We Tracked Bigfoot Deep Into the Forest in Alaska Before It Went Wrong – Bigfoot Story Compilation

The Monongahela Nightmare: A Hunter’s Descent into the Unbelievable

I’m Tom, and I used to be a man who didn’t believe in monsters. For twenty years, these mountains were my familiar escape, the biggest worry being a black bear or a whiteout. But what happened last November to me, Ken, and Bobby in the Monongahela National Forest changed everything. The official report called it a bear attack—a ludicrous lie. Bears don’t plan. Bears don’t hunt humans like we’re prey. And bears sure as hell don’t seal you in a cave to die. I’m telling this story because people need to know the calculated, intelligent malice that lurks in the deep woods.

Ken, the tracker, Bobby, the camp manager and cook, and I had been hunting this spot for eight years. We chose a site twelve miles deep, far past where most hunters venture, a perfect habitat of oak and maple. Friday morning, November, we hiked three miles to a flat area beside a creek, sheltered and safe. That evening was exactly what we’d hoped for—steaks, beers, and strategy. Ken was confident, having found fresh deer sign within a hundred yards of camp.

The Tracks and the Grunt

Around midnight, a low, deep grunt like a pig sounded from across the creek. I brushed it off as a bear and went back to sleep.

We were up before dawn Saturday, fueled by coffee and confidence. Ken took the ridge, Bobby and I took the valley creek. The morning was productive, filled with fresh deer sign, though we passed on a small doe. Around noon, that confidence shattered. Bobby stopped dead, staring at something in the mud beside the creek.

It was a footprint clear as day, but unlike any known animal. It was huge—maybe 18 inches long and 8 inches wide—with five distinct toe marks. It looked almost human, yet massive, with thick, spread-out toes, indicating a creature accustomed to walking on rough ground. The print was deep, confirming immense weight. Bobby’s size 11 boot looked like a child’s shoe next to it. We found two more prints with a stride longer than any person, heading into thick brush.

Back at camp, even Ken, the seasoned tracker, shook his head. It wasn’t a bear walking on its hind legs; bear tracks don’t have five toes like that.

That second night, the forest felt different. Quieter, yet the snapping twigs and rustling leaves seemed louder, more deliberate. Around 2:00 a.m., the grunt returned, closer this time. Ken had been hearing movement for an hour—something big walking a complete circle around our campsite, staying just thirty yards out, beyond the flashlight’s reach. The prints we found Sunday morning confirmed it: huge, five-toed, and deep, indicating something heavy and walking upright had been watching us.

The Hunted and the Leanto

Unease morphed into fear. We broke camp and moved two miles downstream, seeking a more isolated spot where the creek bent around a steep hillside. Around noon, Ken found the source of our fear: a crude shelter, a leanto made from broken branches and dead logs, big enough for the creature we were tracking, and recently used. The ground was packed down, and scattered deer bones lay nearby. The stench was a mixture of rotting meat and a wild, musky smell that made our noses burn.

We decided to leave. But as we packed, the noises started. First, occasional wood knocking—Tap tap tap, then silence, then Tap tap tap from a different direction. Soon, we were surrounded, the knocking coming from all sides. When the knocking stopped, the forest fell into a complete, oppressive silence—no birds, no insects, no wind.

Twenty minutes into our hike back, the first howl came from behind us. It was not quite human, not quite animal, a sound that raised every hair on my neck. An answer came from the ridge, then another from the right. We realized we were being tracked by multiple creatures and were being herded.

We picked up the pace, Ken taking point, Bobby the rear. An hour later, Ken dropped to one knee. Fifty yards ahead, among the boulders, a shadow moved. It was massive, at least eight feet tall, covered in dark brown hair, with the build of a gorilla and arms that hung almost to its knees. The thing stood upright, watching us, making no attempt to hide. After thirty agonizing seconds, it let out a roar that shook the trees and started walking toward us—not running, but walking with the chilling confidence of a creature that knew its prey was trapped.

The Ambush and the Cliff

We turned and ran, crashing through the brush. Then Bobby stumbled and went down, his ankle twisted. We turned back to help and saw them: three of the creatures coming through the trees in a line, moving with purpose, like hunters who knew exactly what they were doing.

We half-carried, half-dragged Bobby toward a steep cliff face, only to find ourselves trapped against the rock. Ken made the decision that saved my life: we had to fight.

