The Bigfoot in Michael Davidson’s Jacket: A Secret Buried in the Woods

In October 1988, my life changed forever. I was deep in the forest, documenting survey markers for the Washington State Department of Natural Resources, when I filmed something impossible—a Bigfoot, walking just meters away, wearing human clothes. Not just any clothes: a denim jacket, bell-bottom jeans, and a red flannel shirt, all faded and torn, all unmistakably from the 1970s.

My name is Albert Hall. I’ve spent decades wandering the Pacific Northwest’s forests, mapping boundaries and watching the world change. Divorce and solitude suited me. But nothing prepared me for what I saw through my VHS camcorder: a creature, massive and intelligent, moving with purpose, dressed in the remnants of a missing hiker’s outfit.

The shock didn’t end there. Back home, I realized the clothes matched a flyer I’d kept for years—a young man, Michael Davidson, who vanished in these woods in 1974. Seven hikers, all missing, all never found. The Bigfoot wasn’t just wearing clothes; it was wearing memories.

Driven by dread and curiosity, I returned to the site. There, hidden beneath a rock overhang, was a clearing filled with relics: old backpacks, rusted canteens, a broken knife, scraps of jackets and shirts. Each belonged to one of the missing. On the stone wall, seven sets of tally marks—one for each lost soul.

When the creature appeared again, it wasn’t hostile. It was mournful. Through gestures and crude drawings, it showed me what had happened. The missing hikers hadn’t been prey—they were victims of the wilderness, found too late by something that tried to help. The clothes, the belongings, the marks on the stone: all were memorials, tokens of grief, kept by a being who understood loss and loneliness.

Faced with the truth, I had a choice. Reveal the footage and risk the creature’s life, or protect its secret and give the families closure built on a carefully constructed lie. I chose compassion. I returned the belongings, told the sheriff a story that fit the evidence, and watched as the families finally found peace after years of agony.

The creature left its home, erased its memorial, and vanished into the wild. I kept the tape hidden, carrying the burden of truth. Years passed—families healed, the world moved on, but the secret remained. Every so often, I’d receive a stone in the mail, a silent message from the wilderness: “I remember.”

Now, decades later, I’m old and preparing to pass the secret to my daughter. The tape remains locked away, waiting for her decision—release the truth or let it rest. I still don’t know if I did the right thing. But I know this: monsters aren’t always what we think. Sometimes, the most human thing in the forest isn’t human at all.

What I discovered in the woods wasn’t just proof of Bigfoot—it was proof of empathy, memory, and the cost of compassion. The real story isn’t about monsters. It’s about what we do when faced with the impossible, and whether we can carry the weight of truth alone.