Hunter Found a Rotting Bigfoot, And What Was Inside Him Will Shock You – Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Secret of the Sasquatch

I never believed in Bigfoot until the day I found one lying dead in the forests of Olympic National Park. What I discovered connected to that creature changed everything I thought I knew about them. Let me start from the beginning because this story needs to be told exactly as it happened.

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My name is Marcus Webb, and I’ve been a professional hunter for 23 years. Not the weekend type who goes out with friends to shoot a deer and drink beer. I’m the guy wildlife authorities call when there’s a problem bear near private property or when a cougar starts wandering too close to residential areas. I track, I capture, and when necessary, I help resolve situations that pose a risk to people. It’s a job that takes experience, but someone has to do it.

The Encounter

It was mid-October 2023. Elk season had just begun in Washington State. I had a special license to hunt in a remote area of Olympic National Park near the border with the Olympic National Forest. The region was known for its dense forests of Douglas fir and western hemlock—trees so old they’d been standing since before the Civil War. It was the kind of place you could walk for days without seeing another human being.

I parked my Ford F250 pickup on an old logging road abandoned for at least thirty years, covered in moss and ferns. I loaded my pack with supplies for three days: my .300 Winchester Model 70 rifle, extra ammunition, a first aid kit, camping tent, sleeping bag rated for 20°F, a LifeStraw water filter, Mountain House dehydrated meals, and my Garmin GPS. I also carried my KA-BAR hunting knife, a headlamp, and a walkie-talkie. Though I knew I wouldn’t get any radio signal for most of the trip, the plan was simple: follow a deer trail I’d scouted two weeks earlier, set up camp near a small creek called Whiskey Creek, and spend two days tracking mature bull elk.

The hike to my campsite took about four hours. The trail climbed steadily through thick forest, crossing small streams and winding around huge fallen trees covered in bright green moss. The smell of the forest was overwhelming—a mix of damp earth, natural decay, and the sharp scent of pine. Every now and then, I saw signs of wildlife: fresh deer tracks, bare claw marks on tree trunks, a few blue grouse feathers on the ground.

When I finally reached Whiskey Creek around 3:00 in the afternoon, the sun was already starting to dip behind the mountains. I set up my camp in a small clearing about fifty yards from the creek, pitched my North Face tent, organized my gear, and started a fire with some dry twigs I’d found sheltered beneath a large hemlock. Dinner was simple: dehydrated beef stroganoff mixed with hot water. I sat back in my folding camping chair, planning the next day’s hunt.

Night fell fast in that forest. By 6:00 p.m., it was pitch black. I kept the fire going, more for company than warmth, and listened to the sounds of the night—owls calling in the distance, the occasional snap of a branch, the steady murmur of the creek. It was peaceful in a way you just don’t find near civilization.

The First Sign

Around 9:00, I was ready to sleep. I stored all my food in a bear-proof canister, hung it about 100 yards from camp, just as safety protocol demanded. I checked my rifle, made sure it was loaded but on safety, and set it beside me inside the tent. Then I crawled into my sleeping bag and switched off my headlamp.

I must have been asleep for about three hours when I woke up to a smell. Not the normal scent of the forest—something else, something wrong. It was strong, foul—the smell of decomposition, like something large had died nearby and had been rotting for days. The stench was so powerful it made me nauseous.

I turned on my headlamp and checked my watch: 2:47 a.m. The fire had burned down to faint embers that barely lit the camp. I stayed inside the tent for a few minutes, listening carefully. No movement, no sounds of animals, nothing unusual—just that smell. And it seemed to be getting stronger.

My first thought was that a bear had dragged a carcass close to my campsite. That would be a serious problem. Bears guarding their kills are cautious but extremely dangerous, and the last thing I wanted was to be camping near one. I knew I had to check it out, had to find out what was causing that odor.

I grabbed my rifle, switched off the safety, and stepped out of the tent. The night was cold, probably around 40°F, and I could see my breath hanging in the air. I swept my headlamp across the camp. The trees stood like dark walls around the clearing, their branches throwing shifting shadows in the light.

