‘Bigfoot Attacked Me While Fishing’ – BIGFOOT ENCOUNTER STORY COMPILATION – Part 1
PART ONE: THE WEEKEND THE WOODS ANSWERED BACK
Chapter One: I Never Believed in Any of This
I never believed in cryptid stories.
Not Bigfoot.
Not forest giants.
Not any of that whispered, campfire nonsense people use to scare each other when the beer runs low and the night gets quiet.
.
.
.
That changed three months ago, during the most terrifying weekend of my life.
What started as a simple fishing trip—just a chance to escape the noise of my everyday existence—turned into something I still struggle to explain. Something that follows me into my sleep. Something that made me realize how fragile our sense of safety really is.
I’m sharing this now because I feel like I have to. Because pretending it didn’t happen is eating me alive. And because if this reaches even one person before they make the same mistake I did, maybe it’ll be worth it.
Let me be clear about one thing upfront:
I’m not special.
I’m not brave.
And I’m definitely not crazy.
I’m just a regular guy who went too far into the woods.
Chapter Two: Why I Needed to Get Away
I work construction. Long hours. Hard labor. The kind of job where your body aches before your alarm clock even goes off.
When I come home, it’s chaos in the best possible way—three kids running through the house, the TV always on, neighbors mowing lawns at weird hours, dogs barking, life happening all at once. I love my family. I really do.
But sometimes, a man needs silence.
For fifteen years, fishing has been my therapy. Every weekend I could manage it, I’d load up my gear and head out with my buddies to Johnson Creek, about forty minutes from town. Same routine every time. Coolers, rods, stories we’d told a hundred times before.
Lately, though, life had gotten in the way for them. Family drama. Weddings. Obligations.
So for the past few weekends, I’d been going alone.
And to my surprise, I liked it even more.
No chatter. No complaints. Just water, trees, and the slow rhythm of casting and reeling. It felt like the only place where the world stopped demanding things from me.
That’s why, three months ago, I decided to try something different.
Chapter Three: Going Deeper Than I Ever Had Before
Johnson Creek had started to feel crowded.
More people were discovering it. Loud groups. Portable speakers blasting music that echoed through the trees. The exact opposite of what I went out there for.
So I pulled out my old Forest Service maps and started searching for alternatives.
That’s when I found it.
A thin blue line on the map—an unnamed stream about sixty miles north of town, deep in National Forest land. No campgrounds. No marked trails. Just terrain lines suggesting deep pools and bends where fish might gather.
It was remote. Really remote.
The nearest paved road was at least fifteen miles away, and even then you’d need a solid four-wheel drive to get anywhere close. If something went wrong, help wouldn’t come quickly.
That should have stopped me.
But the idea of pristine water, untouched by crowds, all to myself—it was too tempting.
I packed extra supplies. Told my wife exactly where I was going. Promised I’d be back on time.
What could go wrong?
Chapter Four: Arrival at the Perfect Place
The drive out was beautiful.
Once I left the suburbs behind, the land opened up into rolling hills and dense forest. Streams cut through valleys like silver ribbons. Horses grazed in quiet fields. I had the windows down, classic rock playing softly, and for the first time all week, my shoulders relaxed.
After two hours of slow driving on dirt and gravel roads, I reached the spot I’d marked on my map.
A small clearing sat beside a sharp bend in the stream. Crystal-clear water. Deep pools. Gravel bars. Fish moving beneath the surface.
It was perfect.
The trees around the clearing were massive—ancient pines and oaks that must have been standing there for centuries. The silence was unreal. Not just quiet, but pure, undisturbed stillness, broken only by flowing water and the occasional bird call far above.
I set up camp quickly. Sleeping bag in the truck. Folding chair by the water. Rod rigged with my favorite spinner.
By four in the afternoon, I had a cold beer in one hand and was casting into what I already thought of as my own private paradise.
Chapter Five: The First Sign Something Was Wrong
The fishing was incredible.
Within an hour, I’d caught and released several trout and kept two for dinner. The sun was warm. The beer was cold. I remember thinking it might be the best decision I’d made all year.
