He Hid a Living DOGMAN for 50 Years, Then the Feds Found Out. What They Did…
The Secret of the Mineshaft
Late November 2012. The wind rustles the trees around me, whispering like it has secrets it’s been holding for years. The rain’s been falling steady for hours now, a heavy mist draping over the edges of the forest. It feels like a dream sometimes, what happened back then—like it wasn’t even real. But I know it was. And I know what people think when I tell this story. Bigfoot, right? People laugh. They dismiss it. I get it. I didn’t want to believe it either. But the truth is, I’ve never been able to shake it.
.
.
.
I’ve got a clip. Yeah, I’ve got one. But you won’t see it. Not ever. It’s too dangerous. And well, no one would believe me anyway. So here I am, talking into a recorder to remember, to confess. It’s been twelve years, but it feels like yesterday.
The Beginning
It was a quiet evening in late October when everything still felt normal—the kind you don’t think much about. I was sitting by the fire drinking tea, and my brother, Chief Tomahawk, was telling us old stories about our ancestors in the land. The storm had started moving in then, rolling across the valley like a gray blanket. The wind had that strange howling edge to it that made you think of things in the dark, but nothing seemed out of place. Not at first.
The tribe was settling in for the night, the fire crackling in the center of our gathering space, kids laughing and running between the lodges. Our settlement sat about fifteen miles from the nearest town, tucked into a valley where the Douglas firs grew so thick you couldn’t see fifty feet in any direction. We liked it that way—private, protected, away from the questions and stares.
But out there, beyond the firelight, something changed. Something shifted in the rhythm of the forest. I couldn’t place it then, sitting there with my tea going cold in my hands. The dogs were restless, pacing at the edge of the light. One of them, old Bear, kept looking toward the treeline and whining low in his throat. I told myself it was nothing. Probably a deer passing through or maybe a cougar moving its territory.
That’s where it started, though—the feeling like the forest was watching us instead of the other way around. I didn’t mention it to anyone that night. Didn’t want to sound foolish. But I couldn’t shake the sensation that something was out there, just beyond the reach of our firelight, observing, waiting.
The First Night
Chief Tomahawk finished his story and we all went to bed. The rain started around midnight, heavy and steady, drumming on the roofs. I lay awake for a long time, listening to it, listening to the wind moving through the trees. And underneath it all, I could swear I heard something else—three distinct sounds, evenly spaced. Knock, knock, knock. Like someone wrapping their knuckles against wood. But when I got up to check, there was nothing there—just rain and darkness and the forest holding its breath.
The strange feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it got worse over the next few weeks. I kept hearing sounds I couldn’t explain. Three knocks, always three, coming from different directions in the forest. Sometimes at dusk, sometimes in the deep hours before dawn, I’d go outside to check, flashlight in hand, but I never found anything—just wet earth and pine needles and the endless shadows.
I was out checking the traps one cold morning in mid-November when I found the prints. The ground was soft from all the rain, muddy and churned up near the creek where we set our lines. At first, I thought maybe someone from town had been trespassing, poking around where they shouldn’t be. But then I saw the size of them. They were huge—seventeen, maybe eighteen inches long, twice as wide as my own bootprint. Five toes distinctly visible in the mud, with what looked like a high arch and a pushing-off point at the ball of the foot. No human foot could make prints like that. Not even close.
I crouched there for a long time, just staring at them. The prints led from the creek into the deeper forest, following a game trail I’d walked a hundred times. My first thought was bear. But bears don’t leave prints like that. Their toes are different. Their stride is different. These prints were bipedal, human-shaped, but massive.
That’s when I first heard the word spoken out loud.
The Warning
I came back to camp and Chief Tomahawk saw my face, asked what was wrong. I told him about the prints, and he got very quiet. “Could be Bigfoot,” he said, not joking, not smiling—just matter-of-fact, like it was the most natural explanation in the world.
I didn’t want to believe it. I’d heard the stories my whole life—everyone had. The old legends about the forest giants, the Watchers, the ones who moved between worlds. But this wasn’t a story. This wasn’t something I could ignore anymore. These were real prints in real mud, and something had made them. Something that walked on two legs and weighed enough to sink four inches into soft ground.
The tribe started talking—quiet conversations around the fire, worried looks when the dogs started barking at night. Some of the elders nodded knowingly, like they’d been expecting this. Others dismissed it as nonsense, said it was probably just a bear standing up or a practical joke from someone with too much time on their hands. But I knew better. I’d seen those prints. I’d felt the presence in the forest. Something was out there, and it wasn’t a bear.
