Like hundreds of other Bigfoot enthusiasts, Knoll is fiercely independent, but at the same time drawn to a community that provides a stage for him to express his unwavering belief that Bigfoot is out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered.

"It would be kind of sad if we found Bigfoot," Knoll says suddenly, unexpectedly. "Without the possibility of Bigfoot there is no wilderness left." He pauses again and adds, "The possibility of Bigfoot is the possibility of wilderness."

Whether it's a shadow in the wilderness that can't be explained, or a strange noise in the dark, Bigfoot is about believing. A smattering of Bigfoot enthusiasts have coalesced into a small but energetic group of believers over the last 15 years. There were 15 bona fide organizations around North America by 1998, with an estimated 2,000 self-proclaimed Bigfoot seekers -- almost as many as the number of Bigfoot supposedly roaming the backcountry.

There's a group of neighbors in Placerville, Calif., who routinely meet and talk about Bigfoot's whereabouts in Northern California. In Washington, a man named Cliff Crook signed up his wife and son to form Bigfoot Central. Even in Maine (about as far away from Bigfoot in the U.S. as one can get), a group of so-called crypto-zoologists pore over hair follicles, footprints and a grab bag of evidence.

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Here in Oregon, the self-proclaimed largest Sasquatch organization in the world, the Western Bigfoot Society (WBS), meets for lunch every Tuesday at the Lighthouse Café in the blue-collar town of Linton, about five miles north of Portland. The numbers attending vary from 4 to 15.

"I don't know why we started meeting on Tuesdays," says WBS director Ray Crowe. "I think it started because I had something to do the other days of the week."

At the lunch meetings, the subject of Bigfoot is almost as elusive as the creature itself, bobbing in and out of conversation about the members' grandchildren and the Lighthouse lunch specials.

About 10 people are seated around a heavy oak table at my first meeting with the WBS. "I'm not a believer or a nonbeliever," claims Lloyd, a retired veterinarian. He wears a wide-brimmed hat and has the personality of a kind uncle who pulls quarters from your ear. He goes on to tell me that for centuries, there were rumors about giant black-and-white bears roaming the alpine hinterlands of China. Then, in 1936, the first panda bear was captured. "It was all bullshit until then," he says. "There is new stuff out there all of the time."

Lloyd jerks a thumb toward the densely green hills flanking the restaurant. "There are millions of acres of forest," he says. "You could hide an elephant up there."

These people are chummy -- Bigfoot is both a reason and an excuse for meeting. While the reality of the beast may be a bit hazy, the idea of it remains enough of a core for this motley subculture.

"This is the last, greatest hunt in the world," says Sam. "It gives us a reason to look at the hills differently." In 1993, Sam (who prefers not to use his real name) spotted what he believes were three Bigfoot standing in a quarry at the base of Saddle Mountain, near Seaside. But even he has his doubts. "To a lot of people I have to ask: Are you really trying to find this thing or are you just enjoying a mystery?"

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