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How can people prove that a “monster” exists if it has never left behind a body that can be conclusively identified? For those who search for Bigfoot, this is not a playful thought experiment. It is the central problem that has shadowed their work for decades.
Bigfoot, also known as Sasquatch, has inspired a form of field investigation commonly called Bigfooting. In popular culture, the activity is often associated with extravagant stories, blurry photographs, and cartoonish images of a shaggy creature. It is therefore easy to dismiss it as an eccentric hobby, or even as a superstition unworthy of serious attention.
The picture becomes more complicated once one enters the world of Bigfoot researchers themselves. Many spend years moving through the forests of North America, recording eyewitness reports, measuring tracks, setting up cameras, and collecting hair and environmental samples. They do not think of themselves as chasing a romantic legend. They believe they are investigating an animal that has not yet been formally recognised, and that they are doing so carefully, rationally, and responsibly.
For our book, Bigfooters and Scientific Inquiry: On the Borderlands of Legitimate Science (2026), we interviewed more than 160 people, most of them traditional Bigfooters with long experience of field research. As sociologists of science, we were interested not only in whether Bigfoot exists. We began with another fact that cannot seriously be disputed: whether or not the creature is real, the people, organisations, and practices devoted to finding it certainly are.
These investigators form a series of loosely connected research communities. They gather material, compare cases, debate evidence, challenge one another’s conclusions, and argue over recordings, footprints, and laboratory reports. Wherever people are producing knowledge, judging evidence, and competing for credibility, there is something for sociology to study. Our project therefore became a different kind of hunt. We were not looking for a mysterious animal in the forest; we were trying to understand how the people who pursue it make sense of the world, and how they define science on their own terms.
Before we began, we were warned that Bigfooters were broadly “anti-science.” Direct contact showed us that this description was too simple. Many do distrust mainstream scientific institutions, and they make claims that conflict with the current scientific consensus. Yet that does not mean they reject observation, measurement, testing, or experiment. On the contrary, many place great value on empirical material and consciously borrow procedures and instruments from professional research.
The cryptozoologist George Eberhart pointed out to us that Bigfoot research may fall outside mainstream science, but that does not prevent investigators from applying scientific or journalistic methods and producing worthwhile findings. For many Bigfooters, “science” means observing things firsthand, keeping records, preserving samples, and eliminating errors wherever possible. It does not necessarily mean holding a university appointment, publishing in a specialist journal, or possessing formal credentials.
This is also why they cannot be placed neatly in the familiar category of citizen science. Conventional citizen-science projects are usually designed by universities, museums, or conservation bodies. Members of the public help gather, classify, or record data, and their work ultimately supports an established scientific system. Bigfooters, by contrast, often operate outside that system and may regard mainstream scepticism as a form of prejudice. They pursue an alternative idea of “good science,” one that values the judgment of the individual explorer, takes eyewitness testimony seriously, and allows anecdote and personal experience to carry evidential weight.
In this respect, they sometimes resemble the natural philosophers of earlier centuries. Before the study of nature became fully professionalised, personal observation, correspondence, and travellers’ accounts could all contribute to knowledge. Today’s Bigfooters may use infrared cameras, microscopes, and DNA analysis, but they retain much of that older individualistic tradition.
The important questions, then, are not simply whether Bigfooters use scientific technology. How do they use it? Are they collecting “evidence,” or are they producing the kind of “proof” from which a wider consensus can be built? Where exactly is the boundary between their empiricism and mainstream science?
Of all our interviews, a remark by Cliff Barackman captured this predicament especially well. Barackman presented the American television series Finding Bigfoot (2011–) and runs the North American Bigfoot Center in Boring, Oregon. In his view, it is careless to say that there is no evidence for Bigfoot, because a great deal of relevant material has been collected. What is missing is the kind of proof that would end the argument. Evidence and proof are not the same thing.
Bigfooters have collected thousands of witness testimonies, cast hundreds of footprints, recorded scores of howls
Barackman’s distinction might be called the Bigfooter’s lament. It is at once a defence of the field and an expression of its enduring frustration: the material keeps accumulating, but it never seems to cross the threshold between “possibly real” and “demonstrated to exist.”
