My Father Asked Me to Burn His Journal After He Died—Last 40 Years of Entries Were All About Bigfoot

I had promised him I would burn it. Twice, he told me. The last time, three days before the stroke took the rest of him, he gripped my wrist so hard the mark lingered. I nodded, and I meant it. I always do what my father asks.

But that Sunday afternoon in the spring of 2019, I sat at the kitchen table with that journal open in front of me and I knew I would never strike the match. Forty years of his handwriting sprawled before me, from 1978 to 2018, shifting in ink and tremor as the decades passed. Every single page chronicled the same impossible thing: the creature he had seen in the woods behind our property, the one he had spent the back half of his life feeding, observing, and protecting, and the one he had kept secret from me all those years .

My name is Glenn Tanner. I’m 61 now, but I spent thirty-four years as a land surveyor in Skagget County, Northwest Washington, walking section corners and property lines through the dense second-growth timber of the lower Skagget Valley. I retired in 2017. My father, Harold Tanner, was a surveyor before me. He taught me to read a topographic map before he taught me to drive. And he died at 86, in a hospital bed in Mount Vernon, with me holding one hand and a hospice nurse holding the other.

I want to be careful here because everything that follows depends on you understanding the man who wrote that journal. He was practical, disciplined, and skeptical. He didn’t believe in ghosts or astrology. He measured the world with chains, degrees, and careful observation, and he trusted nothing without a number to back it up. And yet, this man—who spent his life in evidence and measurement—had spent four decades chronicling a creature the world insisted did not exist .

The house we live in sits at the end of Cumberland Creek Road, nine miles east of Cedro Woolly, on forty acres that my grandfather bought in 1941. Behind it, the land rises steeply into timber that continues for miles, joining the Mount Baker Snoqualmie National Forest and stretching into the North Cascades. Walk far enough, and you could reach Canada without crossing a paved road. My father had spent forty years quietly monitoring that land, and in those woods lived something that defied everything I thought I knew about the world .

The first journal entry, October 9th, 1978, was simple. He had been clearing blowdown along the east fence line and found a print in the soft soil at the bottom of the drainage: sixteen and a quarter inches long, seven and three-quarters across the ball of the foot. Five toes, gripping the soil. Not a bear. No bear had a foot that size. And he wrote the line that stopped me every time: “I am not going to tell June. She worries enough.”

He had carried that secret alone for forty years, keeping it from my mother, from me, and from everyone who might question or interfere. I did not know the magnitude of that secret until the day I sat down with the journal, expecting to honor his wishes and burn it.

The early entries chronicle a man grappling with the impossible. He returned to the drainage, measured prints of different sizes, noted soil conditions, sketched them to scale, logged weather and dates—methodically building a case that he never wanted to reach a conclusion on. Then came the sounds. In 1979, after months of hearing them, he finally wrote about the low, rising, and falling calls echoing down the ridges at night. Two of them, calling back and forth across his property. He had stood in his Union suit at 2 a.m., listening from the porch, hair standing on end, realizing no animal made that sound .

Yet, the practicality of his entries remains striking. He determined that the creatures had kept their distance from the house, posed no threat, and that he and his family were safe. That is my father in one paragraph: a man who weighed evidence against fear and went back to bed because the evidence said he could.

By 1981, the journal entries shift. The man is no longer trying to disprove what he saw but attempting to understand it. A winter day, January 19th, 1981, he saw one of them: not a print, not a sound, the creature itself. It stood forty yards away, between two towering second-growth firs, completely still. Tall doesn’t begin to describe it. Head and shoulders above any man he had known, chest broad, arms long. Covered in dark brown-black hair, longer at the forearms, shorter across the face. The face—the part that surprised him—was lined, expressive, with deep-set eyes. It looked at him as one man measures another across a property line. They stood for nearly a minute in mutual acknowledgment. Then it stepped back into the timber and vanished, quietly, deliberately. My father wrote: “It was not angry. It was just deciding.”

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After that, the entries change again. He begins leaving food at the Low Rock, a flat glacial erratic at the bottom of the east drainage, a consistent delivery point across the decades. Windfall apples, potatoes, venison, everything laid with care. The creatures took what they needed, and sometimes, as in spring 1986, left gifts in return—a fan of freshly pulled salmonberries laid neatly on the rock. “I came down here to manage them. I am no longer certain who has been managing whom,” he wrote .

