How I Found Bigfoot: Lessons from an Elder in Olympic National Forest

I never believed in Bigfoot. Not really. I’d heard all the stories—tourists claiming to see something hairy crossing a trail at dusk, strange howls echoing through the valleys, giant footprints in the mud. My coworkers and I laughed about it over coffee in the ranger station. We figured people were just seeing bears on their hind legs or letting their imaginations run wild after too many campfire stories.

I work as a park maintenance worker in Olympic National Forest, and after three years, I thought I knew these woods inside and out. I’d memorized the layout of dozens of trails, learned which areas flooded in spring and which ridges caught the worst wind in winter. I’d seen black bears, elk herds, coyotes, deer, even a couple mountain lions from a safe distance. The forest felt predictable. Every sound had an explanation. Every track belonged to a known animal. I thought I understood everything about this place.

I was wrong.

The Encounter

It was a Tuesday afternoon in late September. I was finishing up work near one of the main trailheads. The parking lot was mostly empty—just a few locals using the trails. The sky was overcast and gray, a cold wind rattling through the pines. As I loaded my tools into the truck, I noticed an old man sitting on a log bench near the trail entrance.

He wasn’t dressed like a hiker. No fancy gear, no water bottle, no backpack. Just worn jeans, a faded flannel shirt, and a simple walking stick across his lap. He sat perfectly still, watching the forest with an intensity that made me curious. I walked over to make sure he was okay—part of my job is checking on people who might be lost or in trouble.

He turned to me slowly and smiled. His eyes were sharp and clear, not confused or tired. There was an alertness in his gaze that surprised me. He said he was fine, just enjoying the quiet. Then he asked, “Have you ever seen the old ones who live here?”

I didn’t understand. Was he talking about old trees or ancient trails? He saw my confusion and clarified: “The hairy people, the ones that walk like men but aren’t men. The ones that live deep in the forest where humans don’t go.”

I laughed nervously and told him about all the Bigfoot stories we hear from tourists. He didn’t smile. Instead, he grew serious. He told me his people had lived in these forests for thousands of years. They had always known about the Bigfoot. His ancestors had seen them, tracked them, lived alongside them. Bigfoot was real, he said, still living in the remote valleys and deep wilderness. Most people just didn’t know how to look for them properly—they saw only what they expected to see.

He spoke with quiet confidence, not trying to convince me, just stating what he knew. Before I left, he made an offer: He could show me the signs if I was willing to learn.

I surprised myself by saying yes.

Learning to See

We agreed to meet the next morning at dawn. When I arrived, he was already waiting—no gear, just his walking stick and a small leather pouch. I had my usual work pack, water, first aid, radio. He shook his head slightly at all my equipment but said nothing.

We walked into the forest as the sun rose, the light soft and gray. He moved slowly but steadily, stopping often to listen and look. Twenty minutes in, he pointed at some branches on a large fir tree. At first, I saw nothing unusual. Then I looked closer—several branches were twisted in strange ways, bent and woven together about seven feet off the ground. Not broken by wind or snow, but deliberately twisted, like someone had grabbed them and tied them in knots.

He explained that Bigfoot moves through the forest differently than other animals. These twisted branches were markers—a language written in bent wood and broken branches, ways Bigfoot communicates with others of their kind.

We found more twisted branches, some woven together in complex patterns, all too high for bears and too deliberate to be natural. I tried to imagine what kind of creature could reach that high and have the dexterity to twist branches like that.

Next, he led me to a small clearing. In the center were three thick logs arranged in a teepee shape, standing five feet tall. The logs were heavy Douglas firs, at least six inches in diameter and eight feet long. I tried to lift one and could barely budge it. Whatever moved these logs had incredible strength. He said Bigfoot makes these structures all over the forest, though nobody knows exactly why—maybe territory markers, shelters, teaching tools, or purposes we can’t guess.

Then he told me to close my eyes and breathe in the forest air. At first, I smelled pine needles and damp earth. Then he led me a few steps to the left. This time, I smelled something else—a musky, wild odor, stronger than any animal I’d encountered. He said that was the smell of Bigfoot. Once you know it, you never forget it.

Tracking the Signs

We met every morning for a week. Each day, I learned to see the forest differently. He showed me Bigfoot footprints in soft mud—massive, 18 inches long, five toes, arranged more like human feet than ape. The prints sank deeper at the ball of the foot, unlike humans who press deeper at the heel. Bigfoot walks hunched forward, putting more weight on the front of the foot.

