Welcome. The stories I'm about to tell
you are of real Bigfoot encounters and sightings.
They are true and happened to people like me and you.
They come from my collection of stories I call The Bigfoot
Project. In late October of 2017, I was
elk hunting in a remote part of Umpqua National Forest.
I had parked my truck at the end of an old logging Rd. and hiked
in before daylight. By noon I had seen no sign of
elk, so I circled back toward a small Creek I knew from past
trips. The air was cool and still.
I sat on a fallen log near the water, eating a sandwich and
listening for movement. While sitting there I heard
splashes upstream but thought it was a deer crossing the shallow
water. I stayed quiet and watched the
bend where the Creek curved around to stand a thick spruce.
At first I saw a dark shape crouched near the bank.
It looked like a stump, but shifted slightly from side to
side. I squinted, trying to make sense
of it. Then it rose up out of its
Crouch and stood tall beside the Creek.
It had long, dark reddish brown hair hanging from its shoulders
down to its hips. The hair looked thick and heavy,
not matted but tangled with small twigs.
Its arms hung low to its knees and its chest was broad.
I could see wide shoulders tapering to strong looking legs.
It stepped into the Creek without splashing much, wading
through to the opposite bank. It bent again, pick something
from the rocks, maybe turning stones to find food.
Then it stood again and sniffed the air, facing away from me.
The shape of his head and the thick neck showed me this was
not a man. I sat still.
Try not to break any twigs under my boot.
The creature stepped up the bank, moving slow but covered
ground fast with each step. It reached a cluster of Alder
trees, paused, and turned its head slightly as if listening.
Then it moved through the brush, pushing branches aside and
vanishing into the trees. I waited for a few minutes,
hoping it might circle back to the Creek.
It never did. I crossed to where it had been
and saw large footprints in the soft mud along the edge of the
water. Each print was deep and showed
clear toe marks. I pressed my boot next to 1 and
it was nearly twice as long. I didn't follow the tracks far
because the Bush was thick and the slope climbed steeply.
I knew then that what I saw was not a normal animal, it was a
Sasquatch moving through the forest, just like people have
talked about for years. Since that day, I hunt the same
area and I still listen for the same quiet splashes in the Creek
every fall. In late October of 2014, I was
hunting black tailed deer near Deadwood, OR the land.
There is hilly, covered in thick timber, ferns and old logging
roads that twist up into clear cuts.
That morning had been dry but overcast.
I've been sitting in my climbing stand for a few hours.
The woods were quiet except for crows and the sound of wind
through the trees. After sitting still so long, I
picked up the faint smell of something foul.
It reminded me of wet dog mixed with skunk, and it seemed to
drift in and out with the breeze.
At first I thought maybe a bobcat had sprayed nearby or
maybe a skunk had wandered past in the night.
The smell got stronger until my nose burned a little.
I tried to ignore it, but it didn't fade like normal animal
scent does. I decided to get down and hike
up the Ridge to see if I could spot whatever was up there.
I unloaded my gun, lowered my pack by the rope, climbed down
slow, and then hiked up along an old elk trail.
The slope was soft from needles and Moss, and my boots sank in
spots. I moved, careful to keep quiet.
About halfway up, I heard a thud in the brush to my right.
I paused, thinking. A branch fell, but before I
could move again, something heavier crashed to my left.
This time it sounded like a big rock smashing down through ferns
and sticks. My heart picked up because no
one was supposed to be near me and I doubted any deer or elk
could roll rocks like that. I crouched behind a stump and
looked up through my scope toward the upper brush line.
I saw nothing at first. The woods up there were dark and
tangled. I scanned for antlers or ears.
A few seconds later, a stone landed so close that dirt hit my
pant leg. It was bigger than the first and
chipped when it bounced. I checked all around me to see
if anyone could be hiding. Nothing.
I looked back through my scope and caught movement uphill
between two big furs. I saw a part of a big body.
It stood behind ferns and limbs, but its chest and head were
clear enough. The creature stood on 2 legs, it
didn't Crouch or drop to all fours.
Its hair looked dark brown, almost black.
The coat looked rough and dirty and I could see wide shoulders
and arms, then hung lower than a man's would.
Its head looked large but long from forehead to chin.
There was no neck, or maybe the neck was lost in all the hair.
The eyes caught some light but seemed too small for that size
of head. I watched its chest move slow,
like it was breathing steady. I didn't hear it make any sound,
no growl or bark, just the forest noise around us.
I knew then I was staring at a Sasquatch.
It didn't remind me of any bear or ape I had seen in books or
zoos. It didn't sway or stomp, but
stood looking my way. I didn't want to point my rifle
straight at it, so I tilted the barrel down and peeked over the
scope. The creature shifted its weight
once. It lifted one arm and pushed a
sapling aside. It paused again, then stepped
behind more brush. Each step sounded soft for
something that big. I stayed frozen because my legs
wouldn't work. I counted my breath and forced
myself to back down slow. I went a few yards at a time,
checking uphill every step. I never turned my back to the
Ridge until the trail bent and trees blocked my sight.
At the bottom. I checked my stand from a
distance to see if anything had messed with it.
It looked fine but I didn't feel like climbing back up.
I walked the old skid trail down to where 2 hunting partners were
posted. One sat on a stump by a small
clearing and the other was tucked in some young furs.
They were calm and said they had seen nothing but a few doughs.
I never told them what I saw that day in detail, I just said
I had found sign of something big and they nodded.
For days I went over the steps. In my mind I thought about the
size, the hair, the long arms. I thought about how it tossed
rocks with force, enough to warn me off, but never aimed straight
to hit me. It watched me, but it didn't
chase me. It moved back up the hill once I
left, staying hidden in the thicker trees.
A few weeks later I went back to that Ridge during daylight.
I brought my cousin who likes to track deer sign.
We found turned up soil where something heavy had stepped.
There were faint prints, 1 looked wider than my boot and
longer too. In the years since, I've haunted
other spots near Deadwood, but I don't sit on that Ridge anymore.
When I hear noises in the brush that don't match deer or bear, I
move back to the truck. In early August of 2017, I was
near the shore of Lake Billy Chinook in Central Oregon.
I'd brought my rifle to check my scope and get out of the house
for a bit. My mother came along to enjoy
the evening air and sit by the water while I practiced.
The lake sits in a big Canyon and there are thick clumps of
brush and pine trees all around the edges.
