If the casted track had a story, like a footprint from the Patterson film at Bluff Creek, California, it was all the better. Peter acquired the Patterson film for display at the Bigfoot Information Center.

The IWCS investigative team welcomed physical anthropologists like Dr. Grover Krantz, Washington State University, to reconstruct the bones of the foot in the plaster cast and to weigh in on the reliability of the Bigfoot footprints. Anthropologists can estimate height and weight from the tracks and use measurements of stride lengths and photographs of tracks to determine bipedal motion. An accurate assessment in the lab hinged on the accuracy of the evidence collected in the field.

The best tracks for casting were found along soft muddy edges of creeks and lakes, freshly plowed or turned dirt, logging areas, and dirt roads. In snow, plaster casting weren’t likely, but tracks were measured, photographed, followed, and counted.

Was it a hoax? None of us had blinders on. We were on guard for the pranksters who only made fools of themselves. Bipedal hominids have distinct locomotion. With a natural gait, the heal strikes first leaving an unmistakable imprint and is frequently the deepest part of the track. If a track lacked the heal strike, the track was immediately under suspicion. Next, we looked for the weight distribution to shift forward on the foot as it transfers balance from one foot to the other. Continuing our line of examination, we would look for the transference of weight across the ball of the foot to the big toe. As the step continued a pressure ridge developed between the toes and the ball of the foot.

It is not difficult to spot a fake track. Two young men from Eastern Washington decided to add fakery to their portfolio by cutting from plywood a pair of giant footprints. After attaching a set of boots to the cut-outs, they drove a short distance to a popular campsite in the Okanogan Range of the Washington Cascades. Springtime with fresh snow made the area ripe for their shenanigans. During the evening one of them went for a walk near the camp and as expected their prints were discovered and reported.

If you read the sensationalized newspaper account, you would have thought the tracks were believed to be authentic and everyone duped. Not so. If memory serves me correctly, of the nearly six-hundred footprints counted, the tracks began and ended at the edge of a road. It was quickly noted the fake tracks also had a problem flexing or conforming to the ground, rocks, and downed branches the way a foot does when striding. They looked unusually flat with no heal strike or compression ridge behind the toes. The fakery was quickly identified.

Soon after the newspaper story appeared, two young men were identified as having pulled the caper off, but they hadn’t really. These two weren’t the first and wouldn’t be the last to fake footprints. Did it scare people? Not in the least. Most people hoped to see a Bigfoot and were disheartened when the tracks were discredited.

I felt my contribution to the team was best suited for the field. That was never clearer than when Dean (Dino) Martin, Jr., visited during the summer observation of Crates Point. Martin was interested in shooting a documentary on the hunt for Bigfoot. Funding promised to be big if a contract could be made.

Again, I have no notes of the event and only a dim memory of the visit. Peter called and left word to meet him at the finest motel in The Dalles. I knocked on the ground level door that corresponded with the room number Peter provided. A large man with long coal black hair and beard answered the door. I stepped into the room where Peter introduced me as his assistant. I was evidently subbing for Dennis Jensen that day. I had been in meetings with Peter previously and knew what was expected of me. I remained quiet as a church mouse and let Peter conduct his business.

Martin’s Los Angeles based entourage consisted of his personal photographer, his lawyer, and the hairy fella that answered the door, later identified as Martin’s bodyguard. The agenda for the first day was to escort Dino and crew to the Pinewood Mobile Manor where Peter would go over the details of the ’71 Joe Medeiros and Rich Brown Bigfoot sighting.

We loaded everyone into vehicles and made the five-mile trip to the trailer court. No sooner had we put boots on the ground when the photo shoot started again. We walked as a group across the fenced overgrown field to the tree where Brown had identified the tree limb that partially hid the Bigfoot’s face. Peter described in detail the sightings for Martin and his entourage.

With the photographer snapping pictures and Martin’s bodyguard half-heartedly punching the tree with bare knuckles earned him the nickname, “Barkman” among us. Barkman hit the tree, looked at his knuckles, and laughed. He repeated the action until his battered fists had drawn enough blood to appease him.

Not to be outdone, Dino climbed onto the big oak and out on to a limb. One could only suppose his purpose was for a photo shoot, and quite possibly, one could be wrong. The photographer’s camera clicked away as Dino straddled the limb ten-feet in the air, cupped his hands like a megaphone and called out, “Kaka-kaka, Kaka-kaka.” Martin changed the pitch of his voice and continued his bird impersonations. My thoughts met a cascading rush of embarrassment and confusion. I wanted to hide under a rock. When the nonsensical assault on nature had finished, we reconvened at the hotel to make plans for an overnight excursion. We would travel to the Three Sister’s Wilderness Area and camp alongside a lake. Peter intended to show Dino the ropes of what a field investigator’s responsibilities might entail.