Over the decades, Bigfooters have preserved thousands of eyewitness accounts, made hundreds of casts from alleged tracks, recorded howls and growls whose sources could not immediately be identified, and obtained a smaller number of photographs and videos. To believers, these materials reinforce one another and gradually produce a coherent picture. To someone already convinced that Bigfoot cannot be a real animal, the same collection will be explained as misidentification, fabrication, faulty memory, or traces left by ordinary wildlife.
There is an asymmetry here that is almost impossible to escape. The number of witnesses can grow, new photographs can appear, and more footprints can be found. Yet as long as there is no body available for independent examination, sceptics will always have grounds for rejecting the conclusion. The demand made by both the public and the scientific community can ultimately be reduced to two words: habeas corpus. Produce the body.
Les Stroud, creator of the Canadian television series Survivorman (2005–), has acknowledged that this demand is entirely reasonable from a scientific point of view. The first questions are obvious: Where is the body? Where are the bones? Without a specimen, other forms of evidence struggle to bear the weight required to establish a new species.
There have, of course, been purported Bigfoot bodies, but nearly all have been judged to be hoaxes. In the 1960s, the promoter Frank Hansen publicly displayed a hairy humanoid figure sealed inside a block of ice. It was initially said to have been discovered in Siberia and was sometimes called the Sibirskoye Creature. It later became far better known as the Minnesota Iceman.
Its provenance was highly questionable, yet for a time it attracted serious interest. Bernard Heuvelmans and Ivan T Sanderson, two foundational figures in cryptozoology, both examined it and published their own assessments. In a 1969 article in the Bulletin de L’Institut Royal des Sciences Naturelles de Belgique, Heuvelmans described it as a new species, which he named Homo pongoides. Sanderson, writing in the American magazine Argosy and the Italian journal Genus, suggested that it might be Homo erectus.
The primatologist John Napier was initially intrigued by these descriptions and tried to interest the Smithsonian Institution in the case. Reports even suggested that the FBI had taken notice. Napier ultimately concluded, however, that the Iceman was an artificial model, a judgment that became the overwhelmingly dominant view.
That did not bring the story to a complete end. Some Bigfooters still believe that the original display may have contained a genuine body that was replaced by a model after it attracted too much attention. Heuvelmans and Sanderson likewise maintained that the object they examined was not the same fake later shown to the public. Such claims do not resolve the controversy. They do, however, reveal a recurring pattern: when apparently decisive evidence fails, the failure itself may be absorbed into a new explanation.
The long absence of a body has also produced a sharp ethical dispute among Bigfooters. If killing one individual were the only way to secure scientific recognition for the species, would doing so be justified?
Those who support a hunt argue that without a complete specimen, every investigation will remain trapped at the level of debate. The anthropologist Grover Krantz was one of the few academics willing to champion Bigfoot research openly. He supported obtaining a specimen by any available means, including killing a Bigfoot. John Mionczynski, an outdoorsman involved in the subject since the 1970s, told us that Krantz once offered him a considerable sum to join an effort in the Blue Mountains to locate and “collect” a specimen. Their opposing ethical positions eventually drove them apart.
Angelo Capparella of the North American Wood Ape Conservancy (NAWAC) has taken an even more explicit position. Trained in museum science, he believes that recognising a new animal requires a physical specimen. If investigators refuse indefinitely to obtain a body, he argues, Bigfoot research will simply repeat the same work without making real progress.
Most of the researchers we encountered, however, opposed killing in principle. Craig Woolheater, co-founder of the Texas Bigfoot Research Center, noted that no one knows the size of the alleged Bigfoot population. Killing a single animal could endanger a family group and might even inflict irreversible damage on the species as a whole. In this picture, Bigfoot is no longer merely an animal awaiting a scientific name. It is also a potentially intelligent, extremely rare life-form in need of protection.
Even if the ethics of hunting are set aside, another objection remains. If these large creatures genuinely inhabit North American forests, why has no one ever discovered an individual that died naturally? Why are there no corpses, teeth, or even a single bone that can be assigned to the species with confidence? With so many hikers and outdoor workers claiming encounters with living Bigfoots, an accidental discovery of a dead one should not be utterly impossible.
Some researchers believe that this objection underestimates how efficiently forests conceal and decompose remains. Russell Jones has used bears as an analogy: hikers rarely come across dead bears or intact bear skeletons either. Yet the comparison is incomplete. Finding a bear carcass in the wild may be unusual, but bear bodies unquestionably exist. Mounted examples can be seen in private collections, hotels, and museums. Nothing comparable has ever been produced for Bigfoot.
