Helicopter Pilot Films GIANT SASQUATCH with a Hiker – Bigfoot Encounter Story
The Wave in the Wilderness
Chapter One: Eyes in the Sky
I’m still not sure what to make of what I filmed last November. Every time I watch the footage, a chill creeps up my spine, especially at the moment when it raises its hand—a gesture that felt almost like a greeting, or perhaps an acknowledgment. I don’t know exactly what it meant, but I know it happened. I captured it on camera, and it changed the way I think about those mountains forever.
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Before I get into what happened, you should know a bit about me. For six years, I’ve worked for the Washington State Department of Natural Resources. My job is to patrol the forests, searching for illegal logging operations and signs of environmental damage. It’s not glamorous, but it’s important. These old-growth forests are protected for good reason—ecological, historical, environmental—and there are always people trying to cut corners, making a quick buck by taking trees they have no right to touch.
Most days, the work is routine. I fly over designated areas, check for unauthorized activity, document what I find, and file reports. Sometimes we catch operations in progress—trucks, workers, active cutting. More often, we find evidence after the fact: fresh stumps, tire tracks where no vehicles should be, cleared sections in places that should be untouched. The enforcement team handles the rest; I just provide the eyes in the sky.
I’ve always loved flying. Got my pilot’s license after college, saved up for helicopter training, and never looked back. There’s something about seeing the landscape from above—a perspective that never gets old. The Cascade Mountains are breathtaking from the air. Ridge after ridge of dense forest, peaks rising in the distance, rivers winding through valleys. On clear days, you can see forever.
That morning in November started like any other. I arrived at headquarters by eight, grabbed coffee, checked weather reports, and reviewed my flight plan. Reports had come in about unauthorized tree cutting in a protected area sixty miles northeast. Old-growth forest, completely off-limits. Someone had been sneaking in, probably under cover of darkness, trying to avoid our regular patrols.
My assignment was straightforward: fly over, document any damage, get GPS coordinates for the enforcement team. Standard stuff. The weather was perfect—clear skies, fresh snow on the ground. Snow makes everything easier to spot from the air. Tracks stand out, disturbances are obvious, and fresh cuts show up as dark patches against the white.
That day, I brought along an old friend from high school—a construction worker who’d been pestering me for years to let him ride along. Regulations are strict about passengers, but I finally had a day where it made sense, and got the necessary approvals. He showed up at the airfield grinning like a kid on Christmas, excited for his first helicopter ride, no matter how mundane the work.
We spent half an hour on pre-flight checks. I explained the basics of helicopter flight, walked him through safety procedures, and loaded the department-issued camera—a high-quality digital with a powerful zoom, standard for documenting damage from altitude. The procedure was simple: take clear photos and video, mark GPS coordinates, make detailed notes, and file a comprehensive report.
We lifted off around 9:30. The weather was perfect—crisp, cold, clear. My buddy gripped his seat during takeoff, eyes wide, watching the ground fall away. Once we leveled out, heading northeast, he relaxed and started enjoying the view. The flight plan covered sixty square miles of remote forest, looking for signs of illegal cutting—fresh stumps, new roads, cleared patches where the canopy should be intact.
For the first hour, everything was routine. We spotted legal logging activity in a permitted zone—clear boundaries, proper buffer zones, everything by the book. I noted it in my log and kept going. We saw elk moving through a clearing, deer bedded in the snow, my buddy snapping photos with his phone, marveling at the endless wilderness.
I did a routine radio check-in at 10:30. Everything normal. The mountains were stunning, vast and isolated, miles in every direction without a single road or building. Just endless forest and peaks.
Chapter Two: The Encounter
About ninety minutes into the flight, I spotted something wrong—a fresh clearing on a protected slope, several massive trees down, dark patches of exposed earth and wood against the snow. I felt that familiar knot in my stomach. This was exactly what we’d come for, but it always bothered me to see the destruction. Trees that had stood for centuries, cut down illegally for profit.
I circled to get a better look and started documenting everything. Truck tracks in the snow cut a path through untouched forest, recent and well-defined. No workers were visible, which wasn’t surprising; illegal operations usually work at night or early morning. I estimated fifteen to twenty old-growth trees felled—massive specimens, probably a hundred years old or more.
My buddy, a man who appreciates lumber, was shocked at the scale of the waste. The cuts were clean and professional—heavy-duty chainsaws, commercial-grade equipment. Not amateurs. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care about the law.
As I focused on documentation, my buddy’s attention wandered across the landscape. He’s not trained to focus narrowly like I am. His mind was exploring, and that turned out to be fortunate. He suddenly pointed and said, “Hey, what’s that person doing way out here?”
I looked where he was pointing. An old, barely visible trail, half a mile from the logging site. I zoomed in with the camera. Sure enough, there was a figure in a gray jacket, carrying a large backpack, hiking alone in one of the most remote places imaginable. Not a casual hiker’s spot—rough terrain, miles from civilization.
