SASQUATCH CAUGHT Stealing Chickens On Security Camera | Bigfoot Encounter UP CLOSE

🏚️ The Devastation of the Bitterroot: A Farmer’s Escape

The creature that methodically dismantled my chicken coop stood nine feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur, and moved with a savagery that chilled me to the bone. I have watched the trail camera recording hundreds of times since that October night, and each viewing confirms the terrible truth: I wasn’t losing my mind. They were real, and they had been watching me far longer than I had been watching them. My name is Robert Patrick, and this is the story of why I abandoned the only home I’d known for sixty-three years in the Montana wilderness, fleeing into the night like a man possessed.

This is not fiction. This is why my five-generation family home stands empty, why I will never return, and why I sleep with the lights on in my son’s downtown Chicago apartment three states away.

🏔️ A Century of Solitude

For forty-two years, my wife Margaret and I built our life on 127 acres in the Bitterroot Mountains. Our nearest neighbor was eighteen miles down an impassible dirt road for much of the year. We lived the self-sufficient existence many city people only dream of, raising cattle, growing vegetables, and heating our home with wood I cut myself. After Margaret passed two years ago, my three successful children begged me to sell the ranch, citing the risks of living alone at my age with no cell service. But this land was in my blood. Four generations of Patricks were buried behind the house; I couldn’t leave.

I was not naive about the dangers of the wilderness—black bears, mountain lions, and wolves were common. I carried a loaded rifle and sidearm. But the deep woods always felt wrong, carrying a primitive instinctual warning. Over the years, I’d heard things I couldn’t explain: wood knocks echoing through the forest in strange patterns, and vocalizations that resembled ape calls but carried a chilling intelligence.

After Margaret’s death, the silence in the house was broken only by the night noises taking on a sinister quality. The wood knocks became frequent and deliberate, suggesting communication. The vocalizations grew bolder, sometimes answered from different directions. Most disturbing were the heavy, deliberate bipedal footsteps occasionally echoing from the treeline after dark.

🐔 The Trail Camera’s Truth

During my first summer alone, I found signs of something large: massive footprints too big for any known animal, bark stripped from trees at impossible heights, and deliberate arrangements of stones.

The first livestock kill was a young bull, its neck twisted at an impossible angle, but the carcass untouched. Two weeks later, I lost twenty-three chickens, not eaten, but killed with surgical precision, their bodies arranged in a rough triangle.

Following these strange incidents, my son Michael suggested installing a high-end trail camera to monitor the chicken coop. For the first month, it captured normal wildlife—raccoons, deer, foxes. But as October arrived, the forest fell into an unnatural silence. The cattle became skittish, clustering near the barn, terrified of something I couldn’t perceive.

The wood knocks returned with a vengeance, aggressive and complex, suggesting a widespread dialogue. The deep, guttural vocalizations were structured and intelligent. I was certain I heard what sounded like my name called from the darkness in a voice too deep and alien to be human.

The camera began capturing anomalies: fleeting shadows, bipedal heat signatures larger than any human, and glowing eyes reflected in the infrared flash, set too high and too far apart to belong to known animals. The creatures were growing bolder, conducting methodical reconnaissance—studying my routines, learning my habits.

🎬 October 23rd: The Final Viewing

By the third week of October, I was sleeping with my rifle, exhausted and paranoid. October 23rd started ordinarily, but by 9:00 p.m., the unusual silence pressed against the windows like a living thing. The cattle were huddled in the barn. I double-checked my weapons and fell into a fitful sleep.

I woke to a silence more profound than any I’d ever experienced. The chicken coop had been methodically dismantled, its wire mesh peeled away like aluminum foil, and the wooden frame ripped open. Twenty-three birds were slaughtered, some eaten, most killed and left in a scene of systematic destruction and malevolence.

My trembling hands retrieved the trail camera footage. At 11:47 p.m., the infrared camera revealed the truth:

A massive humanoid figure emerged from the treeline, moving with a fluid grace that contradicted its size. It stood easily nine feet tall, covered in dark fur. Its proportions were wrong: arms that hung nearly to its knees, a head set directly on massive shoulders. Its movement was terrifyingly intelligent.

The creature approached the coop with deliberate purpose. Its hands (not paws) worked with the precision of a master craftsman, peeling away the heavy gauge wire. The resulting slaughter lasted thirty-six minutes. It killed far more than it could eat, driven by destruction, not just hunger.

Most disturbing was the moment the creature looked directly into the camera. Its eyes reflected the infrared flash like twin coals. The intelligence in that gaze was unmistakable; this thing knew it was being recorded and was demonstrating its power for my benefit.

I knew then: Sasquatch was real. And it had been hunting on my property.

🏃 The Flight and the Desecration

I drove thirty-seven miles to Millerville in the pre-dawn darkness, terrified. When I showed Tom Kowalsski the trail camera footage, he was visibly shaken but suggested I contact the Forest Service. The duty ranger dismissed me, suggesting I had recorded a bear or was suffering from isolation and grief. Tom, too, began looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. I was completely alone with a truth no one would accept.

I returned to the ranch and spent two weeks reinforcing the coop, but I knew my efforts were symbolic. The cattle had vanished, and scattered, clean-picked bones proved my livestock were being systematically eliminated by an entity with human-level intelligence.

The final warning came on November 7th. The forest was too quiet, the wood knocks aggressively coordinating, and the guttural vocalizations indicated a group had gathered. When I finally threw my truck into reverse to flee, two massive figures, nine feet tall with dark matted fur, emerged from the treeline. They paused when my headlights hit them, their eyes reflecting the light like mirrors. Then, one raised a hand with a poseable thumb and pointed directly at me. The deliberate, human gesture broke my will. I floored the accelerator and fled.

Eight months later, I returned to retrieve my family heirlooms. What I found defied explanation: the house was systematically demolished, not by random damage, but by intelligent destruction. Furniture was kindling, windows were shattered from the inside, and the massive oak door was split. Every family photograph was shattered; Margaret’s jewelry box was emptied, its contents destroyed, not stolen. Massive handprints were pressed into the drywall, some eight feet high or on the ceiling, suggesting impossible movement.

The final horror: Margaret’s granite grave marker lay in pieces on the basement floor. The creatures had desecrated the dead, a methodical act of cruelty and revenge for my flight.

I gathered Margaret’s wedding ring and a single family Bible—all that remained—and fled for the final time. I sold the ranch sight unseen for a low price, lying that the house was damaged by weather and vandalism. I never warned the young couple who bought it.

I now live in a quiet suburb, monitoring the news from Montana obsessively. The young couple abandoned the ranch less than a year later, reporting strange sounds and disappearing livestock. The ranch remains empty, cursed. I carry the trail camera footage—thirty-six minutes of proof—that some legends are real, some monsters walk on two legs, and some truths are too dangerous for civilized society to accept. They are patient, intelligent, and utterly ruthless, and they are still watching the territory that humans enter at their own peril.