💖 Part I: The Gentle Hairy Man

My name is David Mitchell. I’m 36, a software developer, and two years ago, I moved my family to a rural property outside Forks, Washington, seeking a quieter life amidst the vast, ancient temperate rainforests of the Olympic Peninsula. Our house sits in a small clearing, surrounded on three sides by forests so dense they blot out the sun.

Our son, Ethan, had just turned seven when the most extraordinary event of our lives began. Ethan has always been an imaginative child—full of elaborate stories about magical creatures in the backyard. So, when in late August 2024, he started mentioning a new friend he’d met, I initially dismissed it.

“Daddy, I met someone really nice today,” he said at dinner one Thursday, swinging his legs happily.

“Really, champ? And who is this someone?” I replied, smiling.

“A big furry man who lives in the forest,” he said casually. “He’s very kind. We played hide-and-seek near the big trees.”

I paused with my fork in mid-air. “Ethan, did you go beyond the tree line? You know you can’t.”

“I didn’t go far, Daddy. And he was there watching. At first, I was scared because he’s very, very big. But then he waved at me, and he looked happy.”

My wife, Sarah, and I exchanged worried looks. I tried to reason with him. “Ethan, there isn’t any big furry man in the forest. Are you making up stories again?”

“I’m not making it up!” he insisted, frowning. “He’s real. He has brown fur all over his body like a bear, but he walks on two legs like a person, and he has big gentle eyes.” He counted on his fingers. “He comes every day now. I think he likes to watch me play.”

His specificity and unwavering consistency were unsettling. I resolved to work from the deck the next day, determined to prove the visitor was just a hiker or a deer.

.

.

.

🌳 The Unmistakable Silhouette

The next day, I set up my laptop with a clear view of the entire backyard and the tree line. Around 11 a.m., it happened. Ethan suddenly froze, looking toward the forest. He tilted his head as if listening, then smiled—that big, genuine smile—and waved at the trees.

My blood ran cold. I snapped my laptop shut.

“Ethan, who are you waving to, champ?” I called, trying to sound casual.

“To my friend! Look, Daddy, he’s right there.” Ethan pointed to an area about thirty feet inside the dense shadows of a massive Western Hemlock.

I scanned the spot, and then I saw it. Just for a second, but I definitely saw it. Something big, very big, standing behind that tree. It was tall, easily seven or eight feet, and wide, and it seemed to be watching. Then I saw the movement.

The large shape stepped away from the tree, and for a brief moment before it vanished deeper into the forest, I saw it clearly. It was bipedal, walking on two legs. It was massive, and it was covered in dark hair from head to toe.

My rational mind tried, desperately, to find explanations. A man in a ghillie suit? A bear walking strangely? But I knew, deep down, what I had witnessed. My seven-year-old son had been playing with a Bigfoot.

🎤 The Singing Friendship

The fear was immense, but it was quickly matched by a profound fascination. We decided not to call the authorities immediately. Why risk chaos, capture, or harm to the creature if we could observe and understand? We set up a secret security camera and imposed strict rules: Ethan could play, but he must stay away from the trees, and the creature must stay out of the yard.

Over the next two weeks, the routine settled into something surreal and extraordinary. The creature consistently appeared between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., always maintaining the established distance, watching Ethan with gentle interest. The interactions became a shared language: Ethan showed his drawings; the Bigfoot vocalized in response—deep, resonant sounds that Ethan interpreted perfectly.

The pinnacle of their unique friendship came during the second week. Ethan was singing a little song he’d learned about forest animals. Suddenly, the Bigfoot vocalized along. It wasn’t words, but it was a clear attempt to harmonize, to join in his song.

Ethan stopped, his eyes wide with joy. “You’re singing with me! That’s so cool! Let’s sing together!”

They did. Ethan singing the melody, the creature providing a deep, resonant counterpoint. Sarah and I, watching from the window, were in tears. It wasn’t just interaction; it was connection.

🤫 The End of the Playtime

The shift began in the third week. Ethan noticed the change first. “He looks sad when I go inside, Dad. I think he gets lonely.”

Then came the end. On a Thursday morning, the creature didn’t appear. And the following morning, the forest remained empty. Ethan was inconsolable. “He left,” he cried. “I did something wrong, and he left.”

I tried to rationalize it as a shift in foraging patterns, but on Friday afternoon, I found what convinced me otherwise. Following the tree line, I found fresh human bootprints, multiple pairs, leading away from an old logging road. And worse: a piece of Hunter Orange fabric and an empty rifle cartridge.

My stomach dropped. Hunters. Someone had been hunting near our property, likely alerted to the creature’s presence. The creature hadn’t left; it had hidden. It had disappeared to protect itself.

On Monday, after dropping Ethan at school, I made a decision. I had to know if he was okay. I grabbed my pack and hiked deep into the forest, searching for hours.

Then, half a mile from our property, I heard the familiar, deep vocalization. I followed it, and then I saw him. He was standing in a small clearing, but he wasn’t alone. There was a slightly smaller female with lighter fur, and clinging to her leg was a small, furry baby—a baby Bigfoot no bigger than Ethan.

The male Bigfoot who had been visiting Ethan saw me and went rigid. Then, slowly, he made a sound that conveyed a clear, agonizing message: Family. He had to protect them. He couldn’t risk leading human attention to his mate and child.

I held up my phone, showing him a picture of Ethan. “He misses you,” I said quietly. “But I understand. You have to protect your family.”

The creature placed a huge hand over its chest, then tilted its head. I knew the sign: Heart friends.

I walked away, leaving the magnificent family their privacy. I had my answer. Ethan’s friend was safe, but the playtime was over.

Three weeks later, Ethan was playing in the yard when he ran inside, yelling. We ran out, and there, carefully placed at the edge of the tree line, were three objects: a large pine cone, a perfectly smooth stone, and a bright yellow wild flower. In the soft earth beneath, were three clear footprints—one large, one medium, and one tiny.

An entire Sasquatch family had come to leave farewell gifts.

We locked the videos and photos in our safe, preserving the evidence for Ethan to see when he was older. Our son had been friends with a creature of myth, and we would ensure that friendship remained a protected, sacred secret.