Gimlin's a small, wiry old cowboy with an elfin grin tucked under a sparse handlebar mustache. He rolls into Shari's Cafe and Pies, his favorite local spot, in a cream-colored cowboy hat, mahogany leather boots and an Ellensburg blue agate stone on his left-hand ring finger. He orders peach ice tea and when I ask him how he is, he points to his left shoulder. He got bucked off a mule a few weeks back, and now his left arm is about as strong and useful as silly putty.
The course of Gimlin's life changed dramatically on Oct. 20, 1967: He and his old friend Roger Patterson spotted Patty (named after Roger's wife) lumbering along Bluff Creek in Northern California.
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