My mother eventually became part of the secret. Watching from the kitchen window, she observed without interference. My father meticulously recorded her observations. By the 1990s, the creatures were identified by simple names: the Old Man, the Gray, and younger ones gradually coming of age. A family unit, raising young, passing knowledge, and coordinating around human presence. My parents, the only humans privy to their existence, had cultivated a silent, respectful relationship, one of trust and consistency. Forty years of careful correspondence, mutual respect, and unspoken understanding.

When my father passed in 2018, the journal’s final entries, the last months of his life, detailed his concern about continuity. The Low Rock, the deliveries, the family in the timber—all were now dependent on me. He did not know if I would continue, if the creatures would receive the care and regularity they had for decades. His last line: “I will not get many more trips down here. I do not know what becomes of them when I am gone.”

That Sunday evening in spring 2019, I opened the journal, intending to burn it, and discovered the weight of my inheritance. The anger, grief, and awe washed over me in equal measure. I went into the barn, not to burn it, but to prepare. The Low Rock still awaited care. The creatures would come at dusk, as always. I stood before the rock in the dark, saying aloud for the first time, “I am sorry.” Silence answered, but it was a silence full of awareness, of attention. The East Drainage was listening, and I was part of it now .

The first months of taking up my father’s mantle were lonely and strange. Delivering apples, potatoes, and venison to the Low Rock, observing patterns, watching for movements in the timber. Reading his journal like a field manual, a moral and practical guide. There was no rush, no spectacle. Only the rhythm of the seasons, the consistency of offerings, and the patience of a family who lived in the shadows of our perception. The world outside remained oblivious, skeptical, unaware of the responsibility I now carried. But the knowledge was mine, and I could not leave it undone.

The journal was my father’s gift, his burden, and his trust. Forty years of observation, meticulous notes, and a quiet, enduring relationship with the unknown. He had kept me in the dark for decades, protecting both me and the creatures he loved. And now, as his son, I understood the scale of what he had preserved.

The apples went down the drainage every season. The Low Rock remained a silent witness. And I, inheriting both journal and responsibility, knew I could not, would not, betray the last forty years of care, patience, and extraordinary, quiet love for something the world refuses to acknowledge.

Spring 2019 came slowly, wet and hesitant. I drove back up Cumberland Creek Road for the first time alone, carrying nothing but a small sack of apples and the weight of forty years of secret labor. The forest had its own rules—timber dense, the second-growth firs close enough that every step was a negotiation, the ground a patchwork of sword ferns, fallen branches, and errant roots. I had walked this drainage hundreds of times with my father, but tonight it was different. Tonight, the journal burned itself into my memory, every entry a ghost whispering instructions I could not ignore.

By the time I reached the Low Rock, the last light of dusk had crept over the timber, lacing the needles with gold. The flat glacial erratic, half-buried in moss and frost, was familiar yet alien. There it was: the resting point, the place that had marked decades of understanding, patience, and unseen connection. The pile of old apple cores lay in the same corner as my father’s last delivery. The neatness, the unspoken ritual, the shared language of care and respect—these were not habits. They were a covenant, preserved in secrecy, and now passed to me.

I knelt beside the rock, feeling the imprint of his years, the imprint of theirs. For a moment, I considered the absurdity: a human standing in the dark, delivering apples to a creature the world insisted did not exist. And yet, I felt the presence. Not in shape or shadow, not in sound, but in the stillness, the attentive pause of the forest. The East Drainage was listening, as it always had been. My hands shook, not from fear, but from recognition. My father’s life had been a lifetime of invisible trust, and I was now accountable for maintaining it.

I left the apples and sat back, watching the timber for any sign, any movement. Hours passed. My mind raced, replaying journal entries in sequence: the prints, the low calls, the careful stacks of apple cores, the salmonberries, the intricate monitoring of seasons, the observation of young ones tucked behind the Gray, the Old Man’s measured patience. Every note was meticulous, unembellished, yet impossibly intimate. Forty years of watching, recording, understanding, and protecting a family of creatures beyond human comprehension.

When the first shadow moved, I froze. Not in fear, but in acknowledgment. A figure emerged, taller than any human I had ever seen, moving with deliberate slowness, its weight shifting across the snow without sound. The Old Man. I could see the streak of gray along its shoulders, the depth in its eyes, and the way it moved—not stalking, not hunting, but walking in the measured cadence of one who trusts yet observes. It approached the Low Rock and paused, acknowledging my presence with a subtle tilt of its head. I stood, heart pounding, uncertain whether to breathe or speak. I chose neither.

