It was a monster in our modern world. Linda knew the stories and had loved them since she was young. Bigfoot was a living animal standing in the scrub of our understanding, rearing up against all arguments, stomping across orderly classifications to silence disbelief, leaving gigantic footprints. But the most haunting legend for Linda was the Minnesota Iceman, because she had personally seen its body.

Gawkers had smelled a rotting corpse through the ice. Two scientists examined it in a dark freezer truck. They emerged persuaded, but then only a plastic replica toured instead. The Iceman’s owner gave three different accounts of how he had bought it, or shot it, and claimed he’d switched the body with a replica to avoid an FBI investigation into a possible murder charge, if the thing turned out to be human. But J. Edgar Hoover was more interested in prosecuting radicals, and eventually both the Minnesota Iceman and its owner disappeared from the carnival circuit. One of the enthusiastic scientists later concluded that the replica had been the “body” after all.

Adult Linda was a skeptic now, but she still remembered going to the Minnesota State Fair with her parents. A crowd of adults had gathered around a large, mobile freezer unit with their noses pressed to the glass—not standing erect as they did at other sideshow attractions, but leaning down for a really good look. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, so Linda’s father lifted her up, and even today she could still conjure that dark head and massive shoulders half-visible through the fogged, stained ice. She’d known the thing had to be dead, but when she peered down at its frozen form, it had seemed, paradoxically, to loom over her.

Throughout her childhood the myth—large, hairy, yet disturbingly human—strode among her fears, fueled by low-budget documentaries on late-night television, making her push the portable Kenmore dishwasher against the basement door so the creature could not emerge from the dark. The memory of the Iceman still gave her a creepy feeling, even now.

Her phone rang. “I can come for dinner,” said Stuart Dewhurst in his clipped British accent. “My flight’s been canceled, so I’ll get a hotel. I’m leaving the airport now.”

Linda actually flushed with anticipation. It’s not a lie, she told herself. I’m not going to tell him a lie.

“Do you need me to guide you here?” she asked. As she spoke she checked her reflection in the mirror. The brunette, hazel-eyed woman who gazed back at her didn’t look apprehensive. Apparently she didn’t look forty-five either; at least that was what many men had told her. I’ll convince him, she told herself, feeling a pit in her stomach.

“GPS will lead me to you. I didn’t know you had moved to the boonies.”

“It’s not the boonies; it’s a wooded suburb.” In fact, Google maps showed her area of California as a huge stretch of green flanking gray mountain peaks, with Highway 96 a thin yellow line running through it. “You like the woods.”

“Indeed I do. See you soon.”

Linda wondered if she would be able to sit through dinner before springing her plea on her longtime friend. Stuart Dewhurst, a lecturer in zoology at Cambridge University, had just completed a book tour in the States. He was opinionated, and Linda knew she would have to tread carefully.

After Stuart arrived, Linda flew around her kitchen while he sat by, watching her like an unsuspecting Hansel. They ate dinner by her large picture window overlooking the woods, and spotted a hawk and two deer before the end of the meal.

“I’m glad I came,” Stuart said, impressed. “I expected suburbia, not wildlife.”

“If you drove along our river bluffs, you’d find some fascinating geography. I’ve been trying forever to get you and Connie to come to the States.”

“I’m afraid my wife is a bit of a homebody.”

Stuart’s brows drew together, and Linda felt that he was about to say something else. He was a thin but handsome man in his early sixties, not very tall but often giving that impression, especially during his debates on science. He had a gentle gaze that could flash when he was confronted, yet his manner remained genteel even when skewering an opponent. He looked wistful now, and it made his face seem boyish.

“When does Connie expect you home?” Linda asked cautiously.

Stuart examined the small raccoon decorating the end of his fork, one of a set cast in silver by Linda’s late husband. “To be honest, I’m not ready to return quite yet. I do wish I could convince her to come here. I love American folklore: Daniel Boone, Calamity Jane… I’m weary of fairies and dolmens! And I would especially like to spend more time in the conservation areas and national parks, observing wildlife.” He gazed longingly out of the window, his profile relaxing. “We’ve only just reintroduced wolves to England.”

