He Found Bigfoot Tied to a Tree With a Strange Message, What Happened Next… – Sasquatch Story
The Ties That Bind
Chapter One: The Bound Giant
I found a giant Bigfoot—a creature of a size I thought impossible. But the way I found it, all tied up to a tree with a sign covered in strange symbols, was beyond disturbing. What happened next made me rethink everything I thought I knew about the forest, nature, and humans. I am sure never in my life will I find anything stranger than what happened in that forest.
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I’m a forestry surveyor, and I spend most of my time alone in the Pacific Northwest, mapping remote timber areas for logging companies. It’s solitary work, which suits me fine. I’ve heard all the Bigfoot stories from locals over the years—campfire tales about massive hairy creatures lurking in the woods. I always figured people were seeing bears standing upright or just making things up for attention. That was before I found one tied to a tree with a message carved into wood hanging around its neck.
Three weeks back, I was doing routine survey work in an isolated valley about forty miles from the nearest logging road. The company wanted detailed topographical maps before they committed equipment and crews to the area. I’d been out there for five days, working my way through dense forest, taking measurements, marking boundaries. It was quiet work, peaceful even, with just the sounds of birds and wind through the trees.
On that fifth day, around midafternoon, I heard something that didn’t fit the usual forest soundtrack. It started as a low grunting sound, rhythmic and strained, like something struggling. Mixed in was a whimpering noise that made my skin crawl. I stopped what I was doing and listened. At first, I thought maybe it was an injured animal—a deer caught in something, or a bear cub separated from its mother. The sounds were coming from somewhere to the east, deeper into the valley.
I grabbed my pack and followed the noise, moving carefully through the underbrush. The grunting got louder as I pushed through a thick stand of ferns. Then I stepped into a clearing, and everything just stopped making sense.
There was a massive hemlock tree standing alone in the middle of the open space, probably eight feet around at the base. And tied to that tree was something I couldn’t process at first. My brain kept trying to categorize it as something familiar—a person, a bear, anything that made sense. But it was neither. It was a Bigfoot, at least eight feet tall, maybe more, covered in dark reddish-brown fur that was matted and dirty. Thick rope made from twisted vines and strips of bark bound it tightly to the tree trunk. Its arms were pulled back around the tree, secured at the wrists with multiple layers of binding. More rope wrapped around its torso and legs, cinched so tight it was cutting into the fur. It had clearly been there for days, maybe weeks. The bindings had cut deep into the fur at the wrists and ankles, leaving raw patches of skin visible underneath.
The Bigfoot looked exhausted, dehydrated, defeated. Its chest rose and fell with labored, shallow breathing. Flies buzzed around the food scraps at its feet. The smell of unwashed fur and waste hung in the air. This creature was suffering and had been for a long time.
I just stood there, frozen for what felt like forever but was probably only thirty seconds. Every instinct told me to run, but then the Bigfoot noticed me. Its head lifted, and our eyes met. I expected to see rage or aggression, maybe fear. Instead, the look in those eyes was something else entirely—desperation, pleading, almost human in its clarity.
Chapter Two: The Message of Exile
The Bigfoot didn’t struggle or make threatening sounds. It just looked at me with this expression I can only describe as begging. Hanging from a rope around its neck was a wooden sign about the size of a dinner plate, maybe ten inches across. The wood was smooth, worn like it had been handled many times. Someone had carved symbols and crude drawings into it with great care.
I forced myself to move closer, keeping a safe distance but near enough to see the details clearly. The sign showed multiple Bigfoot figures carved in rough outline—maybe five or six of them standing together in what looked like a group. One figure was separated from the others, set apart on the far edge of the sign. This separated figure was marked with a deep X carved across its chest, the cut deeper and more aggressive than the other carvings. Arrows pointed away from that marked figure toward the edges of the sign, suggesting exile or banishment. Below all the images were tally marks cut into the wood in neat groups of five. I counted them twice: thirty-seven marks total. Someone had been counting days, keeping careful track of time.
This wasn’t random cruelty. This was organized punishment with a specific duration.
I started circling around the tree, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, trying to piece together what had happened here. The ground all around the hemlock was torn up and trampled, as if there had been a serious struggle days or weeks earlier. Broken branches littered the area, some snapped cleanly, others torn raggedly from nearby bushes. Disturbed earth showed deep gouges and scrape marks in the dirt—patterns that suggested violent resistance, dragging, fighting. Whatever had happened in this clearing had been violent and chaotic.
Scattered around the base of the tree were food scraps in various stages of decay—rotting fish, heads and tails, and bones picked mostly clean. Bash berries formed dark stains on the forest floor, covered with ants. Torn vegetation, leaves and roots and stems lay scattered carelessly. It looked like someone had been feeding the Bigfoot but had stopped recently. The fresher scraps—fish that still had some flesh on the bones and berries that hadn’t completely decomposed—were maybe three or four days old. The older scraps were further out from the tree, nearly returned to soil, suggesting weeks of regular feedings that had suddenly ceased.