That’s when I noticed movement across the stream.
At first, I thought it was just wind in the trees. But it wasn’t random. It was deliberate.
Something was moving along the treeline on the opposite bank.
I squinted, watching carefully. Maybe another fisherman? A hunter scouting the area?
The figure stayed just inside the shadows. Tall. Broad.
I called out, my voice echoing through the trees.
No answer.
The movement stopped.
We stayed like that for several minutes—me sitting there, half a beer in hand, staring across the water at something I couldn’t quite make out.
Then it moved again.
Closer to the water.
And that’s when the wrongness hit me.
It was too tall to be a normal person. And the way it moved—too smooth, too fluid—didn’t feel human.
From that distance, it looked like it was covered in dark brown hair.
Not clothes.
Hair.
Chapter Six: The Watching
I rubbed my eyes, blaming age and tired vision. I’d just turned forty-seven. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me.
But when I looked again, it was still there.
Standing perfectly still.
Watching me.
We stared at each other for what felt like ten minutes.
I tried to rationalize it. Heavy winter clothes. Bug protection. Some eccentric local.
Then, without warning, it vanished.
Not walked away.
Vanished.
Like it melted back into the forest.
I stood there for a long time afterward, scanning the treeline, trying to shake the uneasy feeling crawling up my spine. Eventually, I went back to fishing, but the peace was gone.
I felt watched.
Chapter Seven: Dinner and the Second Revelation
As the sun dipped lower, I cleaned the fish by the stream and started a small fire near my truck. Butter sizzled in the cast iron skillet. The smell was incredible.
That’s when I saw them again.
Two figures this time.
Standing openly at the water’s edge about a hundred yards downstream.
They weren’t hiding anymore.
They were massive. Easily seven to eight feet tall. Covered head to toe in dark, shaggy hair. Standing upright like men.
But they weren’t men.
The last light of day caught the hair on their bodies, and I could see it ripple in the breeze.
They were watching me.
Not with curiosity.
With intent.
I called out again. No response. No movement.
As darkness crept in, they began walking along the bank toward my camp. Slowly. Deliberately.
Every instinct I had screamed danger.
Chapter Eight: Leaving the First Camp
I packed up fast.
Ate my fish. Broke down camp. Loaded everything into the truck without making sudden movements. The entire time, the two figures kept pace with me on the opposite bank.
When I started the engine, they turned their heads in perfect unison, tracking the sound.
Their eyes reflected faint moonlight.
Those were not human eyes.
I drove three miles upstream and found another clearing—more open, better visibility. This time, no fire. No chair. Just me, my truck, and a lantern.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
But I slept with my keys in my hand.
Chapter Nine: The Night Comes Alive
I had just started to drift off when I heard it.
A low growl.
Deep. Resonant. Not wolves. Not coyotes.
Then footsteps.
Heavy footsteps.
Circling my truck.
And then the voices.
Low, guttural sounds with the rhythm of speech. Communication.
When I peeked through the curtain, my blood turned to ice.
They were right there.
Two of them.
Massive. Eight feet tall. Built like tanks. Faces halfway between human and ape. Intelligent eyes studying my truck.
One tried the door handle.
The other tested the tailgate.
They weren’t animals.
They were problem-solving.
Chapter Ten: The Escape
They began pounding on the truck.
Harder. Louder.
The entire vehicle shook.
I turned the key.
The engine roared to life—and they exploded with rage.
They tried to flip the truck.
One grabbed the rear bumper and tried to drag me backward.
I floored it.
In the mirror, I saw them running after me.
Keeping pace.
At thirty miles an hour.
At forty.
Eyes glowing red in my taillights.
They chased me for over a mile.
When I finally reached civilization, I didn’t stop driving until dawn.
Chapter Eleven: What Changed Forever
My truck was dented. The bumper twisted. Fingerprints pressed into steel.
Insurance called it an animal attack.
I call it a warning.
Three months later, I don’t go into remote woods anymore.
Because something out there is watching.
And if you go deep enough—
It will notice you.
END OF PART ONE
