‘Bigfoot Attacked Me While Fishing’ – BIGFOOT ENCOUNTER STORY COMPILATION – Part 2
PART TWO: THEY LET ME WALK AWAY
Chapter One: Thirty Years Later
They let me live.
That is the part that still wakes me up in cold sweats, more than thirty years later.
.
.
.
Not the bone-chilling roars that echoed through the Appalachian darkness.
Not the massive footprints pressed deep into wet mountain mud.
Not even the moment I found myself trapped inside a cave, face to face with a nine-foot-tall mother protecting her young.
No.
It’s the realization that I survived October of 1992 not because of my wilderness skills, not because of my revolver, and not because of the years I spent training myself to endure the harshest environments on Earth.
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 go.
What you are about to hear is not a story about conquering nature.
It is a confession.
A confession about seven days alone in the remote Appalachian Mountains—seven days that shattered everything I thought I knew about the natural world, intelligence, and humanity’s place in the wilderness.
Chapter Two: Confidence Built on Legends
Before that expedition, I believed preparation could overcome anything.
I was an experienced survivalist, someone who had dedicated his life to mastering wilderness survival. My methods were heavily inspired by Ernest Shackleton—the Antarctic explorer who survived conditions that should have killed him a dozen times over.
Like Shackleton, I believed human endurance, discipline, and planning could conquer any environment.
I had tested myself across extremes:
Frozen peaks of the Rocky Mountains.
Scorching deserts of the American Southwest.
Weeks alone with minimal gear.
I could start fires in driving rain using nothing but natural materials. I could build shelters capable of withstanding sub-zero temperatures. I could navigate by the stars across trackless wilderness.
By 1992, I believed there was nothing left on this continent that could truly surprise me.
The Appalachian Mountains were meant to be my ultimate test.
Chapter Three: Into the Monongahela
The region I chose lay deep within the Monongahela National Forest of West Virginia—one of the most isolated wilderness areas in the eastern United States.
The nearest road was forty miles away.
There was no cell service.
No marked trails.
No safety net.
I planned to spend seven days alone, climbing isolated peaks and testing every survival skill I had acquired over decades.
My gear was minimal but precise:
A military-grade compass.
Topographical maps sealed in waterproof cases.
A sleeping bag rated well below freezing.
Emergency rations calculated to last exactly seven days.
And most importantly, my .357 Magnum revolver.
Six rounds.
Six small assurances against anything with teeth or claws.
Or so I believed.
Chapter Four: When the Forest Went Silent
The first day passed without incident.
The forest felt alive—squirrels gathering nuts, birds calling to one another, the rhythmic knock of a woodpecker echoing through the trees.
I made camp beside a mountain stream, positioned on high ground with clear sight lines. That first night, I slept deeply, lulled by the normal symphony of nocturnal sounds.
Nothing warned me of what was coming.
The second morning did.
When I broke camp at dawn, the forest was silent.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
Dead.
No birds.
No insects.
No small animals.
In my years of experience, I had learned that silence like that meant only one thing: a large predator was nearby.
But this silence followed me.
Mile after mile, elevation after elevation, the forest remained unnaturally quiet.
By midday, I found the footprint.
Chapter Five: The Track That Shouldn’t Exist
It was pressed deep into the mud beside a small mountain stream.
Eighteen inches long.
Eight inches wide.
Five distinct toes.
Bare.
Upright.
The proportions were wrong for a human. Too large. Too heavy. Too… deliberate.
The depth of the impression suggested immense weight—far more than any man could produce.
Nearby, I found more tracks. A trail of them, following the water’s edge as if something had been walking slowly, calmly, without urgency.
I followed them until they disappeared into hard ground and leaf cover.
That night, I noticed broken branches snapped six feet off the ground—green wood still visible.
Whatever was moving through these mountains was strong.
And it was close.
Chapter Six: The Watcher
On the third night, I saw it.
I had chosen a defensible clearing at the edge of the spruce forest and built my fire larger than usual. The silence pressed in from all sides.
Just after midnight, movement caught my eye.
Something stood at the edge of the clearing.
At first, I thought it was a bear.
Then I realized it was standing on two legs.
Eight feet tall. Broad. Still.
Watching me.
I reached for my revolver, holding my breath.
We stared at one another for several long minutes.
Then, without sound, it melted back into the trees.
I did not sleep again that night.
Chapter Seven: The Cave
The storm arrived on the fourth day.
A violent Appalachian system—wind, rain, lightning, and falling temperatures. I was miles from any planned shelter when I spotted the cave, hidden behind rhododendron and fallen stone.
Entering an unknown cave goes against every survival instinct.
But the storm left me no choice.
Inside, I found evidence of habitation.
Stone shelves.
Primitive bedding made of moss and pine boughs.
Animal bones.
Food stores.
And markings on the walls—paintings made with natural pigments depicting hunts, figures both humanlike and… other.
This place was not abandoned.
It was occupied.
When I turned to leave, the cave entrance was blocked.
Chapter Eight: The Mother
She stood silhouetted against the stormlight.
Nine feet tall.
Covered in dark hair.
Unmistakably female.
And cradled against her chest was an infant.
The sound she made was pure, primal fury.
I had trespassed into her home.
There was no misunderstanding. No communication. No mercy.
I had seconds.
I chose not to fire.
Instead, I ran.
Her claws ripped through my pack as I squeezed past her, sending me flying into the storm outside.
I ran until my lungs burned and my legs screamed, chased by roars that cut through thunder.
Chapter Nine: Hiding From Gods
Exhaustion forced me to stop.
I found an ancient oak tree, its trunk hollowed by time. Before climbing inside, I coated myself in mud, leaves, and rot—anything to mask my scent.
Minutes later, they arrived.
The mother was joined by a male.
He was enormous—over nine feet tall, shoulders like boulders, eyes filled with intelligence.
He searched methodically.
Sniffing.
Listening.
Thinking.
Several times, his gaze passed directly over my hiding place.
But he did not attack.
At dawn, he turned away.
They left me alive.
Chapter Ten: The Decision
I abandoned the expedition.
For the next two days, I moved only in daylight, avoided soft ground, crossed streams strategically, and never built a fire.
I saw signs of them everywhere—tracks, broken branches, movement at the edge of vision.
They followed.
Watched.
Evaluated.
On the final day, I found their structure—a massive, deliberate dwelling built of logs and woven branches.
A giant emerged and looked directly at me.
Then he made a sound—almost amused.
He knew exactly where I was.
And he chose to let me leave.
Chapter Eleven: The Truth I Carry
I reached my truck at dusk.
I never returned to extreme wilderness survival.
I now understand the truth.
In the deepest forests, humanity is not the apex predator.
We are not even close.
There are intelligences older than us, stronger than us, and far more patient.
They watch.
They remember.
And sometimes… they allow us to walk away.
Epilogue
If you ever find yourself alone in the deep woods and feel watched—
Trust that instinct.
Respect the wilderness.
And be ready to leave.
Because we are not alone out there.
We never have been.
