Bigfoot: The Encounters That Changed Everything

I never believed in Bigfoot. Not really. Like most people, I thought the stories were exaggerated, blurry photos and shaky videos passed around by enthusiasts desperate for proof. But that changed one autumn morning in Colorado, and the cascade of events that followed across different states would redefine my understanding of the wild forever.

Colorado: The Train Encounter

It started on the narrow gauge railway out of Durango, winding through the golden aspens and dark pines of the San Juan Mountains. I’d boarded the train early, eager for the scenic ride, camera in hand. By mid-morning, as we climbed to nearly 9,000 feet, the landscape opened into rocky slopes and sparse vegetation.

That’s when I saw it.

Through my zoom lens, a large, dark figure moved across a barren hillside about 200 yards from the tracks. At first, I thought it was a bear, but it walked upright with a smooth, purposeful stride. It navigated the treacherous terrain with ease. When it paused and seemed to look directly at the train, I started recording. The creature was massive—seven or eight feet tall, covered in dark brown or black fur. Its arms swung naturally as it walked, too fluid and deliberate to be a bear on its hind legs.

I captured ninety seconds of shaky footage before the train rounded a bend. My heart pounded as I replayed the video. This was no bear, no hiker. Everything—the size, the proportions, the way it moved—pointed to something I couldn’t explain.

When the train stopped at Needleton, a tiny wilderness platform, I made a split-second decision. I grabbed my daypack and jumped off, determined to find what I’d seen.

Into the Wilderness

Alone on the platform, I headed toward the rocky slopes, scrambling over loose rocks and scrub. The altitude hit me hard, and my legs burned from the climb. Within forty minutes, I found them: enormous tracks pressed deep into muddy ground near a spring. Eighteen inches long, five clear toes, deeper than my bootprints even when I jumped with all my weight. Whatever made these weighed 600 pounds or more.

I photographed the tracks from every angle, hands trembling. The stride length was enormous, easily four feet between prints. The tracks led uphill toward a grove of stunted pines. As I climbed higher, I found more evidence: branches broken at seven or eight feet high, tufts of dark hair caught on bark, massive handprints on boulders. Near the spring, I discovered tracks from multiple creatures, different sizes—a family group.

This wasn’t one Bigfoot passing through. There was a population living here.

The Face-to-Face Encounter

As I approached the pine grove, the forest went silent. I felt eyes on me. Every instinct screamed that I was being watched. I started recording again, panning across the hillside. The broken branches were fresh, green wood showing at the breaks.

That’s when I heard it—a low, guttural vocalization from deeper in the trees, followed by an answering call from a different direction. They were communicating, and they knew I was here.

I pushed forward into the grove, ducking under low branches. Then, in a small clearing, I saw it: the Bigfoot, even larger up close, eight feet tall with massive shoulders and chest covered in dark brown fur. Its face showed a flat nose, heavy brow ridge, and dark eyes that locked onto mine with startling intelligence.

For several seconds, we simply stared at each other. The creature made no aggressive moves, just watched me with wary curiosity. Its chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths, muscles shifting beneath its fur. I slowly raised my camera, praying it wouldn’t charge. It watched the movement but didn’t react otherwise.

Then it began to move, circling slowly around the edge of the clearing, nearly silent despite its massive size. It was repositioning, putting more trees between us, creating an escape route. We had another moment of locked eye contact, and I had the strangest sensation it was assessing me, deciding what to do about this human intruder.

Suddenly, a howl erupted from deeper in the forest—a long, drawn-out vocalization that started low and rose in pitch, echoing through the mountains. The Bigfoot in front of me reacted immediately, letting out a responding call, a deep whooping bark that vibrated in my chest. Then it moved with explosive speed, crashing through the underbrush and disappearing into the forest in seconds.

I stood alone in the clearing, shaking as more calls echoed around me from multiple directions. There wasn’t just one Bigfoot in these mountains. There were several, and they were communicating.

The Escape

Panic finally overrode everything else. I turned and ran, branches whipping my face and grabbing at my clothes. Behind me, I heard movement in the forest—something large moving parallel to my path. I burst out of the trees onto the rocky slope, half ran, half slid downhill, feet skidding on loose stones. Glancing back, I saw movement in the treeline—multiple dark shapes shifting between trunks. They were following me, pacing my panicked flight down the mountain.

I reached the train platform with twenty minutes to spare before the afternoon train arrived. I collapsed onto a bench, trembling, and checked my camera. The video was there—all of it: the Bigfoot in the clearing, the circling movement, even audio of those incredible vocalizations.

That night, I backed up the files to multiple devices, watching the footage a hundred times, unable to process what I had experienced. The evidence was undeniable. The video showed a massive bipedal creature, clearly not human, not a bear, moving through the forest with purpose and intelligence. The footprint photographs were even more compelling—perfect impressions showing anatomical details that no hoaxer could fake in such a remote location.

