Chilling Bigfoot Encounter Shakes Veteran Survivalist in Alaska’s Wilderness!

The Denali Encounter

Eight years have passed since those ten days in Alaska’s Denali backcountry, and I still wake up in cold sweats, haunted by what I encountered out there. My name is Jake Duffen. I’m a wilderness survival instructor, a former Army Ranger, and I’ve spent over two decades in some of the most remote and dangerous places on Earth. I’ve faced combat situations that would break most people, survived conditions that claimed the lives of seasoned outdoorsmen. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for what I witnessed in those final three days of what was supposed to be a routine solo survival challenge.

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I’ve debated for years whether to share this story. My reputation as a credible survival expert is everything to me. It’s how I make my living, how I’ve built my career, how people know me in the outdoor community. But the weight of keeping this secret has become unbearable. Maybe it’s time people knew the truth about what’s really out there in our wilderness areas.

The idea for a ten-day solo winter survival challenge in Alaska had been brewing in my mind for years. After two decades of teaching others how to survive in extreme conditions, I wanted to push myself to the absolute limit. I chose the Denali backcountry specifically because of its reputation for being unforgiving—forty miles from the nearest road, accessible only by bush plane, notorious for its harsh weather and dangerous wildlife. I spent months planning every detail. The challenge was simple in concept but brutal in execution: survive for ten days in February using only basic gear and whatever I could hunt, trap, or forage. The forecast called for sustained periods below minus-20°F, with potential drops to minus-40°F at night. Perfect conditions to test every survival skill I’d accumulated over my lifetime.

My gear was minimal by design: a military-grade winter sleeping bag, a small canvas tarp, basic hunting and fishing equipment, emergency signaling devices, and enough food for three days—just enough to get established before living entirely off the land. I brought my grandfather’s .36 rifle, a weapon I’d used since I was twelve and could shoot with precision even in the worst conditions.

The drop-off went perfectly. Tom Patterson, a local bush pilot I’d worked with before, flew me deep into the wilderness on a crystal-clear February morning. The landscape below was breathtaking—endless expanses of snow-covered forest broken only by frozen lakes and rocky outcrops. As we circled my intended landing zone, a small clearing surrounded by dense spruce, Tom gave me his usual pre-drop briefing. “Weather looks stable for the next week,” he said through the headset. “But you know how quickly things can change up here. I’ll be back in ten days at 1400 hours. If you’re not at the extraction point, I’ll circle for thirty minutes, then come back every day until I find you.”

I nodded, feeling the familiar adrenaline surge through my system. This was what I lived for—the challenge, the isolation, the test of skills against nature’s worst.

The initial days unfolded exactly as I’d planned. My military training and decades of wilderness experience served me well in establishing a sustainable routine. I selected a campsite in a natural depression surrounded by spruce trees, providing both windbreak and concealment. The shelter I constructed using my tarp and deadfall was solid enough to withstand the constant arctic winds. Water wasn’t an issue; I located a small stream about two hundred yards from camp that remained unfrozen due to its swift current. I established a fire pit with a reflector wall to maximize heat efficiency and minimize wood consumption. My first priority was always fire, both for warmth and as a psychological anchor in the vast wilderness.

Food procurement went better than expected. I set several snares along game trails where snowshoe hares and ptarmigan traveled regularly. Within forty-eight hours, I had three snares producing consistently. Hunting was more challenging due to the deep snow, but I managed to take down a few ptarmigan with careful stalking and precise shooting. The nights were brutal, even with my military sleeping bag and a constantly maintained fire. The cold was relentless—temperatures dropped to minus-35°F on the third night, and I had to wake up every two hours to feed the fire. But this was exactly what I’d come for: to push myself beyond comfort zones and prove that proper preparation and technique could overcome any natural obstacle.

By day seven, I’d settled into a rhythm that felt almost comfortable. I was averaging about 2,500 calories per day from my hunting and trapping, enough to maintain my energy levels. My shelter had proven weatherproof through two significant snowstorms. I was actually ahead of schedule and feeling confident about completing the challenge successfully.

