I Saved Bigfoot From a Grizzly Bear, Then Something Amazing Happened – Sasquatch Encounter

🐻 The Decision on the Ridge: A Hunter’s Impossible Pact

Last fall, I did something that still keeps me up at night. I saved the life of something that, according to everything I know about the world, shouldn’t exist. This isn’t about bragging; it’s about what happened when I made a split-second decision to help a creature that was dying right in front of me, a creature with a face too human to ignore.

It was mid-October, right in the heart of hunting season. I live in a remote part of Alaska, where the nearest town is forty miles away. I’d been hunting these woods for over fifteen years, and I knew them like most people know their neighborhood streets. My hunting trips are necessary—I have a family to feed, and winters here can last seven months.

The plan was to hike about six or seven miles into the dense forest, good moose territory. The hike in was uneventful at first, but after about two hours, something changed. The forest was too quiet.

I stood there for a solid five minutes, just listening. Not even the rustle of small animals. It was an oppressive silence, a primal signal that a predator was nearby. When the forest goes completely silent, it usually means danger. I started checking for tracks—bear, moose, wolf—but found nothing fresh. The unease built in my gut. I seriously considered turning back, but my freezer was looking pretty empty, so I pushed on, my rifle ready.

💥 The Roar and the Scream

I’d gone maybe another mile when I heard it. A sound in the distance, maybe half a mile away, maybe more.

It was a roar. Deep, powerful, unmistakably a grizzly bear. Grizzlies don’t make that sound unless they’re aggressive, fighting, or defending something. But mixed in with that roar was something else: screaming, but not quite human. It had the pitch and desperation of a human scream, but it was too deep, too guttural—the kind of sound that shouldn’t come from anything that walks on two legs. It made some ancient part of my brain scream at me to run.

The sounds continued—the grizzly roaring aggressively, the other thing screaming in pain and fury—mixed with the violence of branches breaking and heavy impacts. Every bit of training I had told me to stay the hell away. You don’t go toward a grizzly bear fight.

But those screams were too human. What if a hunter was out here dying? I knew it was probably stupid, but I couldn’t walk away. I checked my rifle, made sure I had a round chambered, and started moving toward the sounds, carefully, slowly, keeping to the thickest parts of the forest for cover.

🦍 The Battle in the Clearing

I positioned myself behind a fallen log, forty yards from where the sounds were coming from. What I saw made me stop breathing.

There was a grizzly bear in the clearing. A huge one, probably 800 pounds. And it was fighting something I’d never seen before, something that shouldn’t exist.

The creature was massive, eight or nine feet tall when fully upright, covered in dark brown fur. It walked on two legs like a human, but it was built like nothing human—broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and arms thick with muscle.

Its face—that’s what got me. It was partially ape-like, but there was something profoundly human about the forward-set eyes and the complex, nuanced expression. There was thought there, awareness, intelligence.

And it was fighting for its life with only one arm. The creature’s left arm hung uselessly at its side, withered and atrophied, clearly an old injury. It was using a six-foot branch like a club, swinging it at the bear, trying to keep distance, but it was tiring. Blood was running down its torso from multiple wounds. In its eyes, I saw genuine terror, the kind that knows death is coming. This was a thinking being that knew it was about to die.

The grizzly was winning. The creature stumbled, and the bear charged.

🔥 The Flare and the Stare

I had maybe ten seconds to make a decision. I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t shoot the bear; one shot might not drop it, and it would turn its rage on me. I remembered the emergency flare in my pack. Bears hate fire, loud noises, and unpredictable light.

I reached into my pack, pulled out the flare, and stepped out from behind the log.

Both creatures stopped fighting immediately. A man, a grizzly bear, and a Bigfoot, all staring at each other in the clearing.

I struck the flare. It burst to life with a bright red flame and a loud hiss. Sparks flew. I held the flare high, making myself as big as I could, and started moving forward slowly, yelling and waving the flare in wide arcs.