I set up in a small open spot close to a dirt track that drops
down to the lake. There's a deep ditch that cuts
through this area and runs down to the water.
About a week before this day, I had come here alone but left
early because I felt very uneasy.
I couldn't explain it then, but looking back it made sense after
what happened this time. That evening, I shot a few
rounds into a mud bank to line up my scope.
The shots echoed across the water and faded into the hills.
My mother strolled down to the shoreline while I finished
adjusting the scope. Once I was satisfied, I slung
the rifle over my shoulder and joined her by the lake.
We sat for a few minutes, then I decided to walk up the hill
behind the ditch to see if there are any fresh deer sign.
I often checked this spot before hunting season.
My mother followed behind me. I crouched near some soft dirt
looking for hoof prints. As I brushed away pine needles,
I caught a sound that made me pause.
It was a high whistle, not like any bird I knew.
It came in short bursts and seemed to echo off the trees.
It sounded odd and didn't follow a pattern I recognized.
While I was listening, my mother tapped my shoulder and pointed
downhill toward the dirt track. She said someone was standing by
the car. I couldn't see the car because
of some trees, so I moved to where she had been standing.
I could see the top of the car fine, but I didn't see anyone
near it. I asked if she still saw
anything, but she said it was gone.
The last light was dipping behind the Canyon walls, so we
turned to head back to the car. We went down around the ditch
and came up the dirt track to the clearing where we had
parked. The brush on both sides was
thick and dry. We couldn't see more than a few
feet into it. About 20 yards from the car, we
both stopped at the same time. A horrible smell filled the air
so fast it felt like walking into a wall.
It smelled like a broken toilet or an old outhouse in the heat.
My eyes watered and my stomach turned.
Right then I took what my mother said about seeing something by
the car more seriously. My skin crawled and I knew
something big was close. I still had my rifle, so I
lifted it above the brush and fired two shots straight up.
The gunfire echoed across the lake and bounced back off the
rock walls. As soon as the echo died, we
heard heavy steps moving fast through the brush.
It sounded like a big animal running on 2 feet, snapping
sticks and shaking branches. The steps moved toward the ditch
and ended with a loud thump, like something jumped down the
steep side and hit the dirt below.
My mother ran to the car while I stayed just behind, her rifle
pointed low but ready. As she fumble with the door, I
heard something else from the edge of the ditch.
It was a rough sound, half like deep breathing mixed with a low,
harsh voice. It rose and fell slowly, but I
couldn't make out any words. I stood frozen, staring at the
dark brush. The sound came again.
I couldn't see what made it, but I knew it was close.
Once my mother slammed her door shut, I backed toward the
driver's side, eyes on the ditch.
I jumped in, started the car, and pulled away without looking
back. At home later that night, my
mother explained exactly what she saw.
While I was listening to the whistles, she said she saw a big
upright shape by the car. The last light of the sun was
behind it, making it look like a dark block with a fuzzy edge.
She couldn't see the face, but she could tell it was thick
across the shoulders. She noticed long hair that
looked reddish brown where the light caught it.
She used my height and the top of the car to figure out how big
it must have been. I stand just under 6 feet and
the roof of the car reaches my chin.
She said the creature's head was about a foot and a half higher
than the roof, which makes it close to 7 feet.
We talked over everything and agreed that nothing else fit but
a Sasquatch. I've read about them since then
and a lot of strange things I saw here before make more sense
now. One time, not far from this
spot, I found 2 pine trees twisted off about 6 feet up.
There were no signs of logging equipment or storms that day.
Another time while deer hunting at dawn, I heard heavy things
being thrown down through the treetops, hitting branches and
landing with thuds. I've driven back to the lake at
night to fish or camp and smelled that same rotten stink
more than once. It comes and goes fast, like
something big is moving nearby and staying just out of sight.
Since that evening, I always keep my rifle with an arm's
reach when I camp near there. I don't shoot for fun there
anymore. I pick open spots where I can
see all sides. If the wind shifts and I catch a
foul odor that doesn't belong, I pack and leave before dark.
In late May of 2015, I was staying with my grandparents
just outside Cave Junction. Their house sits near the end of
an old dirt Rd. that runs through pine and alderwoods.
There are a few open fields, but most of the land is thick brush
and logging scraps left behind. Years ago, one evening around
8:00, I decided to take our German Shepherd, Daisy, for a
walk. It was still light enough to see
the tree line clearly and hear birds settling down for the
night. Daisy loves these walks and
usually trots ahead sniffing everything.
About 1/2 mile from the house she started acting strange.
She stopped dead in the road, turned sideways and let out a
deep bark toward the trees on our right.
At first I thought maybe she caught a whiff of a raccoon or a
deer bedded down in the ferns, but then she backed up and
pressed herself against my legs, growling from her chest.
Every time I tried to step around her, she blocked me.
Her hackles stood straight up along her back.
I've never seen her act this way, not even with bears or
stray dogs. I patted her head and tried to
calm her down. Her tail was tucked low and she
kept snorting like she smelled something foul.
I crouched down, held her collar, and listened hard.
I heard slow grunts and the sound of brush moving just off
the road, deep in the trees. It didn't sound like a deer, and
it was too heavy to be a raccoon.
It sounded like something big, shifting its weight behind an
old downed tree trunk. I took a couple of steps off the
road, still holding Daisy by the collar.
I looked through a gap between the branches and saw it rise up
from behind the log. It stood on 2 legs.
It was as tall as the low branch of an old pine.
Next to it, I guessed around 7 feet or so.
Its body looked solid and thick, with reddish brown hair covering
its shoulders, arms, chest and legs.
The hair almost shone where the light touched it.
Its face shocked me most. It reminded me of a monkey I
once saw at the Portland Zoo. Not exactly the same, but close
enough that I knew this was no bear.
Standing up to sniff the air, the eyes caught mine for just a
second. Its head turned quick and I saw
the muscles in its shoulder roll under the hair.
Daisy lunged forward so hard she pulled me down to one knee.
I let her go by instinct as she tore off after the creature,
barking with her deepest growl. The creature spun and moved fast
through the trees. I heard branches snapping and
dry leaves crunching as it ran away, but I barely saw its shape
blur between tree trunks. I didn't stick around to watch.