That confidence was about to be shattered in ways I never could have imagined.

I’ve always been an early riser, but in the Alaska wilderness, dawn comes late and reluctantly in February. I was up before first light on day eight, as was my routine, stoking the fire and preparing for my morning check of the snare lines. The temperature had dropped to minus-28°F overnight, and the forest was locked in that absolute stillness that only extreme cold can create.

I developed a specific route for checking my snares, a circuit that took me about two miles through the forest and back to camp. I’d been following the same route for seven days, and every tree, every rock, every depression in the snow had become familiar. That’s why I noticed the tracks immediately. They were in the snow about fifty yards from my third snare, crossing the game trail I’d been following.

At first glance, they looked almost human—a clear heel strike and toe push-off pattern, unmistakably bipedal. But the size was impossible. Each print was at least eighteen inches long and eight inches wide, far larger than any human foot could produce. My first thought was bear tracks, but that didn’t make sense. Bears were in hibernation, and even if one had been active, the track pattern was all wrong. Bears don’t walk in a straight line with a consistent stride length. These prints showed a deliberate, purposeful gait with a stride length of nearly four feet.

I knelt down to examine the tracks more closely. The prints were relatively fresh, made within the last few hours based on the snow conditions. They were deep, indicating something with significant weight, and the edges were clean, suggesting the creature had walked through recently enough that wind and snow drift hadn’t obscured the details. But it was the depth that really troubled me. Based on the snow conditions and the depth of the impressions, whatever made these tracks had to weigh at least six hundred pounds. I’m 220 pounds, and my boots barely made impressions in the same snow. These prints were pressed down nearly four inches.

I followed the tracks for about a quarter mile, fighting the growing unease in my gut. The trail led directly through the densest part of the forest, moving in a straight line that seemed to completely ignore the natural obstacles that would force any normal animal to detour. Fallen logs that I would have to climb over had been stepped over effortlessly. Thick brush that would force me to find a way around had been pushed through without deviation. The trail disappeared at a rocky outcrop where the snow was too thin to hold impressions. I spent twenty minutes searching the area, trying to pick up the tracks on the other side, but found nothing. Whatever had made those prints had simply vanished.

I returned to camp with a growing sense of unease that I couldn’t shake. My military training had taught me to trust my instincts, and every instinct I had was screaming that something was wrong. I’d spent my entire adult life in wilderness areas, and I’d never seen anything like those tracks.

That afternoon, I cleaned and loaded my rifle, even though I’d been carrying it unloaded to that point. I also moved my camp supplies into a more defensible position and created multiple escape routes that I could use even in complete darkness. I told myself I was just being cautious, but deep down, I knew I was preparing for something I couldn’t identify or understand.

As the sun set on day eight, the temperature plummeted to minus-32°F, and the forest took on that ethereal quality that only exists in extreme cold. Every sound seemed amplified, every shadow deeper and more threatening. I built up my fire larger than usual and positioned myself so I could see in multiple directions while remaining in the warmth of the flames. I was processing a rabbit I’d caught earlier, working by firelight, and trying to focus on the familiar routine of field dressing and preparation. The work was methodical and calming, and I was beginning to convince myself that the strange tracks had been nothing more than an optical illusion or misidentification.

That’s when I heard it. The sound was unmistakable—heavy, deliberate footsteps moving through the forest. But these weren’t the light, quick steps of deer or the lumbering gait of a moose. These were measured, purposeful steps that seemed to be moving in a wide circle around my campsite. Each footfall was clear and distinct, crunching through the snow with a weight that spoke of something massive.

I froze, my hands still holding the rabbit, and listened intently. The footsteps stopped for nearly five minutes. The forest was completely silent except for the crackling of my fire. Then slowly the movement resumed, but now it was coming from a different direction. Whatever was out there was definitely circling my camp.

I set down the rabbit and reached for my rifle, chambering a round as quietly as possible. The metallic click seemed impossibly loud in the stillness. Again, the footsteps stopped immediately. Whatever was out there had heard the sound and understood its significance.

