Woman Confesses She Lived 23 Years With a Bigfoot – Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Testament of the Silent Watcher

If you are reading this, then the wind has claimed me, and I am gone. I know you are confused, perhaps even angry. For twenty-three years, you begged me to come home—letters, phone calls, even that long, frustrating drive you made out here once. I always gave you excuses: the cabin, the mountain air, the quiet. All true, but all secondary. The real reason I stayed has been living in the forest behind this cabin for all these years. His name is just a sound I can’t quite write down, a language born of rumble and breath, but I called him my friend. You, the civilized world, would call him a Bigfoot.

And before you crumple this paper, convinced your mother finally lost her mind to the woods, please, keep reading. I need you to understand.

The First Snow and the Silent Guardian

It began the summer I moved into this cabin at the age of fifty-two, a freshly widowed woman desperate to erase the constant, aching reminders of the life I’d lost. The cabin was remote—eleven miles down a miserable logging road. It was perfect. I sought oblivion and instead found a new beginning. The first few months were spent in the peaceful, necessary solitude of renovation, learning to swing an axe, and walking the silent, endless forest.

Then, October and the first snow. I woke to find massive footprints circling the cabin. Seventeen inches long, eight inches wide, pressed deep into the fresh powder. The stride was enormous, longer than I was tall. They were not bear tracks. They had five distinct, almost human toes.

Terror should have been my first reaction. Instead, a deep, unsettling curiosity took hold. Whatever made them had done no harm; it had simply circled, observing. It was checking on me.

That night, I left the porch light on and a plate outside: leftover stew, bread, and a jar of honey. By morning, the plate was clean, and the jar of honey was gone—unscrewed and carried off. In return, the silent visitor began leaving gifts: smooth river stones, pine cones stacked in pyramids, once a formidable deer antler, weighing perhaps fifteen pounds, placed carefully on the porch railing. It was a communication, a reciprocal exchange of silence and respect.

Three weeks later, I finally saw him. The sun was low, lengthening the shadows as I stacked firewood. I felt his gaze—a powerful, focused attention—before I turned. He stood forty feet away, at the edge of the clearing. He was enormous, easily eight feet tall, covered in dark, reddish-brown hair that caught the fading light. His shoulders were incredibly broad, his arms impossibly long. But it was his face that disarmed me: deep-set, intelligent eyes that held no malice, only gentle curiosity. We stared for an eternity that was probably only a minute. Then, with a soft huffing sound, he turned and vanished into the trees. He moved like smoke, effortlessly, quietly, becoming part of the forest once more.

From that day, he was a fixture. Always at a distance, watching as I worked the garden or hung laundry. His presence was not frightening; it was protective, like having a guardian I hadn’t known I desperately needed.

The Blizzard and the Word

Winter arrived with savage force, freezing my well and burying the cabin under deep snow. The isolation, though sought, began to crush me.

That’s when he came closer. In the evenings, he would sit on the far side of my porch, a vast, dark silhouette against the snow, just beyond the reach of the light. I began talking to him—telling him about my day, my lost life, my late husband. He never responded, but he listened, and that presence, that silent attention, was the balm I required.

One January night, the power failed during a deafening blizzard. The cold was winning, seeping through the walls, and I huddled under my blankets, truly fearing I would freeze. Then, I heard heavy footsteps. He was outside, stacking firewood against my door. He had hauled cord after cord from the woodshed through the storm, piling it high enough that I could reach it from inside.

Before he left, he pressed one massive hand against the door, fingers splayed, holding it there for a profound moment of silent reassurance. The next morning, three cords of wood sat waiting. That was the moment I stopped thinking of him as a curiosity or a creature of myth. He was my friend.

Spring brought new routines. Food left on the rock. Three soft knocks on the cabin side from him—a “thank you” or “good night.” My two knocks in return. And then, one day, while I struggled with a stubborn root in the garden, he spoke.

The voice was a deep, chest-rumbling sound, and he said one clear word: “Help!”

I nearly collapsed. I stepped back, and he easily grasped the root with both hands, wrenching it free as if it were paper. He held it up, a sound of satisfaction rumbling in his throat, and then retreated.

That single word opened the door to an astonishing, limited vocabulary: “Cold,” when he noticed my shivers; “Rain,” a warning before a storm; “Good,” after tasting my cooking. Each word was a gift, heavy with meaning. I started teaching him through demonstration: how to tend the fire, how to prepare food, how to garden. He watched with a profound, focused intelligence.