I turned and sprinted back up the dirt Rd. toward my
grandparents house, yelling for Daisy, though she was long gone
into the brush. I reached the yard, out of
breath. My grandparents came out to see
what the racket was about, but I didn't say much at first.
I paced the yard listening for Daisy.
About half hour later, maybe closer to 40 minutes, she came
running out of the woods by the shed, her tongue hanging out and
she dropped to the grass to catch her breath.
She was dirty and smelled, but she had no cuts or scratches.
She slept near the back porch all night, ears twitching at
every little noise. I laid awake that night
listening through my window. I've heard that same deep womp
sound I have heard since I was little.
I'd never thought about it much until that night.
I've always heard howls and yips from coyotes.
They get loud and frantic sometimes, but when the womp
sound starts, the coyotes go dead quiet.
No yipping, no barking, nothing but that low womp echoing
through the trees like something big hitting its chest.
Sometimes the womp rolls into a howl that sounds too hollow to
be a wolf or a dog. My grandparents have heard it,
too. They say it's always been that
way out there, as far back as they can remember.
The smell that night still sticks in my memory.
When Daisy first barked at the trees, the air hit my nose like
a rotting carcass on the side of the highway.
It made me gag a little, and I tasted it at the back of my
throat. When the creature ran off, the
smell drifted away fast. Since then I have not walked
that stretch of Rd. alone at dusk.
If I do walk it, I keep Daisy leashed and carry a bright
flashlight. Sometimes I stop and listen near
that old fallen tree. Twice since then I have smelled
that same stink hanging in the air, just for a moment, then
gone like a switch turned off. When I talk about it with my
grandparents, they nod, but they don't say too much.
They've lived there their whole lives and know those woods
better than anyone. I think they believe what I saw
was a Sasquatch. I do too.
On June 25th, 2024, my wife, our two kids and I were staying in
our camper near the edge of the Okocho National Forest in
Central Oregon. We had parked at a quiet
campsite surrounded by tall pine and juniper trees, not far from
a small Creek that runs through the woods.
It was late in the evening, the sun had dipped behind the Ridge,
but there was still enough light to see the tree line clearly.
We had a small campfire going near the picnic table.
My wife and I sat by the fire while our kids splashed around
in a little pool we had set up next to the camper steps.
Our dog was on her leash, tied to the picnic table.
She stayed calm, just sniffing the air and watching the kids.
The night was still and warm and everything felt normal.
Then, out of nowhere, a loud crack split the quiet.
It came from the woods behind our camper, maybe 50 yards away.
It didn't sound like a branch falling or a log.
It sounded like something snapped a small tree or struck a
thick piece of wood against another.
It was sharp and heavy enough that all of us froze and turned
our heads at once. Our dog stood up stiff, her
first standing up down her back. She growled deep in her throat
and faced the trees. Her nose worked the air and she
strained at her leash like she wanted to run straight into the
brush. We all stayed still, eyes fixed
on the spot the sound came from. No other noise followed it.
No movement or talking, just the normal insects buzzing in the
grass. After about 15 minutes of
sitting tents, the kids went back to playing and my wife and
I went back to poking the fire. We talked about how it maybe it
was just. We talked about how maybe it was
just a tree cracking. We all calmed down and laughed
it off. The next day I had to drive down
to Bend for a medical appointment at the VA clinic.
When we returned to camp later that day, right away I noticed
something off our big plastic dog food container, which we
kept inside A storage bin under the camper was out in the open
next to the fire pit. The lid was wide open and the
food was scattered around like it had been scooped out.
The latch on the container needed thumbs to open.
I walked around to check the rest of our gear.
Nothing else looked touched at first.
My fishing poles were leaning against a tree, just like I left
them. The tackle box sat next to the
camper. Steps still closed, we unlocked
the door and stepped inside. The place was a mess.
The small shelves above the couch had come loose and fallen
onto the cushions. Those shelves were stuck on with
strong adhesive brackets that held firm on bumpy roads before
a few other items had slid off the counters and spilled across
the floor. We went back outside to check
the roof. I climbed up the ladder and felt
my stomach drop. One of our solar panels was
hanging by a thin strip of metal tilted down over the edge of the
roof. The bolts were still partly
attached, but the welded brackets they screwed into were
cracked and bent. It looked like someone grabbed
the panel and yanked until the welds broke.
If someone wanted to steal it, they could have just unbolted it
with a wrench. They just ripped it loose and
left it hanging there. I had checked the ground for
tracks, but the dirt was packed hard.
No prints, no clear drag marks from the dog food bin.
I walked the tree line where we heard the knock two nights
before but found nothing except a broken pine cones and dry
needles. At first I thought maybe a
person messed with us, but if a thief wanted something, they
could have grabbed my rods and tackle and sold them.
They could have stolen the whole solar panel.
There was nothing missing. It was like something came to
the camper, opened the food bin, tore the panel half off, and
slammed the walls enough to knock the shelves loose, but
didn't want anything except to mess with the place.
That night, after we fixed the shelves and fixed the bolts on
the solar panel as best we could, a storm rolled in over
the forest. The wind bent the tops of the
Pines until they groaned and creaked.
Rain pounded the roof of the camper.
Thunder cracked again and again over the hills.
We tucked the kids into bed and my wife and I lay in bed talking
and whispers. Our dog laid at our feet, ears
flat, staring at the door. Around midnight, the wind seemed
to ease. For a few minutes.
The pounding rain turned into a steady tap on the roof.
That's when I heard the first thump against the side of the
camper. It wasn't a branch swaying in
the wind. It was a strong, slow push that
made the whole camper shift a few inches on its blocks.
My wife's eyes went wide. I held my breath, listening.
Another shove hit the back near the kids bed.
The walls creaked and the windows rattled.
Our dog sprang up her first, standing straight along her
back. She barked once, then crouched
low and growled toward the door. Outside the wall, I could hear
heavy breathing and a grunt so deep I felt it in my chest.
It moved along the side of the camper, bumping and pressing as
it went. The kids woke up and started
crying when another hard push made the roof vent squeak
against its hinges. Then I heard a low growl that
rose and fell, mixed with what sounded like a rough snort.
It circled the camper, thumping and scraping the siding with
something heavy. Once it slammed hard enough to
knock over a cup on the counter, I crawled across the floor to
the small window by the dinette. Lightning flash just then bright
enough to see outside for a split second.
