A Bond in the Wilderness: My Bigfoot Encounter

I never believed in Bigfoot—at least, not until September 1985, when one approached me in the Cascade Mountains and asked for help. What happened next changed everything I thought I knew about these legendary creatures—and about compassion itself.

Back then, I was 28 years old, a forestry technician for the Washington State Department of Natural Resources. The job paid well enough, but what I truly valued was the access to wild places few ever saw. Every few weeks, I’d pack my gear and head deep into the backcountry to survey timber stands. Most of the time, I worked alone. I liked it that way—just me and the mountains.

That September, I was assigned to survey a remote stretch of old-growth forest, about 40 miles northeast of Mount Rainier. The nearest logging road ended five miles from my survey zone, so it was all hiking from there. I set out early, the air thick with the scent of cedar and moss. By noon, I’d gained 1,500 feet in elevation, stopping to eat lunch on a granite outcrop overlooking a valley of Douglas firs. I spent the afternoon marking trees, noting deer tracks and bear claw marks. As the sun dropped, I set up camp near a spring, ate freeze-dried stew, and slipped into my sleeping bag.

The next morning, a heavy fog blanketed the forest. I waited for the sun to burn it off, then packed up and hiked three miles northwest to my next survey spot. The forest grew denser, the trees twisted by wind and snow. Around midday, I heard a sound that made me stop cold—not a howl, not a scream, but something desperate, echoing through the trees. My instincts screamed caution, but curiosity won. I bushwhacked toward the sound, pushing through thickets until I reached a small meadow.

There, among the boulders, I saw it: a massive, dark figure wedged between two rocks, struggling to free itself. At first, I thought it was a bear, but as I got closer, I realized it was something else entirely—a Bigfoot, at least seven feet tall, with reddish-brown fur matted with dirt and blood. The creature was exhausted, its breathing labored. Then it turned and looked at me. Its eyes were intelligent, aware, almost human. We stared at each other, both uncertain.

Near the trapped Bigfoot lay a smaller figure—a juvenile, unconscious, its head bleeding from a nasty gash. The mother Bigfoot whimpered, reaching for her child. I don’t know what possessed me, but I stepped into the meadow, slowly approaching. I raised my hands to show I meant no harm, then pointed to the rocks trapping her leg and mimed pulling. The Bigfoot seemed to understand. I dug around the boulder with my camping shovel, then used a fallen pine trunk as a lever. With her help, we shifted the rock just enough for her to pull her leg free.

Instead of fleeing, the mother Bigfoot cradled her young one, then looked at me and made a soft, rumbling sound. She gestured toward the child’s wound—a plea for help. I knelt, cleaned the gash with antiseptic wipes, and pressed gauze against it. The mother watched, her massive hand holding the gauze in place. We sat together in silence, united by a moment of trust.

The young Bigfoot eventually woke, startled but calmed by its mother. Before leaving, the mother Bigfoot placed her hand over her heart and pointed to me—a gesture of respect, gratitude, maybe even affection. I mirrored her, and she limped into the forest with her child.

That night, I camped nearby, nerves on edge. But the next evening, the mother Bigfoot returned, moving more easily. She brought me a cluster of edible roots—a gift. Over the next days, we exchanged gifts: food, feathers, stones, and even a woven basket. I taught her fishing techniques; she adapted them and showed me her own skills. Her intelligence was unmistakable. She even drew symbols in the dirt, communicating with me in ways that transcended language.

On my last day, I found a cedar wreath placed on my pack—a goodbye gift. As I hiked out, I looked back to see the mother and young Bigfoot watching me. I waved farewell, and they lifted their arms in response.

Years passed, but I never forgot. I kept the gifts—a quartz crystal, a blue feather, the cedar wreath—as reminders of that extraordinary encounter. I never told anyone, fearing ridicule and, more importantly, wanting to protect the Bigfoots’ secret.

Decades later, I returned to that meadow. There, I met the young Bigfoot again, now fully grown, bearing a scar above its eye. It left me a carefully shaped piece of quartz—a sign of remembrance. We exchanged the same gestures of respect, and then it disappeared into the trees.

Now, at 73, I share my story not to convince skeptics but to honor the trust and connection I experienced. Bigfoots are not monsters or myths—they are intelligent beings, capable of gratitude, memory, and even love. Their existence is threatened by habitat loss and human encroachment. If you ever encounter the unknown in the wilderness, treat it with respect and compassion. Some mysteries deserve to remain wild and free.

This is my story—a bond formed in the mountains, a lesson in humility, and a plea to protect the wonders that still exist, hidden in the world’s wild places.

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