For the next hour, this pattern continued. I would hear movement, always staying just beyond the range of my firelight. And whenever I made any sound or movement, it would stop. But I could feel eyes watching me. It was the same sensation I’d experienced during combat patrols in hostile territory—the absolute certainty that you’re being observed by something intelligent and potentially dangerous.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my headlamp and rifle and stepped away from the fire. “Hello,” I called out, my voice echoing strangely in the cold air. “I know you’re out there. Show yourself.”

The response was immediate and terrifying. A sound unlike anything I’d ever heard erupted from the forest—part roar, part scream, but with an almost human quality that made my blood run cold. It was loud enough to hurt my ears and seemed to come from directly in front of me, maybe sixty yards away. I switched on my headlamp and swept the beam across the forest. For just a moment, I caught a glimpse of something massive moving between the trees. It was tall, at least eight feet, and covered in dark hair or fur. The light reflected off what might have been eyes, and then it was gone, crashing through the underbrush with surprising speed for something so large.

I stood there for several minutes, rifle ready, scanning the forest with my headlamp. But whatever had been watching me was gone. The forest had returned to its normal nighttime sounds—the occasional crack of a tree in the cold, the distant call of an owl, the whisper of wind through the branches.

I spent the rest of the night by the fire, rifle across my knees, watching the treeline. Every shadow seemed to move. Every sound seemed threatening. I dozed fitfully, waking at every small noise, but nothing else happened. By dawn, I was exhausted and beginning to question my own perceptions. Had I really seen something in the forest, or was it just shadows and exhaustion playing tricks on my mind? The rational part of my brain wanted to believe it had been nothing more than a hallucination brought on by isolation and stress. But my instincts, honed by decades of survival experience, told me otherwise.

Something was out there, something that was watching me, and it was intelligent enough to stay just beyond the range of my firelight while it studied me.

I woke up on day nine to find my camp had been visited during the brief period I dozed off near dawn. The evidence was unmistakable and terrifying. My gear, which I’d carefully arranged around my shelter, had been moved—not destroyed or scattered randomly, but deliberately relocated. My backpack had been lifted from its position near the fire and placed on the opposite side of the campsite. My cooking pot had been picked up and set down exactly ten feet from where I’d left it. But it was the tracks that made my blood run cold. They were everywhere, circling my camp, approaching my shelter, even coming within five feet of where I’d been sleeping—the same massive prints I’d found the day before. But now they told a story of something that had spent considerable time studying my camp while I slept.

I followed the tracks, trying to piece together what had happened. The creature had approached from multiple directions, always staying in the shadows at the edge of my camp. It had examined my gear, my shelter, even my food supply. Some of the tracks showed where it had knelt down, as if examining things more closely. The intelligence displayed was undeniable. This wasn’t random animal behavior. Most disturbing were the tracks that led directly to my shelter. They approached to within arm’s length of where I’d been sleeping, then stopped. I could see where it had stood there, studying me. The prints were deeper at the heel, indicating it had remained in that position for some time.

The thought that I’d been watched while sleeping sent chills down my spine that had nothing to do with the minus-25°F temperature.

I spent the morning fortifying my camp and creating better perimeter defenses. I set up a series of noisemakers using my camping gear, tin cups, and metal utensils that would clatter if disturbed. I also moved my sleeping position to a location that provided better visibility of the surrounding area. If this thing was going to stalk me, I was going to make it as difficult as possible.

By afternoon, I had to admit that my situation had fundamentally changed. This was no longer a survival challenge. It was a potential life-or-death situation. I was being stalked by something unknown, something that was clearly intelligent and unafraid of humans. My military training kicked in and I began treating this as a tactical situation rather than a wilderness adventure. I inventoried my resources: one rifle with thirty rounds of ammunition, basic survival gear, emergency signaling devices, and a day and a half before my scheduled extraction.

My options were limited. I could try to make it to the extraction point early, but that would mean a difficult fifteen-mile hike through dangerous terrain in extreme cold. Or I could stay and defend my position, hoping that whatever was stalking me would lose interest or that I could drive it away.

