Chilling Bigfoot Encounter With An Experienced Survivalist In Appalachian Mountains Wilderness!
The Seven Days in the Deep
A Survivor’s Confession from the Appalachian Wilds
Chapter 1: The Warning That Wasn’t
They let me live. That’s the part that wakes me up in cold sweats, even thirty years later. Not the bone-chilling roars echoing through the Appalachian darkness. Not the massive footprints pressed deep into the mud. Not even the moment I found myself trapped in a cave with a nine-foot mother protecting her young.
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.
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It’s the realization that I survived October 1992 not because of my wilderness skills, my revolver, or my years of survival training modeled after Ernest Shackleton himself. I survived because something with the intelligence to track me, surround me, and kill me at any moment made a deliberate choice to let me walk away.
What follows is an account I’ve never shared in full detail. Seven days in the remote Appalachian Mountains that shattered everything I thought I knew about what lurks in America’s deepest wilderness. This isn’t a story about conquering nature. It’s a confession about the day I discovered that in the ancient places where human feet rarely tread, we are not the apex predator. We’re not even close.
Chapter 2: Into the Ancient Mountains
I was an experienced survivalist, dedicated to mastering the art of wilderness survival. My methods were modeled after Shackleton—the Antarctic explorer who survived the most brutal conditions ever recorded. I believed human endurance and preparation could overcome any challenge nature presented.
I had tested myself in the harshest environments, from the frozen peaks of the Rockies to the scorching deserts of the Southwest. I could build fires in driving rain, construct shelters for sub-zero nights, and navigate by stars alone.
The Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia represented my ultimate test. These ancient, mist-shrouded peaks stretch across some of the most remote wilderness in the eastern United States. In October 1992, I planned seven days alone in the Monongahela National Forest, forty miles from the nearest road, with no cell coverage and no hope of outside help.
My preparation was meticulous: military compass, waterproof maps, a sleeping bag for below-freezing nights, emergency rations for exactly seven days, and my trusted .357 Magnum revolver—six shots against any predator. I was ready for anything I thought nature could throw at me.
Chapter 3: The Silence Begins
October in the Appalachians is spectacular and unpredictable. The leaves had turned brilliant red and gold, sunlight danced on the forest floor, but sudden weather changes lurked beneath the beauty.
I began my journey at dawn, hiking twenty miles into the heart of the mountains. The first day was flawless—familiar terrain, wildlife everywhere, the forest alive with sound. I camped by a mountain stream and slept deeply, surrounded by the normal symphony of owls, coyotes, and rustling underbrush.
But on the second morning, something was wrong. The forest was silent. No birds, no squirrels, not even insects. In all my years, I’d learned that silence means a large predator is near. My hand instinctively went to my revolver, but I saw nothing.
I waited, watching, but the silence persisted as I hiked deeper. Mile after mile, no sign of life except the towering trees and my own footsteps. By midday, I reached the spruce and fir forests at higher elevation—and found the first track.
Chapter 4: The Tracks
Beside a stream, pressed into the mud, was a footprint. Eighteen inches long, eight wide, with clearly defined toes—barefoot, but not human. The proportions were wrong: toes too long, arch too pronounced, heavier than any human. More tracks followed the stream, each clear and deliberate, vanishing into the dense woods.
I’d tracked every large mammal in North America. This matched nothing I knew. It was too large for a bear, and the stride was upright, bipedal.
That afternoon, I saw other signs: broken branches hanging from impossible heights, some freshly snapped with green wood exposed. The force required was immense. Something very strong was moving through these woods.
Chapter 5: The Watchers
On the third night, I camped in a clearing at the edge of the spruce forest. I built my fire large, revolver within reach, eyes scanning the darkness. The silence was absolute. Sleep was impossible.
After midnight, movement caught my eye. A massive shape stood just inside the treeline, fifty yards from my fire. At first, I thought bear. But it stood upright, eight feet tall, powerfully built, unmistakably bipedal.
I gripped my revolver, heart pounding, but did not move. For several minutes, we watched each other. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the creature melted back into the woods—no sound, no trace.
I sat upright by the fire all night, feeding wood to the flames, every shadow a potential threat. Dawn brought no comfort.
Chapter 6: The Storm and the Cave
The fourth day dawned gray and threatening. My weather sense warned of a major storm—barometric pressure dropping, winds shifting northwest. By midday, rain began, and thunder rolled through the peaks.
I needed shelter, and fast. I found a cave hidden behind rhododendrons and fallen rocks, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. I approached carefully, revolver drawn, shouting to scare off any animal inside. Silence.
Inside, the cave was wrong. The walls had been deliberately modified—stones stacked, shelves carved, primitive art painted in red and brown pigments. Human-like figures hunting deer and elk, but also tall, powerful beings, both hunters and hunted.
Fresh bedding of pine boughs and moss, bones with scraps of meat, caches of berries and nuts. Someone—or something—lived here recently.
Chapter 7: The Encounter
As I backed toward the entrance, a low rumble echoed from the depths. Not thunder—vocalization. The entrance was blocked by a massive figure, covered in dark brown hair, at least eight feet tall, unmistakably female, clutching an infant to her chest.
