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"I hear you're interested in Bigfoot." Joe pulls his head out from under the hood of an old pickup truck and smiles. He's wearing a Luxor Las Vegas t-shirt, and his blonde hair is in a ponytail. I had just spent the night in a house he and his wife rent to travelers passing through Salida, a small mountain town in central Colorado. They are the local Bigfoot experts. Their 116-year-old bungalow is a landmark known as the Honk House. Locals beep at it as they speed by on Highway 50. A telescope in the breakfast nook is trained on the mountainside, part of the Saguache Range that includes some of the highest peaks in the Rocky Mountains. Plenty of room for Bigfoot to roam. "If you have some time, I can show you a few things," he says, wiping off his socket wrench with a rag. I don't know which one of us is more excited. I follow him into the house, and we settled on a big leather couch in the living room with his laptop. "Leif Erikson saw the first Sasquatch in America," he says warmly, like it was perfectly normal to be talking about Bigfoot on a Saturday morning in a little house that people honk at every time they pass. He navigates to a website run by an audiologist who has been collecting Bigfoot sounds and plays snippets that resemble someone hitting a tree with a small log or clacking rocks together and a series of Wookiee-like howls worthy of Chewbacca. He tells me heplays "Colorado Howl #1" out of the speakers on his truck when he is hoping to lure a Sasquatch or two into the open. One of his many tricks. "We build a campfire and burn bacon to attract them. It's a gateway meat," he laughs, his eyes crinkling from days in the mountain sun. "There's nothing Bigfoot loves better than cinnamon rolls," he adds. He leaves a spiral roll with nuts on a tree stump in the woods. "It disappears every time." I try to make out the blurry image of Bigfoot babies in the background of a group hunting photo and hang on every word of his tale of seeing the glowing red and blue eyes of a Bigfoot family on a cold night in the woods. I can't say I'm convinced, but I can't say I'm not. "The next time you go on a hunt, call me," I say. "I will hop on a plane and join you." In the middle of the night. In a vast mountain range filled with bears and mountain lions. And Bigfoot. He agrees as we shake hands, and I wonder which one of us crazier, plunging deep into the woods looking for giant hairy monster. I haven't gotten the call yet, but I'm ready.