He pointed out scratches on tree bark, long vertical gouges starting seven or eight feet up the trunk. Bears leave horizontal or diagonal claw marks. These were different—deeper, wider, like something tall had dragged its nails down the bark.

He taught me to listen for wood knocks—deep, resonant sounds, not random, but purposeful. Bigfoot uses these to communicate across long distances, coordinating or warning each other about humans.

He explained Bigfoot prefers dense cover near water sources, berry patches, and fruit trees. His grandfather had taught him all this, knowledge passed down for generations.

The Valley

On the eighth morning, he said he wanted to show me something special. We hiked deep into a remote valley I’d never patrolled. At the bottom, a creek ran clear and cold. As soon as we got close, I smelled that musky odor, stronger than ever.

He pointed to the muddy bank. There were huge, fresh footprints—18 inches long, seven inches wide, five toes, dermal ridges visible. The prints sank almost two inches into the mud. My boot looked tiny next to them.

We followed the tracks to the water’s edge, where they disappeared. On the opposite bank, more tracks emerged, heading into the forest. Nearby, a crude shelter made from bent saplings and branches stood about five feet tall. He said Bigfoot builds these for shelter or as markers.

He pointed to fresh scat—massive, steaming in the cold air, filled with berry seeds, fish bones, and fur. Bigfoot is omnivorous, eating whatever is available.

He said Bigfoot is usually peaceful, avoids confrontation, but is fiercely protective of its territory and young. If you encounter one, stay calm, back away, and give it room to leave.

The Night Watch

The elder suggested I try an overnight observation. Bigfoot is most comfortable at night, especially under a bright moon. He told me to bring no flashlight, no camera, nothing that makes sound or light. Find a spot with good cover near water, set up during the day, rest, and then stay alert after dark.

I took a day off work, hiked into that valley, and found a dense thicket overlooking a meadow by the creek. I set up a simple camp—no tent, no fire, just a sleeping bag and tarp. As the sun went down, I tried to sleep, knowing I’d need to be alert all night.

Around 11 PM, all the forest sounds suddenly stopped. Complete silence except for the creek. Then I smelled it—musky, powerful, overwhelming. Heavy footfalls approached. A massive shape emerged from the tree line, walking upright, eight or nine feet tall, covered in dark hair except for the face and palms. Shoulders four feet across, arms hanging past its knees. The face was flat, with a pronounced brow ridge and a flat nose.

The Bigfoot moved with a rolling gait, crossed the meadow to the creek, knelt down, and drank with cupped hands. The fingers were thick and powerful, with opposable thumbs. It sat on a boulder, resting, making soft grunting sounds—almost musical, like it was talking to itself.

It picked up a rock from the creek, examined it, then tossed it aside. It broke a thick branch in half effortlessly. For twenty minutes, it just sat there, completely at ease.

Then it went still, turned its head directly toward my hiding spot. Our eyes met across fifty feet. I felt exposed, vulnerable. Its gaze was intelligent, aware, considering how to respond. It stood up, towering and powerful, made a low huffing sound—a deep exhalation that felt like an acknowledgement: “I see you. I know you’re here.”

Then it walked calmly away, disappearing into the forest.

Aftermath

I waited until dawn before moving. The rock where it had sat was still warm. The footprints were clear and deep. The broken branch was impossible for me to snap. The musky smell lingered.

I found the elder and told him everything. He listened, nodding in understanding. He said I’d been given a gift—most people never get that close to a Bigfoot. The creature had let me observe it, had chosen not to flee or react aggressively.

I returned to my regular work, but everything felt different. I see the forest with new eyes now, aware of what might be watching from the shadows. I look for the signs the elder taught me—twisted branches, stacked logs, scratch marks. I find them everywhere. Sometimes I smell that musky odor and know a Bigfoot is nearby, watching me work.

The elder and I still meet occasionally. He says Bigfoot will reveal themselves to those who are ready—not ready in terms of equipment, but in attitude. Ready to observe, respect, and accept mystery.

To his people, Bigfoot isn’t a cryptid to be hunted, but a forest spirit, a guardian, an ancient being deserving respect. I know now that some things are meant to remain in the shadows, experienced by a fortunate few and then left in peace.

If you catch a glimpse of something you can’t explain in the wilderness, remember what I learned: Don’t chase it. Just observe, respect, and be grateful for the experience.