Raven,
I'm hoping you'll throw this up on your blog.
I’ve had a number of encounters, and experiences with the Sabe people, mostly at our summer home in the Adirondacks, but also camping along the Buffalo River in Arkansas, as well as at home in Connecticut.
We all understand the meaning of ‘contact’. Yet a moment of contact doesn't condense or simplify what has already happened, or what will happen later as a result. Rather CONTACT changes EVERYTHING.
Our worldview changes, we endure physiological and psycho-somatic changes. Some of us are terrified, others scarred for life. For many the experience threatens our sanity. We hear of people saved by these beings, and despite the negative ‘run-ins’ there’s little to imply that Sabe is a murderer. Quite the contrary.
I've listened to all types of interaction from witness testimonies, and noticed that admitting Sabe into one's life is profoundly metaphysical. It challenges our ethics, legal philosophy, mythology, and self-perception. On another level, these beings present nearly insurmountable challenges to our government and national defense.
This is not forbidden knowledge. Most of us have been living under a rock. The native American tribes have known forever. Why didn’t we take them at face value? They told us, mountain range by mountain range where the Sabe lived, and the sections of wilderness to stay away from. News reports were printed of Sabe run-ins. Why has history suppressed them? Why are the bodies of Sabe whisked away? Why aren’t there any really good photos or videos?
Admittedly one would have to dig deep in a library reading Ambrose Bierce, Teddy Roosevelt and others to understand early American hairy-man encounters. The beings were there, the press wrote reports. Our forefathers coped with Sabe, on their farms, ranches, panning for gold, fishing, hunting, everywhere. Yet for some reason as a society we've dismissed with derisive laughter the testimonies of loved ones. Even our elected governments hide this knowledge. We’ve practiced a form of blind yet educated stupidity. The dumbed down state we find ourselves in is our own damned fault.
I’m fascinated by the process of lightbulbs on. Some are yanked into a new reality by a rude awakening. For me, it was gradual, and took my whole life. From not believing in Sasquatch as late as 2010 to someone I've had dozens of experiences in recent years, but now recognize my experiences went back much further. Old questions are newly answered.
This was a curriculum completely structured by my Sabe friends themselves I now accept them as members of my forest community, as wise beings and teachers at the edge of my life. But I have so many questions, about their history, politics, survival skills, medicine, spiritual matters etc. Who are these beings, really? The Bible only hints at answers. Modern science dismisses both. May we resurrect a scientific explanation from corroborating testimonies, such as those heard here? I hope so.
We don’t need Sabe's existence proven. What we need are solid questions answered about them, their history, about who they are, also about who WE ARE, and then finally, what is their relationship with us? Are we just co-competitors on a small planet ecosystem, or are they our partners, watchers, educators, tutors, babysitters, or demons? Are they hear to aid us or plague us?
To get those answers some of us are going to have to culture Sabe as friends.
I honestly believe they are here as our teachers, but do bear in mind I’ve been lucky. For context I’ll start with an experience taken from mid life, and another from early childhood. Both of these experiences became only relevant once I knew Sabe existed. I’ll try to describe both experiences from the perspective of me as a naive experiencer, and the perspective of later gnosis, after confirmed sightings.
Very late in his life my father took up jogging and began a summer project of lugging backpacks of shingles and nails to a small camp on an Adirondack lake about three miles distant from our house. Let’s call it Trout Lake. The cabin was on a rocky point, shadowed by enormous red spruces that escaped an early lumbering operation due only to the inaccessibility of the site. My uncle built the cabin in the 1940’s, and my Dad felt the need in the early 1990s to make sure it was maintained. He made ten or eleven trips that way, portaging enough materials to completely re-roof and shingle the building. But then after one trip, he arrived home shaking, and perplexed. He had been stalked the entire way back by something he couldn’t see. Yet he heard it.
We all speculated. Puma? Bear? He was visibly shaken. Nothing ever scared him. What had happened? Even though so close to me, and loved by all of us, it was near impossible to put ourselves into his shoes and imagine what he had gone through. Nor could I dream that I would experience the same pursuing force, years later, on the exact same trail while returning from the same distant lake.
That was in 1994, late that fall he was diagnosed with cancer, but by the summer of 1995 he improved enormously, and we thought he had beaten the disease. All of us, Dad, my Mom, brothers and sister took a long row down the lake to a remote lean-two along the south-eastern shore. We started a fire, cooked hamburgers, made a peach desert.
During that meal we used an ancient set of binoculars to watch the setting sunlight strike the beach on the opposite shore, a distance of about half a mile across the water.
We all knew that beach intimately, because our access road, built in the 1960’s, passes along it for a short distance. The pines and berry bushes are of known height. There’s a sandy berm with pines at the top, that stands about 12 feet over the surface of the road.