The next day we met at the motel where the L.A. Crew were housed. We had packed everything they would need. Dino’s crew rode in their rented vehicle, Peter in the Scout, and Jim Day with me in my pickup. We managed to pull out on time and had a gorgeous day for the drive. We made good travel time and found ourselves lakeside earlier than expected.

We had set camp up on the east side of the South Sister. Approaching the lake, the terrain seemed flat with heavy timber as far as the eye could see. We rolled out dinner early and cleaned up with plenty of daylight left. The trail around the lake called to me, and I answered letting Peter know I would be out of camp on a trek around the lake. The mountains can be unpredictable and unforgiving. Wildlife that inhabited the region were more likely to avoid contact with humans than to attack, but there is the young and very old Mountain Lions that might size up a plump human as a tasty meal. Black bears too can be dangerous and deadly. What are referred to commonly as “camp” bears are animals that are habituated to taking what they want out of the National Parks trash cans and from hikers and campers around picnic grounds and campsites. Once at Six Mile Lake, I was fishing from a long wooden pier. A friend pointed out a black bear casually walking into the picnic area. I told my friend, “No problem, he won’t come down the pier.” They were always nearby when I fished the lake. Unexpectedly, one of the young men who accompanied us on the trip, walked to the shoreside of the pier and within twenty feet of the bear, and snapped a picture with his flash on. Big mistake. The bear reacted badly with a false charge. The amateur photographer learned a valuable lesson that day, don’t mess with the camp bears.

At the same lake on another occasion, I watched a family gather for a picnic. People had arrived earlier and set food on one of the tables. A big black bear walked into the picnic area and directly onto the wood bench seat attached to the table and sniffed around. The people backed out of the bears way while the bear continued onto the tabletop to enjoy his lakeside dining experience. If you don’t give it up a camp bear will likely hurt you.

There were also rattlesnakes in the Three Sisters Wilderness area. I hiked with gaiters on and felt relatively safe from rattlers. I still didn’t want to encounter one. I rounded the lake and took a path up the hill to get out of the muddy bottom area. I kept climbing and climbing. I could see a snow-covered clearing higher on the mountain and decided to continue the path to the timberline.

I stepped out onto the steep glaciated snowfield and immediately thought of my crampons and ice axe. Without being prepared, I knew trekking on the ice was a mistake but the wild called. I moved slowly across the ice pack and looked over the edge into a forbidding canyon with treacherous slip and die terrain. The calling continued. Perhaps I was the one chosen to encounter a Bigfoot and the voice was guiding me to that destiny.

The sun dropped over the South Sister and darkness set in quickly. I no longer heard the voice of destiny. Well, maybe an inner voice saying, How stupid can you get? I figured it was rhetorical.

Without a flashlight, I wandered along the snowy edge of the timberline looking for the path that lead to the campsite. I was too close to the trees to see anything other than the trees around me, so I climbed back up on the ice pack which provided for a less obstructed view. The valley I had climbed out of was pitch black. I considered my options. Staying put rather than wander in the dark was the right thing to do. As I looked over the valley, I saw a light flicker a long way from where I stood. As best I could I made a beeline for the light. When I entered the forested area, I brushed it continuing my downhill direction. Not far into the woods I came upon a trail that had a decline to it, Travel was easier on the trail and it was downhill.

Openings in the wooded area indicated I was near the lake and the black mass of water was on my right side. The light I had seen earlier was now flickering across the lake. If it wasn’t my camp, it was a camp, and that was better than waiting for daybreak on the ice pack.

I rounded the end of the lake and saw it was my camp with the biggest campfire imaginable for an overnight camping trip. All the people were still awake and talking about wild animals that may be lurking in the dark. Birds had begun to croon in the moonlight and a host of frogs and beetles released into the night their haunting sounds. The L.A. Crew drew quiet whenever one of these creatures made their vocalizations. Concern gripped them and talked louder to drown out the noises. I was of the opposite persuasion. If the forest creatures abruptly stopped their songs and mating calls, it had my attention.

Jim had tended the fire, and it was unlike him to build a massive fire. But, the L.A Crew may have asked for the big campfire. Jim walked past me and whispered, “Did you get lost?”

“Yeah, I got turned around.” Embarrassed, I swore never to listen to voices calling me into the woods. The L.A. Crew slept in a tent, while Peter, Dennis, Jim and I slept under the stars. The fire had died down to glowing red embers when a sound awakened me. I didn’t move just listened. Another noise, a snapping of a twig or branch. Without moving my head, I looked toward Dennis who was to one side of me. His eyes were wide open. When morning came, Dennis and I scouted around in the wooded area near where we were sleeping. You never know where you might find Bigfoot tracks. Unfortunately, we were unable to come up with any tracks.

We finished a nice day hike and said our goodbyes. Dino had asked Peter to fly to Los Angeles and make a presentation to his backers for the documentary. Upon Peter’s return from L.A. he informed us there was no deal.