Linda brightened. “I have an idea for how you can do just that! Observe wildlife and learn about folklore. And there will be wolves.” In skeptics’ clothing, her mind added. Simultaneously, she wondered why he was avoiding Connie.

“Oh, yes?” He looked eager.

“It’s a trip to northern California. Four weeks. We could leave this Friday.”

Stuart mused. “That’s rather short notice, but I’m free. In fact, that would be perfect timing. I’d prefer Colorado, but California would do.”

“You don’t want to go to Colorado this time of year, Stu—it’s the end of September. NorCal is still quite warm during the day, and tolerable in a tent at night.”

“A tent. Hm.” His blond-brown eyebrows drew together.

“Yes, well, the roads around Klamity Creek are too narrow for a conventional camper.”

“So you’ve picked out a specific location? And one that I know is—” He stopped, and they sat looking at each other. “What’s up your sleeve, Linda?”

“Dessert,” Linda replied. All she really had was a bowl of bananas and apples.

“I don’t believe it! Did you somehow get access to my email?”

He glared at her with his intense blue eyes. She quailed, but laughed. “And what could be in your email that would interest me?”

“Don’t be evasive.” Stuart put both elbows on the table—a rare breach of etiquette. “A Sasquatch hunt? With that quack Simon Willard? You can’t be serious!” Whenever he became annoyed, his hair lifted as if stirred by a sudden wind. “You knew about him contacting me, didn’t you? You knew!”

“I didn’t know for sure, Stu,” Linda said honestly, “but I was hoping he had.” She didn’t add that she had fed Stuart’s personal email address to Willard’s assistant, with a hint. “It’s an expedition near the town of Klamity Creek, and yes, Simon Willard will be leading it. Of course I knew about it—I follow the Bigfoot phenomenon. I’ve written about it in SkeptiThink.”

Stuart scoffed.

“But Simon Willard is not a quack! He’s a physical anthropologist at the University of Utah. He’s written two college textbooks on evolution and published papers in Science, Nature, other journals. Like you, and like Greta Altonen, he debates creationists and trounces them.”

“He’s religious,” Stuart pointed out. “He’s a Mormon.”

“So? Greta Altonen is a Methodist.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Linda shook her head, amazed that Stuart could be so clueless. “Look, Willard refutes creationism, and he’s skeptical of the so-called evidence for Bigfoot. He’s not doing this for publicity; in fact it’s very hush-hush. He invited Greta, but she’s tied up. Otherwise she would have gone.”

Stuart pushed his chair away from the table. “Greta is a primatologist, so naturally she’d consider it. But I’m a zoologist. This isn’t my area. Why don’t you invite me to investigate, say…chupacabra?”

Linda grinned. “You know perfectly well why. And this is an opportunity to camp in one of my favorite places, and all expenses will be paid by Willard—no bills! And no more book signings either, I promise. What’s not to like?”

“But I ignored his invitation,” Stuart said. “I have no idea how this character got my email in the first place.”

“How Willard contacted you is not important,” Linda said hastily. “The point is that ‘this character’ invited you. He wants you to go. You can answer him now, and ask if I can come along. I’ll be your assistant!”

Stuart looked wearily at the ceiling.

“I’m a journalist,” Linda went on desperately. “People in the Bigfoot community know me. And it’ll be fun, you’ll love it. Oh, come on, Stu!”

Stuart lifted an eyebrow. “There’s a Bigfoot community?”

“We’ll be in the Six Rivers National Forest! And the tourist season is over.”

“I don’t want to lend this tomfoolery any legitimacy by showing up,” he insisted.

Linda paused, not wanting to push too hard. Stuart’s normally pleasant face was set in a hard line, uncharacteristic of him. “Stu,” she said softly, “I really want to go. Please?”

“But you could go camping there anytime,” Stuart argued, “without being funded by witch doctors.”

“No, I couldn’t, not for an entire month. But my employer is offering me a three-month sabbatical now—and, as I said, if we go with Willard, he’ll foot the bill.”

“On sabbatical? From the museum?” Stuart looked confused. “Why now?”

