You’ve come to this forest in search of the creature known as "sasquatch." By now you’ve learned that he is human; at least, by some definitions of the word "human." His flesh has been warped by years of long-exposure photographs, and his skin has blurred into a pareidoliac wool. A grotesque thumbprint remains where once there may have been a face, neither able to see nor speak.

Most travelers arrive in Channel Zero National Park by mistake, but you have come willingly. This place is born of video feedback; the trees here glow with the residual chartreuse of night vision. As you press your right hand against the phosphorescent bark of an ancient birch, it slides directly through. You withdraw, and your fingers are soaked in a sap of television static, completely numb.

At times, the surrounding white noise is louder than the wind in the leaves.

Some say that this place is mankind’s conjuration, a knot in space born from the distance between lens and mirror. Others say that it is a primordial domain, as old as the reflection of trees in Minnesotan lakes, and that human involvement has only served to accelerate an ancient process.

You’ve followed his trail for miles, only to arrive at a burial mound. There is no raised earth here. however; only a mass of cameras and softly flickering bones. “HERE LIES THE SASQUATCH,” reads an iron plaque at its base. “CONDEMNED TO MYTH, SLAIN BY REASON.”

Even so, this landmark is the end of your own journey, for his reflection has followed you all the way here. Your final memory is of being blinded by your own flashbulb; perhaps, someday, the film will be developed.