Someone had been keeping this Bigfoot alive intentionally, bringing food on a schedule, then abruptly stopped. My mind was racing. This creature had been left here to die. That much was obvious. But who had done it? Other Bigfoot? That seemed impossible. But the more I looked at the evidence, the more it made a twisted kind of sense. The rope was made from natural materials, twisted and woven with skill, but without any modern tools. The sign was carved with something sharp but crude—stone, maybe. And those tally marks suggested someone had been counting days. Thirty-seven days this Bigfoot had been tied to this tree.
Chapter Three: The Choice
I stood there wrestling with myself. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to get the hell out of there. This was dangerous. This was insane. I should radio for help, get authorities involved, let someone else handle it. But another part of me couldn’t walk away from a living thing left to suffer like this. I’ve spent my whole adult life in the woods. I’ve seen injured animals before, helped where I could. This felt the same, despite the fact that what I was looking at shouldn’t exist. And those eyes—I kept coming back to those eyes watching me. There was intelligence there, awareness. This wasn’t just an animal.
I made my decision. Probably the most reckless decision of my life, but I made it anyway. I pulled out my surveying knife—a good sharp blade I used for cutting rope and marking trees. I approached slowly, hands visible, moving with deliberate care. The Bigfoot tensed as I got closer but didn’t struggle or try to break free. It just watched me with those pleading eyes.
The rope was incredibly tough, tougher than any rope I’d worked with before. Whoever made it knew exactly what they were doing. The fibers were woven tight and strong, layer upon layer, twisted together with precision. The rope had been there long enough to settle deep into the tree bark and embed itself in the Bigfoot’s fur. In some places, the fur had actually grown around the rope, incorporating it into the coat.
I started with the bindings around the wrists, sawing carefully through layer after layer of twisted vine and bark strips. Each strand took effort to cut through. My knife was sharp, but this rope resisted. The Bigfoot remained completely still the entire time, barely breathing, like it was afraid any movement might startle me or make me stop. I could feel it watching me, feel the tension in its body as I worked. My hands started cramping from the repetitive sawing motion. Sweat dripped down my face despite the cool forest air.
The first wrist binding finally gave way with a sharp snap that made us both flinch. It took almost an hour to cut through all the ropes. My hands cramped up twice, and I had to stop to rest. The whole time, the Bigfoot just waited, patient and quiet. When I finally cut through the last binding around its legs, the rope fell away and the Bigfoot slumped against the tree. It was too weak to stand on its own. Its legs buckled and it just sat there at the base of the tree, breathing hard, free but unable to move.
I backed away fast, putting twenty feet between us. Every muscle in my body was ready to run if the Bigfoot turned aggressive, but it didn’t. It just sat there, slumped against the tree, drawing in deep breaths, flexing its wrists where the rope had cut into the skin. The wounds looked painful, raw, and inflamed.
After several minutes, the Bigfoot slowly pushed itself up, using the tree trunk for support. Instead of running into the forest like I expected, the Bigfoot turned toward me. My heart jumped into my throat. I was already calculating which direction to run, whether I could make it to my pack before this thing caught me. But then the Bigfoot did something that froze me in place. It bowed its head—not a slight nod, but a full, deliberate bow, lowering its head and shoulders toward me in what could only be a gesture of respect or gratitude.
Chapter Four: The Hidden Society
The Bigfoot reached down and picked up the wooden sign still hanging from the rope around its neck. It grabbed the sign in both hands and with one sharp movement snapped it in half. The crack echoed across the clearing. Then it tossed both pieces aside like it was disposing of something shameful or painful. The Bigfoot made a soft grunting sound, low and almost gentle. Then it turned and started limping toward the edge of the clearing, moving slowly and carefully like every step hurt.
It got about halfway to the tree line and stopped, turned back to look at me one more time. In that moment, I saw something in its expression that I can’t explain—recognition, maybe, understanding, gratitude definitely, but also something deeper. Like this creature was actually thinking, processing what had just happened, what it meant. Then it disappeared into the forest.
I stood there for another ten minutes, just breathing, trying to process what had happened. Eventually, I gathered up my gear and headed back to my camp. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that Bigfoot, about the sign and the tally marks, about who had tied it there and why, about where it was going now.
I should have left the valley right then, should have radioed my supervisor and told them I needed to wrap up early. Instead, I stayed. Told myself I needed to finish the survey work. But really, I think I wanted to know what would happen next. Some part of me needed to understand what I had just witnessed.
That night at my camp, I kept replaying everything in my head. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that other Bigfoot had tied up that creature. The materials, the methods, the sign with its crude carvings—none of it was human work. This was Bigfoot dealing with one of their own, some kind of punishment or exile. The marked figure on the sign separated from the others, the arrows pointing away. It all suggested banishment. And the tally marks meant someone had been counting the days—thirty-seven days of punishment.
