The tracks in the snow shouldn't have been there at all. Richard's knee screamed as he knelt beside them, the old injury forcing him to shift his weight to the right. His weathered hands traced the air above the impossible impressions—twenty-four inches long, eight inches deep, with a stride length that defied everything he knew about bipedal movement.
The morning sun pierced through Colorado pines, transforming each snowflake into a prism. His dictation recorder clicked on with a practiced thumb movement. "Subject track pattern alpha, elevation approximately 8,400 feet. Ambient temperature 28 degrees Fahrenheit." He paused, then added, "These aren't like the others."
The tracks began mid-stride, as if their creator had descended from the clouds, and vanished fifteen feet later at the base of a frost-covered boulder. Richard pressed his palm into one of the impressions. The snow at the edges had already begun to crystallize. Fresh. No more than an hour old.
His fingers fumbled with cold as he sketched the outline in his journal, each pencil stroke precise despite the tremor in his hands. The margin filled with measurements, annotations, cross-references to similar tracks found in the Cascades in '92.
High above, tucked into a natural shelf of rock overlooking the clearing, three figures observed his meticulous work.
"I told you the depth was wrong." Bigfoot's massive form seemed to flow rather than move as he adjusted his position. His fur, rather than the uniform brown of blurry photographs, shifted through subtle shades of amber and russet. "He's been at this too long not to notice."
The Yeti stretched languidly, his white fur almost invisible against the snow except for the subtle blue highlights that caught the morning light. "Your expertise is noted." His voice carried a hint of an accent that somehow suggested both everywhere and nowhere. "Though I seem to recall a certain incident in Montana where—"
"We agreed never to speak of Montana." Bigfoot's growl held no real menace.
Chupacabra's scaled tail twitched as he watched Richard work. His form rippled with colors like oil on water, making him difficult to focus on directly. "Both of you, quiet. He's doing the thing with the journal again." The creature's voice rasped like dry leaves. "Ten bucks says he pulls out the calipers."
Richard did, in fact, reach for his calipers.
"You know what this means," Chupacabra continued, his needle-sharp teeth catching the light as he grinned. "A bet’s a bet. Time for my phase two plan."
The Yeti sighed. "Must we? The deer carcass seems a bit... derivative."
"Says the one who spent the eighties leading photographers around abandoned cabins in the woods." Bigfoot's massive shoulders shifted in what might have been a shrug. "Besides, it's traditional at this point."
"It's hackneyed is what it is." The Yeti's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "He deserves better. After all this time..."
"Fine." Chupacabra's form seemed to solidify slightly, his iridescent scales settling into a pattern that suggested deep thought. "I might have an idea. Something we've never tried before."
Below, unaware of the debate occurring above, Richard paused to check his supplies. His backpack held enough provisions for three days, though he'd learned long ago that cryptid hunting operated on its own peculiar timeline. The aluminum water bottle clinked against his spare camera lens—a sound that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat over the years. He pulled out his topographical map, its creases worn soft as leather from decades of folding and unfolding.
A gust of wind sent snow crystals dancing around his boots as he oriented himself. The valley below had changed since his last visit in '99. The beetle-kill had claimed entire swaths of forest, leaving skeletal fingers reaching toward the cloud-streaked sky. Yet somehow the landscape felt more alive than ever. His fingers traced the elevation lines on the map, remembering other hunts, other mountains, other impossible tracks that had led him across every continent.
That's when he discovered the first deliberate sign. Not tracks this time, but a series of claw marks ascending a pine trunk in a perfect spiral. He'd seen marks like these before—Argentina, '87—but never this far north. His heart quickened as he photographed them from multiple angles.
The marks ended halfway up the tree. No descent pattern. No broken branches. Nothing to suggest how their creator had departed. Richard ran his fingers over the grooves in the bark, feeling the story they told. Each gouge was precise, deliberate—almost surgical in its execution. These weren't the marks of an animal seeking food or marking territory. They were a message.
He pulled out his field journal again, comparing the spiral pattern to similar markings he'd documented over the years. The Argentina marks had been wider, more aggressive, suggesting a creature in distress. These were different—almost playful in their geometric precision. His mind wandered to a cave painting he'd studied in northern Spain, where ancient artists had left similar spiraling patterns in ochre and charcoal. The locals had called them 'the fingerprints of gods.'
