The Last of Their Kind: Five Years in the Shadow of the Cascades

By Elmer Reid (as told to the public for the first time)

We had been tracking the unusual footprints for three days, but nothing could have prepared us for what stood before us in that clearing. And nothing could have prepared us for the reason they’d been hiding for so long.

My name is Elmer Reid. I am an independent explorer, a man who makes a modest living writing for outdoor magazines. In 1977, my cousin Vincent Palmer—a combat photographer who served in Vietnam—and I set out into the back roads of northern Washington State. We were looking for a story. We had no idea we were about to stumble into a secret that would erase us from civilization for five years.

I. The Trail of the Grandfather

Our journey began with a legacy. Our grandfather, Thomas Reed, was a surveyor in the 1920s. After he passed, we found his journals—leatherbound notebooks filled with sketches of things that shouldn’t exist. In early June 1977, Vince and I set up a base camp so remote the nearest logging road was 15 miles away.

On the fourth day, we found it. Preserved in soft mud near a creek was a footprint: 17 inches long, 7 inches wide. It wasn’t a bear, and it wasn’t human. It was something in between, showing dermal ridges and a grip that no hoaxer could faked.

Vince, ever the skeptic, was silenced. We began a pursuit that lasted three more days, moving through deliberately difficult terrain. The tracks weren’t random; they showed intention. They were heading northwest, toward the high ridges.

On the seventh day, we reached a valley floor that felt as if the forest itself was holding its breath. We saw structures—shelters built against rock faces, partially concealed by the landscape, with doorways eight feet tall.

II. The First Contact

We were fifty yards from the nearest structure when the forest erupted in a low, resonant rumble. It wasn’t a growl; it was a vocalization that vibrated in my very chest. Then, he emerged.

He was at least seven and a half feet tall, covered in dark brown hair that caught the dying sunlight. Impossibly broad shoulders, long powerful arms, and a face that bridged the gap between ape and man. Another figure, slightly shorter with reddish tints in his fur, stepped out beside him.

In a moment of radical intuition, I lowered myself to the ground and pushed my rifle away. Vince did the same with his sidearm. We raised our palms.

The reaction was immediate. The larger creature gestured—a clear, deliberate motion that meant Stay. They approached us, walking fully upright with a gait more human than primate. Up close, the intelligence in their eyes was undeniable. These were thinking beings.

The larger one reached out and touched my cheek. His hand was twice the size of mine, calloused and warm. “They’re checking if we’re real,” Vince whispered.

III. The Domesticity of the “Monster”

They led us into their home. The craftsmanship was stunning: branches stripped of bark, interwoven with grass and mud for insulation. Inside, we found a reality that science would find impossible to categorize.

There were tools—rocks shaped into cutting implements, antlers carved into scrapers. But most shocking was an old, worn human knife from the early 1900s. The larger creature, whom we came to call Kura (based on his deep rumble of a name), showed us how he used it to prepare hides. The smaller one, Thre, offered us strips of dried venison. It was smoky, salty, and well-made.

As the days turned into weeks, we realized we weren’t looking at “wild animals.” We were looking at a household. They managed resources like farmers, storing nuts, berries, and smoked fish on raised platforms to keep them safe from scavengers.

IV. The Reason for the Silence

It was on the second night that the wonder turned to horror. Kura retrieved a canvas-wrapped bundle from a corner. Inside was an army surplus container from the World War II era. He opened it, and brass bullet casings spilled out onto the floor.

He made a mournful sound, holding up two fingers. Then he made a sweeping gesture for “many,” and brought his hands together until only two fingers remained. Us. Only us left.

He showed us yellowed newspaper clippings from the 1920s and 30s—stories of “monster hunts” and “unknown beasts killed by loggers.” Kura and Thre weren’t just hiding; they were the survivors of an attempted genocide.

The truth of their persecution was further revealed in a hidden cave chamber—a “historical gallery” covered in thousands of drawings. The oldest showed large, thriving communities. The recent ones showed “things falling from the sky”—helicopters—and men with guns and cages.

We learned that Kura and Thre had been hunted from the air. They built their homes under heavy canopy and lived in constant vigilance because private contractors, likely backed by government interests, wanted to capture them. Why? Because of their “abilities.”

Kura demonstrated it once. He placed his massive hands on a dying plant in our small garden. Within minutes, the leaves unfurled and the color deepened. It wasn’t magic; it was a biological influence—bioelectric or pheromonal—that someone, somewhere, wanted to weaponize.

V. The Five-Year Family

Vince and I were supposed to be gone for two weeks. We stayed for five years.

We became lean and hard, our bodies adapting to the Cascades. We learned their songs—haunting, wordless melodies of mourning and remembrance. We taught them ours; Vince would hum Amazing Grace, and they would listen with a reverence that felt holy.

We developed a sophisticated shared language of gestures and vocalizations. We discussed philosophy, memory, and fear. We were no longer observers; we were protectors.

We established a warning system. When the “thump-thump” of helicopter rotors echoed through the valley, we would vanish into pre-dug depressions beneath the floor of the shelters. We watched markings-less military aircraft hover directly over our heads, looking for the “resources” we called brothers.

VI. The Map and the Journey Ahead

By June 1982, we had thousands of photographs stored in waterproof bark containers and dozens of notebooks filled with linguistic data.

One evening, Kura brought out an old naturalist guide from 1889—a book Thre had found years ago. In the margins of the primate section, there were symbols. Kura explained that it was a map of the Cascade Range.

He pointed to several locations marked with “Unknown.” He was telling us there might be other survivors, but the journey to reach them was far and dangerous. He had never dared to go alone. But now, he had us.

VII. Conclusion: Some Secrets are Worth Keeping

People ask why we didn’t come back sooner. Why didn’t we bring the military? The answer is simple: the military was who they were hiding from.

We stayed because we realized that the reason they stayed hidden wasn’t just terrifying for them—it was a terrifying reflection of us. It revealed humanity’s capacity to destroy anything it doesn’t understand or can’t control.

Vince and I have sacrificed our old lives—our careers, our families’ peace of mind, our places in the “modern” world. But in that hidden valley, we found a purpose greater than any headline. We found a family that crossed the boundaries of species.

As I write this, we are preparing to leave the valley, not to return to civilization, but to go deeper into the mountains. We are going to find the others. The helicopters will keep coming, and the hunters will keep searching. But we will keep hiding, keep protecting, and keep hoping.

Because that is what family does.