Farmer Records Multiple Bigfoots on His Property – Sasquatch Encounter Story
The Last Season on Cedar Hollow
Chapter One: When the Forest Changed
I’m writing this because I don’t know how much longer we can hold on. Three generations of my family have worked this land, and now we’re seriously talking about walking away from it all. Not because of money problems or bad crops or anything that makes sense. We’re thinking about abandoning our home, our heritage, everything we’ve built because something in the woods won’t leave us alone. Something that shouldn’t exist.
.
.
.
This isn’t one of those stories where someone sees Bigfoot once and spends the rest of their life wondering if it was real. This is an ongoing nightmare that’s been getting progressively worse for two years straight. Two years of living in constant fear, watching our dream slowly turn into something we can’t escape from. The worst part: we have kids. Two beautiful young kids who used to love this place. They’d spend hours outside, playing in the yard, exploring the property, helping with the animals. Now they’re terrified to step outside the house. They sleep on our bedroom floor most nights because they’re too scared to be in their own rooms. That’s not the childhood we wanted to give them.
I never believed in this stuff before. If someone had told me this story two years ago, I would have laughed them out of the room. I would have thought they were crazy or making it up for attention. But I’m not laughing anymore. I can’t laugh when I’m lying awake at 3:00 a.m. listening to something walking around outside my house. I can’t laugh when I see the fear in my children’s eyes.
Our farm is in rural Oregon, tucked into a valley about forty miles from the nearest town of any size. Two hundred acres of mostly pasture and crop fields, with dense forest surrounding us on three sides. The trees come right up to our property line—thick stands of Douglas fir and western hemlock that stretch for miles in every direction. State forest land, wilderness. Beautiful. We always thought it was a blessing.
We took over the property from my parents five years ago. They’d gotten too old to manage it, and my wife and I had always dreamed of farm life, raising our kids in the country, away from the noise and stress of the city. For the first three years, it was everything we’d hoped for. Paradise. The kids thrived. We thrived. The farm was profitable enough. Life was good.
Looking back now, I can pinpoint when things started to change. It was late summer, about two years ago. The signs were subtle at first. Our chickens started disappearing. Over a few weeks, we lost several—no feathers, no blood, no signs of a struggle. They just vanished. We blamed coyotes and reinforced the coop, but the disappearances didn’t stop. Then our other animals started acting strange. The horses would get spooked at night, pacing their stalls, kicking at the walls. The goats, normally curious, would huddle together in a corner, all facing the tree line. The dogs would bark at nothing, hackles raised, refusing to go near certain parts of the property.
And then there was the smell. Some mornings, we’d walk outside and this odor would hit us. It wasn’t like manure or a dead animal or even a skunk. This was different—musky, almost rotten, but with a sharpness that made your eyes water. The smell was strongest near the edge of the property where the woods started, and it would hang in the air for hours.
We made excuses because the alternative seemed impossible. We told ourselves it was a bear or maybe raccoons. We rationalized everything, explained it away, told ourselves there had to be a normal explanation. That’s what people do when faced with something that doesn’t fit their worldview. They ignore it—until they can’t anymore.
Chapter Two: The First Sightings
Everything changed on a cold morning in early October. I was up early, checking the fence line near the north woods. The sun was just starting to come up, that gray pre-dawn light where everything looks washed out and colorless. I was walking along the fence, head down, focused on the ground. The property was quiet—no birds, no wind, just silence. That should have been my first clue.
I got that prickling feeling on the back of my neck—the sense that I was being watched. I looked up, and there it was, standing between two large trees, maybe fifty yards away. At first, I thought it was a person, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized it couldn’t be. It was too tall—at least eight feet, maybe more. Broad shoulders, long, shaggy hair hanging in matted clumps. It stood upright, perfectly balanced on two legs, arms thick with muscle, head large and conical, set on a thick neck. Even from that distance, I could see it was looking directly at me.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. I couldn’t move. My whole body locked up with a primal fear I’d never felt before. Its eyes caught the early morning light, reflecting amber, and there was intelligence in that gaze—something more than animal. Then I blinked, and it was gone. Didn’t run, didn’t make a sound, just vanished into the forest.
I didn’t tell my wife right away. I was afraid of how crazy it would sound. Afraid that saying it out loud would make it too real. So I kept it to myself, trying to process it, trying to fit it into my understanding of reality.
But over the next few weeks, I started finding more evidence. Footprints near the creek—five distinct toes, eighteen inches long, with a stride over six feet. The impressions were deep, showing enormous weight. I’d find these prints near the barn, along the tree line, near the chicken coop. It was like something was making regular patrols around the edge of our land.
Then one morning, I found one of our goats dead in the pasture. Its neck was broken, cleanly, like someone had twisted it. No blood, no bite marks, no signs of a struggle. I’d seen what predators do to livestock—this was none of that. This was surgical, precise.
My wife started hearing things at night. She’d wake me up, whispering that she heard something outside. I’d lie there, listening. Sometimes I’d hear it too—a deep grunt, low and resonant, not a bear, not an elk. And then there was the knocking—slow, methodical knocks that echoed across the property. Three knocks, pause, three more knocks. We’d lie in bed, gripping each other’s hands, both of us knowing what we were hearing wasn’t natural.
We stopped sleeping well. The peace and quiet we’d loved about the property now felt oppressive. The darkness was full of things we couldn’t see.
