The Boom in Big Cedar Creek: How Two Bigfoots Detonated a Cabin and Shattered the Forest’s Silence

Part I: The Quiet Kingdom

The Big Cedar Creek territory was a vast, primeval expanse of towering pines and glacial runoff, its silence a deep, ancient rhythm unbroken by man. In this quiet kingdom lived Krum and Grok, two young Sasquatches known more for their insatiable curiosity and juvenile mischief than for the legendary stealth of their species. While the elders of their tribe practiced the art of invisibility, Krum and Grok were masters of the noisy blunder, perpetually tripping over roots and accidentally snapping branches in two.

They were inseparable, bound by a shared, playful intellect that often led them into trouble. Their greatest fault was their fascination with the “Hairless Ones”—humans—and the strange, rigid, smelly things they occasionally left behind. To Krum and Grok, humanity was an enigma, a source of endless, baffling toys.

Their home territory abutted the old logging boundary, a place where the human world often bled into the forest edge. It was there, beyond the mossy ridges, that they found it: the Cabin.

The cabin belonged to an old, reclusive prospector named Silas, a man as prickly and unpredictable as the barbed wire he strung around his ramshackle dwelling. Silas was rarely home, spending weeks chasing mineral veins high in the peaks, leaving his temporary base vulnerable to the only creatures bold enough to inspect it.

Krum and Grok had long been obsessed with the cabin. It was an unnatural monument—a small, dark box of straight lines and unnatural angles—that stood in defiance of the chaotic, flowing curves of the forest. They would often sneak close, sniffing the strange odors of kerosene, stale tobacco, and fear that clung to its wooden walls.

One crisp autumn afternoon, they found the cabin empty, but Silas had left something new, something that smelled powerfully of sulphur and dirt, and promised an adventure far beyond their usual rock-stacking and log-tossing games.

 

Part II: The Discovery of the Fire-Sticks

Silas was a man who took shortcuts, and rather than hauling heavy digging equipment up the steep inclines, he relied on cheap, powerful explosives. Tucked carelessly beneath a loose floorboard on the back porch—a hiding spot Krum had previously found to be useless for food—was a small wooden crate.

Grok, whose powerful nose always led the way, sniffed the pungent, oily odor first. He nudged the crate, which squeaked in protest. Krum, emboldened by the lack of human scent, pried the lid open with a long, curved claw.

Inside lay thirty sticks of dynamite, nestled in sawdust, each stick wrapped in dull brown paper with a wick the colour of dried grass. To the Bigfoots, they were merely fascinating, uniform “fire-sticks.” They had seen Silas use similar sticks once, resulting in a thrilling, loud thump that made the ground shake, followed by a shower of beautiful, sparkling rocks. They associated the sticks not with danger, but with fun and loud noises—the best kind of human toy.

Krum carefully lifted two sticks, handing one to Grok. The sticks felt heavy and cold in their paws, dense with a promise of energy.

“Roo-ooh?” Grok questioned, holding the stick up, his massive, dark eyes wide with childish wonder. What are they for?

“Hrr-umm!” Krum rumbled back, puffing out his chest. Loud noises! We make the loud noises!

They retreated deep into the pines, carrying their stolen treasure. Their initial attempts were harmless and futile. They tried burying a stick and stomping on it—nothing. They tried chewing the paper—it tasted bitter and gave them a headache. They even tried throwing one into the creek, expecting the water to hiss and explode—it merely sank.

They realized the sticks needed fire, just like the noisy, yellow-tipped tools Silas used to cut wood. They spent the next two days, consumed by their new obsession, trying to figure out how to light the wicks. They managed to snap off several dry branches and rubbed them together furiously, but their massive, fur-covered hands lacked the finesse for friction fire.

Frustration mounted. The “fire-sticks” were boring without the boom.

Part III: The Ultimate Prank

The breakthrough came, ironically, from Silas’s continued carelessness. Returning to the cabin to pilfer what they needed, Krum noticed a small, oily can on a shelf outside the shed—kerosene. Beside it was a box of wooden matches, forgotten during Silas’s quick departure. Krum cautiously dipped a finger in the kerosene—it smelled powerful and exciting. He recognized the smell from the strange iron box Silas used to cook his food.

This was the key.

That evening, they returned to the cabin under the cover of a thick fog. This time, they weren’t just curious—they were mischievous, armed with a plan born of reckless youth.

“Wagh-ah?” Grok whispered, pointing a huge finger toward the roof. We put them up there?

Krum grinned, a terrifying, silent split in his black, furred face. Hrr-rrm. Yes.

Their plan was simple, reckless, and catastrophic: they would set off the fire-sticks on the roof of the cabin, right above Silas’s rickety iron chimney. This would create the loudest, most spectacular noise possible, a grand joke that would make the rocks rain down and terrify the old man when he returned.

Using their immense strength, they scaled the cabin walls like squirrels on a tree trunk. The roof shingles were slick with dew, but their thick, leathery pads provided perfect traction. They placed the two sticks of dynamite side-by-side, near the chimney base.

Krum soaked the end of one wick in kerosene, then carefully struck a match. He had watched Silas do this many times. The match flared, tiny and bright against the cold wood. He held the flame to the soaked wick.

It caught instantly. A thin, yellow flame began to sputter and spit, slowly crawling down the wick towards the brown paper.

Excitement surged through Krum and Grok. They had done it. They had mastered the human toy.

Without a second thought, they scrambled off the roof, dropping with a thud onto the soft pine needle floor below, and retreated twenty yards into the thicket to await the glorious noise.

