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Perhaps best BF article ever. '73 Rolling Stone


NCBFr

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Very good read, although the end got a little weird.  I'd like to know if the trailer park stories are known to those out west from other sources.  

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On 12/21/2018 at 7:11 PM, Trogluddite said:

although the end got a little weird

 

It's Rolling Stoned magazine...  known for inaccurate "reporting".

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Peter Byrne wrote extensively about The Dallas events that are in that article. His writing matches that of the Rolling Stones article nicely.

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I admit I was in diapers when that article was written, so perhaps the magazine's reputation was better back then...  I liked this part:

 

I am indebted to Sgt. Jack Robertson of The Dalles Sheriff’s department for a bit of woodsy Omah lore.

“If you should be out in the woods without a weapon,” he said, “and you see Bigfoot, just throw some crap in his face and he’ll run away. They hate that.”

“What am I going to do if there isn’t any crap around?”

“Listen,” Robertson said, “if you’re out in the woods alone and you see him, there’ll be plenty of crap around.”

 

:lol:

 

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The article mistakenly claims that the Patterson Gimlin film was filmed during "the early afternoon hours" of October 7, 1967.

 

I would be curious to know where that "alternative date" came from.

 

 

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8 minutes ago, OldMort said:

I would be curious to know where that "alternative date" came from

 

:drag: 

 

October 7th...  20th... like... what's the difference? dooode

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I remember the string of events well and was always impressed with them. I didn’t read this article to the end, so I don’t know if it was mentioned, but Byrne told of a group of teens who may have shotgunned the creature one night. As the events were unfolding, these kids went out hunting the thing.

 

In the past two years I’ve driven through or around the area at night. Twice. I’m absolutely convinced that there is a regular river crossing pattern there just below the dam as part of all north/south migrations/movements. Moreover, I think that most of that movement are males, and likely younger males just past sexual maturity. Crossings as far east as The Dalles are assuredly not as common as below Bonneville Dam down through McLoughlin State Park, at least since the damming of the river. The forest, offering more cover, is thicker west of Hood River.

 

BFRO/SSR reports by both motorists on I-84 as well as by railroad employees on the south side pinpoint the crossing location pretty well, and sightings on the Washington side supports that theory.

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7 minutes ago, Huntster said:

I didn’t read this article to the end

 

I'm not saying that the events at Dalles, WA did not occur, I'm just objecting to using a Rolling Stones article as legitimate. Here is the ending of the article, judge for yourself...

 

I had put notes up in the local supermarkets and laundromats asking anyone with Bigfoot information to call me at the Oregon Motel in The Dalles. About one AM on a dark and stormy night, I received a call. A hoarse voice with a heavy accent I couldn’t identify asked me if I was the writer who wanted to talk to Bigfoot. I said I was. The voice said, “I am Omah.” He stretched it out, “Ohhhh-mahhhh.” He said he would meet me in 20 minutes at the local Denny’s 24-hour coffee shop. He said I would recognize him because he would wear an ankle-length trench coat and a slouch hat, and because he would be nine feet tall. I suggested he carry a basketball so as not to attract attention.

 

I dressed quickly and doused my face with cold water. The restaurant was one of those bits of roadside formica with zippy muzak and menopausal waitresses on mother goose shoes. Two truckdrivers discussed Peterbilt rigs near the door. Omah sat in the rear, hunched over a cup of coffee, the hat pulled low over his forehead.

 

He looked up quickly, almost angrily as I approached the table.

 

“Cahill?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You Omah?”

“That’s me.”

“So why did you call me?” I asked.

 

He smiled strangely. “I need ink.”

 

He wanted to know if I had done any interviews and what my approach to the story was going to be. I said that I saw him as a survivor, a self-reliant primitive in the midst of vast technocracy; a pleasant reminder that we haven’t yet swallowed up all our wilderness. I said that I saw him as man’s closest brother on the earth and that by knowing him, we could certainly learn to know ourselves the better.

 

Omah nodded absent-mindedly while I spoke. He called the waitress over and ordered five Lumberjack Breakfasts: “A stack of delicious buckwheat cakes with rich creamery butter and Vermont maple syrup, mounds of hash browns, a giant slab of Canadian bacon, golden brown toast and an assortment of the finest jams; a breakfast fit for a lumberjack.”

 

While he ate, I pumped him with questions. He had been coming down to The Dalles from Fort Hood every spring for years to raid the apple orchard that is now The Pinewood Mobile Manor. One fateful June, five years ago, he found the orchard gone. In his confusion, he had come on The Dalles Drive-in, which at the time was playing Planet of the Apes. He watched the film three times every night for two weeks. He learned to speak English. And an unshakable idea grew in his mind. Through the long, snowy winters on Mt. Hood he considered. Every spring when he came down to The Dalles, there was a new ape sequel film. This year he was ready to act.

 

Suddenly he pulled the hat back from his forehead and turned his profile to me. The features were humanoid, but the nose was flattened and the eyes were flat black coals.

 

“What do you think?” he blurted.

“About what?”

“About me, Omah … Do you think I could get a part in the next ape film?”

 

He must have seen the look on my face because he stopped talking and stared moodily at his Lumberjack Specials. Mentally I scrapped my survivor story. A great, inexplicable wave of sadness washed over me. We sat in silence for several minutes.

 

“Been swell talking to you,” I said, and faked an expansive yawn. “Well, I better get back to the motel.”

 

He looked up and for the first time his humanoid face showed emotion. It seemed twisted into an expression of hopeless pleading.

“I need the ink,” he began, then changed his tack. “Hollywood must know …” I stood up, ready to leave.

 

His lower lip quivered and for a terrible moment I thought he might begin to cry. We paid the bill and he followed me out the door where we stood for several minutes in the black and windswept Oregon night. He continued to jabber about ape films in his strange accent.

 

“Look,” I said finally, “I gotta go.”

“OK, sure,” he said. There was a distant bitterness in his voice. “Ciao.”

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36 minutes ago, gigantor said:

I'm not saying that the events at Dalles, WA did not occur, I'm just objecting to using a Rolling Stones article as legitimate.........

 

Oh, I agree fully. I’ve never purchased a copy of the magazine, never will, and probably wouldn’t pick it up to look at in the waiting room of the admissions office at UAA, where I would expect to see it offered. But, as far as the opening story centered on the motel/trailer park, both before the businessmen from Portland arrived and after, was almost precisely how Byrne related the story’s beginning. 

 

The “crap” portions are also precisely what one would expect from Rolling Stone and what one wouldn’t expect from Byrne.

 

But, again, that area of the Columbia River, from McLoughlin Park to The Dalles is one of the best sasquatch hotspots in the United States. Hiking the trails from the river and spending a few nights under a tarp with a large caliber handgun in hand with light affixed would be adventurous, exciting, and perhaps fruitful...........

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2 hours ago, gigantor said:

 

:drag: 

 

October 7th...  20th... like... what's the difference? dooode

 

The difference has to do with film processing and the timeline involved.   

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Of course, I was imitating the Rolling Stoned "reporter"...

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