‘WE WERE SENT TO KILL BIGFOOT’ – Army Veteran’s Terrifying Sasquatch Encounter

“They Let Us Leave”

I’m going to tell you about something that happened to me in 2019—something I’ve never spoken about publicly.

I signed papers saying I wouldn’t. At the time, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to remember it. But things change. And I’ve come to believe people deserve to know what’s really out there in those mountains.

I’m a veteran. Two tours overseas. I came home, did what everyone tells you to do—tried to build a quiet life. I bought a small house. Took a part-time job at a hardware store. Lived off my military pension.

It wasn’t exciting. But after everything I’d seen, boring felt like a gift.

I wasn’t looking for adventure anymore.

Then one Tuesday afternoon in October, my phone rang.

I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway. The voice on the other end belonged to a man I’d served with years earlier. We hadn’t spoken in at least six years. We did the usual catching up, but I could tell he was circling something. Finally, he asked me a question that caught me completely off guard.

“Do you need money?”

I told him I was doing okay. That wasn’t entirely true. The roof needed repairs. I’d been putting off dental work because of the cost. But I wasn’t desperate.

He said he had an opportunity. Private contract work. Five days, maybe less. Fifteen thousand dollars in cash. No questions asked.

I should have hung up right there.

Instead, I asked what kind of work.

He stayed vague. Said it was security-related. Said they needed people with military experience who could operate in rough terrain. He told me I’d get a full briefing if I agreed to hear them out.

Against my better judgment, I said yes.

He gave me an address—an airfield in northern Washington—and a date two days out. Told me to pack for cold weather and mountains. Told me to bring my rifle if I still had it.

I did.

I hadn’t fired it in years, but I kept it maintained out of habit.

The next two days, I went back and forth constantly. Fifteen thousand dollars would solve a lot of problems. But nobody pays that kind of money for a week of work unless something is wrong.

Thursday morning, I packed my truck anyway.

Cold-weather gear. Rifle. Ammunition. Basic survival supplies.

I told my neighbor I’d be gone for a week doing some work for an old army buddy.

The six-hour drive north took me through increasingly remote country. By the time I reached the airfield, my unease had settled into something heavier.

The place was exactly what I’d feared. A single runway. A few weathered hangars. Dense forest pressing in from every direction.

Five other vehicles were already parked there.

My old squadmate was waiting by one of the hangars. He looked older—more gray in his hair—but he still carried himself the same way. Confident. Alert.

He introduced me to the others.

Seven men total. All veterans. I could tell immediately by the way they stood, the way they assessed me. Nobody used last names. Ages ranged from mid-forties to early sixties.

We made small talk, but the tension was unmistakable. Everyone was wondering the same thing.

What the hell are we really doing here?

At four o’clock, we were led into one of the hangars. Inside sat a large civilian helicopter being prepped by a pilot who barely acknowledged us.

At the back of the hangar, a foldout table held topographical maps. A man in expensive outdoor gear stepped forward. He introduced himself with a first name only. Former military intelligence, now private security consulting.

He said his clients preferred to remain anonymous. Said they had a problem that couldn’t be solved through official channels.

Then he asked a question I’ll never forget.

“How many of you believe Bigfoot is real?”

I laughed.

I looked at my squadmate, expecting him to crack a smile.

He didn’t.

Neither did anyone else.

The man waited until my laughter died, then continued calmly.

“Sasquatch are real,” he said. “Not folklore. Not misidentified bears. Real creatures.”

He described them as a remnant hominid species—intelligent, incredibly strong, perfectly adapted to deep wilderness. He said government agencies actively suppress evidence to avoid the complications of acknowledging an endangered intelligent species.

I kept waiting for the punchline.

It never came.

He pulled up photos. Trail-cam images. Blurry shapes moving through trees.

Then he showed us crime scene photos.

Three dead hikers. Torn apart. Wounds that didn’t match any known animal. Officially labeled bear attacks.

They weren’t.

A ranger had seen one two weeks earlier. Eight to nine feet tall. Dark reddish-brown fur. Walking upright. Humanlike eyes.

The mission was simple.

Track the creature to its den and eliminate the threat.

Off the books. No records. Fifteen thousand dollars each.

We had two hours to decide.

I stepped outside. My head was spinning. This couldn’t be real—but the photos were. Something had killed those people.

My squadmate joined me. He admitted he’d seen things in the woods before. Things he couldn’t explain.

He asked me to trust him.

Against every rational instinct I had, I stayed.

By late afternoon, nine of us lifted off—eight on the ground team, plus the pilot. Endless forest stretched beneath us. Mountains rose in the distance.

We landed in a clearing half a mile from the suspected den site.

Six men moved into the forest. My squadmate led them.

Richards—a former Marine—and I stayed behind to secure the landing zone.

The silence hit me first.

No birds. No animals. Nothing.

Twenty minutes in, the radio crackled. Tracks found. Large. Not human. Not bear.

Then Richards raised his rifle.

Something massive moved at the edge of the clearing.

It stepped into view.

Eight and a half feet tall. Dark fur. Arms hanging past its knees. Almost human—almost.

Richards fired.

The creature took the hit.

It didn’t fall.

I fired. Hit it in the shoulder.

It roared.

And then it charged.

We fired again and again. Blood sprayed. It kept coming.

The pilot spun up the rotors.

The creature reached the helicopter and leapt.

It grabbed the skid with one hand.

The helicopter lifted—and then started dropping.

The creature tried to pull us down.

The pilot swung an emergency axe and buried it into the creature’s hand.

It roared and released.

Barely.

When it finally fell, it landed in a crouch and looked at us—not enraged, not panicked.

Calculating.

Then it ran.

Toward the rest of our team.

The radio erupted.

“Multiple contacts.”

That’s when I understood.

There wasn’t just one.

By the time we reached the ravine, it was chaos.

Six men scattered. Two already dead.

Massive shapes moved through the trees—coordinated, flanking, deliberate.

This wasn’t animal behavior.

They pulled back when they’d made their point.

They let us tend our wounded.

They let us leave.

Even when they crippled the helicopter.

Even when three of them stood in the clearing watching us limp away.

They didn’t chase.

They didn’t need to.

We understood the message.

This was their home.

We survived because they allowed it.

The contractor shut the operation down. Paid us anyway. Made us sign ironclad NDAs.

The area was quietly closed.

The bodies were never recovered.

I fixed my roof. Got my dental work done. Tried to forget.

But I never hike deep wilderness anymore.

Because some things aren’t myths.

Some borders aren’t marked on maps.

And sometimes, the smartest thing a creature can do… is let you live.

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