The bear rose up on its hind legs, at least eight feet tall, and roared. I held my ground, pointed the flare at the bear, and took another step forward. The bear dropped back to all fours, head swinging, confused by the light and noise. It backed up a step, then another.

Then it made its decision. It turned and crashed into the forest, moving fast for something so big, until the sound was gone.

🙏 A Gesture of Thanks

My entire body was shaking. I had just chased off an 800-pound grizzly bear with nothing but a flare.

The creature was still standing there, staring at me. Up close, it was even more massive, easily nine feet tall. Its breathing was ragged, and blood was dripping steadily. Then, slowly, like a building collapsing, it dropped to its knees, exhausted.

I stuck the spent flare in the ground between us. I pulled out my water flask and some beef jerky and tossed them halfway between us, making sure my movements were slow and obvious.

The creature’s head lifted. It looked at the items, then looked at me. Its dark, deep eyes met mine, and I swear I saw understanding and recognition there. It picked up the flask, fumbled the cap open, and drank the entire liter and a half without stopping. Then it ate the jerky.

When it finished, it looked back at me and did something that made my throat tight. It nodded, a slow, deliberate nod, just like a human would. Then it bowed its head slightly. A gesture that was unmistakable: thanks.

This wasn’t an animal. This was something else entirely.

🦯 The Makeshift Crutch

The creature tried to stand up, pushing with its good arm, but it couldn’t balance without the use of its left. It fell back down, a grunt of frustration escaping it.

I realized it was trapped. It needed something to push off from. I spotted a large, straight branch, about six feet long, and retrieved it. I walked over to the creature, holding the branch up so it could see it. I demonstrated what I was thinking, placing the branch under my armpit and miming how to use it for support.

The creature watched carefully, its eyes following every movement. I held out the branch. This was a moment of absolute trust. It reached out, its massive hand dwarfing the branch, and took it from me.

It positioned the branch under its good arm, adjusted it, and then, using the branch as a lever and brace, it pushed down and stood up. It rose to its full height, swaying slightly but standing. The intelligence was real: it had understood my demonstration and adapted the technique immediately.

It looked at me again, and the nod was deeper, a clear gesture of gratitude and respect. Then it turned and started moving, slowly and carefully, heading deeper into the forest.

🏔️ The Farewell on the Ridge

I followed, keeping my distance. We moved through the eerily quiet forest for about a mile. The creature moved surprisingly quietly for its size, placing its feet carefully. Every so often, it would glance back at me, just checking.

We reached a rocky outcrop on the side of a small mountain. An entrance to a cave, partially hidden by logs and brush. This was home.

The creature stopped at the entrance and turned back to me one last time. We locked eyes. Another deep nod. Then it ducked its head and disappeared inside the cave.

I returned home, knowing I had to go back. The creature was wounded, unable to hunt, and likely to die of infection or starvation. I had interfered with nature; now I felt responsible.

Over the next eight days, I made the four-mile hike every morning, bringing supplies: water, dried meat, canned food, and fresh fish. Each day, the creature looked stronger. On the fifth day, it was sitting upright. By the eighth day, it was washing itself outside the cave and using natural medicines on its wounds. It looked almost normal.

On the last morning, I arrived and saw movement high up on the ridge above the cave. The creature was standing there, at its full height, no crutch in sight, silhouetted against the gray sky.

It looked powerful, magnificent. It looked right at me across the distance. Then it gave me one more nod, the deepest of all—acknowledgement, gratitude, farewell.

It held up its good arm, palm facing me, fingers spread in what looked unmistakably like a wave or a salute. Then it turned and walked away, moving steadily and powerfully into the deep forest. Its gait was smooth now, no longer labored. It was gone, swallowed by the wilderness.

I hiked up to the cave one last time. It was empty. The crutch I’d given it was lying near the entrance, abandoned as no longer needed. I left it there, a silent marker.

I never saw the creature again, but sometimes I find tracks that might be from it—footprints too big to be human in places where no human should be. And knowing that, knowing that a Bigfoot exists and survived and is out there living its life, makes the wilderness a more amazing place than I ever imagined.