Helicopter Pilot Films Bigfoot Family Before Bear Attack, Then He Had to Help – Sasquatch Story
For fifteen years, I flew helicopters over the vast, untouched wilderness of Alaska, witnessing nature’s raw beauty. I had seen bears, moose, and eagles up close, but nothing could prepare me for what I encountered one fateful day last summer near an unnamed lake, about sixty miles northwest of Fairbanks.
It was late June, one of those perfect Alaskan days when the sun barely dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape. I was on a routine supply run to a remote ranger station, flying low over dense forests and shimmering lakes. The helicopter hummed steadily, the fuel gauge looked good, and the weather was clear. Just another Tuesday in my life.
As I followed a chain of small lakes that served as my landmarks, I noticed movement in a clearing ahead. At first, I thought it was a couple of bears, a common sight in these parts. But something felt off; their movements were too upright, too deliberate. Curious, I banked left and circled back, descending to about 300 feet for a closer look.
What I saw left me speechless. In the clearing below were two figures: one massive, perhaps seven or eight feet tall, covered in dark brown fur, and the other much smaller, around three feet tall, with the same coloring. The larger figure crouched beside the smaller one, resembling a parent teaching a child. My mind raced—was this some kind of film shoot? But there were no cameras, no crew, and no vehicles in sight. We were miles from civilization.
I hovered about 200 yards away, captivated. The larger figure gathered berries from a patch of bushes, picking them carefully and showing the smaller one which ones to choose. It was a clear teaching moment. I watched in awe as the little one reached up to grab a berry, and the bigger one either nodded or shook its head in response.
For ten minutes, I was mesmerized by this tender interaction. The parent selected a berry, held it up for the child to see, allowing it to smell before deciding whether to eat it or toss it aside. Each time the little one grabbed the wrong berry, the parent gently redirected it, teaching survival skills with remarkable patience. I had heard stories of Bigfoot sightings, but I had always dismissed them as myths or misidentifications—until now.
Suddenly, the tranquility shattered. A massive grizzly bear, likely weighing around 800 pounds, burst into the clearing, its body language aggressive and predatory. The mother Bigfoot sensed the danger immediately. She stiffened, alert, and turned toward the little one, making a sharp gesture. Confused, the child hesitated, but then the mother pushed it toward the tree line with urgency. The little one stumbled but quickly regained its footing and ran for its life.
In that moment, I felt a surge of fear for both the child and the mother. The bear, having spotted the movement, turned its head to track the fleeing infant. But the mother Bigfoot stepped directly into the bear’s line of sight, positioning herself between the predator and her child. The message was clear: “You want my baby, you go through me first.”
The bear hesitated for a brief moment, then charged at the mother. I watched in horror as 800 pounds of muscle thundered toward her. The mother stood her ground, meeting the charge head-on. They collided with a sound that echoed even over the roar of the helicopter. A blur of fur and claws ensued, and I felt helpless, suspended in the air, unable to intervene.
The fight was brutal. The mother Bigfoot was larger than the bear, but the grizzly had powerful muscles and lethal claws. They rolled across the clearing, tearing up earth and grass. Just when I thought the bear had the upper hand, the mother twisted and threw it off, surging back to her feet. Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. The bear stumbled back, dazed, and after a moment of consideration, retreated into the forest.
The mother Bigfoot stood there, breathing heavily, blood matting her fur. She took a few steps toward where her child had fled, but her legs gave out, and she caught herself against a tree. I could see the adrenaline wearing off, the injuries catching up with her. Without thinking, I banked the helicopter toward a clearing nearby, my heart racing. I had a first aid kit in the back, and though it was meant for humans, it was better than nothing.
The landing was rough, my hands shaking as I secured the helicopter. I sat there for a moment, trying to process what I was about to do. Walk up to a wounded Bigfoot? What if she attacked me? But I remembered the gentleness she had shown while teaching her child. She needed help.
As I walked through the forest toward the clearing, I made noise—snapping twigs and scuffing my boots—so she would know I was coming. When I broke through the tree line, I found her still sitting against the tree, her head up, watching me. I stopped about twenty feet away, her deep brown eyes studying me, intelligent and wary.
I raised my hand slowly, showing I wasn’t holding a weapon, then set the first aid kit on the ground between us and took a step back. She watched every movement, muscles tensed. I pointed at the kit, then at her shoulder, trying to mime what I wanted to do. Help! Bandage! She tilted her head, and for a moment, I thought I saw understanding in her expression.
Then she did something that made my heart skip: she nodded, a slight dip of her head, unmistakable permission. I took a step forward, and she didn’t move. I knelt down, close enough to touch her but still giving her space. Up close, she was even more impressive—easily seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and clean, coarse fur. The wound on her shoulder was deep, ragged from the bear’s claws.
My hands trembled as I opened the first aid kit, the sound of plastic breaking the silence. I pulled out antiseptic wipes, and as I touched the edge of her wound, she winced, a low rumble starting in her chest, not threatening but clearly in pain. I worked quickly but gently, cleaning the wound as best as I could while she watched, her gaze unwavering.
The wipes turned red almost immediately. I went through several, cleaning away blood and dirt. Each time I glanced at her, I saw the intelligence in her eyes, the evaluation of my actions. I spoke softly, keeping my tone calm and reassuring.
When I applied antibiotic ointment, she observed curiously, tracking my movements. I wrapped gauze around her shoulder, and to my surprise, she lifted her arm slightly to give me better access. It was as if she understood what I was doing, cooperating despite her pain.
After tending to her wounds, I sat back on my heels, and we shared a moment of silent acknowledgment. She touched the bandage with one massive hand, then looked back at me, and I sensed gratitude in her gaze.
