Hunter Found a Rotting Bigfoot, And What Was Inside Him Will Shock You – Sasquatch Encounter Story

🌲 The Unraveling: A Hunter’s Impossible Discovery in Olympic National Park

 

I never believed in Bigfoot until the day I found one lying dead in the forests of Olympic National Park. And what I discovered connected to that creature changed everything I thought I knew about them. Let me start from the beginning because this story needs to be told exactly as it happened.

My name is Marcus Webb, and I’ve been a professional hunter for 23 years. Not the weekend type who goes out with friends to shoot a deer and drink beer. I’m the guy wildlife authorities call when there’s a problem bear near private property or when a cougar starts wandering too close to residential areas. I track, I capture, and when necessary, I help resolve situations that pose a risk to people. It’s a job that takes experience, but someone has to do it.

It was mid-October 2023. Elk season had just begun in Washington State. I had a special license to hunt in a remote area of Olympic National Park near the border with the Olympic National Forest. The region was known for its dense forests of Douglas fir and western hemlock, trees so old they’d been standing since before the Civil War. It was the kind of place you could walk for days without seeing another human being.

I had parked my Ford F250 pickup on an old logging road, abandoned for at least 30 years, covered in moss and ferns. I loaded my pack with supplies for three days: my .300 Winchester Model 70 rifle, extra ammunition, a first aid kit, a camping tent, a sleeping bag rated for 20 degrees, a LifeStraw water filter, Mountain House dehydrated meals, and my Garmin GPS. I also carried my Ka-Bar hunting knife, a Petzl headlamp, and a walkie-talkie, though I knew I wouldn’t get any radio signal for most of the trip.

The plan was simple: follow a deer trail I’d scouted two weeks earlier, set up camp near a small creek called Whiskey Creek, and spend two days tracking a mature bull elk. The area was known for some truly impressive bulls, racks that could easily score high in the Boone and Crockett system.

The hike to my campsite took about four hours. The trail climbed steadily through thick forest, crossing small streams and winding around huge fallen trees covered in bright green moss. The smell of the forest was overwhelming, a mix of damp earth, natural decay, and the sharp scent of pine. Every now and then, I saw signs of wildlife: fresh deer tracks, bare claw marks on tree trunks, a few blue grouse feathers on the ground.

When I finally reached Whiskey Creek around 3:00 in the afternoon, the sun was already starting to dip behind the mountains. I set up my camp in a small clearing about 50 yards from the creek, pitched my North Face tent, organized my gear, and started a fire with some dry twigs I’d found sheltered beneath a large hemlock. Dinner was simple: dehydrated beef stroganoff mixed with hot water. I sat back in my folding camping chair, planning the next day’s hunt.

Night fell fast in that forest. By 6:00 p.m., it was pitch black. I kept the fire going, more for company than warmth, and listened to the sounds of the night: owls calling in the distance, the occasional snap of a branch, the steady murmur of the creek. It was peaceful in a way you just don’t find near civilization.

Around 9:00 p.m., I was ready to sleep. I stored all my food in a bear-proof canister, hung it about 100 yards from camp, just as safety protocol demanded. I checked my rifle, made sure it was loaded but on safety, and set it beside me inside the tent. Then I crawled into my sleeping bag and switched off my headlamp.

🦨 The Foul Awaking

 

I must have been asleep for about three hours when I woke up to a smell. Not the normal scent of the forest. Something else, something wrong. It was strong, foul, the smell of decomposition, like something large had died and had been rotting nearby for days. The stench was so powerful it made me nauseous.

I turned on my headlamp and checked my watch: 2:47 a.m. The fire had burned down to faint embers that barely lit the camp. I stayed inside the tent for a few minutes, listening carefully. No movement, no sounds of animals, nothing unusual—just that smell, and it seemed to be getting stronger.

My first thought was that a bear had dragged a carcass close to my campsite. That would be a serious problem. Bears guarding their kills are cautious but extremely dangerous, and the last thing I wanted was to be camping near one. I knew I had to check it out, had to find out what was causing that odor.

I grabbed my rifle, switched off the safety, and stepped out of the tent. The night was cold, probably around $40^\circ$ F, and I could see my breath hanging in the air. I swept my headlamp across the camp. The trees stood like dark walls around the clearing, their branches throwing shifting shadows in the light. The smell was coming from the west, away from the creek.

I started walking slowly in that direction, rifle ready, finger off the trigger but prepared. With every step, the odor grew stronger, almost unbearable. I pulled a bandana from my pocket and tied it over my nose and mouth. It barely helped.

