🦌 are u afraid of the button man?

bigfoot could never

Good evening everybody,

How’s tricks? 

I hope, for your sake, that you are in the warm confines of your house, blinds drawn, preferably next to a small lap dog and/or significant other. Because tonight’s newsletter will be highly spooky indeed.

We are tackling none other than the myth and legend of The Button Man. 

Now, if the name alone has sent chills down your spine, you are not alone.

I first heard of the said gentleman about eight years ago, when my Dad’s best friend Paul uttered his name at a family gatho. “Have you heard of The Button Man?” he asked, with a mischievous smile upon his dial. “No!” I said, midway through pouring myself a tall glass of eggnog (absolutely smashed the fuck out of eggnog in the Christmas period of 2016).

He went on to tell me the story of a man who resided in the bush of Victoria’s High Country and behaved in mysterious ways. 

I didn’t know what the High Country was, but I have always had an aversion to the bush – both pubic and geographical. Plus, I don’t like the country ever since my cousin’s ex-husband’s cousins made me eat celery off the ground at their farm because they said it was “farm fresh”. Absolute little cretins.

I should say I often referred to them as ‘country bumpkins’ to their faces so some would say I had it coming.

I’m putting all personal grievances aside tonight to tell the folklore tale that has enraptured Victorians for countless years now. Heck, even the New York Times has written about it.

And it, folks, is the story of The Button Man.

Unlike Bigfoot, The Button Man is a real man. And also, unlike Bigfoot, the scent of his netherregions was not the subject of the classic 2004 film, Anchorman. (“Smells like bigfoot’s dick!” has calcified in my brain in a way that makes me feel like I have ten brain cells, max.)

insert bigfoot sashaying, a little fruity with it.

So, for all our sakes, let me begin by explaining what Victoria’s “High Country” is.

The High Country is a region of the State that is approximately a three-hour drive north-east of Melbourne. Think Mount Buller and The Great Alpine Road type of thing. It’s replete with mountainous expanses that are as remote as they are beautiful (I haven’t been but that’s what Visit Victoria says, and if that’s my daily hit of propaganda done for, so be it).

Beloved by cashed-up bogan skiers and penny-pinching campers alike, many flock to the High Country to enjoy its bountiful surroundings.

The Man from Snowy River (poem) was about the High Country, cos heaps of cattlemen built rustic huts there for shelter when driving their cattle up to the plains in summer.

u just know the damper here would’ve been absolutely fantastic.

Heaps of people go bushwalking in the High Country, and many report peculiar run-ins with a lone bushman, in seemingly remote areas, far from civilisation.

They call him… The Button Man.

Reported sightings vary, but I’ve mostly read that he is around 70 years old, very fit, and sporting a short grey ‘do. He wears dark long jackets. He is an expert bushman and hunter, and the ‘button’ moniker is inspired by the fact that he “puts little bone buttons in his ears and all that sort of stuff, and he collects deer antlers and he carves them into interesting shapes”. Okkkkkkk creativity 💅

He is a local legend, known for his mysterious and sometimes intimidating presence in the area.

There are accounts of him silently tailing campers, and his presence is often only detected when he chooses to reveal himself. He sets up camp on the side of a mountain called ‘The Crossing’ that lets him see anyone approaching. He is also known to build pyramids out of rocks on the roadside, piling pebbles to signify when a car has driven past.

not this motherfuka again

The Age reports that he does interact with campers. “He will grill them on why they are there but rarely responds to questions about himself. They say he moves through the toughest terrain with the competence and stamina of someone half his age.”

He has a “thousand-meter stare that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up” according to one witness. Which, like, is kinda up to your interpretation. Maybe he needs glasses? Maybe the witness can’t read social cues? Justice for Button Man!

Either way, he is said to spend months at a time alone in the bush. But is he really alone?

Yes.

Are you? No.

One of the most harrowing stories of a run-in with The Button Man (who will henceforth be referred to as TBM) came courtesy of a wildlife photographer. He spent the day in the High Country taking photos of the native animals before retiring to his tent.

All was well. He slept, and then he returned home to the city the next day.

However, upon sitting down at his computer (likely a Dell) to download the pictures from his camera, he found an unexplained photo.

It was one of himself, sound asleep.

(dramatisation)

The photographer had set up camp in a region known to be presided over by TBM, who is allegedly territorial… perhaps Buttons was just in the mood to express himself through portraiture? We do know he is a creative and resourceful individual.

In other instances, skilled bushwalkers have returned to their camps to discover hidden stashes of firewood ransacked. They say someone must have been watching to know the location.

The other story of TBM mischief that gets me goolies is of the experienced hunter who set up camp in a remote spot, only to wake up at 11 pm to find TBM camped right beside him. Toasted marshmallow, anyone?

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Public interest in TBM reached a fever pitch in 2020 (perhaps we were bored) after a string of disappearances rocked the region. Four people went missing in 9 months, all within a 60 km radius. All of them were experienced bushwalkers, and some vanished in circumstances that suggested villainous interference from a third party.

One such couple was Russell Hill and Carol Clay, two retirees who disappeared in March 2020. Police found their campsite burnt out. As a result, the authorities were certain a third party was involved. But whom?

Whispers surrounded The Button Man. Was he there? Could he be responsible?

He was not. Instead, he proactively came to the police, to assist them in their hunt. He was an ally, proffering his expertise in the pursuit of justice. It was served when a 55-year-old man was arrested and charged for the murders.

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What do we make of TBM?

My theory is that he is a joker of the highest honour, a graduate of Clown College who passed with a Masters in Trickery and Mischief.

Riddle me this, dear reader… If you were as bush-smart as Buttons, and spent so much time alone, as if you wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to spook people? I would. Christ, in the two hours it’s taken me to sit alone and write this, I have multiple times held back the urge to do something silly (kick a croc off my foot to try make it flip).

I am proud to be sharing a country with TBM. Mastery of the land is incredible, something I will likely never understand as I play my days out sitting my idle ass on an office chair listening to Charlie Puth ft. Selena Gomez - We Don’t Talk Anymore.

button would have a field day terrorising this guy

The only animals I interact with on a daily basis are the cockroaches in my bathroom who, like Buttons, make themselves known in the wee hours when I am least expecting them.

I believe it is our savage pack mentality that has saddled Button Man with a nefarious reputation. I’ve not met the bloke, but when I get tipsy and my senses align, I tap into my divine intuition. And it tells me that TBM is not to be feared. Instead, we can learn from him – the beauty of solo adventure, of boundaries, of nature. He’s seventy… you have to hand it to the man, he has clearly realised that goofing around is the meaning of life.

If we were to contact The Button Man right now, I’d hazard a guess he would respond as Gypsy Rose Blanchard did when asked if she had a message to share with an often unforgiving world.

“Y’all can’t bring me down, I’m on a high right now, living my best life, and y’all can’t take that from meeee.”

We salute you, Buttons!!!!!

Froomy.