In that flash I saw it. A dark shape, standing on 2
legs, one arm braced against the camper wall, its head turned
toward the window. Its eyes cut the light.
For a heartbeat. I could see hair dripping with
rain, dark and tangled across wide shoulders.
The next flash showed it moving to the window by the kids bed.
I heard my wife pull them and whisper to them to be quiet.
Our dog barked again, then whined and backed under the
table. The camper rocked side to side
twice more, slower this time. A deep grunt came again, right
outside the window where I knelt.
I could see the outline of its arm pressed against the glass.
It stood there, breathing heavy, fogging the window.
It stood there for what felt like forever, but was probably
less than a minute. Then a long roll of Thunder
cracked and the creature stepped back into the dark.
I heard two heavy steps, and then the brush behind the camper
rustled loud as branches snapped.
We sat frozen until the storm drowned out everything again.
None of us slept much that night.
Every gust of wind or a creak in the walls made our dog growl low
in her chest. By dawn, the storm had passed.
The ground was soaked and soft, but all around the camper were
patches of pressed grass and broken brush.
I didn't find clear footprints, just big spots where the soil
was churned and packed down deep.
We packed our gear, loaded the kids into their seats, and
hooked up the camper. My wife and I checked the camper
three times to make sure nothing else was damaged.
The dog stayed close to the truck while we worked.
She constantly checked the tree line and let out short growls
once in a while. We drove out of that camp before
noon. We did not look back at the
woods when we pulled onto the main road.
We went home and never camped again.
In late November 1996, my friend and I went camping and deer
hunting on private land outside Lapine.
This area is mostly pine forest. It stretches for miles with no
houses, cabins, or other people. To reach our camp we drove up an
old logging cut that climbed a small mountain.
It was really just a rough bulldozer path that loggers made
years ago. It was never maintained, full of
washouts and rocks. A four wheel drive truck could
barely make it. The path climbed about 3 miles
up to a flat spot we called the Bowl.
It looked like a dish carved into the slope.
No trees, just around clearing about 30 feet across.
We set up our tents there and used it as our base for the next
few days. On the 3rd morning we got up
before dawn. We decided where we would hunt
and plan to meet back at camp at noon.
We walked together for 1/2 mile then split.
My friend kept going West along the mountaintop.
I turned South and went down the slope.
I stopped a few yards in and waited for first light.
The ground was rocky and steep so I didn't want to move until I
could see well. Once the sun was up I started to
work my way along a narrow Ridge that ran out from the mountain
like a finger. Another similar Ridge ran almost
parallel to it with a low tree filled valley in between.
I moved slow, stopping often to look and listen.
The Ridge top was mostly open pine with some old oaks mixed
in. The tree trunks were wide apart
so if a deer cross the valley I would see it.
I also like checking the exposed rock faces for different layers.
I had taken geology classes and always paid attention to what
was under my boots. I crept along until I reached a
clear spot big enough to sit and rest.
There was an old stump there that was the perfect height to
sit without bending my knees too much.
I plan to rest, then walk to the end of the Ridge and check for
sign before heading back. While sitting, I stared at a
massive oak tree at the top of the Ridge.
It must have been ancient. As I looked I noticed movement
near the base of that tree. Something was coming up from
behind the Ridge tip. Walking upright, at first I
thought it was a person, but something seemed off.
It was on 2 legs, moving slow up the slope.
It didn't wear any bright orange, which hunters must wear
in this area during deer season. It had no rifle, no pack, no
hat. I wondered how anyone could have
gotten there. No Rd.
LED in that direction. Even an ATV could not cross that
mess of rock and brush. As it got closer to the top, I
saw its head shape. It looked pointed at the top.
Its shoulders were wide, much broader than any man I've ever
seen. It seemed to be covered in hair
that shone a little where the sunlight hit it.
It reached the oak and stopped next to it.
From where I sat, it was about 80 yards away.
Up close, it looked huge. I knew then I was not looking at
a man, but not a normal animal either.
It was a Sasquatch. It turned its head and looked
straight at me. Its whole body barely moved.
Then it stepped sideways behind the tree, keeping its eyes on me
the whole time. It used one step and A twist of
its hips to get behind the tree. I stayed frozen.
I didn't raise my rifle. I knew I couldn't run back up
the Ridge fast enough to camp, so I stayed still.
The creature peeked out from behind the tree, then docked
back. I shifted to a small tree near
my stump for some cover, but it didn't hide me too well.
We did this back and forth for a couple of minutes.
It peeked. I peeked once.
I thought I saw a dark patch on its chest, but later I realized
it was a knot in the tree, not on the creature.
The creature looked strong and thick from shoulder to hip.
Its legs were straight and thick.
Also, its hair was dark brown, maybe with a hint of reddish
colour when the sun hit it. I couldn't see its eyes clearly
at that distance. It made no sound.
Suddenly it turned its head away from me, toward the woods above.
It shifted its feet but stayed partly hidden behind the tree.
I heard what it heard, a loud snap of a branch uphill.
It moved off behind the tree faster than before, but not in a
panic. I stayed low and scanned the
trees for what made that snap. I looked hard, thinking it might
be another creature. I could see nothing.
I wanted to see where the creature went, so I went to the
oak. The ground there was hard and
dry. I found no tracks.
The slope it came up was steep and rocky with packed soil that
didn't hold Prince either. I paced out the distance back to
my stump, about 83 yards. I stood under the tree knot I
thought was on his chest and reached as high as I could.
My fingertips barely touched the bottom of that knot that told me
how tall the creature's chest must have been when it stood
there. After that, I walked back up to
camp, checking behind me more often than usual.
My friend was already at camp when I got there.
He had seen no deer and no sign of anything strange.
We packed up the next day and took the slow drive back down
the old dozer cut to the main road.
I watched the timberline as we turned out of the forest but saw
nothing. In August 2014, a local police
officer and a longtime friend went out to a family pond on
private land outside Sutherland. The pond sits back in a small
clearing surrounded by thick Douglas fir.
It was quiet out there. They planned to relax for a bit
and maybe fish if they felt like it.
When they got down to the water, they saw something strange along
the muddy bank. Scattered across a 20 foot
stretch were fish skeletons, not just picked over, but broken,
nearly clean in half. Each backbone was snapped in the
middle, but the head and tail were still attached to the
bones. The meat was completely gone,
stripped so clean that the ribs and spines looked white against
the damp ground. The officer and his buddy
checked the spot for signs someone had stopped or crushed
the fish, but there were no boot prints on them and no tracks in
the fresh mud besides their own. They talked about how odd it
was. Neither had seen fish left like
that before. A raccoon or Otter would usually
drag the whole fish off, or at least chew the bones apart.