A sound like shifting gravel drew his attention deeper into the forest. He turned slowly, camera ready, only to catch a flash of iridescent scales disappearing behind a distant trunk. The movement was too fluid to be a deer, too large to be a mountain lion, and too close to the ground to be a bear. His pulse quickened as he noted the exact time and location in his journal.
High above, the cryptids were executing their carefully choreographed performance.
"Nice touch with the scale flash," the Yeti murmured as Chupacabra rejoined them on their rocky perch. "Though wasn't that a bit obvious?"
Chupacabra's form rippled with what might have been embarrassment. "I got carried away. You try staying completely invisible when you're this naturally spectacular." His scales shifted through a rainbow of colors to emphasize the point.
"Children, please." Bigfoot's rumbling voice carried a note of fondness. "We have more pressing matters to discuss. Like what we're going to do about the weather moving in."
All three turned to study the western horizon, where dark clouds were gathering like wool around the highest peaks. The Yeti's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "That's not a normal storm."
"No," Bigfoot agreed, his fur rippling in the strengthening wind. "That's something else entirely."
Chupacabra's tail twitched nervously. "Think she's finally decided to show herself?"
The Yeti's response was cut short by a distant rumble that seemed to come from the mountain itself. "Well, that answers that question. She's early."
Below, Richard felt the vibration through his boots. He'd experienced plenty of small earthquakes during his expeditions, but this was different. This felt... intentional. He pulled out his weather radio, but instead of the usual static or automated forecast, it emitted a series of tones that made the hair on his neck stand up.
The storm clouds continued to gather, but they moved against the wind, swirling in patterns that defied meteorology. Richard fumbled with his camera, capturing image after image as the sky began to glow with an auroral light that had no business appearing at this latitude.
"This wasn't part of the plan," Bigfoot growled, his usual composure slipping. "She's going to ruin everything."
The Yeti's fur crackled with static electricity. "After all these years, did you really think she'd stay away? The Mother of Mountains was bound to notice eventually."
Chupacabra's scales had taken on a metallic sheen that reflected the strange lights above. "Maybe it's time. Maybe he's ready."
"Ready for what?" Bigfoot demanded, but his question was answered by another rumble that shook loose a cascade of snow and ice from the cliffs above.
"You've got my attention," he whispered to the wilderness. The wilderness, as always, kept its secrets.
Near sunset, after following an increasingly improbable trail of evidence across the mountainside, Richard found the cave. Decades of experience screamed at him to wait until morning, to approach with backup and proper equipment. But there was something about the entrance—the way the shadows fell, the subtle arrangement of broken branches—that felt like an invitation.
His flashlight beam caught something metallic in the cave's throat. The breath caught in his chest as recognition dawned.
"Impossible," he breathed.
The Nikon F3 rested on a natural stone shelf, dusty but intact. The same camera he'd lost during the Yellowstone expedition. The expedition that had cost him his knee and nearly his life. He'd never told anyone about the camera—about the roll of film inside that might have contained the first clear image of...
His hands shook as he reached for it.
Above the cave, three ancient friends watched in silence.
"The camera was cruel," the Yeti finally said, his voice soft.
Chupacabra's scales rippled with dark colors. "He needs to understand. It's time."
"Is it?" Bigfoot's question hung in the air like frost.
In the cave mouth, Richard held his past in trembling hands. The film was still inside. After thirty years, the film was still inside.
He turned back toward the fading daylight, camera clutched to his chest. The storm had transformed the dusk into something alien and electric. The aurora-like lights painted the snow in impossible colors, and the air itself seemed to pulse with ancient energy.
Through the kaleidoscopic darkness, something moved. Not the fluid motion of Bigfoot, or the prismatic shimmer of Chupacabra, or even the arctic grace of the Yeti. This was something older. Something that had been waiting.
The mountain itself was waking up.
The tracks in the snow would be gone by morning, erased by wind and time. But in that moment, as shadows shifted and the boundary between hunter and hunted began to blur, the real story was just beginning.