Cascade Foothills: The Trail Camera

Six months later, in the Cascade Foothills of northern Washington, I captured fifteen seconds of footage that changed everything I thought I knew about these woods. A massive Bigfoot walked directly past my trail camera, and the audio recorded guttural vocalizations that sounded like some kind of ape language.

I’ve spent months trying to understand what I captured. The Bigfoot moved with a powerful, fluid stride, covering ground fast. Its body was covered in dark brown fur, arms swinging naturally, stride much longer than a human’s, head low on its shoulders, giving a hunched but powerful appearance.

The audio was the most disturbing part—low, guttural sounds synchronized with its movement, not random grunts but deliberate sounds with rhythm and variation. The pattern repeated three times during the clip. At one point, the Bigfoot paused and made a series of sounds, almost like it was forming words.

Despite intensive camera coverage, I only captured that one clear footage. Either the Bigfoot learned where my cameras were and avoided them, or it was just passing through. Both possibilities are unsettling.

Over the following months, I began hearing vocalizations while in the woods—howls and grunts, sometimes call-and-response between two creatures. I managed to record some of these sounds, though the quality wasn’t great. The vocalizations always came early morning or dusk, never in the middle of the day.

After six months of investigation, I believe there’s a population of Bigfoot living in these mountains—multiple creatures communicating with each other using vocalizations. The intelligence these sounds suggest is disturbing. They seem to be coordinating movements, tracking each other’s positions, warning, and possibly conveying complex information.

Eastern Kentucky: The Apex Predator

On May 18th, 2025, my trail camera in eastern Kentucky captured footage at 4:23 a.m.—a massive, muscular Bigfoot walking with terrifying confidence. The creature was enormous, covered in light-colored fur that appeared almost white in the infrared lighting. It walked with purpose and power, posture upright, almost humanlike but far more powerful.

The most disturbing part came when the Bigfoot paused midstride and turned its head fully toward the camera, staring directly at the lens for three full seconds. Intelligence radiated from its eyes. This wasn’t just an animal; it understood it was being watched and didn’t care.

Compelled to get better footage, I returned the next night, armed with a video camera, flashlight, and rifle. But the Bigfoot was waiting. Low, guttural vocalizations came from behind me—there were at least two of them, communicating, knowing exactly where I was. I was surrounded.

I turned on my flashlight and caught one standing between two trees, massive and still, staring directly at me. Another approached from the rear, deliberately staying out of clear view. They were coordinating, discussing what to do about me.

I backed away slowly. For the next fifteen minutes, they paced me, moving parallel, herding me toward my truck. Every time I deviated, a vocalization pushed me back on course. I finally broke into a run for the last hundred yards. When I reached my truck, they vanished, but I could feel them watching from the darkness.

These creatures are apex predators, intelligent beyond imagination. They didn’t attack because they chose not to. They communicated, coordinated, and escorted me out of their territory. They understood human technology, anticipated my return, and demonstrated planning and tactical thinking.

Smoky Mountains: The Family Encounter

Last September, my son Jake and I went hiking in the Smoky Mountains. We filmed what we thought was an ape clinging to a tree trunk. There are no apes in Tennessee forests. Too late, we realized we had filmed a Bigfoot infant. As darkness fell, the parents came looking for us.

We had rented a cabin deep in the Smoky Mountains, surrounded by dense forest. On our second day, we hiked a trail two miles from the cabin. About forty minutes in, Jake pointed to a large pine tree. Clinging to the trunk twenty feet up was a creature covered in dark fur, with humanlike hands and feet, a flat face, and large eyes.

I recorded fifteen seconds of footage before it turned and looked directly at us, letting out a high-pitched vocalization. I realized this was a young Bigfoot, and we needed to leave. As we hurried back, I heard response vocalizations from deeper in the forest—two adults communicating, and they sounded big.

We made it back to the cabin, locked every door and window, and waited as darkness fell. The first sound came soon after—heavy footsteps on the porch, deliberate and bipedal. A massive shadow blocked the porch light. Heavy breathing and low, guttural grunts vibrated through the walls.

The creatures circled the cabin, communicating with each other in a language of grunts and whoops. At one point, one climbed onto the roof, moving with enormous weight. The whole family was there, tracking us, investigating, warning us.

They could have broken in, but they didn’t. They circled, vocalized, and ultimately left us alone. In the morning, I found muddy prints on the porch, eighteen inches long with clear toe impressions.

Reflections

These encounters have fundamentally changed how I view the natural world. Bigfoot are real, living beings—not myths or folklore. They are intelligent, powerful, and territorial. They communicate with sophisticated vocalizations, coordinate movements, and choose when to allow humans into their territory.

If you encounter a Bigfoot, especially a young one, leave immediately. Don’t film it. Don’t watch it. Respect their privacy and their territory. My encounters lasted minutes, but they changed my entire worldview. The mountains and forests hide secrets we’re only beginning to glimpse. Bigfoot are out there, and they are magnificent.