Anyway we were watching the sun across the water, when suddenly a large brown figure appeared, on the road below the sandy berm. We could see it with the naked eye, but even our crap glasses made the image much better.
Dad had a look and said to me “Who is that? He’s incredibly tall. Have a look”.
He handed me the glasses, and sure enough I saw a very tall figure that seemed to be clad entirely in brown. Somewhat slim, but very muscular. It stood very straight, and made an encompassing gesture in the air over its head, the kind of movement one makes while admiring the beauty of sunlight. It also seemed like the kind of movement one would make if one had an audience. I didn’t know if the audience was another being nearby, or us, on the opposite shore, watching with the glasses!
My Dad and I passed the glasses back and forth and then wondered if it could be a particular tall friend who occasionally visited some cousins. That boy was close to six-foot-seven. Though well known to us, the figure on the beach was much taller, at least eight-and-a-half feet tall, plus it was wearing all brown, and I mean all brown! I lifted the glasses to my eyes when all of a sudden the figure stepped forward and quite literally vanished. He sort of shimmered, then disappeared.
Dad was watching without glasses and asked, “Where’d he go?”.
There was nothing more to look at.
That lead to us discussing may father's recent trip back the previous year from Trout Lake. I mentioned that our caretaker swore Bigfoot was real. I was offering ideas, though in my gut at that moment I did not believe what I was saying. In the absence of solid data, in the absence of proof all we could do was speculate.
Why is it we insist on visual material evidence for all forms of reality? Sounds, and testimonies from another human being don’t cut it. Even family members will distrust each other when all that's offered is experience, or testimony.
How easy it is to say now: “I know now what that was.” Putting the pieces together, and arriving at realization, that is a long story. The crucial moment requires understanding larger experiences. And boy I have had them. I didn’t ask for them, and for a few moments there I didn’t want them. I admit now I have gotten to know Sabe, at Sabe’s own insistence.
I’m in my late sixties, and all I can think about is deepening my friendship with these beings. All I have for them is love and gratitude. Getting to this point as a non-believer in things ‘paranormal’ has been a long road. And the number of encounters bolstering these experiences for me, have soared.
I have viewed Sabe tree structures, played tag with Sabe in the dark at night. I’ve sat with Sabe on the porch of our camp. I’ve seen Sabe wearing clothes, and pretending to be some of my cousins. In recent years my Sabe friend listens to conversations I have with my son, and then offers his two cents on the subject the following day. We’ve discussed bird species, and how to seed berry bushes. When in the summer of 2021 I accidentally hit a fawn with my car on the main road some 15 miles from our camp, Sabe was there to console me. I was quite broken up. Like I said, I’m happy to give details of all these encounters.
Meanwhile we converse in mind-speak, or via a dialogue of symbols left for each other on the forest floor. Either, these days I ask a question and the answer always comes. Yet it is amazing how we prefer to bury these experiences often that happen right before our eyes, with a belief system designed to pluck these encounters from collective memory. Most do not see them, because they have been taught and believe, Sabe doesn't exist.
My story thus starts with my earliest experience, one so big it has taken me over sixty years to understand.
The year was 1958, I was just over four years old. Myself, Mom, Dad, myself and and two brothers were visiting my grandparents at their Adirondack camp. During my afternoon nap, my parents entrusted me to my grandparent’s cook, a middle-aged woman named Dorothy. Her room was above the kitchen, which was in a separate log building from the main camp. By placing me in Dorothy’s care they got a little time off.
My grandparents were well-to-do and lived in the old style. They ate at a set table three times a day. Fire in the fireplace, fine china, the whole nine yards. The dining room and kitchen were in two buildings separated from the main part of the camp, but connected by a roofed-in porch. All the buildings were within earshot of each other.
On this July day we ate our midday meal in the dining room, and after lunch I was put into the room above the kitchen for my nap. There were two beds, just right and left of the lakeshore window. Dorothy the cook had her bed on the left, and I was put to sleep in the one on the right. While I was napping I could hear Dorothy downstairs banging pots, and cooking.
Anyone downstairs could hear someone walking on the floor above. The kitchen building was built of squared logs, and had heavy log timbers, crossed by tongue and groove floorboards. The upstairs room was tall enough for an adult to walk a line standing under the peak of the roof. Off to either side, the roof eaves slanted abruptly. There were two Mansard type windows cut into the sloping rafters, to the west and east sides of the room, as well as one large window at the end facing the lake.
