“Bigfoot, Moonlight, and Mischief: What Could Possibly Go Wrong for a Group of Boys by the Creek?”

A Night in Sasquatch Valley: An Encounter to Remember

Hi there, and welcome to Buckeye Bigfoot! You know how people say kids can find trouble when they’re not even looking for it? Well, that’s true, but sometimes trouble finds those kids when it’s not looking for them either. And that’s kind of what happened one night…

It was a dark night when something rose up out of the water, looking mean as all get out. How about I just tell you the story as we ride down the trail into Sasquatch Valley? So grab your snacks and get ready. When we get back, if you’re inclined, you can hang out by the fire for a few updates. Otherwise, I’m ready. Are you? Let’s go!

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A Small Town in Alabama

I grew up in a very small town at the top end of Morgan County, Alabama, back in the ‘70s. We had exactly two stoplights on the main street, one grocery store, one hardware store, a post office, and a couple of tiny miscellaneous shops. The hot summers seemed to stretch on forever, which, as kids, was paradise.

All us kids had bikes, pocket knives, and maybe a cane pole. That was all the freedom we needed. My best buddy was Ronnie, and we quickly figured out that Crooked Creek was the best place to catch catfish. They weren’t out in the open, mind you; the good ones stacked up in the deep holes right under the old wooden bridge.

Now, picture this bridge—older than my granddaddy, with gray, rotting planks. The creek water was black and slow-flowing beneath it. At night, you could smell the mud before you were near enough to hear the water trickling. We always went at night because that’s when the catfish were hungry.

The Night of the Encounter

One July evening, the summer air was thick with humidity, making it feel more like breathing syrup. The bullfrogs were thumping on the bank, and Ronnie nudged me, saying, “Hey, let’s sneak out to the bridge. I bet we haul in a mess of catfish.” Without thinking, I agreed.

We grabbed our rods and jars of stink bait and sneaked out long after our folks had gone to bed. The moon wasn’t fully up yet, but it was dark—real dark. The trees leaned in over the road, almost like they were listening to us, reminiscent of some old scary cartoon. It was the perfect night for catfishing.

By the time we reached the bridge, I noticed the crickets had hushed. I thought they quieted down because we were walking through, though they never hushed for us before. I didn’t want Ronnie to call me chicken, so I kept quiet.

The sky above was clear, and we could see stars and a sliver of the moon. The faint light allowed us to make out shapes in the shadows, and we settled under the bridge, ready for fishing. It was an idyllic summer night—hot and sticky, yes, but the water lapping against the banks created a steady rhythm. Tree frogs and cicadas provided a solid background noise, and the mosquitoes were just part of summer.

Then, after about 10 or 15 minutes, we heard it—a big, heavy splash, not the small splash of a fish or a bullfrog. I sensed something was waiting in the shallows upstream.

Ronnie whispered, “Deer?” I thought, no way. That sound was more like a two-legged person walking through the water. Then came a strange grunting noise, not loud, but like an involuntary grunt. It was unlike anything I had ever heard.

We both turned our heads upstream, and that’s when the smell hit us. It was like rotten eggs and wet dog left out in the sun on an Alabama summer day. It turned my stomach. Ronnie gagged and whispered, “What is that?” I couldn’t answer; I could barely breathe.

The water started getting closer, and I knew it was walking on two legs. The cadence of its steps was unmistakable: step, splash, drag. It sounded like legs too long for the water, with feet heavy enough to sink into the muddy bottom.

We pressed back against the bridge piling, our hearts hammering. I had my pocket knife out, thinking it would help, but then out of the shadows, it appeared.

The Creature Revealed

At first, I thought it was a man. It was very tall, broad-shouldered, with arms that hung low. But then it bent down, and I saw the thin shine of moonlight on hair, not skin. Thick black hair clung to it like wet carpet. There was no mistaking it—definitely not skin or clothing. Unless someone was wearing a fur coat on a hot summer night in Alabama—a very, very big someone.

It leaned into the current, swinging its arm out, and in seconds, it scooped up a catfish, roughly the size of my leg. It lifted it effortlessly, avoiding the pectoral and dorsal fins, repositioning the wriggling fish to belly up before taking a large bite out of the middle. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing; it was surreal.

The sound of that wet, squishy bite echoed under the bridge. Suddenly, a low night breeze brushed against us, carrying our scent. The creature lifted its head, sniffed the air, and then turned its head right at us.

From the moonlight, I could see two amber eyes glowing in the dark, wide apart and not round like a deer’s. Those eyes locked on us like it had been hunting for us all night. Next to me, Ronnie made a noise in his throat, and that tiny sound was all it took. The creature rose to its full height, water pouring off its body, dropped the catfish, and let out a growl that I felt in my ribs.

I don’t even remember standing up. One second I was crouched down, and the next, I was running full speed, smacking my shins on roots and crashing through brush. It’s a wonder I didn’t run into a tree. Ronnie was right behind me, both of us too scared to do anything but run. We didn’t stop until we hit the county road, gasping for air. Our fishing rods and gear were left behind at the creek.

Aftermath and Reflection

Shaky legs got us home, and along the way, we promised not to tell anyone about what we saw. I went back to that bridge many times, but never alone and never at night. I rode my bike over it more than a few times that summer and noticed fish heads and bones scattered on the rocks below, picked clean. I told myself it was raccoons or maybe a weird homeless person eating raw fish, but I didn’t really believe that.

Two days later, I returned to the bridge with Ronnie. I looked over where our stuff should have been, but there was nothing. Anyone could have come along and taken it, but we thought that creature got rid of it. Our young minds believed that, anyway. Today, I’m not sure. Maybe it was just a homeless person after all.

But we didn’t believe for one second that it was a person at all. I know what I saw standing in that creek under the moonlight, eating catfish, and it wasn’t any man. There’s only one word for it: Bigfoot. And yes, we have them in our area.

I don’t live there anymore, but even if I did, you wouldn’t catch me down there on dark nights—not even as a grown man.

Some people say they don’t know exactly what they saw, while others, like the author of tonight’s encounter, know exactly what they saw, even if they didn’t have a word for it at the time. Even when they are very young, they believe they know.

Remembering Dr. Jeffrey Meldrum

Now, on a more somber note, I have some sad news to share. We lost a very important person in the Bigfoot community yesterday—Dr. Jeffrey Meldrum. His family announced that he passed away from brain cancer. I wish I could say I knew him well, but I did meet him briefly in 2019 at a Bigfoot festival in Ohio. He was genuinely kind, with no apparent ego, and he encouraged me to keep at my channel.

Dr. Meldrum was a strong scientific voice advocating for Bigfoot research, and we have much to thank him for. I hope he knew it before it was too late, and he will be sorely missed.

Conclusion

Well, that brings us to the end of tonight’s video. I have a million more things I’d like to say, but I just don’t have the heart for it tonight. It’s been a tough couple of weeks here in the United States. I’m going to have a cup of coffee and sit on my back porch for a while.

Thank you for joining me on this journey tonight. Until we meet again, always remember: absence of proof is not proof of absence, and don’t be afraid to ask questions.