The first creature broke from the tree line. In the afternoon light, I saw it clearly: face almost human, but wrong—jaw too big, brow too heavy, eyes too small and completely black. Ken fired first, hitting it in the chest. It stumbled, but let out a scream of rage and pain and kept coming. Bobby’s shotgun boomed twice, dropping one creature. My rifle took down the biggest one, which immediately began crawling toward us like a wounded gorilla.

Then the attack hit. The wounded creature that Ken had shot reached us, grabbed him, and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing. I heard Ken’s ribs crack like dry wood. The second creature hit me from the side—like being tackled by a refrigerator—pinning me down, its breath horrible, like rotting meat and wet fur. I saw the black eyes, felt the fingers closing on my neck. Bobby’s shotgun blast saved me, catching the creature in the side of the skull.

I scrambled away. Ken was on the ground, lifeless, his body being shaken like a rag doll. More creatures crashed through the brush. We had killed three, but there were still others, and they were closing in.

After a final, desperate volley of shots that took down the last visible threat, we heard it: a whole pack of howls echoing from the forest. We couldn’t carry Ken’s body. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. We started climbing the cliff face, the rock loose and crumbly, the creatures crashing through the brush below.

We found a narrow ledge, barely wide enough for one person, leading to a gap in the ridge. As I squeezed through the tight opening, I felt massive fingers brush against my boot. I kicked backward, connecting with something solid, and scrambled through.

Sealed in the Tomb

We were in a new valley, lost, with Bobby limping badly. We hiked until darkness fell, finding a small cave—a hollow in the rock—for shelter. Sleep was impossible. All night, we heard heavy footsteps circling our hiding spot, something pushing against the branches we’d piled up. We sat in the dark, rifles ready, but they never broke through.

The next morning, we found the massive five-toed prints everywhere around the cave mouth. We had to get out of the valley, but around noon, the harassment started again. We saw them on the ridges, watching us, moving in a coordinated fashion like a pack of wolves. Then they started throwing rocks down—footballs of stone that shattered on impact—a calculated act of intimidation.

The valley narrowed into a canyon. Then we saw the biggest one yet, nine feet tall, built like a linebacker, blocking our path ahead. Another one appeared behind us, carrying what looked like a club. We were trapped in a pincer movement that showed chilling intelligence.

Bobby, in his panic, clicked an empty chamber. My final three rounds dropped the one with the club, but the other one charged, swinging its weapon. The club caught Bobby across the side of his head with a sound like a melon hitting concrete. He went down instantly.

I grabbed his rifle and ran, scrambling up the steep ridge until I found a narrow opening in the hillside—a cave just wide enough for me, but too small for them. I crawled in about fifteen feet until the passage narrowed to a stop.

Then I heard it: scraping sounds outside. Not a search party. As the sounds got closer, I realized what was happening: They were sealing me in. Grunts of effort, the sound of rock against rock. They were piling rocks in front of the opening, building a wall to trap me inside.

The faint light was blocked out completely. I was sealed in a tomb of my own choosing.

I clawed at the rocks until my fingernails broke. Thirst and hunger set in. I was going to die in that hole. On the second day, weak from dehydration, I heard the scraping sound again. This time, it was the sound of the rocks being moved away. I heard heavy footsteps move away, and then a thin beam of moonlight filtered through the cracks.

I waited until silence returned, then crawled out. The barrier had been partially dismantled, leaving a gap just wide enough for me to squeeze through. The forest was empty. Why would the creatures that had killed my friends and sealed me in a cave come back to let me out? It made no sense.

I stumbled through the forest for two days, weak and delirious, before a park ranger found me collapsed beside the road.

The Unbelieved Truth

When I told my story, nobody believed me. The official report said my friends died in a bear attack. I showed the photos of the five-toed prints, but digital photos can be faked. I described the creatures, their intelligence, the way they hunted us like prey. People treated me like I’d suffered a breakdown, something they needed to be gentle about but not necessarily take seriously.

I went to Ken and Bobby’s funerals, listening to the eulogies about the bear attack, unable to tell their families the horrifying truth: their husbands and fathers had been murdered by creatures that weren’t supposed to exist.

Three years later, I know what I saw was real. The trauma of the attack, the calculated hunting, and the baffling act of sealing me in and then inexplicably setting me free remain the indelible marks of my encounter. The creatures were real, and they possessed an intelligence that went far beyond normal animal behavior. The official lies continue, but I know the truth is waiting in the deep woods.