For the first time, I realized what my father had lived for, what he had protected, and what he had trusted me to continue. Forty years of practice had prepared me for this one moment, and yet I was unprepared. The Old Man did not leave footprints in the snow, did not rustle branches, did not emit any audible sign of presence. It was in the attention itself, the stillness that hung over the Low Rock like a tangible veil.

I knelt once more, placing my hand on the flat of the rock, and whispered, “I will care for this, as you did.” The air shifted slightly, a subtle acknowledgment. Not gratitude. Not understanding, not yet. But recognition. The kind that passes silently between two beings who share responsibility and history.

Weeks turned into months. Each visit followed the same rhythm: carrying apples and venison to the Low Rock, observing patterns, noting arrivals and departures, cataloging behaviors in my own journal, trying to reconcile forty years of my father’s meticulous observations with the reality of my own existence. The family remained consistent: the Old Man, the Gray, and occasional younger ones venturing farther from the high drainage, learning the contours of their inherited wilderness. The rhythm of seasons, the movement of snow, the timing of deliveries—all were lessons in patience and continuity.

The hardest part was understanding loneliness. My father had carried this burden alone for decades. He had maintained a double life, one public, one private, and in doing so had preserved an ecosystem, a community, a living history. The journal allowed me to walk alongside him, to trace the arc of his dedication, and yet I felt the gravity of solitude he had borne. By accepting this inheritance, I became part of it. Not a witness in theory, but a participant in practice, bound by responsibility to keep faith with beings the world would never acknowledge.

I developed my own routines, echoing his methodical approach. I tracked food preferences, the timing of visits, the interactions among the family members. I learned to read signs: broken branches, flattened snow, disturbed ferns. I left offerings with the same precision, never more, never less, always maintaining the balance. Over time, I began to see patterns my father had hinted at but never fully articulated. The creatures were intelligent, patient, and consistent. They recognized my presence, just as I recognized theirs. And in that recognition, trust formed—not blind, but deliberate, mutual, and enduring.

Evenings were the most challenging. Standing alone at the Low Rock, watching the forest for subtle movements, I felt both awe and fear, reverence and responsibility. The silence carried weight. The East Drainage listened. Every rustle, every shift in shadow was a reminder of the living network I had inherited. I was part of it now, and I understood the stakes. Failure to maintain the deliveries, the timing, the respect could disrupt a delicate balance established over decades. I thought of my father’s meticulous records, the careful measurements, the attention to detail, the humility, and the courage it took to sustain this hidden covenant.

I did not burn the journal. I could not. It remained a guide, a map, a chronicle of responsibility. Each line of handwriting, each note on the low rock, each observation of behavior, was a thread connecting me to my father, to the creatures, and to the wilderness itself. The journal became both artifact and mentor, teaching me the patience, the vigilance, and the integrity required to continue a relationship built on trust, secrecy, and careful observation.

The seasons passed. I followed the rhythms my father had established. Winter came, bringing deep snow and stillness. The  family descended in careful cadence, guided by instinct and memory, taking only what was necessary, leaving no trace beyond subtle signs. Spring and summer brought new growth, the Old Man moving higher, younger members exploring, and me maintaining the Low Rock, leaving provisions, and quietly observing, cataloging, and protecting. Forty years of accumulated knowledge guided my actions, and the forest responded in kind.

And then, one evening, as the sun set in the North Cascades and the timber glowed in gold and shadow, I realized the magnitude of what my father had entrusted me with. The Low Rock was no longer just a landmark. It was a nexus of interspecies understanding, a testament to forty years of patient observation, careful interaction, and mutual respect. The creatures had taught my father, and now they were teaching me, that the world beyond human perception is rich with life, complexity, and responsibility.

The journal, the Low Rock, the creatures—all were intertwined. And in that realization, I understood that my father’s greatest legacy was not the land, not the survey lines, not even the journal itself, but the continuity of care, the invisible covenant, and the enduring relationship he had nurtured with something the world refuses to believe exists.

I will continue to visit the Low Rock, to maintain the tradition, to honor the trust, and to learn. The creatures remain, observing, teaching, and living as they always have. And I, their human witness, will carry the weight of knowledge, the responsibility of stewardship, and the memory of a father who understood more than words could ever convey.