The decision was made for me as the sun began to set. I heard the footsteps again, but this time they were closer and more aggressive. Whatever was out there was no longer content to simply watch from a distance. It was moving in.

As darkness fell, the temperature dropped to minus-30°F. The forest took on a menacing quality I’d never experienced before. Every tree seemed to hide potential threats. Every shadow could conceal something dangerous. I built my fire larger than ever and positioned myself with my back to a large boulder that would prevent anything from approaching from behind.

The footsteps started around 8:00 p.m., but this time they were different. Instead of the cautious circling pattern of the previous night, these were bold and direct. Whatever was out there was moving straight toward my camp with purpose and determination. I could hear it approaching through the dense spruce forest, breaking branches and pushing through underbrush with casual disregard for stealth. The sounds were getting closer, and I could tell from the spacing and rhythm that it was walking upright on two legs. No known animal in Alaska moves through the forest with that kind of confident bipedal gait.

“Stop right there!” I shouted, raising my rifle and chambering a round. “I’m armed and I will shoot.”

The footsteps stopped, but I could hear heavy breathing just beyond the range of my firelight. It was deep, rhythmic, and definitely not human. But there was something almost contemplative about it, as if whatever was out there was considering its next move.

Then I heard something that made my blood freeze. It was vocalization—not quite words, but definitely some form of communication. A series of low, guttural sounds that seemed to have structure and meaning. It was trying to communicate with me.

“What do you want?” I called out, my voice cracking despite my efforts to sound strong and confident. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will defend myself.”

The response was immediate and terrifying. A roar erupted from the forest so loud and powerful it seemed to shake the ground beneath my feet. It was followed by the sound of something large moving rapidly through the trees—not away from my camp, but around it. It was flanking me. I spun around trying to track the movement with my headlamp, but the creature was staying just beyond my light range. I could hear it crashing through the forest, moving with incredible speed for something so large. The sound was coming from my left, then my right, then behind me. It was surrounding me.

Then suddenly, everything went quiet. The forest fell into a silence so complete it was almost oppressive. I stood there, rifle ready, turning slowly to scan the tree line. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure it could be heard for miles.

That’s when I saw it. Standing at the very edge of my firelight, partially hidden behind a large spruce tree, was something that shouldn’t exist. At least eight feet tall, covered in dark, shaggy hair with a massive frame that spoke of incredible strength. The head was large and almost human in shape, but the features were more primitive, more ape-like. The eyes were intelligent and unmistakably aware, reflecting the firelight like two amber mirrors.

We stared at each other for what felt like hours, but was probably only seconds. It was studying me with the same intensity that I was studying it. There was intelligence in those eyes, but also something wild and unpredictable. It was clearly deciding whether I was a threat, prey, or something else entirely.

I kept my rifle trained on its center mass, but I didn’t fire. Something in its posture suggested that it wasn’t immediately threatening. It was watching, evaluating, trying to understand what I was just as much as I was trying to understand what it was.

Then it stepped forward into the full light of my fire. The creature was even more massive than I had initially thought—close to nine feet tall, probably weighed seven hundred pounds or more. Its arms were incredibly long and muscular, hanging down past its knees. The hands were enormous, with fingers that looked capable of crushing bone. Its chest and shoulders were impossibly broad, and the entire body was covered in coarse, dark hair that seemed to absorb the firelight.

But it was the face that was most disturbing. Clearly not human, but not entirely animal either—a blend of primitive human and something else. Something that suggested intelligence and awareness, but also wildness and unpredictability. The eyes were large and expressive, showing emotions that I could almost recognize, but not quite understand.

We stood there in a standoff that seemed to last forever. I could feel sweat freezing on my forehead despite the extreme cold. My hands were shaking, but I kept the rifle steady. The creature made no aggressive moves, but its presence was overwhelming.

Then, slowly, it began to move—not toward me, but to the side, circling my camp at the edge of the firelight. It was studying my setup, my gear, my shelter. It was learning about me and how I lived. The intelligence in its movements was undeniable. This wasn’t animal behavior, but something far more complex.

