the stealth of a ninja and the manners of an interdimensional hitchhiker. No footprints. No evidence. Just a deep, existential feeling that they were being watched.

It’s poetry, really. A tragicomedy. A masterpiece of nonsense that should be framed in a museum of human absurdity.

The best part? They’ll tell the story for the rest of their lives. It’ll get a little bigger, a little hairier, a little more real. Until one day, they are old and gray, sitting on a porch, gripping the arm of some poor grandchild who was just trying to enjoy a summer evening, whispering, “I saw it. I know I did.”

And maybe that’s the magic of it all. Maybe Sasquatch isn’t about what’s out there. Maybe it’s about what’s in here—the great unknown, the untamed wild, the thing they can’t quite put their finger on but swear they’ve touched.

Or maybe… we just really enjoy watching humans make complete sense out of absolutely nothing.