Three nights later, it came to us. The air was thick with fog that evening, rolling down from the mountains like smoke. I stepped outside around ten to check on the generator, and that’s when I saw it in the mist, barely visible, standing at the edge of our clearing. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I still can’t even now. It was huge—eight feet tall, maybe more, broad-shouldered, covered in dark fur that looked almost black in the dim light from our porch. It stood perfectly still, watching me. Not threatening, not aggressive—just watching.
And I wasn’t afraid. Not at first. It was more like awe. Like seeing something you never thought you’d witness in your lifetime. I don’t know how long we stood there looking at each other. Probably only thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. But it felt longer. Time seemed to slow down the way it does in dreams. I could smell it from where I stood—maybe twenty feet away. Wet fur, damp earth, and something else—something wild and ancient that I didn’t have words for.
Then it turned slowly, deliberately, and looked right at me. Those eyes, I’ll never forget those eyes. They weren’t animal eyes. There was intelligence there, awareness. It knew I was looking at it. It knew I was trying to understand what I was seeing. And in that moment, something inside me shifted. It wasn’t just fear or wonder. It was recognition. Like some part of me had been waiting my whole life to see this. Like my ancestors had seen it too and passed down the memory in my blood.
The Connection
I felt connected to it in a way I couldn’t explain. Connected to the forest, to the land, to everything that had come before. The creature made no sound, no growl, no call. It just stood there for another moment, then turned and walked back into the fog. Three steps, and it was gone, swallowed by the mist and the darkness.
I stood on that porch for another ten minutes, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, trying to process what I’d just seen, trying to convince myself it was real. When I finally went back inside, Chief Tomahawk was waiting. He took one look at my face and nodded. “You saw it,” he said—not a question, just a statement. I nodded back, unable to speak. And that’s when everything changed. That’s when I knew what I had to do. I had to protect it, whatever it took.
After that night, I couldn’t leave it alone. The tribe was split down the middle. Some believed it was a spirit, a guardian of the forest that had come to watch over us. Others feared it, said it was dangerous, that we should report it to the rangers and let them handle it. But me? I knew what I had to do.
I started leaving food at the edge of the clearing. Nothing much at first—just scraps from dinner, some dried meat, berries we’d gathered. I’d set it out at dusk, and by morning it would be gone. Not scattered or torn apart like a bear would do, just gone. Taken cleanly, deliberately.
The Offering
Chief Tomahawk understood what I was doing, even if he didn’t fully agree. “Be careful,” he told me one evening, watching me carry a basket of food toward the treeline. “Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it’s safe.”
But I couldn’t help myself. I felt responsible somehow, like this Bigfoot had chosen to reveal itself to us, and that meant something. That meant we had a duty to protect it.
The elders called a council. We sat around the fire and argued for hours about what to do. Some wanted to document everything, take photos, call the authorities. Others wanted to perform ceremonies, treat it as a spiritual visitation. The younger members were skeptical, said we were reading too much into animal behavior. But I knew better. It’s real. I told them. I saw it. I looked into its eyes.
This isn’t a bear or a person in a costume. This is something else. Something that’s been here longer than we have. If we expose it, if we bring attention to it, people will come—hunters, scientists, curiosity seekers. They’ll destroy this place looking for proof of their own.
The Decision
The council voted to keep it secret—just within the tribe. No outsiders, no authorities. We would observe. We would document privately, but we wouldn’t share. It was the right decision, I thought. The only decision.
But I didn’t realize then how hard it would be to keep that secret. How much pressure would come from outside our small community. The Bigfoot came three more times that week. Always at dusk or dawn. Always staying at the edge of the clearing. Never coming closer, but never fleeing either. It was like we had reached an understanding, a silent agreement: I watch you, you watch me. No harm, just coexistence.
But the hunters started talking. They heard things from the neighboring valleys, noticed changes in the elk migration patterns, found strange prints on their trails. At first, it was just gossip, the kind of stories hunters tell each other around their camps. But then they got bolder. They started asking questions in town, comparing notes.
One afternoon in mid-December, two hunters showed up at our settlement. They were polite enough, asked if we’d seen anything unusual in the area. Any strange wildlife behavior, any tracks we couldn’t identify. Chief Tomahawk handled them well, said we kept to ourselves mostly, didn’t pay much attention to what happened in the deeper forest.
They left, but I could see the suspicion in their eyes. They knew we were holding something back. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what would happen if they found it, if they came with cameras and weapons, determined to prove what was out there. Would the Bigfoot run? Would it defend itself? Would it simply disappear back into the mountains and never return? Or worse, would it be captured, killed, turned into proof for people who didn’t understand what it meant?
