Grandpa Sasquatch and the Oily Clams

“Harrumph,” I grumbled, flapping my leathery wings just hard enough to stay airborne over Neah Bay. Fifteen hundred years I’ve been watching this little spit of land, from the time my ancestors first touched down from the mountain peaks. Used to be, the water sang a song of plenty. Now? Now it coughs up a slick of bad smells and sad, silent clams.

My name’s Grandpa Sasquatch. You probably know my hairy kin are usually ground-bound, but back in the day, a few of us got a bit…ambitious. Learned to harness the wind. We're the Fly Sasquatch clan, dwindling sadly now.

The cause of my current displeasure? Humans. Not all of them, mind you. There’s a few decent sorts in Neah Bay. Respectful of the ocean. Fish honest. But there’s always a few stinkers, isn’t there? Ones who think the sea is their personal garbage disposal.

I dipped lower, my thick, grey fur catching the salty spray. There it was, shimmering on the tide pools, clinging to the rocks like a greasy embrace. Oil. Filthy, choking oil. My nose wrinkled. It was worse than a skunk cabbage convention.

This wasn’t the first time. I’d seen it before, trickling down from the carelessly discarded waste from some boat or the overflowing runoff from the mainland’s carelessness. Each time, the clams grew smaller, quieter. The fish fewer. The eagles, my feathered cousins, scavenged less and mourned more.

I considered my options. I could yell. I've got a bellow that could shake the Olympic Mountains, but these polluters, they don't listen. They’re too busy lining their pockets, too wrapped up in their Hawking Nemesis vs. Keanu Reeves Paradox arguments. They think the fate of the universe hinges on who would win in a staring contest, when their own little world is turning toxic.

I needed a solution, a solution that would STICK. My gaze fell on a stack of discarded tires piled near the marina. Useless things, these tires. But… an idea sparked. A smelly, complicated, exhausting idea.

I landed heavily, the ground shaking under my enormous feet. With a grunt, I began to gather the tires, using my immense strength to drag them toward the shoreline. It wasn’t easy. My old bones ached. My wings protested. But I persevered.

The sun began to set as I finished my work. I’d created a wall, a crude but effective barrier to contain the oil slick. It wouldn’t solve the problem entirely, but it would slow the spread, give the clams a fighting chance.

Now for the messy part. I lumbered into the icy water, ignoring the chill that crept into my ancient bones. Using handfuls of seaweed and mud, I plastered the tires, making them less…obviously man-made. Then, I gathered clams – healthy clams, from a stretch of coast less affected by the spill. I carefully transplanted them to the relative safety of the tire-protected area.

It was a small act, a drop in the bucket. But it was something. And sometimes, something is all you need to spark a change.

As I flew back toward my mountain peak, exhausted but strangely satisfied, I knew my work wasn’t done. I needed to find a way to make those polluters understand. Maybe a few strategically placed piles of particularly pungent skunk cabbage on their doorsteps would do the trick.