These looked broken and stripped right there on the bank.
They sat by the pond for about 1/2 hour.
His buddy stepped into the trees behind them to relieve himself.
The officer stayed near the bank looking down at the fish
remains, trying to figure out what animal would eat this way.
Then he heard a soft movement behind him, back where the tree
line thickened. He turned and scanned the Pines.
At first he didn't see anything unusual.
Then he caught sight of dark reddish brown hair partly hidden
behind a big tree trunk about 20 yards away.
The creature leaned out to its left, then shifted to peek out
from the right side of the tree. It repeated this more than once,
slow and steady. Each time it moved, he could see
more of its side and shoulder. The tree was too narrow to hide
his whole body. After a few seconds of this side
to side peaking, it stepped back, then took one wide stride
to the right that moved it out into the open between the pond
and the woods. He could see the whole shape
then. It stood tall and heavy, built
with long arms. The hair looked thick and rough,
dark reddish brown in colour, like the mix of chestnut and
deep brown. Its head sat low on wide
shoulders. A low branch from the same tree
hung just over where it stood. Later, the officer measured that
branch at about 8 feet above the ground.
The creature's head nearly touched the branch when it
paused in the open. He didn't wait for it to move
again. He turned and ran straight
across the clearing toward his friend's grandma's house about
1/4 mile away, not stopping until he reached the back porch.
His friend, confused at first, caught up not long after, still
buckling his belt. Later, the officer returned
alone and checked the tree. He confirmed the low branch
height and looked for tracks, but the ground under the tree
was packed hard. No clear prints showed, just
flattened grass where the creature had stood.
He didn't speak about this for nearly ten years.
Being in a small town, he knew word would spread fast and
people would talk. His father kept telling him he
should write it down or tell someone official.
He finally agreed, wanting it off his chest.
He knew what he saw was a Sasquatch.
It was not a man hiding, not a trick of light.
It watched from behind the trees before showing itself completely
for just a few seconds and then left without a sound.
On January 28th, 2000, snow fell heavy across the hills near all
Sea Oregon. The area sits deep in the Coast
Range, mostly logging land and patches of old growth.
Very few people live back there. That afternoon I was at home by
the wood stove with my police scanner on the table next to me.
I had a relative call earlier that day with news that caught
me off guard. He said that a man who lives on
the edge of the timber tract claims three large hairy
creatures came onto his porch the night before.
He said they were man like in shape, big chested, long arms,
thick hair all over. They moved around the yard and
onto his steps. He got his SKS rifle, stepped
outside and shot 1. He was sure he hid it.
The creature dropped to the snow but didn't stay down long.
Two others came out of the trees, lifted the one that was
hit and carried it back into the timber without making a sound.
Word spread that someone called the federal agents about it.
Blood and hair samples were taken off the porch steps and
off the crusted snow near the edge of the clearing.
My relative said he didn't see this himself, but spoke with a
man who did. A few tree planting crews who
work for a contract company refused to go back up the Ridge
near that homestead. They packed their trucks and
left seedlings behind. Some said they wouldn't come
back until someone checked the area for more of the creatures.
While I sat by the scanner, I caught part of a short talk
between 2:00 local game wardens. One told the other to keep his
eyes open for Sasquatch in that same general area.
Neither laughed. Their tone was steady and calm,
but serious enough that I turned up the volume to be sure I heard
right. They gave no names or exact
spots, but I knew the stretch of timber they were talking about,
thick with second growth pine, steep switch back roads and
clearings that close in fast once dark comes.
I never saw that porch myself or the blood spots, but the talk on
the scanner lined up with what my relative said.
After the snow melted, logging crews went back into the lower
cuts but stayed out of the farthest blocks for a while.
That reminded me of my own experience on that same general
side of the state. It happened much earlier in July
1983 when I worked driving for a timber outfit near Deadwood.
Back then I ran a one ton flat bag truck hauling a 1200 gallon
water tank to fill tree sprayers and dust control rigs on dusty
summer roads. It was a simple job, but the
back roads cut through some of the roughest parts of the hills.
Some roads twist so tight you can't see around the bends until
you're nearly on them. One afternoon, near the end of a
long day, I topped a rise on a gravel track that dropped down
into a cedar pocket. I lifted my foot off the gas and
coasted a little. Halfway down the short hill, I
saw something move across the bend ahead.
It stepped from the right side of the road, took three big
strides, and was gone into the brush on the left.
I braked hard enough the tanker sloshed behind me when I passed
the same spot. There was no sound, no sign in
the brush, but I had gotten close enough to see details I
can't explain away. It was on 2 legs the whole time,
its arms swung as it ran. It was taller than the hood of
my truck, probably about 7 feet. It looked wide in the chest, but
the hips tapered. The hair on the upper half
looked dark brown with a slight reddish tone in the sun.
The lower body fur seemed lighter, more faded.
Its legs bent at the knee just like a man running, and never
turned its head to look at me, just kept his face forward and
crossed the road. After it vanished into the
huckleberry, I sat for a moment with my foot on the brake.
I rolled down the rest of the road, slow, watching both sides.
Nothing else moved in the trees. When I reached the landing where
the other trucks waited, I thought about telling the crew
what I saw. A few laughed when I hinted at
it, so I kept it short. I knew better than to talk about
big hairy creatures to people who would rather believe it was
just a trick of the light or my eyes playing games after a long
shift. Since then, every few years,
something small reminds me like fresh memories of contractors
refusing to plant in a certain block, or a logger saying he
heard heavy movement in the brush while setting chokers for
yarding. I don't know what the man really
shot at near Elsie. I don't know what carried it
away, but I know what crossed my path that summer day in 1983.
In July 2008, on a warm night near Skyo, Oregon, I stood with
my boyfriend by his pickup truck at my parents farm.
We had come back late after a dinner in town and parked on the
gravel drive beside the back pasture.
We leaned against the truck bed facing the open pasture behind
the house where I grew up. The pasture is about 5 acres,
surrounded by wire fencing and backed by a line of tall fir and
oak trees. Beyond that tree line, the land
slopes down toward an old Creek bed and more timber that runs
for miles. We stood talking quietly,
relaxed, barely moving. The sky was clear enough that
the moon lit up the pasture well.