Just then, rustling in the bushes caught our attention. The little one peeked out from behind a tree, clearly hesitant. The mother made a soft sound, and the infant took a tentative step into the clearing, eyes locked on me, a mixture of fear and curiosity on its small face.
When the child reached its mother’s side, it pressed against her, seeking comfort. The infant looked more human than I expected, round eyes and a small nose, but the slight muzzle reminded me it was not. It peered at me with growing boldness, and I smiled gently, extending my hand slowly.
The infant touched my palm, a light, tentative touch, then jerked back, startled. But curiosity won out, and it reached out again, exploring my hand, my jacket, my watch. The sound of my watch ticking fascinated it, and soon, it was giggling, a sound like wind chimes mixed with bird song. The mother made a huffing sound that I swore was laughter.
I found myself laughing too, caught up in the absurdity of the moment—sitting in an Alaskan clearing with a Bigfoot mother and her child, watching the little one play. The mother adjusted the bandage on her shoulder, and I realized how human her movements were.
The infant, now distracted, crawled over to my first aid kit, pulling items out one by one. I showed it how to roll up gauze, and to my delight, it managed to do it successfully after a few tries, looking thrilled with its accomplishment.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, I knew I needed to leave before darkness fell. The mother gestured toward the forest and then back at me, clearly indicating that I should go. I nodded, understanding the urgency.
Before I left, she reached out, touching my arm, stopping me. She pointed at the bandages and tape, then at herself, wanting me to leave the supplies behind. I set the gauze, tape, and antiseptic tube beside her, and she picked up the antiseptic, examining it closely, understanding its purpose.
As I stood to leave, she placed her hand over her heart, fingers spread wide, then extended it toward me—a gesture of gratitude, of respect, of goodbye. I mirrored her gesture, feeling a profound connection that transcended our differences.
The moment was heavy with meaning. She had trusted me with something precious—her life, her child, and their secret. I backed away slowly, maintaining eye contact until I reached the tree line. With one last look, I saw her raise her hand in a wave, unmistakably human in its execution. I waved back and turned toward the helicopter, my heart racing.
The flight back was surreal. My mind replayed every detail—the mother’s fierce protection, the infant’s innocent curiosity, the bond that had formed between us. I landed at the supply station, but nothing felt normal anymore. I had crossed an invisible line, and I knew I could never share what I had witnessed.
Three days later, I had another supply run scheduled. Though my route took me nowhere near that lake, I couldn’t resist the urge to check on them. As I circled over the clearing, I felt a stab of disappointment when I saw no sign of them. But then, movement caught my eye in a different clearing—a quarter mile away.
It was them. The mother was gathering plants, moving steadily, while the juvenile played nearby. Relief flooded through me. They were alive, thriving. The mother looked up as I flew overhead, shielding her eyes from the sun. She raised her arms and crossed them over her chest, a new gesture of acknowledgment.
I dipped my helicopter’s nose in response, and she nodded, lowering her arms. I continued with my supply run, feeling lighter than I had in days. They were healing, living their lives, and I had played a part in that.
Over the following months, I adjusted my flight routes to pass near their territory whenever I could. Sometimes I spotted them; sometimes I didn’t. When I did, the mother always acknowledged me with gestures that had developed into a primitive sign language. The juvenile grew quickly, becoming bolder and more coordinated.
One autumn day, I spotted them near a berry patch with a third figure, a massive male, likely the father. He watched my helicopter warily, but the mother seemed to explain something to him, gesturing toward her shoulder where the scars from the bear attack still lingered. After a moment, he raised his hand in acknowledgment, granting his approval.
That acceptance felt profound. I wasn’t just welcomed by the mother and child; I had earned the trust of the family. As winter approached, I made one last trip to their territory to say goodbye. I found them preparing for the cold, and when they heard the helicopter, the mother walked toward a clearing, inviting me to land.
The juvenile ran forward, grabbing my hand, excited to see me again. The mother touched her shoulder, then my chest, thanking me once more. The father stood back, protective but relaxed. I knelt down, and the juvenile hugged my leg, holding tight. I hugged it back, feeling the warmth and strength of this young creature.
I explained my absence during winter, using gestures to convey that I would return in spring. The mother understood, mimicking sleeping with a gesture, indicating they would hibernate or hunker down somewhere safe.
As I backed away toward the helicopter, I placed my hand over my heart and extended it toward them. They mirrored my gesture, a family unit acknowledging a friend. The father stepped forward, placing a massive hand on my shoulder, a wordless bond formed.
I climbed into the helicopter, started the engine, and lifted off, circling above them one last time. They stood together, watching me leave, a hidden family living in the vast Alaskan wilderness.
Years passed, and I continued my supply runs, always keeping an eye out for them. I never spoke of them to anyone, guarding their secret fiercely. My life existed in two worlds: the human world of responsibilities and the hidden world of forest clearings and unspoken connections.
I often thought about that day—the day I chose to help instead of harm, to protect instead of expose. That choice opened a door to a friendship that transcended the boundaries of species. The obsidian arrowhead remained in my pocket, a reminder of trust given and received.
One day, I would grow too old to fly, and the visits would have to end. But the connection forged that day would last forever. Some encounters change you fundamentally, altering your view of the world. Mine came in an Alaskan clearing with a wounded mother, a frightened infant, and a choice to help despite fear and uncertainty.
And so, I carry their secret with me always. A hidden family, a bond built on kindness, and a reminder that humanity exists in unexpected forms. They are out there, living their lives in the vast wilderness, raising their young and hoping to survive in a world that would destroy them if it knew they existed.
