Well, partner, gather 'round and let me tell you the tale of a man named Dusty. Now, Dusty wasn’t his real name, of course. It was just what folks called him because he was always covered in it—dust, grime, you name it. He was a miner, the kind of rough and tumble fella that made his living off the gold rush that lured folks to the untamed lands of the Pacific Northwest. He rolled into Tacoma in 1885, looking to strike it rich, like the rest of 'em, but what he found, well, it weren’t just gold.
You see, one evening as Dusty was making his way down the trail near the Puyallup River, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat. A shadow—large, towering, covered in hair like a bear but taller, much taller—crossed in front of him. The thing was gone before Dusty could get a good look, but he’d seen enough. A Bigfoot, or so he figured. Not that he had any proof, just that feeling in the air, like the world itself had shifted a little.
Now, folks thought Dusty was a bit off his rocker when he mentioned the sighting, but they sure didn't question the strange lights that started to flicker over the mountains at night. Some nights, a glowing disc hovered above the trees, disappearing in the blink of an eye, leaving a trail of unsettled air and an even more unsettled Dusty.
When he wasn't mining, Dusty began setting up a little shack on the outskirts of town—a lean-to, really. It didn’t look like much, but what he was cooking up inside caught the attention of the miners. See, he’d heard tell of this newfangled thing down south, a hamburger. Folks were calling it the "American sandwich," but Dusty knew it wasn’t just any ol' sandwich. He’d learned to cook it with care—seasoned ground beef, fresh bread, a little slice of pickle, a bit of onion, all cooked up just right, served hot off the grill. Made the miners forget about their aches and pains, the rough life of the prospecting trade, and maybe even the strange happenings in the night.
Before long, Dusty’s beanery became a stop for those who needed a warm meal and a place to sit down, far from the prying eyes of Tacoma’s city folk. He didn’t advertise much, but the word spread like wildfire through the mines. And who could blame ‘em? Those burgers were better than gold itself—might’ve been the best thing Dusty ever struck, and that’s saying something.
Now, Dusty never said much about the strange sights he saw, but his eyes? They told a story. Every now and then, late at night, when the wind was right, he’d look up to the sky. No words came from him, just a long, deep breath as if he were waiting for something...or someone. Maybe he figured there was something bigger going on in those wild woods than gold. Something secret. Something that might explain the lights and shadows. But whether it was a Bigfoot, a UFO, or the spirits of the land itself, Dusty didn’t care too much. He was content with his little shack and his burgers, serving up some comfort in the wild frontier.