Intriguingly, absence is not always treated merely as a gap in knowledge. It can become the foundation of a knowledge claim about Bigfoot. Some investigators propose that the lack of bodies reveals the species to be highly intelligent and socially organised. Todd Prescott has suggested that Bigfoots may rarely be alone. When one dies, its companions might remove the body, consume it, or bury it deep in remote mountain country. If a corpse were buried six feet underground near a mountaintop, the chance of a human stumbling upon it would indeed be extremely small.
There is no independent evidence with which to test this account. Nevertheless, it illustrates an important feature of Bigfoot research: an unknown does not always weaken belief. Sometimes it opens space for a more elaborate theory.
In any event, the continued absence of complete bodies and skeletons has pushed researchers towards smaller material traces. It is through this shift that microscopy, chemical analysis, and molecular testing have entered Bigfooting, giving its empirical practices a new form.
The hope is that wrapped within the threads of Bigfoot hair is the veritable ‘blueprint’ of the creature itself
Hair is among the most common suspected biological samples encountered during field investigations. It readily catches on branches, fences, and rough surfaces, and it resembles a preservable, transportable, repeatedly testable form of physical evidence far more than a footprint or a call does. Bigfooters therefore collect unidentified hairs carefully at investigation sites, examine them under a microscope after returning from the field, and, when resources permit, submit them for laboratory analysis.
In their view, Bigfoot hair is not entirely without recognisable characteristics. A member of the Olympic Project once outlined a remarkably specific set of criteria. A suspected Sasquatch hair should be about 60 to 90 micrometres wide and flexible, with colour that generally remains consistent along the shaft. The root should be roughly round or egg-shaped. The shaft often lacks an obvious central medulla and may be somewhat translucent, although very dark hairs are naturally more difficult to see through. Its surface scales should also form an imbricate pattern similar to the one found in human hair.
This sounds much like a detailed taxonomic record, and it shows that investigators do not necessarily identify a sample by intuition alone. They measure its width, compare its internal structure, inspect the shape of its root and the pattern of its scales, and try to establish criteria that can be applied repeatedly.
These standards have also received a small measure of support from institutional science. Bigfooters frequently cite the zoologist Wolf Henner Fahrenbach, who worked at the Oregon Regional Primate Research Center. He is treated as the source of an influential claim: that some purported Bigfoot hairs have primate characteristics but cannot be assigned to any known primate species.
Appearance and microscopic structure alone, however, cannot easily establish a new species. Hairs from different animals may share similar features, while environmental damage and human contamination can alter a sample. What truly excites researchers is the genetic information that a hair might contain. DNA has a distinctive authority in the public imagination. It seems capable of bypassing unreliable testimony, blurry photographs, and forgeable footprints to answer the question directly: What organism did this sample come from?
If DNA belonging to an unknown large primate could be extracted from a hair, witness narratives, tracks, and microscopic features would all become secondary. The hair would cease to be merely a hair and become a molecular plan pointing towards an entire organism.
Some hairs attributed to Bigfoot have indeed entered conventional laboratories. One of the best-known investigations was conducted by the geneticist Bryan Sykes while he was at the University of Oxford. For the British television series Bigfoot Files (2013), he tested a number of relevant samples. In the paper that followed, however, he reported that the hairs came from known, living mammal species.
Results such as these have not ended the study of hair. Some Bigfooters argue that genuine Bigfoot hair may often lack a central medulla, making it difficult to recover enough genetic material for analysis. Yet that explanation produces a new problem. If the hairs that most closely fit the expected description of Bigfoot are also the hardest to test, DNA will struggle to provide confirmation.
Others have developed a more sceptical understanding of the logical limits of hair evidence. Alex Solunac, co-founder of the Vancouver Island Sasquatch Society, once kept a full set of equipment ready so that he could collect hair whenever an opportunity arose. He later began to doubt that doing so could solve the underlying problem. Even if a laboratory obtained a result that matched no species in its database, that would establish only that the sample remained unidentified. It would not automatically prove that the hair belonged to Sasquatch. There is still a substantial inferential gap between “we do not know what it is” and “we know it is Bigfoot.”
