The most chaotic time of my life was my childhood. My Mother sent us to stay with family in Montreal while she fled our criminal father to Canada's West coast in British Columbia. Much happened before this; that I was not aware of. Including my Mother meeting a Czech man who she thought looked like Omar Sharif. This man would eventually become our step-father, but not before they would be kidnapped and almost murdered by my father. They would be saved in a police take-down that would see my father jailed and my mother set free to try and make us a new home.

My brother and I arrived a year later. We lived very modestly and spent much of our time exploring the wet trails and rolling rivers of the lower mainland. The cedars and firs towered over us, set against the glistening jagged mountains that were often blanketed with a brilliant carpet of thick spongy green moss.

It was here, in these woods, I would pick wild blackberries and talk aloud to God or whoever would listen in the solitude of the forest. British Columbia was so beautiful, but it was also a place where turmoil swirled about my childhood stronger than the rapids of the Chilliwack River.

We had little money to spend and got in all sorts of trouble trekking along trails, always shadowed by the dripping trees, in search of new adventures. I often wore bread bags over my socks to keep my leaky boots from soaking my feet, but I was a happy kid, always in awe of the British Columbian landscape.

Many of my newfound friends swapped stories about Bigfoot and invented tales of running into the great beast along the foothills. I so wanted to find this great beast, while inside I was terrified at the prospect of success. Still I walked, for miles at a time filling my head with tales I would tell. Trudging along, my mind imprinted snapshots that would stay with me my whole life. It was then I would set the landscape for my first novel endeavour.

Now 40 years later, my mother is gone, my father a bad memory and my step-father remarried lies in wait to be re-united once again. I have returned home to this landscape where the trees still stand as silent witnesses to the secrets of the forest. My life is no longer in turmoil, but I am venturing into a new venture which I hope will set my wife and I down a new path of happiness.

Until I get settled and we have gotten over the disruption moving often brings, I look out at the snow covered mountains and listen to the sounds of rain dripping off the firs. I am again in awe of the majesty of this place. There is a tug I feel in my heart when I look to the beckoning trails.

Maybe the Bigfoot still lurks, out on those trails waiting for me take up chase once again.