The Pacific Northwest smelled entirely of pine needles, wet loam, and the distinct, maple-infused aroma of the local diner’s Friday pancake special.
"I am merely stating," Dr. Veronica Vance said, using her fork to point precisely at a mountain of huckleberry hotcakes, "that a bipedal primate of that size would leave a significant ecological footprint. We should see evidence of nesting sites, large-mammal predation, and a distinct lack of local berry populations."
"And I am merely stating," I replied, leaning across the vinyl booth of the Sasquatch Shack Diner, "that the nine-foot-tall shadow I saw on the trail last night wasn’t a very tall park ranger. He had excellent posture, Veronica. And a great deal of body hair."
Veronica let out a soft huff, her tortoiseshell glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of her nose. She pushed them up with one finger, a habit she only had when she was trying to sound purely objective and failing.
"Gregg, you saw a grizzly bear standing on its hind legs," she said, her voice dropping to that hushed, confidential tone we used when discussing our work in public. "It’s a classic misidentification. Your imagination is fueled by the fact that the gift shop next door sells underwear with Bigfoot’s face on it."
"Hey, those boxers are a cotton-blend miracle," I defended myself, winking. "And for the record, our Loch Ness excursion last week ended with us finding a mechanical submarine owned by a eccentric billionaire who just wanted to scold jet-skiers. My imagination is all we have left."
"We found a beautifully engineered piece of marine technology," Veronica corrected me, though a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She quickly hid it by taking a sip of her chamomile tea. "And it proved my theory about the sonar anomalies."
"Right. You won the logic trophy. Again." I watched her as she carefully cut her pancake into neat, uniform squares.
We had arrived in Cascade Locks, Oregon, forty-eight hours ago following a string of frantic calls to emergency services about a "hairy giant" stealing artisanal cheese from a local smokehouse. It was our classic dynamic: I wore the flannel and looked for broken branches; Veronica wore the Gore-Tex and calibrated her micro-barometer. We had spent the previous night crammed into the front seat of our rented SUV, sharing a single, slightly damp wool blanket while waiting for a thermal spike on her monitors. When her shoulder had rested against mine in the dark, neither of us had moved. We just blamed the chilly mountain air.
"The local ranger gave us access to the North Ridge trail," Veronica said, tapping her tablet. "A hiker reported a series of five-inch-deep impressions in the mud near Eagle Creek. I brought the plaster of Paris."
"That's the spirit, partner," I chuckled. "Nothing says romance like pouring quick-drying cement into the wilderness."
"It’s not romance, Gregg. It’s forensic cryptozoology." Her cheeks flushed a very un-scientific shade of pink. She cleared her throat quickly. "We leave in twenty minutes. Pack the bear spray."
"I always do. Though if Sasquatch is a fan of your lectures on biological improbability, he’ll probably just fall asleep anyway."
"I'll have you know my lectures are highly rated on student evaluations," she shot back, her eyes sparking with that playful fire I secretly looked forward to every single day.
Outside, the Oregon mist began to lift, revealing the towering, mysterious green canopy of the forest. Inside the cozy diner, the jukebox started playing a soft, acoustic love song. Veronica met my gaze for a long, quiet second over the syrup dispenser, her expression softening into something that definitely wasn't in her science textbooks.
"Ready to go hiking, partner?" I asked, sliding the car keys across the table.
Veronica smiled, her dimple making a brief, devastating appearance. "Let's go find your giant, Gregg. Just don't let him steal my tea."