I tracked it with my rifle, turning as it moved. But I still didn’t fire. Something told me that as long as I didn’t make any aggressive moves, it wouldn’t attack. It was curious, not hungry or territorial. At least, that’s what I hoped.

After completing its circuit of my camp, the creature stopped directly in front of me again. We locked eyes once more and for just a moment I felt like I was looking into the face of something that was almost human but not quite. There was recognition there, and perhaps even a kind of respect.

Then it turned and walked away into the forest, disappearing into the darkness as if it had never been there at all.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I sat by the fire, rifle across my knees, replaying the encounter over and over in my mind. Had I really seen what I thought I’d seen? Was it possible that something like that could exist in the Alaska wilderness without being discovered by science?

By dawn, I had made my decision. I was leaving for the extraction point immediately—a day early. I’d gotten what I came for: a test of my survival skills. But I’d also gotten far more than I’d bargained for. It was time to get back to civilization and try to make sense of what I’d experienced.

I broke camp at first light, packing my gear with the efficiency of someone who wanted to be somewhere else as quickly as possible. The temperature was minus-35°F, and the sky was overcast with the threat of more snow. I had fifteen miles to cover through difficult terrain to reach the extraction point, and I wanted to be there well before Tom arrived.

The hike started normally enough. I was making good time through the forest, following a compass bearing that would take me directly to the small lake where Tom would pick me up. The snow was deep, but not impossible, and I was confident I could cover the distance in six or seven hours.

But after about three miles, I began to feel like I was being followed. It started as just a sense of unease, the feeling of being watched that I’d experienced the previous nights. But as I continued hiking, the sensation grew stronger. I would hear sounds behind me—the crack of a branch, the whisper of movement through the trees. But when I turned to look, there was nothing there.

I picked up my pace, trying to put distance between myself and whatever was following me. But the sounds continued, always staying just far enough behind me that I couldn’t see what was making them. It was like being stalked by a ghost—something that was there but not there, present but invisible.

After five miles, I stopped for a brief rest and to check my bearings. That’s when I saw them—the same massive tracks in the snow paralleling my route, staying about fifty yards off to my left. Whatever had visited my camp the night before was definitely following me.

I resumed hiking, but now I was constantly looking over my shoulder. The tracks continued to parallel my route, sometimes disappearing where the snow was thin, but always reappearing a little further ahead. It was clear that the creature was not just following me randomly. It was herding me, keeping me moving in a specific direction.

That realization sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. If it was intelligent enough to herd me, then it was intelligent enough to predict where I was going. It might even be trying to cut me off before I reached the extraction point.

I changed course slightly, veering to the right to see if the tracks would adjust accordingly. They did. Whatever was following me was definitely reacting to my movements, staying positioned to intercept me if I tried to deviate from my planned route.

By mile ten, I was beginning to panic. The creature’s tracks were getting closer, and I could occasionally catch glimpses of movement in the forest to my left—a dark shape moving through the trees, always staying just far enough away that I couldn’t get a clear look, but close enough that I knew it was there. I was exhausted from the difficult hiking conditions and the constant stress of being stalked. My legs were burning from post-holing through the deep snow, and my pack felt like it weighed twice as much as when I’d started. But I couldn’t stop. I had to reach the extraction point before whatever was following me decided to make its move.

The final confrontation came with only two miles left to go. I was crossing a small clearing when I heard the sound of something large moving rapidly through the forest ahead of me. The creature was no longer following—it was moving to intercept me. I could hear it crashing through the underbrush, breaking branches and pushing through the forest with the kind of power that spoke of incredible strength.

Then it stepped into the clearing directly in front of me. The creature was even more imposing in daylight than it had been by firelight. It stood nearly nine feet tall, its massive frame blocking the trail ahead of me. Its dark hair was frosted with ice, and its breath created huge clouds in the frigid air. The eyes were intelligent and focused, studying me with an intensity that was almost overwhelming.