Chapter Three: Escalation
About a month after my first sighting, my wife had her own encounter. She was hanging laundry on a beautiful sunny afternoon when she heard branches breaking in the woods. She looked toward the tree line and there it was—massive, closer than I’d ever seen it, only forty yards away. She described its face as almost human, but darker, with a flat nose and heavy brow. Its eyes watched her with intelligent curiosity—not aggressive, not threatening, just studying her. They stared at each other for fifteen seconds before she screamed, dropped the laundry, and ran for the house.
That night, we finally admitted to each other what we were dealing with. We talked about everything—the missing animals, the footprints, the smells, the sounds. We both came to the same impossible conclusion: there was something living in the woods around our property. Something that shouldn’t exist.
After that, everything changed. The sightings became more frequent. We’d see it at dusk, a massive shadow moving past the barn, a figure standing at the edge of the woods. Sometimes it was just a glimpse, other times it was a clear view of this impossible creature watching us from the forest.
The footprints were everywhere now—even under the kids’ bedroom windows. The prints were deep, showing that whatever made them had stood there for a while, watching. The kids started talking about tapping on their windows at night—three taps, pause, three more taps. Always the same pattern.
We installed motion lights, bought a big German Shepherd, locked every door and window at night. None of it helped. The motion lights went off constantly. The dog barked itself hoarse every night and refused to go near certain parts of the property. The feeling of being watched never went away.
We finally called the county rangers, reporting a large animal harassing our livestock. They came out, took pictures of footprints, examined the barn, but had no answers. They suggested bears, told us to be careful, and left. We never heard from them again.
Chapter Four: Breaking Point
I decided I needed to know more. One morning, after my wife and kids left for town, I grabbed my rifle and headed into the woods. The deeper I went, the quieter it became. I found trees with bark torn off up to nine feet high, branches twisted and broken at impossible angles, and markers—rocks stacked in impossible ways, bones arranged in circles, twigs hung from branches. The worst was a deer skull mounted on a broken branch, facing our house. It was a warning.
While I was standing there, I heard the wood knocking again, close this time. Three loud knocks, pause, three more. I turned and walked out as fast as I could without running.
A week later came the barn incident. Our dogs went frantic at midnight, desperate to get inside. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight, stepped outside, and heard chaos in the barn. The horses were screaming. The barn door was open. Inside, the smell was overwhelming. I saw a massive shadow crouched near the last stall. When I yelled, it turned—eyes reflecting my flashlight. Then it moved, faster than anything that size should, and crashed straight through the back wall, splintering the boards. The horses were shaken but alive. The next morning, I found hair caught in the broken wood, footprints in the dirt, and handprints on a support post—fingers thicker than my thumb.
We realized then we weren’t dealing with just one creature. There were multiple—different sizes, different colors, sometimes calling to each other at night. We were surrounded. And then came the incident with our kids. They were playing in the yard when a massive, hairy figure stepped out of the woods. They froze, then ran, screaming, for the house. That night, my wife and I decided we couldn’t stay. Our kids weren’t safe.
We tried to collect evidence—trail cameras with night vision and motion sensors. Within a week, three cameras were gone, one smashed, another repositioned high in a tree, a third showing only a blur before it went black. It was like they knew what cameras were for and deliberately destroyed them.
Chapter Five: Surrender
The activity escalated. Footprints everywhere, handprints on windows, livestock killed or vanished, garden fences ripped apart, sheds flattened, tractor wiring torn out. The financial and emotional strain was crushing. The rangers came again, this time a younger man who seemed more open-minded. He admitted, off the record, that there were other reports like ours. But unless someone was physically attacked, there was nothing they could do.
The fear became constant. We stopped sleeping. The kids refused to go outside. My wife cried every day. Our marriage strained to breaking. I wanted to hold on, but I knew deep down it was over. The creatures were marking their territory closer and closer to the house—stacked rocks, twisted branches, bone circles, even a dead coyote left on our porch. It was a message. They wanted us gone.
We started making plans to leave—contacted a realtor, looked at houses in town, packed our things. The conversation shifted from if we’d leave to when. I felt like I was betraying my heritage, everything my family had built. But my wife and kids needed to feel safe again.
The activity dropped off as soon as we started packing, as if they knew they’d won. Every sound still made us jump, every shadow was suspect. I patrolled the property every night with my rifle, exhausted, hands shaking, but unable to stop. The fear had become part of me.
We haven’t seen the creatures in days. Maybe they’re waiting, watching, knowing we’ll be gone soon. Maybe they’ll reclaim every inch of what was always theirs. I know I’ll never really leave this place behind. The fear will follow me. The memories will haunt me. The knowledge that these creatures are real, territorial, and dangerous will color everything I do for the rest of my life.
They didn’t just take our farm. They took our innocence, our sense of security, our belief that we understood the world. They proved there are things in the wilderness we can’t control, can’t coexist with. Once you know that, you can never unknow it.
We’re leaving—abandoning everything my family built because something older and stronger decided we didn’t belong. And we didn’t. That’s the truth I finally accepted. We never belonged here. We were just squatters in someone else’s territory. And eventually, the real owners made us leave.
For more stories from the edge of the unknown, keep searching the shadows. Some secrets are too powerful to ignore—and too dangerous to challenge.