Every fence post and clump of grass stood out in the soft
light. While we talked, both of us
noticed movement at the same time toward the far end of the
pasture. Something large and dark moved
fast across the open field. It came from near the lower
corner of the fence line and crossed at an angle, heading
southwest toward the trees. Under the moonlight, the shape
was clear enough to see it move upright on 2 legs.
From how it looked against the fence post and the tall grass,
it stood around 7 to 8 feet tall.
Its arms swung by its sides and its head was slightly forward as
it ran. Before reaching the trees, it
turned its head back in our direction.
Even at that distance, it was easy to see that it looked
straight at us for a second before facing forward again and
disappearing into the timber at the back of the pasture.
Both of us pushed away from the truck and asked each other if we
really saw what we thought we saw.
Neither of us waited for an answer.
We ran inside through the back porch and told my mother.
She grabbed the flashlight, stepped out and swept the beam
over the pasture and along the fence.
But the night was silent and the trees didn't show anything
moving. There were no strange sounds and
we didn't smell anything. The ground was dry and the grass
high enough that if there were any prints, we couldn't find
them. About three years later, a
neighbor who lives up the Ridge about 1/4 mile behind our place
was hunting deer with her husband.
She later told my mother she smelled something strong and
musky before she saw anything. Through the brush below her
stand, she saw a tall shape covered in dark brown hair
moving upright between the trees.
She said it didn't drop to all fours but kept walking steady
until it moved out of sight toward the Creek bottom.
Her husband smelled the same odor and heard snapping branches
but didn't get a clear look. They left their stands early
that day and didn't go back for a long while.
What we saw that night moved on 2 legs covered ground fast,
turned its head to check us out, and stepped into the trees
without slowing. We're fairly certain that what
we saw was a Bigfoot. On Halloween night in 2006, I
drove my younger brother to Foster Lake just east of Sweet
Home OR. He was a high school senior at
the time and he and some friends plan to meet there to hang out
by the water. It was a local spot where
teenagers like to swap ghost stories and try to spook each
other on Halloween. The main parking area sits right
by the lake and connects to a short Rd. that loops back toward
the main highway through town. I was mostly focused on talking
with my brother while we drove. He was excited to see his
friends and I wasn't paying much attention to what was happening
along the road or in the woods by the lake.
I dropped him off at the lot where his friends cars were
parked. I watched him walk up to the
group gathered near the shore. Then I turned back to head home.
I planned to get back before it was too late since I had to work
early the next morning. I pulled out of the lot and
drove back down the Park Rd. that crosses a small inlet where
a Creek feeds into the east side of Foster Lake.
There's a low bridge there. It was a clear night with
scattered clouds, and the moon lit the water enough that I
could see the surface shining in spots.
As my headlights swept over the bridge, I caught sight of
something at the edge of the Creek about 20 yards downstream.
I slowed to look closer, but didn't stop right away.
At first, I thought maybe a person was crouched at the
water's edge. I kept rolling, then found a
wide spot to turn around. I backed the car up, swung
around and drove back to the bridge.
I eased the car forward so the headlights were aiming down the
line of the Creek bank. It was still there.
Squatted low by the water. It balanced on the balls of its
feet. Its arms reached down and its
hands moved just under the surface of the water.
The light of my headlights caught the fur.
It looked dark and shiny where the beams hit it.
It was big. Even squatted down, it looked 4
1/2 or 5 feet tall at the shoulders.
Its back was wide. The fur looked thick and clumped
in spots where it might have been wet.
It didn't move its body. It just dipped its hands and
pulled out something in the shallows.
I sat there with my foot on the brake, trying not to blink.
It didn't look at my car or show any sign that I was bothering
it. After what felt like forever,
but was probably only a few seconds, it finished whatever it
was doing. It shifted its weight,
straightened its legs, and rose up in one smooth motion.
Standing at full height, it looked tall enough that its head
would have been well above the top of my SUV.
It turned its upper body slightly, stepped into the
shallow current and crossed to the other side.
The Creek at that spot runs about 15 feet across, maybe knee
deep in most places. It walked through it like the
water wasn't there. When it reached the far bank, it
climbed the muddy slope without using its hands.
It stepped into the brush under the trees and the branches
swayed for a few seconds before going still.
I didn't hear it make any sound, nothing but the water and the
trees moving. I sat there until my legs
started to ache from holding the brake down.
The headlights showed only the empty bank now nothing moved but
the faint ripple where it had crossed.
I finally drove forward off the bridge, heart thumping, and
headed down the road towards Sweet Home.
I kept my eyes on the shoulder of the road the whole way out to
the highway. What struck me most was how
close it was to people. There were St. lamps along the
park entrance road and houses not far behind the trees.
The town sits less than a mile away, yet there it was crouched
at the Creek, completely unbothered by my car.
Later that week I drove back to the same spot in daylight.
I parked at the side turn out and walked to the Creek edge.
The bank where it squatted was muddy with flat stones along the
edge. I didn't see clear footprints,
but there were wide spots in the mud where something heavy had
pressed down and left shallow dance.
I followed the tree line up the slope where it had stepped into
the woods. The branches were bent and
snapped in a spot where it had pushed through.
I didn't tell many people at first.
Foster Lake stays busy in summer, but quiet in fall and
winter. People camp, fish and picnic.
Nobody expects to see a creature that size within sight of the
road. A few years later, I heard from
a fisherman that something big crossed the bank at that same
creekmouth early one morning while he loaded his boat.
He never saw it straight on, but heard heavy steps and saw a big
dark shape push through the Bush.
Every time I drive that stretch I slowed down when crossing the
bridge. I still look down the bank to
the same bend where that creature was.
That Halloween night in the fall of 2014, I was driving South on
Hwy. 126 near Vita, heading toward Eugene.
The road there runs along the Mackenzie River.
It was a clear afternoon, the pavement dry, and hardly any
traffic on that stretch except for the occasional truck or car.
I came around a gentle bend where the road dips between two
ridges and crosses a small side Creek that drains down into the
Mackenzie. As my headlights swung through
the curve, I saw movement low on the right shoulder near the
ditch. Before I could react, a huge
upright shape stepped up out of the ditch. 1 stride put it fully
onto the road bed. A second and third stride
carried it across the two lanes and then disappeared down the
opposite bank toward the thicker brush and Creek bottom.
