On a late autumn weekend, Jake rode his fire-engine-red, 1984 Honda Nighthawk to the Berkshires for a getaway and to enjoy a rugby match. He had a perfect moon as escort along the Saw Mill to 684, to 84, to route 8, and to country route 8. The pull off of route 23 onto the compact dirt road was an ease for the 750CCs. The Nighthawk had a robust sound out in the country.

Finally at rest, outside in the immense glow of full moonlight and bright stars, at last, peace from the city. The engine cooled. Stepping away from the light of the fullest of moons, hidden in case anyone was around, Jake was enjoying a cold beer and a phat J. Reefereshment. But no one was around. The perimeter was empty of vehicles and humans. Quiet. But the quiet and peace of night was violently, instantly ripped to shreds with the most horrific of screams, like a waveform of nightmare lightning. Frozen. His heart raced as the scream of death blasted the air.

Fast thoughts, “How do I get from this hideaway to the safe lockable indoors? A cool walk across the yard with a confident strut? I could clear my throat boldly, like I don’t give a shit. Yes, I’ll do all that.”

He rose from the nylon webbed lounge chair in the dark, beer bottle and snuffed spliff in hand, and started out upon his casual, cocky stroll. Within two seconds Jake was sprinting. Inside the house and not soon enough, he closed and locked the doors.

“What the fuck was that?”

His heart thumped. His ears were ringing and they always do, but the ring became especially acute in the silent night of scream darkness. What was that scrambling shrieking commotion in the woods? Jake Martin listened through the screened window. While falling asleep, he witnessed and became ….


Standing on one leg as waves roll in upon the shore of Moose River, ducklings learn balance from Mallard, a dabbling duck. One fluffy feathered child was visibly less healthy than siblings. Parent ducks circled the ugly duckling as if hopeless was the foregone conclusion.

Was it a moratorium? It happened to be Father’s Day.

Maybe this is a foreseeable future loss in their community?
These are the things I think about.

I try to forget that people call me Sasquatch.

I try not to take it as anything when they foolishly call me Big Foot.

Look at the size and proportion of my feet in alignment with the rest of me… my feet are fine.

They don’t understand me but I understand ducks and waves as they rise and fall with day and night.

I am not Sasquatch even though my feet are very big.

I am not a stupid phantom animal in the wild and I have memories of my brothers and sisters and parents.  I am 374 years old now and the last of my kind, I think. I am not Sasquatch.

I am Enjhomar.


Jake could smell the musk of the creature, ages old, as he woke up. But coming to light, the musk was just the stink of his own breath impending back, inhaling his night of weed, beer, fright and flight. Dreams can be mesmerizing, significant, or simply strange.

Awake, feeling a need like never before to enjoy cool October water, close to the shore, clean with soft waves, Jake was suddenly aware of a boy, himself, so much younger. More than a century ago. The familiar weight of being out there alone dissolved into sand, under the weight of his mighty feet. Grass, Leopard frogs, and edible snakes captured his full attention.

Sometimes Jake helps the boy fall asleep. He sits quietly, humming a soft, ancient song called: Wind and Fog Above Lake, while gently massaging the boys growing skull.

At the speed of light, Jake reached to grab a Tiger Trout with his bare hand. He held the dripping, wriggling fish high, to thank the Creator for this meal. He bit into the trout, its life energy becoming his own. Walking towards woods, he felt his feet massaged from moss, magnetized, green and warm in early sunlight.

Fulfillment is a music of truth, only realized from finding the appropriate combinations of rhythm and melody. Autumn leaves have changed color and their oils will dry before snow falls. Turning into the wind, to hear more, Jake had a vision of himself arriving at some kind of heaven’s pearly gates. Someone looked him high and low, an angel maybe, and asked,

“Did you bring your guitar?” Before he could answer, the angel continued,

“Don’t worry, we have one for you.”

It has been a strange life, with endless walking. Walking while looking up, listening for something to soothe the solitude of a lifetime.

Nature, the absolute confirmation, still shines like music well played. Tonight, the vast skyline is filled with the dense fog of fireworks, explosions of all color, and smoke from temperatures colliding. Freedom amplifies inside Enjhomar and it resonates broadly. He sees the motorcycle that is his, Jakes. Enjhomar has had enough walking. Normally quiet, to hunt and not have his presence known, he speaks out loud into the morning,

“Gadzooks, I shall ride this motorcycle.”

He knew the helmet and boots would be too small now, again, but he cared not. With the sun only just rising, few people saw him ride off on his red 1984 Nighthawk.



By Robert Mitchell