🌲 The Final Words of the Observer

The cold morning in 1997 should have been routine. I, Mark Walker, a 42-year-old former soldier living a reclusive life in my cabin outside Crescent Lake, Oregon, was scouting for elk on the northern ridge. My life was defined by silence, fueled by the guilt of having watched my best friend, Danny, die years ago. I was a ghost in the woods, comfortable only with isolation.

.

.

.

But two hours into my hike, in the soft mud beside a creek, I found footprints unlike anything I had ever seen. The print was massive, over seventeen inches long, with five distinct, human-like toes. A stride length of five and a half feet. They were fresh, maybe six hours old, and heading into territory so remote most hunters never bothered.

I should have turned back. Instead, the numbness I’d worn for years cracked. I followed the tracks, my old military tracking instinct taking over, the pulse of a hunter’s curiosity overriding common sense.

After an hour, I found blood—dark, fresh drops on the moss, increasing steadily. Whatever I was following was grievously injured. The trail ended at a rocky outcrop surrounded by ancient cedars. There, in the shadow of two massive boulders, I saw it.

A Bigfoot. Lying on its side, its massive chest rising and falling with labored, dying breaths. It had to be over seven feet tall, covered in dark brown hair matted with blood along its left side—a massive, ragged gash along its ribs, clearly not from a weapon, but a fall onto sharp rock. I recognized the look instantly; it was the look of death I had seen in field hospitals and, most hauntingly, in Danny’s eyes.

I slowly lowered my rifle. It didn’t move to attack, only watched me with deep brown, impossibly intelligent, human eyes. I saw pain, resignation, acceptance, and something else: recognition, as if it had been expecting me.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, my voice rough from disuse.

It made a low, rumbling sound, and then, incredibly, shifted its position to give me access to the wound. It was trusting me. My field first aid kit was useless for a wound this size, but I worked quickly, packing the gash with every scrap of gauze I had.

When I finished, I sat back, looking at this impossible, dying creature. Up close, I saw the silver hairs mixed with the brown, the deep lines of immense age around its eyes.

Then, it spoke. The voice was deep, resonant, the words heavily accented but unmistakable.

“102 years.”

I nearly fell backward. “You can… you can understand me?”

“I have listened to your kind for many years. Learned words,” it said, the effort causing it to wince. “Too late. I am old. This body is finished. But I am glad you came. Because I have something to say about your kind. And someone needs to hear it.”

The creature—which told me its name among its people was Observer—gathered its strength and locked eyes with me.

“I have watched your kind for 102 years. I have watched you grow, spread, and change. And I have seen what you do not see about yourselves.”

It spoke of watching the forest disappear, of seeing trees cut faster than they could grow, of cars filling the air with “poison” and “death.” It spoke of its people becoming ghosts, surviving only by becoming myth.

“You have sickness in your spirit. You cannot stop taking. You take everything.”

But then, Observer delivered the message that truly terrified me.

“Your kind knows. You know what you are doing. I have listened to your scientists on the radios. They warn you. And yet, you do nothing. You see the cliff is ahead, and you drive faster. That is what terrifies me. Not that you destroy by accident, but that you destroy knowing, choosing.”

The words hit me like a physical blow because they were devastatingly true. We knew. And we kept consuming.

“My people, we die because you leave us no room,” Observer continued, its voice barely audible. “But you… you die because you cannot stop eating your own world. That is the terrible truth. You are smart enough to see, but not wise enough to change.”

It fixed me with a final, urgent look. “You carry death inside you. I see it. Not sickness, but grief, loss. You watched someone die. That makes you see what matters.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I whispered.

“Remember what I tell you. Remember the old one who watched, rushed toward the cliff, and begged you to turn around. Tell others. Plant seeds.”

Observer reached out with one massive hand and let it rest gently on my shoulder. “This is your mission now. Carry my words. Tell them, it is not too late to choose differently.”

The creature’s hand slipped, falling heavily to the ground. Its chest rose one final time and settled into stillness. The light in those ancient eyes faded, and the Observer was gone.

I sat there, tears streaming down my face, the grief I’d repressed for Danny finally breaking free. I wasn’t just weeping for this ancient being, but for the world. I had to keep my promise.

I spent the rest of the day gathering stones and branches, building a cairn over its massive body, giving it the dignity in death that humanity had denied it in life. As I placed the final stone, I spoke to the silent figure beneath.

“I’ll remember, Observer. I’ll carry your words. I promise.”

My life as a ghost in the woods was over. The recluse had a mission, given by a creature from the shadows: to awaken a world rushing toward its own destruction.