A car travelling northbound had come through the same bend and
almost the same moment. Both of us braked and rolled to
a crawl at the spot where it crossed.
I put my window down and motioned.
A middle-aged woman cracked her window and nodded when I asked
if she had seen what crossed. She confirmed she had and looked
just as surprised as I felt. What struck me most in those few
seconds was the size. It stood around 7 to 8 feet
tall, with a chest and shoulders wider than any person I've ever
seen. The legs were thick from hip to
knee, and each step stretched further than any man could
manage. It moved fast but steady.
The hair covering the body looked blackish brown.
It wasn't matted, but hung in thick patches that shifted as
the creature walked. The arm swung wide, reaching
well past where any man's hands would fall.
I couldn't see the face in detail, but noticed the skin
looked clearer of hair than the rest of the body.
A small Creek cuts under that part of the road through a short
culvert. I remember thinking afterward
that the creature could have stayed hidden under the bridge
or in the thick brush by the bank, but chose to cross in the
open instead. It didn't appear panicked, just
quick and direct. After it vanished into the far
ditch, the northbound car pulled off and the woman sat for a
moment before slowly pulling back onto the road.
I did the same. My heart was pounding so hard I
could feel it in my throat as I drove the last few miles into
town. I've spent my whole life
hunting, fishing and camping all across the western states.
I knew about Bigfoot from living in California, but I never truly
expected to see one, especially not so close to the highway with
cars travelling. Years passed, but I never forgot
how it moved. The stride was not like a man's.
Each step covered so much ground, and the sway of its
shoulders matched the reach of its arms.
The weight of its torso and legs showed with every shift.
A few years after that first highway sighting, I had another
encounter not far from the same area, this time near Finn Rock,
Oregon. It was late fall again, and I
was out with an old friend checking some firewood spots
along the edge of the Mackenzie River corridor.
We often cut standing dead trees for winter wood, and we like to
scout new spots before snow made the back roads too slick.
That day, the weather turned to light rain, just enough to
darken the dirt tracks and dampen the underbrush.
We were in my old pickup crawling along a narrow spur
that cuts through mixed fur in Alder stands.
The plan was to check an old log, landing up a slope where I
knew some snags stood dry enough for easy cutting.
As we rounded a wide bend, the road opened into a single
straight stretch, lined on both sides by second growth fir.
About 150 yards ahead, something stepped out from the east side
timber and crossed the track in Plainview.
This creature moved upright, covering ground in long, quick
strides. It carried what looked like a
deer carcass over its left shoulder.
The animal hung limp, head and legs bouncing slightly with each
step. This creature looked tall, 7 to
8 feet for sure, but leaner than the first one I saw.
Its torso and arms were long but narrower through the chest.
The hair looked dark brown, nearly black.
Its head stayed low, tilted slightly forward under the
weight on its shoulder. The deer carcass blocked most of
its face. From our angle, it never paused
or looked at the truck. It crossed the road in a couple
of strides and stepped into the trees on the West side, heading
downhill toward a brushy Creek bottom.
Both of us sat frozen for a moment.
I used the truck forward to the crossing point and let the
engine idle. The woods had gone quiet.
Nothing moved in the brush line where it vanished.
The next morning. With the weather clearing, I
drove back alone. I parked where it crossed and
walked down the bank toward the Creek.
The mud along the edge held a few partial impressions, broad,
flat shapes too long for any man's boot.
Some were clean enough to show a wide heel and the slope of a big
toe, but most were broken by roots and gravel.
I followed these prints for maybe 10 or 15 yards before they
disappeared into thick underbrush and ferns.
There was no drag marks or blood spots I could see.
It carried its catch clean over the shoulder, leaving no trail
except for the deep prints in the softer bank.
Standing there, I compared this one to the first.
It was less massive, but taller than most grown men by a head.
That stretch of river has plenty of cover, thick stands of fur,
deep gullies and feeder creeks that twist back into the hills.
Once something steps into that tangle, you'll not find it again
without good dogs or blind luck. I never spoke much about either
encounter except with a few people who know the river
country. Some believe me without
question. Some nod politely and change the
subject. In late April 2002, I was
working with a fellow geologist near the banks of Fall Creek,
east of Lowell, OR. We were measuring exposed
bedrock along the Creek and collecting rock samples for
later lab work. That area is mostly mixed
Douglas fir, with open patches along the water and scattered
logging clear cuts up the slopes.
It was Turkey season, so most of the morning we heard occasional
gunshot blasts from local hunters on private land nearby.
The echoes carried down the Creek valley but didn't distract
us too much. After an hour or so, the shots
grew more spread out and then stopped all together.
As the day warmed up, we worked our way upstream, crossing the
Creek back and forth over shallow spots to get good
measurements on both banks. Around mid morning I was
standing near a big outcrop beside the water, taking notes
on the bedding planes and grain structure of a sandstone
exposure. My colleague was about 20 yards
upstream bending over a sample bag.
As I leaned in to measure a seam, I heard a soft but steady
rustling behind me. It was not the splash of water
or wind in branches and sounded more like brush being pushed
apart. I turned my head to check the
bank behind me. Across the Creek, maybe 2 to 300
feet away, a low branch stretched out over a small
footbridge built by hunters or loggers years before.
Hanging from this branch was something I did not expect to
see. It was not sitting or perched.
It was literally hanging by its arms, gripping the branch much
like a large ape would. The first thing that caught my
eye was the length of its arms. The fur covering its arms looked
reddish brown in patchy sunlight filtering through the trees.
The hair looked shaggy and moved a bit in the breeze, but the
forearms seemed to have less hair than the shoulders and
back. The body itself looked short and
squat. I couldn't see a clear head
shape because of the bridge, and a limb hid part of my line of
sight, but the arms and the mass of the torso were plain to see.
For a brief moment, no more than 10 or 15 seconds, the creature
just hung there, motionless except for a slight swing as it
adjusted its grip. It reminded me of the way
orangutans use their long arms to hold their body steady in
trees. Before I could call out to my
colleague, the thing released its hold.
It dropped straight down behind the low bridge.
Because of the old wooden structure, I couldn't see it hit
the ground, but I heard a muffled thump and another short
rustle in the brush behind it. Then all was silent again,
except for the trickle of the Creek and the breeze through the
forest. I stood still, waiting to hear
more movement, but nothing followed.
