In Pursuit of the Elusive Bonding Moment (and Maybe Sasquatch)

There comes a time in every dad’s life when you realize your 10-year-old would rather play video games than listen to your riveting tales of camping glory and childhood mosquito bites. That’s when you pull out the big guns: the legend of Sasquatch.

I told Sam we were going camping. He rolled his eyes. I told him we were going monster hunting. His eyes got wide and bolted upright. "Like, for real?"

Close enough.

So we packed up in Raleigh and aimed our tires toward Cleveland County, to a place where the land doesn’t try to impress you with height, but with heart; the foothills (aptly named, as Sam points out, because Sasquatch has the biggest feet.) My dad took me camping in places like this, where the hills roll like stories being passed down, full of warmth, mystery, and campfire smoke. It’s not just about elevation, it’s about roots. Like these hills, our traditions grow gently but hold strong.

Where Sasquatch Sleeps (and So Do We)

If you’re going to introduce a kid to the great outdoors, it helps when the outdoors knows how to meet you halfway. The experience of camping doesn’t mean sacrificing every comfort, just rethinking them.

We pulled in to Broad River Campground, and hear me out here, I chose a glamping dome. I figured starting soft might increase the odds of a repeat trip, but also, these things are so cool. Sam couldn’t believe his eyes when we approached the dome, and was busy scanning the treetops for movement ("Maybe he’s watching us right now, Dad"), while I imagined myself soaking in the hot tub.

To Sam, it was a full-blown expedition base: panoramic window for Sasquatch spying and space for "equipment" (read: snacks and monster traps). "We can definitely survive here," he declared, inspecting the mini fridge like it was NASA-grade tech. He started drawing traps for Sasquatch using sticks, marshmallows, and suspicious amounts of my beef jerky.

To me, it was just outdoors enough to spark old memories of my dad pouring instant coffee over a camp stove, while still offering a solid roof, and a place to recharge my phone after a long day of "monster hunting." It was the sweet spot: a dome that let a kid imagine wild adventures, and let a dad enjoy them without needing ibuprofen every ten minutes.

A Hairy Family Tradition

Every family has its campfire stories. Ours just happens to star a big and furry, peanut-butter-sandwich-loving forest dweller with questionable grooming habits.

My grandfather first told me about him, how Sasquatch (or Knobby as the locals call it) roamed the woods, shy but curious, with a fondness for moonlight and staying just out of focus. My dad then added his flair, he said "Knobby" wore flannel on Fridays, enjoyed banjo music on Sundays, and once beat him at checkers.

So naturally, I told Sam that he vacations here in the foothills. "He gets tired of all the mountain traffic," I said, poker-faced. "Got a speeding ticket one time and knew he couldn’t deal with it anymore. So now, he comes here for the peace, the fishing, and the hush puppies. Not to mention, this area is known for its bluegrass music." Sam blinked. "Wait…he eats hush puppies?"

"Only with hot sauce."

Building out this elaborate Sasquatch Cinematic Universe requires a place to equally match it. I still don’t know how my forefathers did it, because Sam had questions:

• "Does Knobby have a dog?"
• "What’s his favorite pizza topping?"
• "Do you think he knows karate?"

Yes, bacon and banana peppers, and obviously.

Fishing, Hiking, and Hiding

The next morning, we hit the Broad River Greenway like a couple of explorers straight out of a pulp novel. Sam packed two granola bars and three sticks "just in case." I brought bug spray and optimism.

The domes are located right across the way from the Maple Trail, which is accessible by walking and golf cart and leads directly to all the Broad River Greenway has to offer, which is namely 20 miles (or 1500 acres) worth of multi-use trails that cradle the river on both sides. Some of the trails are even accessible on horseback, which is something I am keeping in my back pocket for when Sam gets a bit older.

We hiked the trails, spotting deer tracks, cool rocks, and one mysterious footprint that may or may not have been made by my boot after I stomped around behind a tree.

"HE WAS HERE!" Sam shouted.

Large and smallmouth bass populate the Broad River, and they make for a good catch at 10 to 12 inches. Sam cast a line and immediately reeled in what he claimed was "a mutant leaf that Knobby probably uses as a napkin." We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. I remembered a moment years ago, standing in a different river with my own father, trying to untangle my line from a tree branch. The patience he had. The way he didn’t care that I was doing everything wrong.

Now, I watched Sam furrow his brow, tongue sticking out slightly as he tried to tie a knot I’d just shown him. "It’s not perfect," he muttered.

"Neither was mine," I said. "Still caught the best fish of the day."

It felt like our own private experience, but we were never too far from other people, which gave me a sense of security as we hiked trails where the sun played tag with the leaves and Sam pointed out every squirrel like it owed him rent. We stopped often, sometimes to catch our breath, sometimes because Sam was sure he’d found "fur," which turned out to be moss.

Soon enough though, Sam declared that he needed to refuel. I was hungry too, but making food after a long day didn’t feel warranted, especially with how close by we were to so many food options. So, we hopped in the car and set our sights towards a place that could fill up our bellies.

When we pulled up to Red Bridges BBQ, the smell hit us before we opened the door. Sam stared wide-eyed at his plate. The chopped pork and hush puppies were perfect for his pickier palate. He’s in his "noodles phase" so I was worried he would deny it, but instead he looked at me and said, "Sasquatch eats hushpuppies right?" I nodded and said, "He’s also an expert pit master. They’re the ones who cook the pork. Out in the wilderness, he spends hours perfecting his recipe." The smear of sauce across his face as he took a massive bite made my heart warm, and I raised my hand to say, "We’re going to need more napkins over here."

Ghost Tales & Pocketknives

Our last night at Broad River Campground was quiet in that special way the woods get when they know you’re about to leave. Sam lay in the hammock, eyes skyward. I sipped the last of our camp coffee, watching embers rise.

"Dad?" he asked. "You think we’ll ever really see him?"

"Maybe," I said. "But even if we don’t, that doesn’t mean he’s not out there."

He nodded, satisfied.

Truth is, I think Sasquatch is real. Not because of footprints or blurry photos, but because of this: these trips, these stories, these bonds passed down through generations like pocketknives and ghost tales.

In these foothills, where tradition and imagination live side-by-side, it’s easy to believe in things that make you feel young and full of wonder. That’s the magic here. That’s what we found.

Sam drifted off to sleep with sticky marshmallow fingers. Somewhere nearby, the trees swayed like they were laughing with us.

And in the morning, the s’mores Sam left as an offering was gone.

I didn’t say a word. Just smiled. At this moment, I realized I had come to a point where my dad’s life and mine intersected, and I knew that one day, my own son would be feeling the same with his own child, with the foothills at his back and their promise to keep this tradition alive, that the sun would rise every morning above the rolling hills, and that Sasquatch would continue evading the flash of the camera.