The Wave: What I Filmed in the Cascades

I still don’t know what to make of what I filmed last November. Every time I watch the footage, a chill runs down my spine—especially at the moment it raises its hand. Was it saying hello, or something else? I don’t know. What I do know is that it happened. I captured it on camera, and it changed the way I think about those mountains forever.

Before I get into what happened, you should know a bit about me. I work for the Washington State Department of Natural Resources. For six years, I’ve patrolled forests looking for illegal logging and environmental damage. It’s not glamorous, but it matters. These old growth forests are protected for a reason, and there are always people trying to cut corners for profit.

Most days, my job is routine. I fly over designated areas, check for signs of unauthorized activity, document what I find, and file reports. Sometimes we catch illegal loggers in the act. More often, it’s just fresh stumps and tire tracks where there shouldn’t be any.

I’ve always loved flying. Got my pilot’s license after college, worked odd jobs to save up for helicopter training. Even on boring patrols, seeing the Cascades from above never gets old—ridges of dense forest, snowy peaks, rivers winding through valleys. On clear days, you can see forever.

That November morning started like any other. I got to headquarters, grabbed coffee, checked weather reports, reviewed my flight plan. We’d had reports of illegal cutting in a protected area sixty miles northeast. My assignment was simple: fly over, document any damage, get GPS coordinates for enforcement.

I brought along an old friend from high school—a construction worker who’d always wanted to ride along. He was like a kid on Christmas morning, thrilled for his first helicopter flight. We went through preflight checks, loaded the department camera, and lifted off into crystal clear skies.

For the first hour, it was all routine—just endless forest, a few elk in a clearing, deer bedded down in the snow. My friend was snapping pictures, grinning at the view. Then, about ninety minutes in, I spotted a fresh clearing on a protected slope. Several huge trees had been felled, truck tracks cutting through untouched forest. The destruction was obvious, and it always stings to see century-old trees cut down illegally.

I circled to document the site, taking photos and video, marking GPS coordinates. While I was focused on the logging, my friend’s attention wandered. That’s when he spotted something else—something that had nothing to do with logging.

“Hey, what’s that person doing way out here?” he said, pointing. I zoomed in with the camera. Sure enough, there was a lone figure in a gray jacket, hiking along an old, barely visible trail. It was odd—this spot was miles from any trailhead, far too remote for a casual dayhiker.

Then I saw something else. Another figure, farther up the trail behind the hiker. I zoomed in, and my breath caught. It was huge—seven, maybe eight feet tall, covered in dark fur, walking upright on two legs. Its arms swung naturally, its stride fluid and confident. This was no bear. Bears don’t walk like that. This was something else entirely.

Both of us fell silent, watching through the camera. The creature kept a steady, deliberate distance behind the hiker—about a hundred yards. It wasn’t stalking or acting aggressive, just moving calmly along the same trail.

I lowered the helicopter for a closer look, hands shaking on the controls. Through the zoom lens, I could see the massive shoulders, the thick, shaggy fur, the way it moved with effortless bipedal grace. My friend whispered, “That’s not possible,” over and over.

But it was happening. The creature walked for two or three minutes, then suddenly stopped. It looked up—directly at us, hovering in the helicopter. I saw its eyes, dark and intelligent. Not the eyes of a dumb animal, but something aware, something thinking.

Then, slowly and deliberately, it raised one massive arm and waved. Not a threatening gesture, just a clear, unmistakable wave—like it was saying hello, or acknowledging our presence. It held the wave for several seconds, then turned and walked off the trail into the forest. Within moments, it was gone, vanished into the trees.

We hovered, staring down at the empty woods. My friend finally whispered, “Did that just happen?” My hands were trembling. I checked the camera—yes, we’d recorded it. Two minutes of clear footage: the creature walking, stopping, looking up, waving.

The hiker in gray continued along the trail, oblivious to what had just happened behind them. Part of me wanted to land and warn them, but there was nowhere safe to set down, and besides, what would I say? “A Bigfoot just waved at us, but don’t worry—it seems friendly”?

That gesture played over and over in my mind. The creature saw us, acknowledged us, then calmly left. Not hiding, not afraid, not aggressive—just a courteous recognition, as if to say, “I know you’re here. You know I’m here. We’re both aware.”

We circled the area, searching for any sign of the creature, but saw nothing else. I finished documenting the logging site, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept glancing back toward where the creature had vanished.

Back at headquarters, I filed my official report—focused only on the illegal logging. I didn’t mention the creature. Who would believe me? Even with the footage, people would think it was faked.

After everyone left, I watched the video again and again. The wave was crystal clear. No ambiguity. Not a trick of light or imagination. A deliberate, intelligent gesture.

For days, I couldn’t focus on anything else. I kept thinking about the creature, the wave, the choice to reveal itself. Why show itself at all? It could have hidden easily. Instead, it chose to be seen, to acknowledge us.

Eventually, I decided I had to go back. I needed to stand on that trail, to see the place from the ground. The following weekend, I drove three hours to the nearest access point and hiked six miles through frost-covered wilderness. The trail was overgrown, the forest ancient and silent.

When I reached the ridge where we’d seen the creature, I found massive footprints pressed deep into the frozen ground. Eighteen inches long, five distinct toes, deep impressions—whatever made them was incredibly heavy. I photographed them, measured them, sat on a fallen log, and listened to the forest.

I felt a presence—something watching, not threatening, just aware. I left some trail mix and an apple by an ancient cedar, saying quietly, “Thank you for letting us see you.” It felt silly, but necessary.

On my way back, I met a hiker—gray jacket, weathered face, the same person from the helicopter footage. We exchanged greetings, then he stopped and asked, “Did you see anything unusual up there?” My heart pounded. I told him the truth.

He smiled. “Did you see a Bigfoot?” he asked, casual as could be. I nodded, and he explained he’d been hiking these mountains for forty years, had seen them many times. There were at least three in the area, he said. The one we saw, he’d encountered regularly for five years. They kept their distance, never aggressive, just living peacefully. He’d seen them gather berries, catch fish, never hunt other animals. They wanted only to be left alone.

He told me about the wave gesture. “He’s done that with me too,” he said. “It’s his way of saying, ‘I see you. You see me. Everything’s fine.’” Most people never get that kind of acknowledgement. “You should feel honored.”

Before we parted, he urged me to keep the secret. “They’ve survived by staying hidden. They don’t need to be captured or proven to exist. They deserve to be left alone.”

Driving home, I thought about the illegal logging—humans destroying their habitat for profit, while these creatures asked for nothing but peace. The contrast still haunts me.

I still have the footage. I watch it sometimes, especially the moment the creature waves. I haven’t shown it to anyone else. Not because I doubt what I saw, but because the hiker was right. These beings have earned their privacy. They deserve to be left alone.

Sometimes I think about going back, but I realize I don’t need to. I had my encounter, my acknowledgement. That’s more than most people ever get. Now, the best thing I can do is keep the secret, protect the forests, and respect the boundary between our worlds.

Some mysteries should stay that way—not everything needs to be proven or explained. Some things just need to be quietly respected. And that’s enough.