‘A White Sasquatch Attacked Me In Alaska’ – Fisherman’s Encounter With Bigfoot Compilation – Part 2
PART 2: THE THINGS THAT REMEMBER
Chapter One: After the Testimony
I thought telling my story would bring relief.
That was my first mistake.
.
.
.
For years, silence had been my shield. I convinced myself that as long as I kept the memories locked away, they couldn’t hurt me anymore. But once my testimony went public, once my words escaped into the world, something changed. Not just inside me—but around me.
It started with emails.
At first, they were easy to dismiss. People thanking me for my honesty. Others accusing me of lying, seeking attention, or spinning folklore into fantasy. I expected that. What I didn’t expect were the messages that didn’t argue with me at all.
They agreed.
One message stood out among the rest. No subject line. No greeting.
Just a single sentence:
“If you saw them once, they remember you.”
I stared at the screen for a long time, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. Something about the phrasing felt deliberate, precise—as if the sender knew exactly what they were saying.
Over the following weeks, more messages arrived. Different names. Different writing styles. But the same undercurrent of shared understanding.
Hunters.
Former rangers.
Search and rescue volunteers.
People who had been deep in places where maps stop making sense.
They didn’t use the word Sasquatch.
Neither did I.
Instead, they spoke in careful language, circling the truth without naming it. The tall ones. The watchers. Those things that don’t leave tracks unless they want to.
One message came from a man who said he had spent twenty years with the Forest Service in the Appalachian region. He didn’t challenge my account of what happened in 2000.
He confirmed it.
“There are cases we are trained not to ask questions about,” he wrote. “Disappearances where the evidence doesn’t fit any known animal behavior. When that happens, the directive is simple: document, reclassify, and move on.”
I asked him why.
His reply came two days later.
“Because acknowledging the truth would mean admitting we don’t control the wilderness the way we tell people we do.”
Chapter Two: Classified Silence
The man—I’ll call him Evan—eventually agreed to speak with me over the phone.
His voice was tired. Not old, exactly. Just worn down by decades of holding things he was never allowed to release.
He told me there was an unofficial classification system used internally for incidents that defied explanation. Not written down. Not acknowledged. Passed verbally from senior staff to new hires who showed they could keep their mouths shut.
“Grey incidents,” he called them.
Not black. Not white.
Grey.
Cases where bodies vanished.
Where injuries didn’t match known predators.
Where search dogs refused to track.
Where forests went unnaturally silent before something went wrong.
Evan said the Appalachian Mountains, Alaska, parts of the Pacific Northwest, and select areas of Canada shared something in common: ancient terrain that had never truly been conquered.
“These things,” he said carefully, “aren’t animals. But they aren’t myths either.”
I asked him if he had ever seen one.
There was a long pause on the line.
“No,” he said. “But I’ve seen the aftermath. And I’ve seen what happens to people who see them too clearly.”
He told me about footage that disappeared.
Photographs locked away.
Eyewitnesses encouraged—sometimes pressured—to accept alternate explanations.
Bear attacks.
Falls.
Exposure.
Simple stories for complex truths.
“The public needs to believe the wilderness is dangerous,” Evan said. “But not that dangerous.”
Before we hung up, he said one last thing that still echoes in my mind.
“They don’t hunt often. But when they do, it’s deliberate. And they remember faces.”
Chapter Three: The Alaska Echo
The next account came from a woman named Emily.
She was a graduate student in wildlife biology, part of a summer research program near the Alaska Range. Her email was clinical at first—dates, coordinates, environmental conditions. She wrote like someone trained to observe, not speculate.
That changed when she described the night everything went wrong.
They were camped near a glacial creek. Clear weather. No known large predators in the immediate area. At approximately 2:17 a.m., the audio monitoring equipment began recording low-frequency sounds that didn’t match any known species.
Not howls.
Not growls.
Breathing.
Slow. Deep. Intentional.
Emily wrote that the sound continued for nearly twenty minutes, circling the perimeter of the camp without ever triggering the motion sensors.
In the morning, they found footprints.
Not bear tracks.
Barefoot. Enormous. Nearly eighteen inches long.
The stride was wrong. Too even. Too controlled.
What terrified her wasn’t their size—but their behavior.
The tracks made three complete circles around the camp.
Not random.
Not curious.
Deliberate.
When Emily insisted on preserving the data, she was told it was equipment interference. Atmospheric distortion. She pushed back.
Her internship was terminated early.
Before signing off, she wrote:
“I don’t think it wanted to hurt us. I think it wanted us to understand something.”
I didn’t sleep that night.
Chapter Four: Patterns in the Dark
Once I started looking, I couldn’t stop seeing the pattern.
Remote wilderness.
Experienced outdoorsmen.
Destroyed campsites.
Missing people.
Always the same explanation.
Always just enough logic to keep the public calm.
But the details never added up.
Black bears don’t coordinate attacks.
They don’t herd prey.
They don’t move silently for hours.
And they don’t erase people.
I revisited the memories I had spent decades trying to bury. The way the creatures communicated. The way they moved with purpose. The intelligence behind their eyes.
They weren’t reacting.
They were planning.
The realization came slowly, like a sickness settling into my bones.
What if we weren’t stumbling into their territory by accident?
What if they were letting us?
Chapter Five: The Hunter Who Didn’t Miss
The final story came from a man named Caleb.
A lifelong hunter.
Former Marine.
Someone who knew the difference between fear and instinct.
He claimed he had shot one.
Not killed it.
Wounded it.
It happened in the Rockies during an elk hunt. He described seeing a massive figure observing his camp from a ridgeline at dusk. Not hiding. Not fleeing.
Watching.
Caleb fired once.
The bullet hit. He was sure of it.
The creature didn’t fall.
It screamed.
Not in pain—but in rage.
The forest exploded with answering calls.
Caleb ran.
He abandoned his gear, his rifle, everything. He made it back to civilization with deep scratches across his back and a concussion from something that threw him like a child.
Weeks later, he began noticing things.
Footprints near his home.
Scratches on trees.
His dog refusing to go outside at night.
Then came the dreams.
He stopped hunting.
Stopped camping.
Stopped sleeping.
“They didn’t kill me,” he told me. “They followed me. They wanted me to know I’d been spared.”
Chapter Six: The Unspoken Truth
I don’t believe these beings are monsters.
Monsters are chaotic.
These things are not.
They are territorial.
Intelligent.
Ancient.
And they understand something we don’t.
The wilderness was never empty.
We just convinced ourselves it was.
When people vanish in the deep forests, it isn’t always an accident. Sometimes it’s a correction. A reminder that humans are not at the top of every food chain.
Larry told his story because he was running out of time.
So am I.
Somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains, something still watches the trails. Still listens to footsteps. Still remembers the taste of fear carried on human breath.
And if you ever find yourself deep in the woods—far from roads, far from cell signals—and the forest goes quiet all at once…
Don’t assume you’re alone.
End