The limitations of hair have encouraged researchers to look for other sources of genetic material. Shelly Covington-Montana was frustrated by the persistent inability of eyewitness accounts to gain scientific recognition. She therefore decided to bring the Olympic Project something more material: wildlife DNA collection kits.
Commercial kits were prohibitively expensive, so she designed and assembled her own. After roughly six rounds of improvement, she believed that they met the standards used for collecting human samples. She purchased the necessary components in bulk from medical suppliers. The process is a revealing example of Bigfooter technical practice. Without the support of a formal laboratory, investigators search for standards, refine their equipment, and adapt professional methods from other fields to suit their own enquiries.
Covington-Montana also consulted police officers and detectives to learn how to protect samples, avoid contamination, and maintain records. This reflects a familiar route by which Bigfooters seek legitimacy. If witness testimony is accepted in journalism and the courts, they argue, it should not be dismissed automatically in Bigfoot research. If police procedures can preserve forensic material reliably, the same methods can be carried into the forest.
The Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization (BFRO) has long invoked journalistic and legal practice to defend the value of testimony. Covington-Montana, however, stresses what makes DNA different: it is material evidence that can be transferred, stored, and tested. For her, building collection kits is not only a way of obtaining a result. It also spreads a scientific ideal. Rather than inventing stories or repeating rumours, ordinary participants can learn disciplined collection practices and make citizen investigation itself more reliable.
Genetic evidence will allow Bigfooters to make definitive, material connections between Bigfoot encounters across North America
If hair cannot reliably provide enough DNA, researchers must broaden their definition of a sample. Covington-Montana works with Doug Hajicek, producer of the American television series MonsterQuest (2007–10). He believes that one previously neglected material may be particularly valuable: skin oil, or sebum, allegedly left by Bigfoot.
According to Hajicek, the creature’s skin oil may be thicker, waxier, and lighter in colour than human sebum. When it touches a car door, window, camper, cooler, or another smooth object, it may leave an enormous handprint. If it approaches the windows of a home or cabin, it might even leave the outline of a face. In the past, researchers treated such marks mainly as opportunities to recover fingerprints or palm patterns. They are now beginning to regard them as chemical and cellular samples.
This shift expands what an impression can mean as evidence. An oily mark does not contain only a visible shape; it may also preserve chemical compounds such as triglycerides and cholesterol. Hajicek suggests that the composition of sebum may vary among the great apes, allowing investigators both to recover latent patterns and to compare the compounds present in a print. More importantly, an oily surface may retain skin cells, and skin cells mean DNA.
Hajicek told us that he regularly speaks with leading DNA laboratories across the United States. Some have indicated that approximately 20 well-preserved skin cells might be enough to obtain a relatively complete genetic sequence. To him, this kind of evidence would be far more valuable than a photograph, video, or footprint. It might show not only that an unknown animal had been present, but also that encounters occurring at different times and in different places were biologically connected.
If samples from Washington State, Oregon, and British Columbia displayed closely related genetic features, researchers could make a claim much stronger than “these stories resemble one another.” They might be able to argue that a biologically connected population lay behind the reports. Genetic material is thus expected to do two jobs at once: identify the creature and reveal its distribution and kinship relationships.
The gradual democratisation of biotechnology has made such an ambition imaginable. Genetic analysis was once concentrated in universities, government agencies, and major research centres. Contract research organisations and direct-to-consumer testing services have since multiplied, allowing people outside scientific institutions to submit samples to laboratories. Complex technology has become a service that can be purchased rather than something available only through formal academic collaboration.
Commercial availability does not mean that every test is suited to the question being asked. Haskell Hart, technical consultant to the Bigfoot Enigma Research Center and Museum in Oklahoma, has warned that many consumer laboratories analyse human DNA only. Whatever material is submitted, their systems interpret it within a human genetic framework. The result is often a report of human contamination introduced by the collector, witness, or laboratory staff. Investigators may believe they are searching for an unknown primate even though the testing process excluded that possibility from the outset.
Bigfooters have therefore turned to another method developed within institutional science: environmental DNA, or eDNA. This technique is already used in biodiversity surveys and conservation projects. As animals move through water and soil, they leave behind shed cells, waste, and other minute traces of genetic material. Researchers may be able to determine which species have occupied an area without ever seeing or capturing them.