We faced each other across the clearing, neither moving. I had my rifle ready, but I was hesitant to fire. Despite its intimidating presence, the creature hadn’t made any overtly aggressive moves. It was blocking my path, but it wasn’t attacking.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just trying to get home.”

The creature tilted its head slightly, and I got the impression it was listening to my words, trying to understand their meaning. It made a soft vocalization—not the roar I’d heard the night before, but something almost conversational. Then it took a step forward.

I raised my rifle, and the creature immediately stopped. It seemed to understand the threat, but it didn’t retreat. Instead, it made that same soft vocalization again, and I got the distinct impression it was trying to communicate something to me.

We stood there for several minutes, locked in a standoff that felt like it could go on forever. I was acutely aware that I was facing something probably stronger than a grizzly bear, but also aware that it was intelligent enough to understand weapons and threats. It was choosing not to attack, but it was also making it clear that it could if it wanted to.

Finally, I made a decision. I reached into my pack and pulled out one of my emergency flares. If I couldn’t communicate with it, maybe I could scare it enough to let me pass. I pulled the pin and the flare ignited with a brilliant red light and a loud hissing sound. The creature jumped back, clearly startled by the sudden brightness and noise. I followed up by pulling out my emergency whistle and blowing it as loud as I could. The combination of the flare and the whistle created enough chaos and confusion that the creature retreated several steps. It was clearly unsettled by the noise and the bright light, but it wasn’t running away. It was just giving me more space.

I used the opportunity to move forward, keeping the flare between myself and the creature. It watched me pass, but it didn’t try to stop me. As I reached the edge of the clearing, I looked back to see it still standing there, watching me with those intelligent eyes.

I hiked the final two miles in record time, driven by adrenaline and the overwhelming need to reach safety. By the time I reached the extraction point, I was exhausted, dehydrated, and shaking from more than just the cold. But I was alive, and I was going home.

Tom arrived right on schedule at 2:00 p.m., his small plane touching down on the frozen lake with the precision of someone who’d been flying in Alaska for decades. I was waiting for him at the designated spot, my gear packed and ready to go. I’d never been so happy to see another human being in my life.

As we loaded my gear into the plane, Tom noticed my condition. I was exhausted, obviously stressed, and probably looked like I’d been through hell—which, in a way, I had.

“Rough trip?” he asked, studying my face with concern.

I hesitated before answering. How do you explain to someone that you spent three days being stalked by something that isn’t supposed to exist? How do you tell a rational person that you’ve seen something science says is impossible?

“Yeah,” I said finally. “Rougher than I expected.”

Tom nodded, but he didn’t press for details. Bush pilots learn to read people, and he could obviously tell I wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened. He finished loading my gear and started the plane’s engine. As we taxied across the frozen lake, I looked back at the forest where I’d spent the last ten days. Somewhere in those trees was something that had changed my entire understanding of what was possible in the wilderness. Something that was probably still watching as we took off.

During the flight back to Fairbanks, Tom made casual conversation about weather conditions and flying, but I could tell he was still concerned about my condition. Finally, about halfway through the flight, he brought up something that made my blood run cold.

“You know,” he said, “you’re not the first person I’ve picked up from that area who looked like they’d seen a ghost.”

I looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been flying hunters and guides into that region for fifteen years,” he said. “Every few years, someone comes out looking like you do right now. They don’t want to talk about what happened, but they all have the same look in their eyes—like they’ve seen something that shouldn’t exist.”

“Have any of them ever told you what they saw?”

Tom was quiet for a moment, concentrating on his flying. Finally, he said, “A few have. They all described the same thing. Something big, something that walks on two legs, something that’s too intelligent to be an animal. Most people think they’re crazy, so they keep quiet about it.”

“Do you think they’re crazy?”

“I’ve been flying over that wilderness for a long time,” Tom said. “I’ve seen things from the air that I can’t explain. Tracks in the snow that don’t match any known animal. Movements in the forest that are too purposeful to be wildlife. I think there are things in the Alaska wilderness that we don’t understand, and maybe we’re not supposed to understand them.”

