“They Thought It Was Just a Hunting Trip — Until the Drone Revealed What Was Watching Them”
I never planned to tell this story.
Not publicly. Not like this.
But it’s been years now, and the weight of it hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown heavier with time. Some nights I still wake up convinced I can hear it again—the sound that started everything. Three sharp knocks echoing through the trees. Not random. Not natural. A signal.
I was there when it happened.
September 2016.
The Cascades.
Near a riverbank so remote there was no cell service for miles.
This isn’t a campfire story. This isn’t a myth passed around for attention. What happened to us was real, and the drone footage exists, even if the world will probably never see it.
The Hunting Trip That Was Supposed to Be Ordinary
When I look back, that’s the strangest part of all—how normal it started.
Just two guys. A weekend hunting trip. My friend Tom had been hunting those woods since he was a kid. He knew every bend of the gravel road, every creek crossing, every place deer liked to move at dusk. I was just tagging along, happy to get out of town and away from work.
The air that day was cold and wet, heavy with the smell of pine needles and damp earth. The kind of cold that creeps into your bones and settles there. The trees swayed slowly in the wind, creaking softly, and the river whispered over rocks nearby.
We drove up the old gravel road past Miller’s Creek, past the abandoned fire lookout, and parked where the road finally gave up. Eight miles without cell service. Total isolation.
Tom didn’t mind. He loved that part.
“This is where the woods are still honest,” he used to say.
That afternoon, he pulled out his new toy—a drone equipped with a thermal camera. Overkill for hunting, maybe, but Tom liked his gear. He wanted to see how animals moved along the river at dusk.
At the time, it felt harmless.
That was the last normal moment.
The First Sound: Three Knocks
The drone lifted smoothly into the air, its soft hum cutting through the quiet. On the screen, the forest looked unreal—dark blue and green shapes packed tightly together, heat signatures glowing faintly where animals moved.
Deer. A fox. Nothing unusual.
That’s when I heard it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Not loud. Not close. But deliberate.
I froze.
It wasn’t wind. It wasn’t a branch falling. I’d spent enough time in the woods to know the difference. This sound had intention.
Tom laughed when I mentioned it.
“Relax,” he said. “You’ve been watching too many Bigfoot videos.”
But ten minutes later, it happened again.
Three knocks. Same rhythm. Same hollow sound.
Something deep in my gut tightened.
Footprints in the Snow That Shouldn’t Exist
As dusk settled in, I walked along the riverbank, boots crunching on frost-covered stones. That’s when I saw them.
Footprints.
At first glance, they looked human.
Then my brain caught up.
They were too big.
Each print was nearly fifteen inches long, pressed deep into the thin snow. Five distinct toes. No claw marks. The stride between them was enormous—four feet or more.
I wear a size 11 boot. These made mine look like a child’s shoe.
“Tom,” I said. “You need to see this.”
He glanced at them, shrugged.
“Bear,” he said. “Probably old.”
But they weren’t old. The edges were sharp. Clean. Fresh.
And bears don’t walk like that.
Nightfall and the Growing Fear
That night, the cold became brutal.
We sat by the fire, eating canned soup, pretending everything was fine. But neither of us talked much. The forest felt… wrong. Too quiet.
Then it started again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Closer this time.
Not far beyond the firelight.
Tom stopped poking the fire. I saw it in his eyes—he heard it too.
Still, we stayed.
That was our mistake.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. I lay there listening to every sound, gripping the knife at my belt, convinced something was just beyond the trees, watching us.
When the knocking stopped around midnight, the silence felt worse.
Tree Damage and the Second Warning
The next morning, we found the tree.
A pine, maybe eight inches thick. Its bark had been shredded in long vertical strips, hanging loose like torn flesh. The damage started six feet off the ground and went higher.
Too high.
Too deliberate.
“That’s no bear,” I said.
Tom didn’t argue this time.
Then we heard it again.
Three knocks. Clear. Close.
Tom swallowed hard.
“Let’s get the drone up,” he said. “One more time.”
The Drone Footage That Changed Everything
The drone rose above the treeline, the thermal camera sweeping the forest.
At first, nothing.
Then the screen lit up.
A heat signature, moving upright through the trees.
Too tall. Too narrow. Too smooth in motion to be a bear.
Tom zoomed in.
The shape stopped.
Stood still for thirty seconds.
Then moved again—fast—vanishing deeper into the forest.
Neither of us spoke.
We packed up in silence.
The Shadow That Followed Us
As we hiked out, I felt it.
That unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Then I saw movement near the river bend—a massive shadow slipping between trees.
And then came the sound.
A low, guttural growl.
Not an animal sound.
It vibrated in my chest.
Tom whispered, “That’s not a bear.”
The knocking followed us.
Three strikes. Again. Again.
Pacing us.
Staying just out of sight.
The Second Encounter: When Bigfoot Revealed Itself
We shouldn’t have gone back.
But we did.
The next day, daylight, better equipment. We told ourselves it would be safer.
The forest felt aware of us this time.
When the knocking started again, we climbed toward the ridge.
And then it stepped out.
Not fully. Just enough.
Eight feet tall. Maybe more.
Broad shoulders. Long arms. Dark hair covering its body.
It stood thirty yards away, watching us.
I couldn’t move.
It wasn’t aggressive. It was… curious.
Then it raised its hand and struck a tree.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The same signal.
A message.
Tom tried to lift his camera, hands shaking too badly to focus.
The creature looked at us one last time.
Then it turned—and disappeared into the forest as if it had never been there.
The Aftermath: Proof No One Will See
We left without another word.
Back home, I watched the drone footage again and again. The thermal image didn’t lie. Bipedal. Massive. Intelligent movement.
Tom didn’t want to know anymore.
“Delete it,” he said.
I couldn’t.
I encrypted the file and hid it away.
Because some discoveries don’t bring fame.
They bring fear.
And understanding.
Final Truth
What we saw wasn’t a myth.
It wasn’t imagination.
Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Call it whatever you want.
It was real.
And it didn’t want to be found.