Linda floundered, picking up an apple from the bowl and biting into it so she could have time to think of a reply. “Look,” she improvised, “things are different in this country. Budgets change; funding suddenly disappears. My last day of work is this Friday, whether we go or not. “More importantly,” she said, changing the subject, “we would be helping the Forest Service if we go, by removing invasive plants. That’s Willard’s cover, in case reporters start poking around. Besides Bigfoot, Willard is passionate about conservation.” When Stuart looked blank, she added, “He doesn’t want attention. I believe he’s even traveling under an assumed name.”

“You are doing this,” Stuart replied after a long pause, “because I was stupid enough to tell you I wanted to take some time off in the States after my tour.”

“I’m doing this because it’s an opportunity, Stu. To get out of my house, to write—and because we have to move fast. Willard will go by himself if he has to. And since I’ll be on furlough anyway…” She trailed off, hearing her own mistake.

“Furlough? Not on sabbatical?” Stuart leaned forward, and she couldn’t meet his probing gaze. “Linda, you’re losing your job. You could have just told me that.”

When she didn’t answer, he stood up and went to the window to look out at the darkening yard. Linda, feeling out-played, rose to clear the dishes.

Finally Stuart answered her. “I do want to go somewhere with you, Linda,” he said, coming into the kitchen, where she was loading the dishwasher. “We never spend enough time together. But I don’t want to hear Willard prattle about Bigfoot. And frankly, I couldn’t stomach listening to you talk about it either. It would be like you joining a cult!”

“I suppose this all sounds very strange,” Linda murmured, “but you know me. I wouldn’t join a cult! I mean—once I was a Bigfoot believer, and a creationist. But so were you; we were both raised as Christians. But you and I can talk about creationism now, and that doesn’t bother you. I was very young when I was in my Bigfoot phase, and it actually led me to science, evolution. Greta herself admits that she believed the legend when she was young. Yet now she lectures on the subject, examines it critically—and it was what originally kindled her interest in primatology.”

Stuart turned to look out the window again. “I didn’t know that about Greta. And I had no idea you went through a ‘Bigfoot phase.’”

Because we still don’t really know each other, Linda groused silently. Aloud she said, “You mentioned your love of American folklore. Well, this is definitely folklore, Stu: Teddy Roosevelt’s Wendigo, Daniel Boone’s Yahoo, reports by early newspaper reporters, explorers, trappers… Why do you think we tell scary stories about Sasquatch around the campfire?”

“All right,” Stuart said at last, turning. He laid his hands on her shoulders. “For you, Linda. Because I don’t want to go home just yet, and because I’d like to observe wildlife with you. And because you so badly wish to go, though I don’t know why. I’ll accept Willard’s invitation, for you.”

Triumphantly, Linda brandished her nibbled apple. “Thanks, Stuhurst!” she cried, rewarding him with that detested nickname.

They sat in her living room, Stuart searching his phone for Simon Willard’s email.

“I have some book recommendations for you,” Linda told him. “Skeptical sources, don’t worry!”

“Perhaps Willard won’t answer.” Stuart brightened at this prospect even as he sent a reply accepting Willard’s invitation. Then he turned to the map of Humboldt County on Linda’s laptop, while she summarized her experiences at Bigfoot conferences.

Female interest in Bigfoot was rare, and Linda—brunette, petite, with high cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes—had quickly become popular among the attendees, who were mostly white, middle-aged men. Often their presentations of “evidence” resembled revivalist meetings, although once in a while a cautious woodsman presented a gem of reasoned analysis. Linda had received many invitations to look for the elusive man-ape in the field.

She confessed to Stuart that she had been curious about these treks for some time, but she couldn’t afford the admission fees, and SkeptiThink refused to foot the bill. She was also leery about going off into the woods with a bunch of guys she didn’t know well. The men called themselves “cryptozoologists,” but they seemed disorganized and full of tall tales. There were also rumors of drunkenness and fights on some excursions.

“What about Ben?” Stuart asked. “Wouldn’t he go with you?”