The food scraps told another part of the story. Whoever tied up the Bigfoot hadn’t meant for it to die, at least not right away. They’d been bringing food periodically, keeping it alive, teaching it a lesson, maybe. But something had changed three or four days ago. The food delivery stopped. Either the punishment was supposed to end with death, or something else had interrupted their routine.
Chapter Five: The Pact
The next morning, I made another decision I probably shouldn’t have. Instead of continuing my survey work, I decided to follow the Bigfoot’s trail. The creature had been injured and weak. It couldn’t have gone far. I grabbed my pack, made sure I had enough water and supplies, and headed into the forest in the direction the Bigfoot had disappeared.
The trail wasn’t hard to follow—broken branches, disturbed undergrowth, occasional prints in soft earth. The Bigfoot had been moving slowly, stopping frequently based on the evidence. After about two miles, the trail led me toward a small stream cutting through a rocky section of the valley. I slowed down, moving more carefully now, keeping quiet. I heard the water before I saw it. The stream was running fast over smooth stones, making enough noise to cover my approach. I crept up to a stand of alders and peered through the branches.
The Bigfoot I’d freed was there, kneeling by the stream, drinking deeply. It stayed like that for a long time, just drinking and drinking like it couldn’t get enough. Then it moved to sit on a large boulder near the water’s edge. I found a fallen log about fifty yards away and crouched behind it, watching.
Suddenly, a strange hooting sound echoed from deeper in the forest. The Bigfoot on the boulder went rigid, head snapping up. The hooting came again, closer this time, and the Bigfoot responded with its own series of hoots and grunts. Three more Bigfoot emerged from the tree line—two slightly smaller, one massive, clearly the dominant member. They rushed forward, stopped short of the boulder, and gathered around the freed Bigfoot, examining the wounds on its wrists and ankles, making agitated sounds.
The big one started pacing, making aggressive gestures, but the freed Bigfoot held up its hands in a calming gesture, then started making its own sounds and gestures, pointing back in the direction of the clearing, then touching its own chest, then gesturing toward the forest. I watched as the freed Bigfoot explained what had happened. The others argued, debated, then the big one placed a massive hand on its shoulder—a gesture of acceptance, forgiveness, maybe.
Then one of the smaller Bigfoot turned its head, nostrils flaring, and looked directly at the log I was hiding behind. My blood went cold. The Bigfoot made a sharp barking sound, and all four went on high alert. The freed Bigfoot positioned itself between me and the others, started making urgent, insistent sounds, gesturing toward me, then touched its own chest where the wounds were visible, then bowed.
The big one tilted its head, the defensive postures relaxed. The freed Bigfoot beckoned me forward. I stood up, hands visible and empty. The freed Bigfoot picked up a piece of bark, scratched a drawing—a stick figure human, a Bigfoot, a line connecting them, more tally marks, and a symbol of two hands clasped together. Debt acknowledged, peace offered, a connection.
I nodded slowly. The Bigfoot made a soft sound of satisfaction. Then the others moved closer, curious, examining my clothes, my face. The freed Bigfoot beckoned me to follow, and I did.
They led me to their home—a shelter formed by fallen trees, woven mats, baskets of food, tools shaped by hand. I was invited to sit, to eat. They communicated through drawings in the dirt, telling me the story—how the freed Bigfoot had taken from the communal cache, been punished with exile, kept alive but suffering, until I intervened. By freeing it, I’d interrupted their justice system. But they accepted my action as an act of compassion, not defiance.
We exchanged gifts. They gave me a woven bracelet, polished stones, medicinal plants. I gave them food, a knife, a tarp. We sat together as night fell, two species sharing a fragile peace.
When it was time to go, the freed Bigfoot walked me back to the clearing, buried the evidence of its punishment, and drew a final invitation in the dirt—return in two months, alone. We shook hands—mine small and pale, theirs massive and warm. Then they disappeared into the forest.
Epilogue: The Silent Exchange
I kept my promise. Every month, I returned to the hemlock tree. Sometimes the freed Bigfoot was there, sometimes not. We exchanged gifts, never spoke, never brought others. The connection held, silent and sacred.
I never told anyone the location. Never brought cameras. Never tried to prove what I’d seen. The Bigfoot trusted me with their existence; the least I could do was protect them.
I learned that Bigfoot aren’t monsters or myths. They have justice, rules, families. They know compassion, gratitude, forgiveness. The world is stranger and more wonderful than we imagine, and sometimes the most important secrets are the ones we keep to protect those who cannot protect themselves.
So yes, I found a Bigfoot tied to a tree with a strange message. And what happened next did shock me—but not with fear or danger. I was shocked by connection, by recognition, by the realization that the line between human and nonhuman intelligence is much blurrier than we want to believe.
The exchange continues. The connection holds. Somewhere in a hidden valley, a family of Bigfoot lives in peace, protected by silence and by the promise I made the day I chose to cut those ropes and set one of them free.
For more mysterious stories from the edge of possibility, keep listening to the wild. Some connections are meant to be honored, not exposed.