The rest of the flight passed in silence, but Tom’s words had confirmed what I’d already begun to suspect. I wasn’t the only person who had encountered something unexplainable in that remote area. There were others, and they were all keeping quiet about it for the same reasons I was considering.

Back in Fairbanks, I checked into a hotel and spent the next three days trying to process what had happened. I took long, hot showers to wash away the cold and the fear. I ate real food and slept in a real bed. But I couldn’t stop thinking about those three days in the forest and what they meant.

I considered my options. I could keep quiet about what I’d seen and continue with my life as if nothing had happened. I could try to convince myself it had all been a hallucination brought on by stress and isolation. Or I could report what I’d experienced and face the potential consequences to my reputation and career.

The decision was made easier by a conversation I had with Dr. Sarah Matthews, a wildlife biologist I’d worked with on several projects. I called her under the pretense of discussing my survival challenge, but eventually worked up the courage to describe what I’d encountered.

“Jake,” she said after I’d finished my account, “you’re not the first person to report something like this. There are dozens of similar accounts from Alaska and the Pacific Northwest. Most people are too afraid of ridicule to report them officially, but they exist.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” I asked.

“I think there are a lot of things in the wilderness we don’t understand,” she said. “The Alaska wilderness is vast and largely unexplored. If something large and intelligent wanted to remain hidden, it could probably do so indefinitely.”

That conversation gave me the courage to file an official report with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. I spent two days writing a detailed account of everything I’d experienced, including descriptions of the tracks, the encounters, and the behavior I’d observed. I tried to be as objective and scientific as possible, sticking to facts and avoiding speculation. The response was polite but noncommittal.

A wildlife officer named Jim Bradley called me to discuss the report. He asked detailed questions about the location and the specific behaviors I’d observed. He seemed genuinely interested, but also made it clear they received similar reports regularly and that they were filed away for future reference.

“We can’t investigate every report of unusual wildlife encounters,” he said, “but we do keep track of patterns and locations. Your report will be added to our database.”

I asked if there had been other reports from the same area, and he confirmed there had been several over the years. He wouldn’t give me specific details, but suggested the area I’d been in was known for unusual wildlife activity.

Six months later, I learned the area where I’d had my encounter had been designated as a special research zone with restricted access. No official explanation was given, but hunting and camping permits were no longer being issued for that region. When I tried to get more information, I was told the area was being studied for ecological research purposes.

Eight years have passed since my encounter in the Alaska wilderness, and I still don’t have answers to the questions that experience raised. I’ve continued my career as a survival instructor, but I’ve never returned to that area of Alaska. I’ve never had another encounter with anything similar, but I’ve never stopped thinking about what I saw.

I’ve done extensive research on similar encounters and found hundreds of accounts from credible witnesses—military personnel, law enforcement officers, experienced hunters and guides—all describing encounters with something large, intelligent, and bipedal that doesn’t match any known animal.

The scientific community remains skeptical, and I understand why. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, and blurry photographs and eyewitness accounts aren’t enough to prove the existence of an unknown species. But the consistency of the reports, the credibility of many witnesses, and the vastness of the unexplored wilderness suggest that something is out there.

What troubles me most is the intelligence I witnessed. This wasn’t just a large animal. It was something that could think, plan, and adapt. It studied me, learned my routines, and made strategic decisions about how to approach me. It understood tools and weapons. And it was capable of complex problem solving.

If such creatures exist, it raises profound questions about our understanding of evolution, biology, and the natural world. How could something so large and intelligent remain hidden for so long? How many of them are there? What do they want? And perhaps most importantly, what does their existence mean for our understanding of our place in the natural world?

I’ve shared my story with selected colleagues and friends over the years, and the reactions have been mixed. Some are skeptical, others are intrigued, and a few have shared similar experiences of their own. I’ve learned there’s a community of people who have had unexplained encounters in the wilderness, and most of them keep quiet.

If you’re reading this, know that there are mysteries in our world that defy explanation. And sometimes, the wilderness keeps its secrets far better than we ever could.

End of Story