The method is especially attractive to those searching for Bigfoot. The creature is difficult to confirm precisely because it is said to hide effectively, avoid contact, and leave few conspicuous remains. eDNA does not require a face-to-face encounter. Investigators need only collect water, soil, or other environmental material from a suspected habitat to have a chance of detecting a microscopic molecular trace.
Solunac imagines that even if a future sample failed to match any known species exactly, researchers might compare its structure and determine whether it was closer to humans, orangutans, or another primate. Such a result might not be sufficient to name a new species, but it could add credibility to existing sightings, footprints, and nest material.
The technical details of eDNA analysis are complex, and most people collecting samples in the field cannot be expected to master them fully. Bigfooter Robert Leiterman has therefore described the technique as something close to “black magic”: a researcher takes a sample from a body of water and somehow identifies the animals that swam, excreted, or shed cells there.
It is not magic, of course, but black-boxed science. Users may know how to collect and submit a sample, and may understand broadly what the report means, without grasping every stage of amplification, sequencing, and database comparison. Commercial laboratories provide the expertise, while field investigators supply the material and its context. This division of labour lets groups outside scientific institutions draw upon the authority of advanced science, but it also makes them heavily dependent on the laboratories’ design choices, databases, and interpretive standards.
Most Bigfooters do not believe that a single eDNA report would automatically amount to final proof. It is more likely to be combined with other material to produce what Hajicek calls “3D evidence.” At one site, for example, researchers might find unusual footprints and suspected nests, record unfamiliar sounds, and recover an unclassified genetic signal from a nearby water source. None of these findings would be decisive in isolation, but together they might strengthen the broader claim.
Barackman is particularly interested in using environmental DNA in long-term research on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, connecting genetic analysis with purported nests and tracks found there. He believes eDNA may become an important key to the mystery. Even if it cannot initially prove that Bigfoot exists, it may help researchers map a target animal’s movements and changes in behaviour.
The search for physical evidence of Bigfoot has been disappointing, tipping some into scepticism
For those committed to naturalistic investigation, years of searching often bring repeated disappointment. Hairs are identified as belonging to bears, deer, dogs, or humans. Unusual sounds turn out to have been made by known animals. Photographs fail to rule out misidentification, while suspicious footprints may have been fabricated. As the years pass, some participants find it increasingly difficult to preserve their original certainty. A number become sceptics, and some leave the pursuit altogether.
Technological change nevertheless gives others new reasons to continue. DNA sequencing, portable collection equipment, contract laboratories, and environmental testing allow researchers to ask questions that were once beyond their reach. Even if a complete body remains unavailable, they can now search for material traces that are smaller, lighter, and harder to notice.
Genetic material carries an especially powerful symbolism. It is a tiny part of a body that can also stand for the body as a whole. Researchers need not possess a towering, hair-covered corpse or discover an intact skeleton. A genetic sequence recovered from a handful of cells may contain information used to build and maintain the entire organism. Strictly speaking, DNA consists of nucleotide sequences, while the proteins it encodes involve chains of amino acids. Whatever popular language is used, the essential point for Bigfooters is that minute material can function as the “blueprint” of a complete living thing.
Genetics also offers a compelling classificatory promise. A sample may not immediately reveal “what it is,” but it could help establish “what it is not” and “what it most closely resembles.” If an unknown sequence were reliable, researchers could position it within a network of species relationships, comparing it with humans, other apes, and known mammals. Bigfoot would no longer be only an image from stories; it might become a measurable pattern of molecular difference.
This is a less familiar strand in the history of Bigfoot research. After repeated failures to locate a body, investigators began borrowing the capacities of institutional science. Laboratory technologies have continued to advance while becoming more routine, portable, and commercial. Analyses once available only to a small number of experts can now be purchased, outsourced, and incorporated into the fieldwork of amateur groups.
The importance of a material trace lies not merely in the fact that it can be seen or touched, but in its ability to leave the site. A sample can be numbered, sealed, preserved, and transported. It can be handed to different people and examined repeatedly. An eyewitness experience, by contrast, remains bound to the person who had it. Others may ask questions and challenge the account, but they cannot return to the original moment and see the same thing for themselves.
The miniaturisation of technology has further changed the character of the search. Investigators can enter the forest carrying sterile swabs, sample tubes, pipetting equipment, and cameras. They do not have to confront their quarry directly or use force to secure a body. They need only locate the oil, hair, cells, or environmental residue it may have left behind. Bigfoot does not have to be captured; its absence can itself become the condition that makes trace collection possible.
