PART 2: GIANT SASQUATCH ROADKILL!! | Giant Bigfoot Creature Hit By Truck At 80 MPH

🌲 The Silence of the Suits: Unmasking the Pacific Northwest’s Deepest Lie

Eight years of sleepless nights and the smell of pine needles that won’t wash off have a way of sharpening your focus. The official version of my life—Devin McCriedy, independent trucker, minor financial problems—is a joke. My real life is chasing shadows and connecting dots that powerful, faceless men want left scattered. The dead Sasquatch wasn’t the end of a nightmare; it was the opening scene of a tragedy orchestrated by people who view truth as a liability and the American landscape as their private zoo.

The question I’m asked most often, by the handful of paranoid cranks I’ve confided in, is why the big secret? Why the black SUVs, the coordinated silence, and the bizarre roadside cleanup job for a creature that “doesn’t exist”? The answer, I’ve come to believe, is an insult to every single taxpayer. It’s not about protecting the Sasquatch; it’s about protecting their control over the land.

The Hypocrisy of Preservation

Think about the Olympic Peninsula. It’s one of the last, best wildernesses left. And who gets to decide what happens to it? The same bureaucratic swamp that shuts down roads for a “federal investigation” while an injured woman bleeds out in a crumpled Civic. The hypocrisy is staggering. They preach preservation, they mandate environmental impact reports, and yet, the moment they have a truly priceless, unique species—one that proves the absolute, irreplaceable value of the old-growth they claim to protect—they erase it. They didn’t cover up a monster; they covered up a witness.

The dead Sasquatch proved that the deepest, most restricted parts of the forest are exactly what they should be: untouched. The existence of a hyper-intelligent, large primate in those woods completely undermines the government’s power to manage, survey, or eventually, sell those resources. They can’t log a plot that might be home to a protected, sentient being. They can’t open the gates to tourism if there’s a nine-foot-tall resident with territorial tendencies. The Sasquatch is the ultimate land preservation anchor. Killing the secret, even at the cost of the creature’s life, gives them back their claim to the wilderness. It’s a land grab masquerading as an intelligence operation.

A Network of Silent Witnesses

The other thing that keeps me up is the network. Those cabins I stumbled upon weren’t just random shacks. They were a research station, a silent, unsanctioned base. The framed photos, the elaborate traps—that wasn’t some local eccentric. That was a sophisticated, long-term monitoring operation. And that operation suddenly went dark the moment my Peterbilt introduced a wrench into the works.

I started digging, not in the public records—because those are engineered lies—but in the dark corners of the internet where former Forest Service employees and disgruntled loggers trade secrets. What I found was a pattern: whenever a major lumber contract is coming up, or a mining exploration permit is being quietly pushed through, a rash of “inaccurate” cryptid sightings spikes in the area, followed by immediate, aggressive road closures and an influx of private contractors acting under federal authority. It’s a cynical dance. They let the locals think it’s Big Brother covering up a hairy ape, which keeps the real purpose of the operation—securing land access—hidden in plain sight.

I was played. The $40,000 cash for illegal timber wasn’t a job to get me out of debt; it was a way to put a vulnerable, desperate, and ultimately, unreliable witness in a place where they could control the narrative, or dispose of the problem. Rick, my dispatcher, was clearly one of the local hands in the network, a grease monkey for the operation. He knew I was going to those roads. He knew the cabins were there. And when the crash happened, his only concern wasn’t the lumber, but making sure I kept my mouth shut. The quick repair of my truck, the smooth retrieval—that wasn’t good luck. That was a payoff to ensure my silence and my compliance.

I’m just a working-class casualty in a conflict between deep state bureaucracy and Mother Nature. They sacrificed one of the oldest, rarest creatures on the planet and then covered the mess with the shredded remains of a young woman’s Honda. That is the true, ugly face of the power structure we live under: indifferent, calculating, and ultimately destructive. They operate on the principle that if they eliminate the proof, they eliminate the truth, and the rest of us are left driving down the highway, wondering why the trees seem a little too quiet. I know what I saw die that night, and I know the people who killed it are still out there, managing the silence.

Would you like me to continue this story with a Part 3, perhaps focusing on Devin’s attempts to publicly expose Rick and the nature of the network operating in the Pacific Northwest?

🤫 The Price of Silence: Why the Roads Don’t Lie

I accepted the $40,000 and the lie I told Deputy Morrison, and for eight years, I drove on a leash woven from government coercion and my own cowardice. But the peace they bought was only for the men in black SUVs. For me, the silence was a deafening indictment. The hypocrisy is the air I breathe, and it stinks of old oil and formaldehyde.

The entire Pacific Northwest is built on a grand, foundational lie: that it’s a wilderness to be managed, not a sanctuary to be respected. My run-in with the dead giant didn’t just expose a cryptid; it exposed the cold, calculating heart of what the elite truly value. They don’t fear a hairy ape; they fear anything that could successfully challenge their Dominion over the Dollar.

The Land as Collateral

The Sasquatch is a biological checkmate to the entire timber and mining industry that guts these forests. If its existence were undeniable—if a nine-foot specimen were dragged onto the steps of the Washington State Capitol—every logging permit, every resource lease, every acre designated for “sustainable harvest” would instantly become legally radioactive. You can’t put a price on the home range of a sentient, undiscovered hominid. The profit margin for the ancient Douglas Fir I was supposed to be hauling is absolutely irrelevant compared to the profit margin of the land itself.

Their cover-up wasn’t a zoological effort; it was a massive, high-level real estate fraud. They didn’t bury a dead Bigfoot; they buried the deed to the last great wilderness. The injured woman in the Honda? She was a piece of collateral damage, a statistical inconvenience swept into the growing file of “unexplained disappearances” that plague the Olympic National Park—a grim coincidence I can no longer believe was mere chance. Those woods swallow people whole, and the government simply shrugs, letting the Bigfoot legend take the blame while their black-op contractors clean up the evidence.

Rick, The Serpent in the Cab

My dispatcher, Rick, is the perfect example of the rot. He’s the local face of federal corruption, a man who knows the logging routes and the habits of every desperate trucker. His offer was a trap. He guaranteed me the triple rate, making sure I was deep in the restricted zone when the ‘incident’ happened. His indifference to the missing illegal timber tells the whole story: the wood was never the point.

Rick and the network he works for—the ones who miraculously repaired my tire and retrieved my rig—they needed a disposable witness. They needed a fool who would be so grateful to escape federal charges and so terrified by the impossible truth that he would stick to the simple, stupid lie of a “really big bear.” His calm instruction to “keep quiet” wasn’t a friendly tip; it was the quiet voice of a predator securing its prey. The $40,000 was my severance package from the truth, paid for by the same people who are systematically silencing the forest.

I am not the only one. There are others who saw things that night, loggers who quit their jobs, deputies who filed reports that vanished into the ether. We are all living proof of the government’s spectacular failure to manage anything other than its own deception. I keep driving, past the darkened treelines of the Peninsula, and every shadow feels like an accusation. I saw the intelligence in that creature’s eyes right before the world went silent around it. And I know, with chilling certainty, that the people who extinguished that life are far more dangerous, and far more primitive, than the being they call Sasquatch.