After about 200 yards through waist-high ferns and low pine branches, I saw something large and dark lying between two massive trees. At first, I thought it was a bear; the size matched. But as I got closer and my headlamp hit it fully, I realized I was wrong. It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t anything I’d ever seen before.

It was a body. A massive body covered in dark, tangled hair. It was lying on its back, long arms stretched out to the sides. And even in the weak light, even through the rot, I could clearly see what it was. It was a Bigfoot.

I’d heard the stories all my life. I grew up in Washington State, where tales of Sasquatch were as common as stories about salmon or Microsoft. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who’d seen one, but I never believed. I thought they were just legends, hoaxes, or misidentified bears. But there it was, lifeless on the forest floor, as real as the trees around it.

I approached slowly, heart pounding. The creature had to be at least eight and a half feet tall, maybe nine. Hard to tell exactly with the body bloated and swollen from decay. Its hair was dark brown, almost black in places, graying where it had fallen out in clumps. The skin beneath was thick and dark.

The face was the most shocking part. It resembled a gorilla, but not quite—flatter, with a heavy brow ridge and a massive jaw. The eyes were sunken shut. The nose was wide and flat, and the mouth hung slightly open, revealing large teeth, some sharp like canines, others broad and human-like molars.

I circled the body, keeping my distance, trying to process what I was looking at. The hands were enormous, almost the size of catcher’s mitts, with long fingers and thick, dirty nails. The feet were just as massive, easily 18 inches long, with articulated toes and a structure somewhere between human and primate.

Based on the state of decomposition, I estimated the creature had been there for at least a week, maybe two. There were no obvious signs of trauma, no visible wounds, no marks suggesting a fight with another animal. But there was something strange about the abdomen. The area was more swollen than the rest of the body, distended in a way that didn’t look natural.

🔎 The Disturbing Connection

 

I knew I should call the authorities. Report this immediately. This would be the discovery of the century: definitive proof that Bigfoot existed. But it was 3:00 in the morning, I was miles from any cell signal, and my walkie-talkie definitely wouldn’t reach anyone from here.

As I stood there staring at that impossible creature, my hunter’s mind began to turn. What had happened to it? Why was it here alone? And what was causing that abnormal swelling in the abdomen?

That’s when I remembered something I’d seen in the local news about three weeks earlier. A woman had gone missing in the area: Sarah Mitchell, 28, from Port Angeles. She was a hiking enthusiast, loved going out on solo trails. She’d left for a three-day hike in Olympic National Park and never came back. Search and rescue had looked for her for a whole week without finding a single trace.

A terrible thought began to form in my mind. Could it be possible? Could there be a connection between her disappearance and this creature?

I looked again at the distended abdomen. Something wasn’t right there. I had field-dressed hundreds of animals in my career—deer, elk, bears. I knew what a body was supposed to look like after a certain amount of time, and this didn’t look right.

Against all my better judgment, against all logic and caution, I decided I needed to understand what was going on here. Not just out of curiosity, but because if there was any chance, any possibility, that this was connected to the disappearance of Sarah Mitchell, I had an obligation to find out.

I took my Ka-Bar knife from my belt, took a deep breath through my bandana, and steeled myself for what I was about to do. I had to know the truth.

I knelt beside the body, adjusting my headlamp. The hide was incredibly thick, much thicker than any animal I’d ever worked with. It took more pressure than I expected to make the initial incision. When the blade finally broke through, an even fouler odor escaped, making me turn my head and cough.

I made a careful cut about 12 inches long. Everything was in an advanced state of decay, but I kept working, slowly widening the opening. That’s when I started to see something that shouldn’t have been there. It was tissue, yes, but not from the Bigfoot. The texture was different. The color was different. And then I saw something that left no doubt: a piece of clothing.

My heart began to race. Carefully, I used the tip of my knife to pull some of the material out. It was synthetic fabric, the kind used in modern hiking jackets. Bright red, or it had been before it became stained and deteriorated. And there was a small embroidered logo I could still make out: it was from Columbia Sportswear.

I remembered the missing person posters I’d seen all over Port Angeles. Sarah Mitchell was last seen wearing a red Columbia hiking jacket.

My hands were trembling now. I kept examining, carefully, moving the decomposed tissue aside. Then I found more evidence: small bits of material that clearly didn’t belong to the Bigfoot—a fragment that looked like denim, probably jeans; a piece of rubber that might have been from a hiking boot sole.

And then something that confirmed my worst fears. Buried deeper in the stomach contents, I found something small and shiny. I used the knife to carefully pull it out and wiped it on the moss beside me. It was a pendant, a small silver heart-shaped pendant on a thin silver chain.