A field long associated with hunters, loggers, and outdoor adventurers has consequently begun to include people carrying pipettes rather than rifles. In method, they resemble a kind of citizen scientist. In their social relationship to established science, however, they remain unusual. Their primary purpose is not to assist mainstream institutions. They hope instead to use scientific tools to demonstrate that those institutions have overlooked a legitimate object of study.
Do these practices count as science? Bigfooting is unmistakably empirical. Its participants gather material, interpret observations, compare evidence, and often discuss hoaxes, contamination, and misidentification with genuine seriousness. Even in the face of ridicule, many sustain a sincere commitment to evidence and method.
Empiricism, however, is not the whole of science. From the perspective of the sociology of science, science is not simply a method for observing nature. It is a social practice maintained by institutions, norms, and communities. Modern scientific authority depends on specialist training, credentials, peer review, journal publication, competition for funding, and the gradual construction of consensus. These mechanisms are not decorative additions to knowledge. They help determine how evidence is tested, how error is corrected, and how conclusions earn collective recognition.
The social world of Bigfooting generally lacks these structures. Becoming a primatologist requires years of specialised education, research training, and institutional support. Becoming a Bigfooter has almost no formal barrier to entry. Anyone can begin tomorrow by reading witness reports, joining online debates, or entering the forest to search for traces. This openness is central to the activity’s attraction, and it enables personal experience and amateur knowledge to participate more freely.
The same openness also restricts Bigfooting’s ability to acquire wider epistemic authority. Without common training, consistent collection standards are difficult to ensure. Without stable peer review, weak reasoning is difficult to filter out systematically. Without recognised boundaries of qualification, outsiders struggle to decide whose analysis should be trusted. Bigfooters do challenge one another, but they lack an institution accepted by all participants as a legitimate referee.
Established scientific fields normally draw boundaries that separate qualified researchers, acceptable methods, and valid questions from whatever is judged “unscientific.” The sociologist Thomas Gieryn described this maintenance of scientific authority as “boundary work.” Bigfooting is organised far more loosely, and many of its practitioners instinctively oppose such boundaries. In their view, it is precisely the exclusionary machinery of science that caused Bigfoot to be dismissed as an illegitimate subject before the evidence was ever seriously considered.
Seen from their position, the complaint is not wholly illogical. If a field claims to value observation and evidence but refuses to inspect material because the subject has a disreputable name, investigators will naturally conclude that the institution has betrayed its own empiricism. From the mainstream scientific perspective, however, scepticism is not merely arrogance. An extraordinary claim requires reliable samples, transparent methods, and reproducible findings, and the prolonged absence of decisive material is exactly the difficulty.
Bigfoot also differs in a notable way from many other marginal research subjects. Its existence would not require the invention of a new force of nature, as some parapsychological claims might demand. It would not require a new category of entity, as belief in ghosts might. Nor would it immediately transform humanity’s understanding of its place in the universe, as the discovery of an extraterrestrial civilisation could. If an unknown large primate really inhabited North America, parts of biology and anthropology would certainly have to be revised, but science as a whole would remain intact.
For that very reason, the endpoint of Bigfoot research contains a distinctive irony. As long as Bigfoot remains unconfirmed, amateur investigators can continue to own the question and build a world of knowledge around it in forests, conferences, and online communities. If someone one day returns with a reliable specimen, independent testing confirms it, and a new species is established, universities, museums, government agencies, and professional laboratories will rapidly take charge.
As Joshua Blu Buhs observed in Bigfoot: The Life and Times of a Legend (2009), even the capture of America’s great ape would leave science recognisably scientific. Anthropological theory might acquire a new complication, but it would not be overturned. What would change most dramatically is the position of the Bigfooters themselves. Professional scientists would enter the field, while the amateurs who had occupied its margins for decades might find themselves pushed aside.
In other words, the success Bigfooters desire most could also bring Bigfooting, as an independent activity, to an end. Before proof exists, they are excluded because they lack it. Once proof appears, they may lose their central role because official science has taken possession of the question. This is perhaps the most revealing feature of Sasquatch science. It is not only an attempt to find an unknown animal. It is also a long-running dispute over who is entitled to produce knowledge, what qualifies as credible evidence, and where the boundaries of science ought to be drawn.