She roared—a sound of pure rage and protective instinct. She charged, intent on driving me out or killing me. My revolver was in hand, but I couldn’t shoot a mother protecting her young.
I dove for a gap between her and the wall. She was impossibly fast—her claws raked my backpack, tearing it open as I tumbled toward the entrance. I burst out into the full fury of the storm.
Rain lashed my face, lightning cracked overhead. Behind me, she roared again, crashing through the entrance. I ran blindly, branches whipping my face, roots tripping my feet, hands shaking so badly I could barely hold my revolver.
Chapter 8: The Chase
I ran for hours, deeper into the wilderness, away from any hope of rescue. Every few minutes, I heard crashing behind me, distant roars cutting through the storm. I kept running until exhaustion forced me to stop.
I found shelter under massive oaks, body shaking from cold and adrenaline, lost in the most remote forest in the eastern United States. Hypothermia should have been my main concern, but something was hunting me.
Movement in the darkness—deliberate footfalls, massive, methodical, searching. I needed to hide.
I found an ancient oak, six feet in diameter, hollowed by age and decay. I scooped mud and wet leaves from the forest floor, covering myself to mask my scent. I squeezed into the hollow just as the footsteps approached.
Chapter 9: The Male
Through a gap, I watched. The mother was joined by an even larger male—nine feet tall, impossibly broad, arms hanging to his knees, face a nightmare of human and ape features. He sniffed the air, searching methodically, gaze passing over my hiding place.
The mud and leaves worked. Each time he passed, he continued searching, never recognizing me. He came within ten feet, heavy breathing audible, intelligence shining in his eyes.
For hours, he searched. As dawn broke, he gave a frustrated growl and disappeared into the deeper woods, moving with impossible silence.
I remained hidden, frozen and cramped, until the sun was high. When I finally emerged, I was stiff and aching, but alive.
Chapter 10: The Retreat
I was lost, my route disrupted by the storm and chase. My goal was simple: survive and escape. I traveled only during daylight, avoided any area that might be a den or territory, chose the hardest routes—steep ridges, dense undergrowth.
I inventoried my supplies. My emergency rations were intact, but water purification tablets were gone. My revolver felt inadequate.
I used terrain, water flow, and slope to estimate my location. Every step was calculated to avoid detection—rocky ground, no footprints, upstream crossings, no fires, cold food. At night, I hid in thickets and rocky overhangs, always watching.
The silence persisted. Birds absent, normal sounds gone. The ecosystem was disrupted by something unnatural.
Chapter 11: The Final Test
On the last day, I reached familiar terrain. Five miles from the forest road, I stumbled upon a primitive dwelling—massive logs interwoven for walls, smaller branches woven for a roof, twelve feet tall, twenty feet across.
I watched from the underbrush. A figure emerged, the largest yet—ten feet tall, all muscle and sinew, moving with confidence. He looked directly at my hiding place, eyes meeting mine. He let out a low, rumbling vocalization—almost a chuckle.
He knew exactly where I was. And he was letting me know he could have taken me at any time. For reasons I’ll never understand, he was choosing to let me live.
As he walked back into the forest, I noticed fresh footprints around my hiding place. Others had circled behind me. I’d been surrounded, observed, evaluated—and allowed to go.
Chapter 12: Civilization Again
The last miles to my truck were a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. When I saw the glint of metal through the trees, I nearly collapsed. My truck was untouched, a portal back to the world I thought I understood.
I drove back to civilization, stopping at the first gas station for coffee and donuts. The clerk stared at me—covered in mud and debris, looking like I’d crawled out of a grave.
I never returned to extreme wilderness expeditions. The skills and confidence I’d built over years were shattered by those days in the Appalachians. There are things in the deep wilderness humans were never meant to encounter.
Chapter 13: The Knowledge That Haunts
Over the years, I’ve read accounts from other hikers and hunters—massive, hairy creatures walking upright, primitive structures, unexplained footprints, unnatural silence. I believe them all.
What I encountered was real, intelligent, more dangerous than any predator science has documented. They tolerated my presence for a time, but when I intruded too far, they made it clear I was not welcome.
The fact that they let me leave alive suggests a level of restraint and decision-making that is deeply unsettling.
Some knowledge is too dangerous for civilization. The wilderness is not empty. It never was. In the deepest forests, humanity’s rules do not apply, and our presence is an intrusion that may not be tolerated for long.
Chapter 14: The Boundaries We Shouldn’t Cross
I learned that there are limits to human ambition, boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed, and ancient warnings that should be heeded. The price of ignoring those lessons is higher than any rational person would pay.
I was lucky to escape with my life and sanity. Others may not be so fortunate.
Let the mountains keep their mysteries. Let the deep forests maintain their silence. And let those who’ve seen what lurks in the shadows carry that knowledge quietly, as a warning to any who might follow.
The wilderness is not ours. In October 1992, I learned that there are older things still holding dominion in the ancient places where human feet rarely tread.
End of Story