I glanced back at my partner upstream and walked over to him.
He looked puzzled when I asked if he had noticed anything
strange. He said he thought he heard
something rustling, but he had not seen anything unusual.
We stood there for a few minutes, scanning the other
bank. The far slope had scattered
ferns, but nothing moved or made another sound.
We debated crossing over to check for tracks or broken
limbs, but neither of us wanted to push through the thicket
without a clear idea of what was over there.
The distance was far enough that I could not swear to fine
details, but the arms in first stood out clearly.
It did not have any clear face or legs, just the arms,
shoulders, and part of its back. No sound came from it except the
soft rustle when it let go and hit the brush below.
We worked a few more hours, keeping closer together than
usual. No other shots rang out from
hunters and the rest of the day stayed quiet.
We didn't smell anything odd, nor did we find broken branches
on our side of the Creek that matched the size of what I saw.
After finishing our measurements, we packed up and
hiked back to where we parked near the end of an old logging
spur. None of us brought it up again
on the drive out to the main road, but later that night I
went over the siding again. In my mind, the Creek bank where
it hung is a narrow patch between the water and a steep,
forested rise. The bridge crosses just above a
deep bend where the current runs low on foot.
You could have come down through heavy brush or used the bridge
itself to get close. We returned the next month to
finish mapping another section upstream, but I didn't see or
hear anything else like it. We stayed on our side of the
Creek and did not cross to check the exact spot again.
I have worked in forestry and Backcountry all over the
Northwest, and I know the common wildlife in this part of Oregon.
None of those have arms long enough to hang upright from a
limb over a bridge the way this thing did.
The only thing I know for sure is what I saw with my own eyes,
A squat, broad body, long reddish brown arms and the
unmistakable motion of it swinging from a tree limb before
dropping to the ground. We turned in our rock samples
and finished our project on schedule.
I have not told many people what I saw because it doesn't fit
what most people think belong in an Oregon Creek valley, but I
stand by what I witnessed. I drive a delivery truck on a
regular route through Central Oregon three times a week.
On this day this happened. It was early October 2009 and my
12 year old son rode along with me since he had no school that
day. He liked to see the back roads
and small towns along my route and I liked the company.
We left Eugene just after dawn and made good time up Hwy. 58,
cutting across to head toward Redmond on the back roads.
Not far from the small town of Powell Butte, we turned onto A2
lane country highway that runs along the edge of open wheat and
hay fields. This stretch is known for deer
crossing, especially in winter when the green winter wheat
draws them down from the rimrock.
As we turned on to this road, I told my son to keep an eye out
for deer on his side and I would watch mine.
Hitting a deer with a full delivery load is the last thing
I wanted. We both watched carefully for
the next few miles. I passed a few scattered
junipers and farm driveways but saw no deer at all.
When the road curved to the east side of Powell Bute, it opened
up into wide, flat fields of green winter wheat.
I kept my eyes scanning the fence lines and the ditches for
any movement. As I glanced out across the open
wheat, I caught sight of something that didn't match.
The flat green rose about two to 300 yards from the highway, near
a low rise where the ground slopes up toward a clump of
taller sagebrush, I saw a large black shape bent low.
I eased my foot off the gas and coasted.
My son noticed I was staring and turned to follow my line of
sight. Without me saying anything, he
leaned forward and asked. Dad, is that a Bigfoot?
Right Then the thing straightened up and stood fully
upright in Clearview against the green wheat field.
From the cab of the truck, it looked at least 7 to 8 feet
tall. It was thick through the
shoulders and chest, well proportioned without a slouched
back or sagging belly. Its hair looked jet black
against the pale morning light. The shape of the head was
noticeable. It seems slightly pointed at the
top, blending down into wide shoulders with little sign of a
visible neck. In its right hand it held a
small branch close up to its mouth.
It plucked at the branch with its left hand, picking off
something and putting it to its mouth.
From that motion, I guess it might have been eating berries
or buds. I let the truck roll slow,
barely above idle. We were close enough to see its
arms move, but too far to see eyes or facial features.
It never flinched or turned to run.
It stood there calmly, feet planted wide, just watching our
truck on the road while it ate from that branch.
After maybe 2 minutes I had to keep moving because of a blind
curve behind me. As I slowly picked up speed, it
turned its whole upper body to follow us as we drove past not
just its head. The motion looked smooth but
strong, like it moved from the waist up without stepping.
I looked in the mirror but saw nothing more.
My son kept twisting around trying to catch another glimpse,
but the Bigfoot never came back into view.
We didn't stop and walk out there.
The field is private land and I was hauling a time sensitive
load. There was nothing out there but
short wheat and a few sagebrush clumps.
Nowhere for something that size to hide unless it dropped low or
moved to the rimrock behind the field.
A few days after that I ran the same route again alone north of
Powell Butte on a stretch of Hwy. where 126 climbs up towards
some low ridges covered in mixed pine and Jupiter.
I pulled off at a wide shoulder up the steep slope from the
road. I noticed a line of tracks
heading straight up the Ridge into the thicker trees.
The prints look bigger than any human boot I have ever seen.
They were spaced far apart in the snow with no zigzag or
switch back like a person would make on an incline that steep.
The snow was at least 10 inches deep.
Climbing that hill on foot would have taken real effort, but
these prints went in a straight line without a single slide
mark. After about 10 or 15 yards into
the timber, the tracks faded where the snow got patchy under
the trees. I took a few photos with my
phone but didn't follow the tracks up the Ridge.
It was too steep and I was alone.
Plus, I had half my route to finish.
I run this stretch three times a week year round.
Before that day, I never paid much attention to the fields and
ridges except to watch for deer or elk crossing the road.
Now I keep a sharp eye looking for dark spots in the fields or
against the tree line, hoping to see that creature again.
The winter wheat stays green when everything else is brown,
so they draw deer and other animals.
Whatever we saw that day in the open field was not a deer, not a
bear, and not a man. It stood upright and solid as a
boulder as we passed. I have not seen anything like it
again, but I still slow down and scan that same rise every time I
come through that curve. Thanks for listening everyone.
Before I go tonight, I just want to remind you my new book is out
on Amazon. I would be deeply grateful if
you could grab a copy to show your support.
Thank you so much and until next time, take care.