While Mojo does not personally think Bigfoot actually exists--despite advanced technology, ubiquitous cameras, etc., there has yet to be any real, concrete evidence of large animals living among us other than the usual suspects--I remain open to the possibility. The wee little Mojo inside of me--who grew up in the late 60s and early 70s, when cryptozoology and ghosts and the paranormal in general enjoyed a resurgence of unquestioned, uncritical popularity--kinda wants people to find one, even though adult Mojo is pretty sure it will not happen. Having said that, I have all the sympathy in the world for those who claim to have seen them. Because I once did, as well.
The place was a friend's grandfather's snowmobile cabin, deep in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, up a mountain, out in the middle of the woods. We weren't actually living *IN* the cabin, since it was pretty much overrun with red squirrels and mice living in holes in the mattresses. We set up a tent in the ancient, overgrown apple orchard just outside the cabin. So you will have to imagine: a clearing in the woods on the side of a Vermont mountain of maybe six or seven acres, with a handful of very old, gnarled apple trees. The cabin was situated on the upper edge, near the trees, overlooking the clearing, and the orchard and the dirt road sloped down the side with long, uncut meadow grass. It was a pretty place.
The Favorite Husband and I are long, long, experienced campers; this setup was particularly luxurious by our standards since we could take refuge in the cabin if it poured rain all day, we could cook on the propane stove in the cabin, AND we could use the outhouse. Whoohoo! There was a fire pit maybe ten feet from the cabin's porch, and most evenings we sat on logs and stared at the fire with our dog at the time, a rather small, rather cowardly German Shepherd cross named George.
So late one night we were thus employed, staring at the fire, not saying much. It was pretty dark out. And all of a sudden George went NUTS. Hackles raised, he started bellowing in the direction of the meadow that told us something was out there. (Naturally, he did not confront or give chase; like I said, he was always a coward.) I got up and walked in the direction, away from the fire, expecting to catch the white flags of a retreating whitetailed deer or two. Because, um, Vermont.