As I was about to pan back to the logging site, something else caught my eye. Another figure on the trail, a hundred yards behind the hiker in gray. I zoomed in closer, and my breath caught. It was massive—seven or eight feet tall, covered in dark fur, walking upright. The arms were long, swinging naturally, the stride fluid and confident. This was no bear. Bears don’t walk like that, not with that sustained upright posture.
Both of us went silent. We watched through the camera, not saying a word. The creature kept a steady distance behind the hiker, not stalking or hunting, just moving along the same trail, unhurried. I adjusted our position, descending slightly for a better view. My hands shook on the controls, but I kept us steady.
Through the camera’s zoom, I saw details I’ll never forget—the massive shoulders, the long, powerful arms, the thick, shaggy fur. It moved with ease, perfectly adapted for the cold mountain conditions. Its gait was bipedal, but different from a human’s—longer strides, a different rhythm, unmistakably intelligent.
I filmed as steadily as I could, my buddy frozen in his seat, whispering, “That’s not possible.” But it was. It was happening right below us.
The creature walked for two or three minutes, covering a couple hundred yards. The hiker ahead seemed completely unaware, moving at a normal pace. Then, suddenly, the creature stopped. It looked up, directly at us. I saw its eyes—dark, intelligent, conscious. Not the eyes of an animal acting on instinct, but something aware, something thinking.
Then, slowly and deliberately, it raised one massive arm high above its head—not threatening, not defensive, but like a wave. A clear gesture of acknowledgment. It held the position for several seconds, unmistakable and intentional. It was communicating: I see you. You see me. We’re both aware.
Then, just as calmly, it turned and walked off the trail, disappearing into the dense forest. Within seconds, it was gone—no sound, no disturbance, just vanished.
Chapter Three: Processing the Impossible
We stared down at the empty forest, silent except for the engine noise. Finally, my buddy asked, “Did that just happen?” My hands trembled on the controls. I checked the camera—we’d recorded two minutes of clear footage, showing the creature walking, stopping, looking up, and waving. The gesture was perfectly visible. This wasn’t a trick of light or shadow, wasn’t imagination or exhaustion. It was real, recorded in high definition.
I scanned the forest for any sign of the creature. Nothing. It was gone. The hiker in gray continued along the trail, completely unaware of what had been walking behind them. Part of me wanted to land and warn them, but there was nowhere safe to set down, and what would I say? The creature had shown no aggression, only a peaceful acknowledgment.
The wave gesture replayed in my mind. The creature saw us, acknowledged us, then left. Not hiding, not panicking, just courteous and calm. I circled the area several more times, searching for any sign, but saw only normal forest.
I marked the GPS coordinates of the sighting, then forced myself to finish documenting the illegal logging site. My heart wasn’t in it anymore. I kept looking over my shoulder, trying to process what we’d witnessed.
The flight back to headquarters was mostly silent. Occasionally, one of us would say, “Did we really just see that?” but neither of us had answers. We’d seen it, filmed it, but it still felt surreal.
At headquarters, I filed my official report—detailed, professional, focused on the logging operation. I didn’t mention the creature. Who would believe us? Even with video, people would call it a hoax.
After everyone left, I watched the footage again and again. The wave was clear as day—deliberate, intentional. Not random movement, not wind or shadows. A gesture from an intelligent being. The next few days were a blur. I couldn’t focus. My mind kept returning to that moment. Why did it reveal itself? Why acknowledge us? It could have hidden, but chose not to.
The more I thought about it, the more intentional it seemed. The creature must have heard us coming, known we were watching, and decided to respond. That choice felt significant.
I also couldn’t stop thinking about the hiker in gray. Did they know the creature was there? Were they aware of being accompanied, not followed? The creature maintained its distance, not threatening, just present.
Chapter Four: The Trail and the Truth
The GPS coordinates burned into my memory. I pulled them up on mapping software, studying the terrain. The location was remote, but accessible on foot for someone determined. I decided I had to go back—walk that trail myself, maybe find evidence, maybe make sense of it all.
The following weekend, I packed light and drove three hours to the nearest forest access road, parking at an old logging turnaround. From there, it was a six-mile hike to the sighting location, most of it cross-country through rough terrain. I left early, cold November morning, heavy frost, temperature in the low twenties.
The trail was overgrown, barely visible. This area didn’t see much traffic—miles from any maintained trailhead or facilities. I carried bear spray, not out of fear, but as a precaution. Somehow, I knew I wouldn’t need it. Some instinct told me I’d be safe.
The first two miles were straightforward, following old logging roads. Then the trail climbed steadily, my legs burning with effort. The forest was eerily quiet, just wind and distant bird calls. I checked my GPS regularly, matching the terrain to what I’d seen from the air.
Around mile four, the trail became hard to follow. I relied on GPS and landmarks—distinctive rocks, massive trees. I crossed a freezing creek, climbed over fallen logs, pushed through dense brush. This was not easy hiking.
