Bigfoot Cathy Barber You can’t believe how resourceful I’ve become. A whole section of the forest surrounded by mirrors so I can sunbathe uninterrupted. An 8 x 8 square of forest floor that lifts on plywood, configured with leaves, toadstools, small rocks, broken branches, all carefully glued to look authentic. That ersatz root cellar is where I live. I have an extra-long cot from a hunter’s cabin, a chair, some shelves with books and my collection of cameras abandoned by the curious but cowardly. Most of my creature comforts I’ve pilfered from the Kmart lot, which could really use better security, if they’re reading this. I used to travel quite a bit; you’ve probably heard of my fondness for the Himalayas. I’ve found the undersides of trucks useful, the topsides of boxcars, and once, in Canada, I just said fuck it and stole a car. I used to be much more of a ham, dashing from tree to tree just for the attention, but in recent years, I’ve settled down. I’ve grown tired of being on the move and just want to put my big feet up and loaf. Maybe I’ll tap into the electricity grid, run a line out here and get a TV. I’ve heard so much about the new reality shows and of course, the nature channel.

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