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  Beast of Misty Mountain – a bigfoot tale   The fog hung low over the mountains, dense and impenetrable, as if the world beyond the treeline simply ceased to exist.   Among the towering pines and the whispering firs, something ancient stirred—a legend born of the forest’s breath, of the earth’s pulse.   Up there, where the air thinned and the ground fell away into valleys of shadow, stories walked among the trees, wearing the skin of a creature known by many names: Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti.     It was late in the evening when Caleb Reeves heard the tale for the first time.   The fire crackled, casting shadows that danced like specters against the rough-hewn walls of the cabin.   Old Isaac, the trapper, was nursing a tin cup of something strong enough to chase the cold from his bones.   His voice was gravelly, worn down by years of breathing in the wilderness, but when he spoke of Sasquatch, it softened, as if he were speaking of an old friend.   “Bigf