‘A White Sasquatch Attacked Me In Alaska’ – Fisherman’s Encounter With Bigfoot Compilation – Part 1
THE WHITE SILENCE
Part I: The Watcher in the Snow
Chapter One: Sixty Miles from Nowhere
You’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you.
.
.
.
I still struggle to believe it myself, and I lived through every second of it. Even now, when I wake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, I sometimes convince myself it was nothing more than a nightmare brought on by isolation and exhaustion. But nightmares don’t leave scars. They don’t destroy cabins. And they don’t change the way a man feels about silence.
This happened last February, deep in the Alaskan wilderness—more than sixty miles from the nearest town, farther than most people ever willingly go. I had been ice fishing in that region for over fifteen years. I knew the lakes, the weather patterns, the way the ice spoke when it shifted beneath your boots. I believed I understood every danger those frozen places could throw at me.
I was wrong.
I’ve always traveled alone. That was the point. The lake I returned to year after year was a place so remote that weeks could pass without seeing another human being. No snowmobile tracks. No distant smoke from a chimney. Just endless trees, frozen water, and the kind of silence that presses in on your ears until you start hearing your own heartbeat.
That solitude was my sanctuary. Or at least, it used to be.
The trip began the same way every February expedition had. I packed my truck with enough supplies for a week—food, fuel, ammunition, survival gear, and my ice fishing equipment. I knew better than to cut corners in winter Alaska. One mistake could kill you long before help ever arrived.
The first four hours of the drive were uneventful. Then came the mountain road—narrow, winding, and barely passable. Snowdrifts swallowed sections of it whole. One wrong slide could send you into a ravine where no one would ever find you. I’d driven that road so many times I could practically do it blindfolded, but familiarity never made it safe.
When the road finally ended, the lake was still eight miles away.
I parked at the trailhead, strapped on my snowshoes, and started walking.
Chapter Two: The Cabin on the Ice
The snow that winter was deeper than I’d seen in years—four feet in most places, with drifts that rose to my chest. Every step was work. My lungs burned. My legs screamed. But when the trees finally opened up and I saw the cabin sitting at the edge of the frozen lake, the exhaustion vanished.
I built that cabin myself ten years earlier, hauling materials in during the summer months piece by piece. It wasn’t much to look at—a single-room log structure with a metal roof—but it was solid. Thick walls. Reinforced joints. Windows positioned to overlook the lake and my fishing holes.
It had survived blizzards, subzero temperatures, and winters that would have crushed lesser shelters.
Inside, it felt like home.
I’d also left something else there—a snowmobile I’d bought years earlier and kept hidden near the treeline. People told me I was crazy for spending that kind of money on something I only used a few times a year, but every time I fired it up, I felt like a kid again.
The first two days passed exactly as planned.
The ice was thick—nearly eighteen inches—and perfect for fishing. I drilled my holes with practiced ease, spacing them carefully across the lake. The fish were biting like I’d never seen. Lake trout, big ones. Some close to twenty pounds.
Each catch felt like a reward.
I cleaned the fish outside on my cutting board and buried the fillets in snowbanks where the minus-twenty-degree temperatures preserved them perfectly. The cold was brutal, but ideal. The ice was stable. The fish were active. Everything was right.
At night, the cabin was warm. The wood stove crackled. Sometimes I heard wolves howling far off in the distance, or an owl calling through the trees.
Mostly, there was silence.
Chapter Three: When the Forest Goes Quiet
Looking back now, I realize the signs were there from the beginning.
The forest was too quiet.
Even for a place like that, something felt off. No squirrels chattering. No ravens calling overhead. No small animal tracks weaving through the snow around my cabin.
I noticed it, but I dismissed it. Wilderness silence comes and goes. I told myself I was imagining things.
On the second evening, while I was cleaning fish outside, I felt it for the first time—that unmistakable sensation of being watched. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My skin prickled.
I scanned the treeline again and again.
Nothing.
Just dark evergreens standing motionless against the snow.
That night, as I banked the fire before bed, the silence deepened. No wolves. No owls. Nothing. It felt unnatural, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Still, I slept.
And when I woke the next morning, everything changed.
Chapter Four: Footprints Around My Sanctuary
The sunlight was bright, the sky painfully blue. It should have been another perfect day.
Then I stepped outside.
The footprints circled my cabin like a warning.
They were enormous—eighteen, maybe twenty inches long—with five clearly defined toes. Not paws. Feet. And they sank deep into the packed snow, deeper than any human tracks ever could.
The stride between them was six feet or more.
Whatever made them walked upright.
They circled the cabin multiple times. They paused at my windows. They went to my fish-cleaning area. To my woodpile. To my snowmobile.
My fish were gone.
My gear had been moved.
Handprints—massive, unmistakable—pressed into the snow around my equipment.
Something had been here while I slept.
Something intelligent.
That realization crawled under my skin and stayed there.
Chapter Five: The Humming in the Trees
The rest of the day passed in a haze of tension.
I tried to fish, but I couldn’t focus. Every sound made me turn. Every shadow seemed to move when I wasn’t looking directly at it.
Sometimes the forest would fall into that same unnatural silence—absolute, crushing quiet that lasted minutes at a time.
Then, that afternoon, I heard it.
A low humming sound, deep and resonant, drifting through the trees.
It wasn’t random. It was rhythmic. Intentional.
The sound moved, echoing in ways that made it impossible to locate. It lasted nearly ten minutes, then stopped abruptly.
When it did, the silence returned.
That night, I decided I would leave in the morning.
I never got the chance.
Chapter Six: Something Circles the Cabin
Around nine o’clock, I heard footsteps.
Heavy. Deliberate.
They circled the cabin slowly, methodically. Sometimes they reversed direction. Sometimes they stopped outside a window and stayed there for minutes at a time.
I sat with my rifle across my knees, heart pounding.
Around midnight, something slammed into the wall.
The cabin shook. Snow fell from the rafters.
It hit again. And again.
Then silence.
At dawn, I went outside.
Claw marks—deep gouges—scored the logs eight feet off the ground. Not random. Patterned.
My fishing holes had been destroyed. Torn apart by hands, not tools.
Whatever this was, it understood what I was doing.
And it didn’t want me there.
Chapter Seven: The Thing at the Treeline
On the fourth day, I saw it.
Standing at the edge of the forest, watching me across the frozen lake.
Eight feet tall. Covered in thick white fur. Walking upright.
Its gaze locked onto mine, intelligent and cold.
We stood there like that for minutes.
Then it turned and vanished into the trees.
That was when I knew.
I was prey.
