Then I headed inland， through various areas of intoxication. First the wineries of Napa and Sonoma， then the Microbrewery Belt， and finally Weed Country. It may be a coincidence that Bigfoot territory is slap-bang in the middle of this last area…
Moss-covered coastal oaks give way to huge forests of redwood trees. If you’ve never seen a redwood， it’s difficult to describe their power. I’m not normally awed by nature， but the redwood brings out my inner hippy. I have a huge urge to hug them， except it would take about 20 of me. On a lovely stretch called Avenue of the Giants I drove through some of the most impressive of these woody behemoths， wishing I’d rented a convertible so I could really appreciate my insignificance.
I stopped to try to photograph some of the trees （it’s almost impossible） and got into an altercation with a pick-up truck full of lady rednecks. It ended up like a scene from Deliverance（not that scene）. Suffice to say I hot-footed it out of there and ended up in the wonderfully named city of Eureka， which boasts a couple of extraordinary mock-Gothic Victorian buildings， including the Carson Mansion， that are said to have inspired some of the weirder parts of Disneyland.
From there it was just an hour to Willow Creek—a one-street town much frequented in summer by fishermen and white-water rafters， drawn by the beautiful Trinity River. I stayed for a couple of nights， checking out the Bigfoot Museum and talking to Twin-Peaks-esque locals before heading off into the great unknown.
It’s only when you do this that you realise just how possible it might be for something like Bigfoot to remain largely undiscovered. The vegetation is thick and impenetrable and covers a vast area. I found this out to my cost when I crashed my car in snow 18 miles up an empty road. With no mobile signal I had no option but to walk out （breaking the Ray Mears rule of always staying by your vehicle）. It was very cold， and there are mountain lions， bears， paranoid， armed weed farmers and Bigfoot roaming the area …
In a movie this would have been where I blacked out and woke up in Bigfoot’s nest with the creature breastfeeding me. Fortunately a lovely man called Peter， who was out mushroom picking， saved me at the seven-mile mark. Peter’s parents run Marble Ranch， a “dude ranch”—the sort of place where cissy east coasters can come to learn to ride， shoot and survive in the wilderness （à la City Slickers）. As Peter drove me off the mountain I couldn’t help thinking that this was exactly the sort of trip I needed to take before my next adventure. That night， safe in a log cabin straight out of Elle Décor， I ate a steak the size of Texas and slept the sleep of kings.