I took my water bottle, poured some over the pendant, and rubbed gently with my thumb. Slowly, the letters became visible. It was an inscription: “To Sarah, with love, Mom and Dad, 2015.”

I sat back on my heels, my mind racing. There was no more doubt. This creature had something to do with the disappearance of Sarah Mitchell. But how? Why? Bigfoot were supposedly peaceful creatures, avoiding humans at all costs.

🔪 The Dark Revelation

 

I continued my investigation for another 30 minutes, mentally documenting everything. The stomach contents showed that something terrible had happened, something that went against everything we thought we knew about these creatures. I looked again at the creature’s face, trying to understand what could have caused this.

What had happened to the Bigfoot itself? I examined the body again, this time looking for any signs of trauma that might explain the creature’s death. There were no obvious external wounds. But then I noticed something strange about the creature’s mouth. Leaning in closer, I used my knife to gently pry open the jaw. The smell that came out was more chemical, more artificial. And then I saw something caught between the back teeth: a small piece of colored plastic, part of an energy bar wrapper.

It was a theory that made some sense. Wild animals often get sick after eating human food; their digestive systems aren’t adapted to preservatives, artificial colors, and chemicals. For a creature like this, one that had probably never eaten anything but natural forest food, the effects could have been severe.

But that still didn’t explain the original event. I’d spent my entire life studying predators—bears, cougars, wolves—and one thing they all have in common is that they don’t attack humans without a reason.

I began to examine the rest of the body more carefully, looking for signs of illness or old wounds. That’s when I noticed something on the creature’s left hind leg. The skin there was marked and scarred, the hair growing back in uneven patches. It looked like an old wound, maybe months old. I parted the hair and examined the scar more closely. It was extensive, running about eight inches along the back of the thigh.

The shape of the scar didn’t look natural. It didn’t look like the kind of injury that would come from a fight with another animal or from an accident in the forest. It looked almost like a trap wound.

That changed everything. If this creature had been injured by an illegal hunting trap, that could explain an altered behavior. A wounded animal is an unpredictable one. Pain and stress can make even the most peaceful creatures act in unexpected ways.

I pictured the scene in my head. The Bigfoot, already wounded and likely in chronic pain from that leg injury, encounters Sarah Mitchell on the trail. Maybe she was startled. Maybe she screamed or tried to run. That could have triggered a predatory response, especially if the creature was weakened and struggling to find its normal food sources. It wasn’t a justification, but it was an explanation.

I took the pendant and a few of the larger fragments of clothing, carefully placing them in a Ziploc bag from my backpack. These would be crucial evidence for the authorities. Evidence that could finally give the Mitchell family the answers they deserved.

I looked up at the sky. It was still dark, but there was a faint brightness on the eastern horizon. It must have been around 4:30 a.m. I knew what I had to do. I had to get back to my camp, gather all my gear, return to my truck, and drive until I had cell service.

I used my Garmin GPS to record the exact coordinates. Then I used my knife to carve distinct marks into several trees around, creating a pattern I could later describe to the search teams. I also stacked a few stones in an unnatural formation near the body, something clearly human-made.

Before leaving, I looked one last time at the Bigfoot lying there. Despite what had happened, I felt a strange sadness. This was a magnificent being, probably one of the last of its kind. And it had died here, alone, sick from something its body couldn’t process. Two tragedies, I thought: Sarah Mitchell and this creature, both victims of circumstances that should never have crossed paths.

📞 Bringing the Truth to Light

 

The hike back to my camp felt like an eternity. Every sound in the forest made my heart jump. The snap of a branch, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl. Everything felt amplified, charged with new meaning. I wasn’t alone out here. I never had been.

When I finally reached my clearing, the sky was beginning to lighten. I wasted no time. I immediately started breaking camp, fueled by the urgency of what I’d discovered. I slung my backpack over my shoulders, grabbed my rifle, and started the four-hour trail back to where I’d parked my truck.

I reached my truck a little after 8:00 a.m. The sun was fully above the horizon now, bathing the forest in golden light. I tossed my pack into the bed and climbed into the cab. I began driving back towards civilization.

It took nearly 45 minutes before I finally reached an area where my phone showed signal. One bar, then two. I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed my phone, and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My name is Marcus Webb,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m a licensed hunter and I need to report… I’ve found evidence connected to the missing person case of Sarah Mitchell.”

A brief pause. “Sir, could you repeat that?”

