Bigfoot took a moment to talk about some of the things troubling him/her in the California area. Check it out:
Some people doubt my existence. But, my fellow Californians, I’m one of you.
And as I travel widely, my fears have grown about our home state. My anxiety is not because of all the people who claim to have seen me, but because I’m seeing far too much of all of you.
Yes, it’s true that there have been a few more sightings of me in Washington state (about 450, according to various Bigfoot trackers) than California (about 400). But every hair on my body calls California home. The most famous pictures of me (the Patterson-Gimlin film of 1967) were taken in the Golden State. And I’ve always been proud of the way I bring its disparate regions together, from Bigfoot-themed bars in L.A. to the Bigfoot Discovery Museum in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I bridge Hollywood (which made me famous on TV and in film) and Silicon Valley (did you see me in Google ads during the Olympics?).
I spend most of my time in the far north of the state — there’s a reason Siskiyou, Del Norte and Humboldt counties boast the most sightings of yours truly. I’m particularly loyal to the tiny Humboldt County town of Willow Creek, the world’s unofficial Bigfoot capital. This Labor Day weekend, as usual, I’ll ride down Willow Creek’s Main Street in the parade for the annual Bigfoot Days celebration, check in on my artifacts at a local museum, and watch the lawn mower race, the hirsute’s answer to the Grand Prix.
Seeing old friends will be fun. But I must confess I miss the solitude I used to enjoy when I had California’s wilder areas mostly to myself.
These days, I’m encountering so many people in our state’s once-remote precincts that I can hardly get a moment’s peace. The marijuana-industrial complex is relentlessly pushing into the lightly populated regions I favor; the noise of their trucks — bringing in soil, shipping out the finished product — disturbs my sleep. California’s urban housing shortage is forcing more people to build in places near my remote haunts. And that doesn’t include the homeless, who don’t just live in cities. I can’t walk a ridge on state or federal lands without running into a new encampment.
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