After three and a half hours, I reached the ridgeline where the sighting had occurred. I recognized the terrain immediately. This was the spot—the exact place where the creature had walked, stopped, and waved.
I stood on the barely visible trail, looking around. The forest felt different from ground level—dense, closed in, ancient. There was a weight to the place, a presence. Not threatening, just deeply old.
I walked slowly, searching for signs. Near the tree line, in soft soil, I found tracks—massive footprints pressed deep into the ground, partially filled with snow but clearly visible. Eighteen inches long, maybe more, five distinct toes, deep impressions. Whatever made these tracks was extraordinarily heavy.
I followed the prints for fifty yards until they disappeared into rocky ground. I took photos, measured them with my hand for scale. These were real, not imagination, not natural formations—physical evidence that something massive and bipedal had passed through recently.
I sat on a fallen log, watching and listening. An hour passed, then another. Nothing unusual happened, just peaceful wilderness. But I still felt a presence—like something was out there, watching from a safe distance.
I left some trail mix and an apple at the base of an ancient cedar, feeling compelled to offer something. “Thank you for letting us see you,” I said quietly, feeling silly but sincere.
As afternoon waned, I started hiking back, not wanting to be caught on the trail after dark. About a mile from my truck, the rough trail joined a more maintained path. Lost in thought, I suddenly noticed another hiker approaching—a man in a gray jacket, carrying a familiar backpack. The same person from the helicopter footage.
We slowed as we neared each other. He looked to be in his sixties or seventies, deeply weathered, the look of someone who knows these mountains. We exchanged nods. “Good day for a hike,” he said. “Yeah, absolutely beautiful,” I replied, trying to sound normal.
We started to pass, but he stopped, studying my face. “Can I ask you something strange?” he said. My pulse raced. “Sure,” I said.
“Did you see anything unusual up there on that trail?” he asked, gesturing back. My mind spun. I wanted to deny it, but something in his eyes stopped me. “Maybe,” I said carefully. “What do you mean by unusual?”
He smiled. “Did you happen to see a Bigfoot up there?” The word hung in the cold air. I took a long moment before answering. “Yes,” I finally said. “I found tracks, but also saw one from a helicopter a few days ago.”
“Then you saw me,” he said. “It was walking behind me on the trail. Though ‘following’ isn’t really the right word.” We stepped aside to talk. He explained he’d hiked these mountains for forty years, seen the creatures many times. At least three individuals in the area, he said, maybe more. The one we saw, he’d encountered semi-regularly for five years.
He described respectful encounters—never aggressive, always maintaining distance. “They’re not predators,” he said. “Just creatures living peacefully, trying to survive. I’ve watched them gather berries, dig for roots, catch fish. Never seen them hunt animals or act violently.”
He’d tried to approach one years ago, but learned to respect the boundary. Now, they simply acknowledged each other and went their separate ways.
He asked if I’d told anyone. “Just my friend in the helicopter,” I said. “Good,” he nodded. “Please keep it that way. They deserve their privacy.”
I told him about the wave gesture. He smiled. “He’s done that with me, too. It’s his way of communicating. I see you. You see me. Everything is fine.”
We talked for half an hour. He shared stories of shelters made from branches, signs of their presence. “They know every inch of these mountains. We’re just visitors. They belong here.”
I asked if he thought they were happy that some humans know. He considered. “I think they accept it, as long as we leave them in peace. As long as we don’t try to capture or exploit them, they’re content.”
Before we parted, he said, “Enjoy the privilege of what you saw. But keep it to yourself. They’ve earned their privacy.”
Chapter Five: Respecting the Mystery
I hiked back to my truck in a daze, mind spinning. Everything he’d said made sense. These creatures aren’t monsters or mysteries to be solved. They’re intelligent beings, trying to live peacefully in remote mountains, asking for nothing but to be left alone.
That wave gesture wasn’t just acknowledgment—it was trust. Trust that we would see, document, and then leave them alone. Trust that we wouldn’t bring chaos or invasion into their quiet existence.
On the drive home, I thought about the illegal logging site. Humans destroy their habitat for profit, cutting down trees that have stood for centuries, while these creatures ask for nothing but solitude. The contrast bothered me deeply.
I still have the footage, saved on my computer. I watch it sometimes, especially the moment when the creature raises its hand. I haven’t shown it to anyone but my buddy. Not because I doubt what we saw, but because the hiker was right. These beings have earned their privacy. They deserve to be left alone.
Sometimes I think about going back, hiking in, watching quietly. But I realize that’s not necessary. I had my encounter, my acknowledgment. That’s more than most people ever get.
The best thing I can do is keep the secret safe. Respect the boundary between our worlds. Do my job protecting the forests where they live. And remember that simple wave—a gesture that said, “We see each other. We understand. Now let’s go our separate ways.”
Some mysteries should stay that way. Not everything needs to be explained. Some things just need to be quietly respected. And that’s enough. That’s more than enough.
For more stories from the edges of the unknown, keep searching the shadows. Sometimes, the greatest privilege is simply being trusted with a secret.