“Sarah Mitchell, the woman who went missing in Olympic National Park three weeks ago. I found evidence, personal items belonging to her. I need to speak to someone from the King County Sheriff’s Department immediately.”

About 20 minutes later, a sheriff’s department SUV appeared, lights flashing. Two officers got out. The older one introduced himself as Deputy Sheriff Tom Brennan.

“Mr. Webb,” Brennan finally said, his voice carefully neutral. “Are you aware that making a false report to the authorities is a crime?”

“I’m aware, sir, and I’m not making a false report.” I walked to the passenger door of my truck and grabbed the Ziploc bag containing the evidence I’d collected. “Here. This is a necklace I found. It has an inscription: ‘To Sarah, with love, Mom and Dad, 2015.’ These are fragments of a red Columbia jacket. And this piece of fabric is from jeans.”

I handed the bag to Brennan. He took it, examining the contents through the clear plastic. Recognition flashed in his eyes. He had the younger deputy retrieve a case photo, a picture of Sarah Mitchell wearing the heart-shaped pendant.

“My God,” the younger deputy murmured.

“Mr. Webb, I’m going to need you to take us to the location where you found this immediately,” Brennan said with new intensity.

⛰️ The Classified Task Force

 

Over the next 30 minutes, that remote stretch of highway turned into a hub of activity. More sheriff’s department vehicles arrived. An FBI van pulled in. A team from the King County Medical Examiner was dispatched, and a group from Search and Rescue showed up. This was no longer just a missing person case; it was a federal incident.

Brennan assigned a six-person team to make the initial hike with me: himself, Deputy Collins, two members of Search and Rescue, an FBI investigator named Agent Morrison, and a medical examiner named Dr. Chen.

I led the group back to the spot. After two grueling hours, we started to smell the stench again. I pointed ahead. There it was, the massive, impossible body of the Bigfoot.

“My god,” Morrison whispered, his hand going instinctively to his sidearm.

Dr. Chen knelt beside the body, professional, but her eyes wide. She confirmed the decomposition was consistent with death 10 to 14 days ago and confirmed the presence of “organic matter… inconsistent with the creature’s biology” in the abdominal incision I had made. The truth was now confirmed by multiple law enforcement and scientific eyes.

An all-day forensic investigation ensued, later joined by a wildlife specialist from the University of Washington, Dr. Richard Hartley. He confirmed the initial findings, noting the creature’s unique skeletal structure and the significance of the scar on its leg, agreeing it appeared to be a trap wound.

“This is going to rewrite everything we thought we knew about primates in North America,” Dr. Hartley said. He argued the incident was a tragic anomaly: a wounded, sick, and desperate creature making a non-typical predatory choice.

Days later, back in Sequim, after signing a stack of non-disclosure agreements, I received an unexpected visit from Agent Morrison and an older man, Dr. Stevens from the Department of the Interior.

“We’ve been tasked with determining whether there is a population of Sasquatch living within our national parks and forests, and if so, how to protect them while ensuring public safety,” Dr. Stevens explained. “We need your help. Your experience as a tracker, your knowledge of these forests… make you invaluable. We’re assembling a field research team, and we’d like you to be part of it.”

“You’re offering me a job hunting Bigfoot?”

“Not hunting,” Dr. Stevens corrected. “Studying, documenting, protecting.”

I thought about the two tragedies, Sarah Mitchell and the magnificent, compromised creature.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “But on one condition. Whatever we find, whatever Sasquatch we encounter, they’re protected no matter what. They won’t be hunted, captured for zoos, or exploited. They stay free in their forests.”

Dr. Stevens smiled. “Mr. Webb, that’s exactly the attitude we need on this team. You have a deal.”

And so began a new chapter of my life. I spent the next several months working with a small, classified task force. We set up trail cameras, analyzed footprints, and tested environmental DNA. We found evidence of more Sasquatch—a small, vulnerable population of perhaps 50 to 100 individuals scattered across the vast forests of the Pacific Northwest. We implemented quiet protections—discreetly designating certain areas off-limits for development and aggressively removing illegal traps.

The official public statement remained simple: Sarah Mitchell perished in an “unfortunate wildlife encounter.”

I still do this work today. I haven’t seen another living Sasquatch, but I continue to track signs, ensuring these magnificent beings can continue to exist without human interference. My job isn’t to drag these beings into the light, but to ensure the shadows where they live remain untouched and safe.

I never believed in Bigfoot, but then I found one and discovered something that changed my understanding of the world. I learned that the line between legend and reality is thinner than we think. And I learned that sometimes the greatest discoveries come with the greatest responsibilities.