One day, I watched as he carefully planted seeds—taken from my own garden—in a small clearing. He had observed, understood the process, and applied it. When I approached, he looked shy, uncertain if his mimicry was acceptable. I smiled and told him, “Good.” He responded with a pleased rumble and patted the earth gently.

The Wisdom of Stillness

The years folded over one another, marked only by the seasons and our deepening rituals. He taught me the forest—which berries were safe, where the hidden hot spring lay in the ravine. He knew the land intimately, fundamentally.

But the most important lesson he imparted was stillness.

In the city, I had been defined by doing. Out here, I learned how to simply be. He could sit motionless for hours, a part of the landscape. My frantic human mind slowly quieted, settling into a comfortable, shared silence. In those moments, watching the forest together, he taught me that simply being alive was enough. He worried not for yesterday or tomorrow, existing fully and completely in the present moment. It was a wisdom no human striving could ever achieve.

In my fifth year, pneumonia nearly claimed me. I was too weak and stubborn to seek help. For three days, as fever consumed me, he came inside the cabin—stooping his massive frame to fit through the door—and saved my life. He brought ice-cold creek water and a moss he somehow knew would help. He made a tea of pine needles that tasted foul but broke my fever.

When I finally became lucid, he was sitting beside my bed, his huge, furred hand resting lightly on my arm. His eyes were shiny with what looked like tears. He saw me awake and said one word: “Stay!”

I squeezed his hand and promised I would.

After that, our boundaries truly dissolved. My home became his sanctuary, at least in winter. We spent quiet evenings by the stove, honey for him, tea for me.

Years later, I returned the favor when he stumbled into the clearing with a deep, infected gash on his thigh. He collapsed on the porch, his skin hot with fever. He allowed me to clean the wound, use my antibiotics, and bandage his leg. He never flinched. For two weeks, he stayed near the cabin, and I tended to him, talking nonsense to fill the painful silence.

The morning he was ready to leave, he stood outside and looked at me for a long, unforgettable moment. Then, he reached out and, with a massive finger, touched my face—a touch impossibly soft.

“Friend,” he rumbled.

“Friend,” I answered, tears streaming down my cheeks. That was all we had ever been.

The Farewell

You couldn’t understand why I chose this isolation over family and civilization. How could I tell you I wasn’t alone? That I had found a connection here more valuable than everything I’d left behind? He taught me loyalty, returning to my cabin every day for twenty-three years, through every blizzard and heatwave. He taught me love needs no words. He taught me beauty is found in simplicity: a shared silence, the smell of pine and rain, a perfect sunset.

He adjusted to my aging without complaint. When I became frail, he let me lean on his arm. When my arthritis flared, he opened jars. When I broke my hip, he carried me inside and became my nurse, caring for me with quiet dedication and turning away for my privacy.

Now, I am seventy-five. My body is failing, and I am tired of fighting. The last twenty-three years have been the best, the truest, the most meaningful, and it is all because of him.

He is sitting outside my window now, as I write this, keeping watch. He knows. Last night, he came inside and held my hand. “Good,” he said when I told him about this letter.

I am not afraid. I have had an extraordinary ending.

When I die, he will carry my body into the deep forest, to a secret, beautiful place, and let the earth reclaim me. No funeral, no headstone—that is my wish, and he will make sure it is done right. And then, he will go on, walking these mountains, timeless and enduring.

I wish I could give you proof, a photograph, but he always knew exposure meant danger. Our friendship was more important than evidence. So all I can offer is my word, my testimony, my truth:

For twenty-three years, I lived beside a Bigfoot. He was my friend, my teacher, and the best companion I ever had. He was real. He is real.

I know you may think isolation broke my mind, but I am asking you to consider, just for a moment, that there is more to this world than we have cataloged. That the mountains are full of secrets. That I was happy, happier than I had ever been.

Please, when you find this letter, do not try to find him. Do not send researchers or crowds. Let him grieve in peace. Let him remain hidden and safe. That is what I want.

He changed me fundamentally, teaching me that wisdom doesn’t require words, and that friendship can exist in the quietest moments between two beings who simply choose to be together. I regret nothing.

I found something rarer and more precious in these mountains than anything civilization offered: a friend who saw me for who I really was. And being near him made me a better person.