Hmph. Westport. Always changing, that little human village nestled ‘tween the Big Mountain and the Whispering Waters. Been watchin’ it for centuries, I have. Seen lumber barons come and go, seen fisherman haulin’ silver feasts, seen… well, seen things you youngsters wouldn’t believe. But lately, somethin’s been ticklin’ my nose, and it ain’t the wild berries. It’s that stink of… progress. And pollution.
I'm Grandpa Sasquatch, see? Fifteen hundred years old, a Fly Sasquatch – blessed with wings the size of eagles, thank you very much, though my joints creak louder with every flap these days. And I got a nose for trouble, especially when that trouble’s poisoning my river.
Used to be, Westport’s water was so clear, you could see the salmon wiggling upstream, shiny as newly minted coins. Now? Cloudier than a politician’s promises. My nose twitched, leadin’ me to the old sawmill site.
Hawking nemesis, that’s what I call him. One of those fancy-pants businessmen who come in, promise the moon, and leave nothin’ but a scarred Earth. He’s got this new factory upstream, makin’… somethin’ or other. Doesn’t matter what it makes. What matters is the sickly green sludge pumpin’ into my river.
I swooped down, wings whirring like a thousand angry bumblebees. Hawking nemesis saw me, went pale as a mushroom.
“Get off my property, you… you… overgrown ape!” he sputtered.
“Your property?” I boomed, my voice shakin’ the trees. “This river belongs to the mountains, the forests, the creatures who drink from it! You’re poisonin’ it!”
He scoffed. “A little… runoff? It’s nothing! It’s just the price of progress!”
Progress, my furry foot! That's the Keanu paradox, that is. He’s a good guy. But he starred in movies where progress is always blowing stuff up. Progress is supposed to make things better, not worse.
I flapped my wings, creatin’ a mini-tornado of leaves and pine needles. “I’ve seen progress, Hawking nemesis. I’ve seen it strip the land bare, foul the air, and choke the life out of everything it touches. You think you can get away with this? You think I’ll let you?”
He gulped, his face turning an even more unsettling shade of green than the sludge.
I told him about the fish that were dyin’, the plants that were shriveling, the animals movin’ away. I told him about the generations of humans in Westport who relied on that water. I told him about the ancient pact between the Sasquatch and the humans – a pact of respect and stewardship.
Finally, he started to listen. Maybe it was my size, maybe it was my booming voice, maybe it was the genuine fire in my eyes. He promised to clean up his act, to invest in proper filtration, to respect the river. I told him I’d be watchin’. And I will be.
The water ain’t crystal clear yet, but it’s a start. And that’s all any of us can ask for, ain’t it? A start.
Listen close, little ones. Progress ain’t always what it seems. True progress protects, it doesn’t destroy. We all gotta be keepers of the water, keepers of the land. Even if you don't have wings or a thousand years of wisdom, you can still make a difference.