In those days we cooked entirely on wood. Our kitchen always had a number of stoves, some better for baking, others better for frying and boiling. Our place was very remote, there was no electricity at all, and only a crank-type telephone to an Adirondack railroad junction eight miles away. We had only one vehicle for that eight mile trip, a Model A Ford. Even that had come in by train. Our lifestyle was primitive at best. All food came by train to the station. We had to plan ahead for weeks.
According to my father, Dorothy had developed somewhat of a drinking problem, and on this afternoon, she was preparing a huge ham for dinner. In any event, for some reason, a cooking fire developed, from the greasy run-offs of that ham.
As clearly as if it were yesterday I remember watching the smoke build up near the eaves in the room where I was lying. Then came the sounds of excited voices from below. All of a sudden there was a sudden whoosh-like feeling as I felt someone lift my body up and out the open window. I never caught sight of who picked me up, and remember disappointment when I was left in the cold grass outside.
I remember the shouts and voices of the fire being put out. Then I remember clearly my mother crying my name. She was frantic. I remember frantic yells by both my parents and grandfather all looking for me upstairs above the kitchen, and calling my name. I heard them running up and down the stairs, then suddenly I heard Dad outside yelling near me, “Here he is!”.
"I remember their words “How did he get outside?” I must say I didn’t know how I had made it from my bed near the lake window to the grass outside in just a few seconds. I remember my parents trying to question me about this, but I didn’t know.
Children do have ways of remembering what what adult voices say in other rooms. I remember my Dad and Mom questioning Dorothy the cook about why she hadn’t gone to get me out of the ‘barracks’ once the fire started. I remember Dad questioning her. Somehow she let loose the epithet, “I’d like to kill the little monster.”
Dad said something to Dorothy to the effect that, “You need psychological help.” It wasn’t a pretty scene. I remember as a kid I was siding with Dorothy, after all she had cared for me a bit that summer, and given me oatmeal cookies!
Needless to say there was no sit-down dinner that evening. My grandparents were perplexed, out of their league, in dealing with problems like this. I remember Mom and Dad saying there would have to be some changes. Over all of it hung the mystery of how I had miraculously wound up in the grass. Who had rescued me? That night I slept with my Mom in the main camp in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
Suddenly in the middle of the night we heard an enormous crash and a gigantic bellowing scream from the direction of the kitchen. I personally have never been screamed at full volume by a Sabe but it was recent recordings found on the internet that jogged my memory of that night.
Everyone woke up, “What the hell was that?” We heard crash after crash then more objects crashing about in the kitchen. The racket was incredibly loud. My grandfather went to the living room to get his rifle. My grandmother insisted my grandfather stay put. Nobody dared go to that side of the camp.
In the morning we awoke to find Dorothy, apoplectic, screaming that she wanted out of this job immediately. A black bear had broken down the kitchen door. At least that is the explanation that was offered. Our rear kitchen door was a very solid maple door, of early 1900’s construction. It had been kicked in so forcefully that the door was split in half. The hinged half hung and the other half lay on the floor. Dad did say that a slow roasted ham attracts every bear within miles. Never mind that no bear had seen in our part of the Adirondacks during the 1950’s. And none of the food from the destroyed icebox had been eaten. None of it. But the dishes, a table, and an old fashioned wooden icebox had been torn to shreds. It was a shock and awe display, but without any theft whatsoever. The ham was entire, lying on the floor of the kitchen! Untouched!
Now what bear breaks in to a place then doesn’t eat what it finds?
For years we accepted that bears sometimes take displeasure at humans, and will sometimes break up a camp to rob food or vent anger. My cousins own hunting camps in the woods. Break-ins happen at these small dwellings regularly. I never questioned that a bear could be the cause of these mishaps. Now I realize that black bears almost never break into a building forcibly, but if they do it’s because a door or window may be bent by pushing it over. A solid door is never challenged.
It has taken me my entire life, and a slow process of putting puzzle pieces together to figure out what actually happened.
Some being did what it felt it had to do, in order to protect me. It had listened to and understood Dorothy saying “I’d like to kill the little monster.” It had decided to frighten this elderly employee out of her wits so she’d never return.
Dorothy demanded my grandfather drive her over the long road to the train station. He did, she got the train, and was never seen again. My grandparents stopped living the grand life. Years after the camp passed to my father. Years later he integrated this event into his one of his stories about a Native American boy named Robin Quickfoot. He made it clear almost as a sort of confession, that it had happened to me.”He’d mumble, “You remember, don't you!” Sometimes when he mentioned the event around my mother, she’d shush him to shut up, he would, but he always made sure I heard him, and set me to puzzling in some way about it. Thank you Pop! Now I know Dad was conscious of these beings his whole life, but insulated me from the knowledge.
I apologize in advance if my alias (Postmark Winter Owl) is confusing to your readers
Best regards,
Postmark Winter Owl