Part IV: The Shattering Silence

They crouched together, two immense, hairy silhouettes shrouded in the pre-dawn fog, their breath puffing white clouds in the freezing air. They waited, their eyes fixed on the roof where the tiny, persistent yellow flame was now halfway down the fuse.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound of the burning fuse was drowned out by the thunder of their own expectant heartbeats.

They expected a thump, a grand shake, a shower of pretty, glittering rock fragments. They expected a laugh, a triumphant, chest-beating roar of success.

What they got was the end of the world.

The detonation was not a thump; it was a catastrophic, earsplitting KABOOM.

The force of the blast tore the entire roof off the small wooden structure, instantaneously venting the compressed energy. The cabin did not just shake; it buckled and shredded, turning from a rigid box into a cloud of splintered timber, shattered glass, and black smoke that erupted fifty feet into the air.

The noise ripped through the Big Cedar Creek territory, a violent, unnatural sound that devoured the silence of the forest. Birds bolted from nests miles away. Deer stampeded blindly. The Bigfoot elders, deep in their hidden glades, reared up in shock, convinced a forest fire had been born of lightning in the dry season.

Krum and Grok were thrown backwards by the shockwave, landing heavily against the unforgiving trunk of a giant redwood. Their ears were ringing with a high, agonizing whine, and their entire bodies vibrated with the residual energy of the explosion.

When Krum finally managed to shake the concussion from his eyes, he saw only chaos. The cabin was gone, replaced by a jagged, smoking crater and a bizarre tangle of broken beams sticking up from the ground like skeletal fingers. The remnants of the iron chimney lay twisted and flattened twenty feet away.

The primal fear was immediate and total. They hadn’t made a loud noise; they had summoned a destructive lightning bolt.

Grok, whimpering low in his chest, looked at the ruin, then at his own massive paws, which now seemed stained by the black soot and the scent of human anger. He turned to Krum, his eyes begging for an explanation.

Krum had none. All his playful, juvenile wonder had evaporated, replaced by the instinctual terror of having broken a fundamental, terrifying rule of both the human and the Sasquatch worlds.

Part V: The Immediate Consequences

The aftermath was silent, save for the crackling of the small fires now consuming the debris. The thick, unnatural smell of gunpowder and burning chemicals hung heavy in the air.

“No-o-o-o…” Krum finally managed, the sound a ragged wheeze. We go. We go now.

They didn’t run; they fled, using the true, silent speed of their species, pushing deeper into the forest, leaving the stench and the smoke behind them.

But the consequences of their “explosive prank gone wrong” were already unfolding. The explosion had been heard far beyond the forest edge. Within an hour, sirens wailed in the distance—the sound of the human world rushing in to investigate the source of the blast.

Silas, the prospector, was the first to arrive, returning from his trip just as dawn broke. When he saw the smoking remnants of his cabin, the scene of utter destruction, his face twisted not with grief over property, but with pure, paranoid fury. He didn’t think accident; he thought sabotage. And he knew exactly what had caused the boom: his stolen dynamite.

The authorities arrived shortly after, and the scene was immediately deemed suspicious. They found the heavy soot prints of two enormous, unshod feet leading away from the blast site and the unmistakable scratch marks of large claws on the few remaining vertical timbers. The story that quickly spread was not of a prank, but of a hostile, targeted attack by something massive and intelligent.

The forest’s silence was not merely shattered; it was permanently fractured. The territory was flooded with human activity—helicopters buzzing overhead, investigators meticulously tracing the outlines of the giant footprints, and, most ominously for the Sasquatch tribe, armed men now patrolling the perimeter, hunting for the creature—or creatures—responsible.

Part VI: Exile and Reflection

Krum and Grok returned to their hidden glade, their heads bowed. They couldn’t speak of what they had done; the terror was too great.

The elders, led by the ancient and wise Silver-Pelt, knew instantly the cause of the upheaval. They had smelled the sulphur on the wind and recognized the unique scent of their errant youth.

Silver-Pelt summoned the two culprits. He did not speak in anger, but in sorrow.

“The Law is broken,” Silver-Pelt’s thoughts vibrated into their minds. “The Law of Silence. The Law of Boundary. You have taken the human’s fire and used it to announce our presence to the world.”

Krum and Grok stood mute, shame radiating off their massive forms.

“You did not just destroy a box of sticks,” the elder continued. “You destroyed the Quiet. The Quiet is our shield. Without it, the Hairless Ones will bring their tools and their fear. And they will not stop until they find the source of the boom.”

The consequence was immediate and severe. Krum and Grok were sentenced to temporary exile. They were forced to leave the Big Cedar territory, to flee south to the less-populated, more rugged peaks, until the chaos they had created subsided. They were told never to bring a human object into the glade again.

As they slipped away under the next night’s moon, leaving their family and their home behind, they heard the distant, insistent thump-thump-thump of a human helicopter—the sound of the world they had awakened.

Krum glanced back at the ridge where the cabin had stood. The small, dark box had been an insignificant thing. But the joke, the prank, the desire for a loud noise had cost them their sanctuary and their peace.

They had wanted a spectacle. They had created a legend. And the shattered silence of the Big Cedar Creek was a constant, ringing reminder that some toys are simply not meant to be played with. The two mischievous Bigfoots had detonated more than just a cabin; they had detonated their future, proving that the most terrifying rule broken was not just a forest law, but the law of self-preservation. From that moment on, the Big Cedar Creek territory was no longer just a forest; it was a hunting ground, and Krum and Grok were the unwitting creators of the very legend that now drove their pursuers. The consequences of that single, catastrophic boom would echo for years.