I lay there in the dark, listening to the wind. And for the first time, I wondered if we’d made a mistake. If inviting this creature into our lives, into our space, had been too dangerous.
The Discovery
The Bigfoot came three more times that week. Always at dusk or dawn. Always staying at the edge of the clearing. Never coming closer, but never fleeing either. It was like we had reached an understanding, a silent agreement. I watch you, you watch me. No harm, just coexistence.
But the hunters started talking. They heard things from the neighboring valleys, noticed changes in the elk migration patterns, found strange prints on their trails. At first, it was just gossip, the kind of stories hunters tell each other around their camps. But then they got bolder. They started asking questions in town, comparing notes.
One afternoon in mid-December, two hunters showed up at our settlement. They were polite enough, asked if we’d seen anything unusual in the area. Any strange wildlife behavior, any tracks we couldn’t identify. Chief Tomahawk handled them well, said we kept to ourselves mostly, didn’t pay much attention to what happened in the deeper forest.
They left, but I could see the suspicion in their eyes. They knew we were holding something back. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what would happen if they found it, if they came with cameras and weapons, determined to prove what was out there. Would the Bigfoot run? Would it defend itself? Would it simply disappear back into the mountains and never return? Or worse, would it be captured, killed, turned into proof for people who didn’t understand what it meant?
I lay there in the dark, listening to the wind. And for the first time, I wondered if we’d made a mistake. If inviting this creature into our lives, into our space, had been too dangerous.
The Night of the Encounter
The end came with the New Year. The hunters were getting desperate. Davidson had promised proof, built up expectations online, and now he was facing the possibility of going home empty-handed. He started taking risks, going deeper into the forest, staying out later. His team was exhausted, running on coffee and stubbornness. But they weren’t giving up.
Then on January 4th, it happened. The Bigfoot made contact with me directly. I was out alone checking the snares near the creek when I heard movement behind me. I turned, and it was there—maybe ten feet away. The adult, the same one I’d seen that first night, but this time it came closer. It took three slow steps forward, and I could see every detail—the dark brown fur matted with ice, the broad humanlike face with deep-set eyes, the massive hands with thick fingers and dark nails.
It looked at me for a long moment, and then it did something I never expected. It reached into a crevice in the rocks beside us and pulled out something wrapped in bark, set it down between us, then stepped back. I waited until it had moved away before I approached. Inside the bark was a collection of objects: a smooth river stone, a perfectly preserved bird feather, a piece of what looked like obsidian napped into a rough blade shape. Gifts.
It was giving me gifts, acknowledging what I’d been trying to do, showing its own form of gratitude. I looked up and it was still there watching. And I knew then that this was more than just coexistence. This was communication. This was connection. This was everything I’d hoped for when I first started leaving food.
The Resolution
The Bigfoot had accepted us, recognized us as something more than just another threat in its territory. Over the next week, the Bigfoot and I developed a routine. I’d come to the creek every morning just after sunrise. Sometimes it would be there, sometimes not. But when it was, we’d share that space. I’d sit on one side of the water; it would sit on the other. Neither of us speaking—just existing together, learning about each other through observation and presence.
I learned things about it that no one else knew: the way it moved through the forest, almost silent despite its size; the sounds it made when it thought it was alone—soft hoots and low rumbles that seemed like conversation with itself; the way it tested the ice on the creek with one finger before crossing—careful and deliberate. These weren’t the actions of a beast. These were the actions of a person in a very different body.
The hunters never found it. Despite their cameras and their determination, despite weeks of searching, they never got a clear shot. The Bigfoot was too smart, too aware. It knew where they were at all times, avoided them effortlessly, and I helped where I could, though I was careful not to be too obvious about it.
The last thing I needed was for Davidson to figure out that someone was working against him. But I did get something they didn’t. On January 12th, during one of our morning meetings at the creek, I made a mistake—or maybe it was exactly what was supposed to happen. I had my phone in my pocket, and it started to ring. The Bigfoot reacted, standing up quickly. And in my fumbling to silence it, I accidentally triggered the camera just for a second, maybe two.
But it was recording. And when I checked it later, there it was: clear footage of the Bigfoot standing in morning light, looking directly at the camera. My hands shook as I watched it. This was proof—real, undeniable proof. The video was only four seconds long, but it showed everything: the face, the body proportions, the way it moved. If I released this, if I showed it to the hunters or posted it online, I would become famous. I would prove what everyone had been looking for.