Linda poured Stuart a brandy and settled down on the couch with her wine. “Ben thought I’d lost my mind,” she said lightly. To redirect his attention, she showed him the books she had chosen for him: Bigfoot: A Personal Inquiry into a Phenomenon, which took a critical view; The Making of Bigfoot: The Inside Story, which exposed Roger Patterson, who had supposedly filmed one of the creatures near Bluff Creek in 1967; Bigfoot: The Life and Times of a Legend, which, instead of focusing on the creature itself, chronicled the rise of the myth. This last one was a quick read and would ground Stuart in the bedrock tales.

Stuart obediently placed this book in his bag, and Linda slipped in a SkeptiThink baseball cap alongside it.

Stuart was shaking his head. “Bigfoot,” he muttered. “Willard is probably going to hire some goon to wear an ape costume and scare us into believing.”

Linda laughed. “Sounds like the shit we pulled at Girl Scout camp. But he’d be pretty stupid to pull a stunt like that, Stu. He is a legitimate anthropologist.”

“So was Grover Krantz,” Stuart reminded her. “Until he made a fool of himself by insisting Bigfoot was a Gigantopithecus. That ruined his reputation.” He thumbed his phone, and Linda, glancing over, saw that he was texting Connie.

Pouring him another drink, she said, “I didn’t realize you even knew who Krantz was.”

“I seem to remember a bespectacled twit claiming to be the ‘Leonardo da Vinci of human anatomy’ or some such nonsense.”

“Not one of his finer moments,” Linda admitted.

Stuart’s email notification erupted in an elephant’s trumpet. “He’s answered already,” Stuart sighed, plowing a hand through his hair. “Welcoming us both on this ‘big adventure.’”

Later, before he left to go back to his hotel, Stuart gave Linda a copy of his new book, The Lure of Pseudoscience: Why Doubters Convert. Of course she already had a copy, but this one was signed, with a special message to her.

Stuart obviously meant to warn her, but Linda knew the legends inside and out. Bigfoot didn’t exist. Bigfoot couldn’t exist. Nobody was going to convert her in a million years.

Having gone from youthful Bigfoot believer to adult skeptic, I did not expect to revisit the legend later in life, much less to devote a novel to it. After all, I was a science writer and indexer. Yet a scene kept recurring in my head—a scene in which both believers and skeptics were unnerved by an unexplained encounter that neither side could fully accept.

At the same time, the online, sometimes contentious rivalry within the community of believers in Bigfoot (as opposed to arguments between believers and skeptics) reminded me of the growing divide among Americans regarding political and social issues. Ultimately, what grew out of the scene in my head and my reflections on our current culture morphed into a novel based on the true stories of the “Big Four” researchers—John Green, René Dahinden, Peter Byrne, and Grover Krantz—who have been neglected by recent “Bigfoot” movies, and who have influenced me more than I initially realized.

The novel is not really about Bigfoot, or Sasquatch, per se. It is about how one chooses to approach the world. Choosing curiosity over conflict—even if this curiosity violates one’s core beliefs—yields rewards, whether or not one ends up changing one’s beliefs. Science is a method of assessing evidence regarding physical phenomena, but a scientist can still be a prisoner of dismissive bias or voracious faith.

Choosing to be uncertain—even if our original convictions ultimately remain intact—entails forming relationships with people different from ourselves, and trying to understand those who are different from us. It means choosing to tell the truth—acknowledging that there are things we wish to believe, even if they’re false, and that those false, impossible beliefs may actually reveal deeper, playful, and compassionate truths about ourselves. And it means choosing to embrace a world that, even without a living Bigfoot, remains large, unexplored, and still able to surprise us.

In my novel, a woman at a crossroads in her career, Linda Mercer, talks herself and a prominent zoologist friend, Stuart Dewhurst, into going on a Bigfoot expedition led by a believing anthropologist, Simon Willard. Haunted by the death of her husband, Linda finds new love and friendship in the town of Klamity Creek, near the site of Bluff Creek, where the historic 1967 footage of “Patty,” allegedly a female Bigfoot, was filmed. Intent on finding a new career while still concealing her pain, Linda unearths the secrets that Stuart and Simon are hiding, even as the two men move from being rivals to friends. Complicating the situation is a local cult leader with a supernatural view of Bigfoot, who appears to be harmless—until Linda discovers his dangerous, much darker secret, one that could threaten not only the town but the indigenous reservations nearby.