The creature in the video was clearly visible, clearly not a person in a costume. This was the smoking gun. But I couldn’t do it. I watched that four-second clip fifty times that night, and every time I felt the same thing: not excitement or pride, but responsibility. The Bigfoot had trusted me. It had shown me its family, given me gifts, allowed me into its space. And if I betrayed that trust, if I made this video public, everything would change. More people would come—hunters, scientists, military, government agencies. They would tear this forest apart, looking for proof of their own, and the Bigfoot would either be captured or driven so far away it would never be seen again.
So, I kept the video. Saved it on my phone, transferred it to a hard drive, kept it hidden. That clip is still there, still as clear and undeniable as the day I recorded it. Four seconds that would change everything if anyone else saw them. Four seconds that prove Bigfoot is real, that it exists, that all the stories and legends have a basis in truth. But no one will ever see it, because some things are more important than being right. Some truths need to stay hidden for everyone’s sake.
The Final Decision
The breaking point came in late January. Davidson’s group finally gave up and left, admitting defeat. They packed their cameras and their equipment and drove away, frustrated and empty-handed. The circus of hangers-on dispersed. Our settlement returned to something like normal. But the experience had changed us. The tribe was divided now in ways it hadn’t been before. Some people thought I’d done the right thing, protecting the Bigfoot. Others thought I’d been selfish—that proof like that should belong to the world, not be hidden by one person.
Chief Tomahawk was somewhere in the middle. “I understand why you kept it secret,” he said. “But you have to understand what you’re carrying now. That’s not just your burden. That’s all of ours. If that video ever gets out, we’ll all be part of it.”
He was right. Of course, I’d made a choice that affected everyone without asking anyone. The responsibility of that secret was heavier than I’d expected. The Bigfoot came less frequently after the hunters left—maybe once a week, then once every two weeks. It was cautious again, staying at a greater distance. The younger one didn’t come at all anymore. I understood. We’d shown them that our world was dangerous, that proximity to humans brought risk. They were adjusting, being more careful, and I couldn’t blame them for that.
But the three knocks continued. Always at night, always the same pattern. Sometimes far away, echoing from the mountains; sometimes closer, from just beyond our clearing. I’d hear them, and I’d know the Bigfoot was still there, still watching, still remembering what we’d shared. Those knocks became a comfort, a reminder that the connection we’d built wasn’t completely broken.
The Legacy
The tribe held another council in February. This time, the discussion was about whether to relocate, to move our settlement somewhere else. The area felt compromised now. Too many people knew we were here. Too many people associated this forest with Bigfoot sightings. Some of the younger families wanted to leave, to start over somewhere without this history. Others refused, said this was our land, our home, and we shouldn’t have to run because of what we’d experienced.
I listened to them argue for hours, and I felt the weight of every decision I’d made, the food I’d left out, the trust I’d built, the video I’d taken and hidden. All of it had led to this moment, to our community being torn apart by something that should have brought us together.
I never went back to the creek. It felt wrong somehow, like I’d used up my invitation. The video stayed on my hard drive, encrypted and password protected. Sometimes I’d think about deleting it, about removing that temptation entirely, but I never did. It felt like erasing proof of something sacred, like denying that the connection had ever existed.
So, it stays there, hidden—a secret within a secret. The three knocks still come sometimes. Not often, maybe once or twice a year, always at three in the morning. I don’t go outside to check anymore. I just listen, acknowledge them in my mind, and go back to sleep. It’s enough to know the Bigfoot is still out there, still remembering, still safe in a forest that’s gotten better at keeping its secrets.
The Reflection
It’s been twelve years now. Chief Tomahawk passed away two years ago, taking the full truth of what happened with him. Some of the younger tribe members have heard stories, fragments of what went on that winter, but nobody talks about it directly. It’s become like the old legends—something that might have happened, might have been real, but exists now in that space between history and myth.
I’m older, slower. I don’t go into the forest much anymore. But I still hear those knocks when they come. Three soft sounds in the darkness, barely audible over the wind and the rain. And I remember—I remember the first time I saw it standing in the fog. I remember the gifts it left me by the creek. I remember the trust in those eyes, the intelligence, the awareness that we were both taking a risk by being seen.
People still ask me sometimes if I believe in Bigfoot. I always say the same thing: I’ve spent my whole life in these forests. I’ve seen a lot of things I can’t explain. That usually satisfies them. They don’t need to know about the video. They don’t need to know about the secret that still lives in my hard drive—proof that would change everything but help nothing.
Some truths are meant to stay hidden. Some connections are too sacred to expose. The forest keeps its secrets, and so do I. And on quiet nights, when I hear those three knocks echoing through the darkness, I know I made the right choice. The Bigfoot is still out there, still free, still safe. And that’s all the proof I need that some things matter more than being believed.