The smell was coming from the west, away from the creek. I started walking slowly in that direction, rifle ready, finger off the trigger but prepared. With every step, the odor grew stronger, almost unbearable. I pulled a bandana from my pocket and tied it over my nose and mouth. It barely helped.

After about 200 yards through waist-high ferns and low pine branches, I saw something large and dark lying between two massive trees. At first, I thought it was a bear. The size matched. But as I got closer and my headlamp hit it fully, I realized I was wrong. It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t anything I’d ever seen before. It was a body—a massive body covered in dark tangled hair. It was lying on its back, long arms stretched out to the sides.

Even in the weak light, even through the rot, I could clearly see what it was. It was a Bigfoot. I’d heard the stories all my life. I grew up in Washington State, where tales of Sasquatch were as common as stories about salmon or Microsoft. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who’d seen one, but I never believed. I thought they were just legends, hoaxes, or misidentified bears. But there it was—lifeless on the forest floor, as real as the trees around it.

The Discovery

I approached slowly, heart pounding. The creature had to be at least eight and a half feet tall, maybe nine—hard to tell exactly with the body bloated and swollen from decay. Its hair was dark brown, almost black in places, graying where it had fallen out in clumps. The skin beneath was thick and dark. The face was the most shocking part. It resembled a gorilla, but not quite—flatter with a heavy brow ridge and a massive jaw. The eyes were sunken shut. The nose was wide and flat, and the mouth hung slightly open, revealing large teeth, some sharp like canines, others broad and human-like molars.

I circled the body, keeping my distance, trying to process what I was looking at. The hands were enormous, almost the size of catcher’s mitts, with long fingers and thick, dirty nails. The feet were just as massive—easily eighteen inches long, with articulated toes and a structure somewhere between human and primate.

Based on the state of decomposition, I estimated the creature had been there for at least a week, maybe two. There were no obvious signs of trauma, no visible wounds, no marks suggesting a fight with another animal. But there was something strange about the abdomen. The area was more swollen than the rest of the body, distended in a way that didn’t look natural. I knew I should call the authorities. Report this immediately. This would be the discovery of the century. Definitive proof that Bigfoot existed. But it was 3:00 in the morning.

I was miles from any cell signal, and my walkie-talkie definitely wouldn’t reach anyone from here. And then, as I stood there staring at that impossible creature, my hunter’s mind began to turn. What had happened to it? Why was it here alone? And what was causing that abnormal swelling in the abdomen?

That’s when I remembered something I’d seen in the local news about three weeks earlier. A woman had gone missing in the area—Sarah Mitchell, 28, from Port Angeles. She was a hiking enthusiast, loved going out on solo trails. She’d left for a three-day hike in Olympic National Park and never came back. King County Search and Rescue had looked for her for a whole week without finding a single trace.

A terrible thought began to form in my mind. Could it be possible? Could there be a connection between her disappearance and this creature? I looked again at the distended abdomen. Something wasn’t right there. The more I looked, the more it bothered me. I had field-dressed hundreds of animals in my career—deer, elk, bears. I knew what a body was supposed to look like after a certain amount of time, and this didn’t look right. Against all my better judgment, against all logic and caution, I decided I needed to understand what was going on here. Not just out of curiosity, but because if there was any chance, any possibility that this was connected to the disappearance of Sarah Mitchell, I had an obligation to find out.

Families of missing people deserve answers. They deserve closure. And if I walked away without investigating, I’d never be able to live with myself. I knelt beside the body, adjusting my headlamp for the best possible lighting. The smell up close was almost unbearable, even with the bandana covering my face. I had to stop every few seconds to breathe through the corner of my mouth, trying not to gag.

The abdominal area was significantly more swollen than the rest of the body. That in itself wasn’t unusual. Decomposition gases often caused bloating. But there was something about the shape, about the way it was distended, that didn’t seem right. It was irregular, asymmetrical, like there was something solid inside, not just gas.

With slightly trembling hands, I placed the blade of my knife against the skin of the abdomen. The hide was incredibly thick—much thicker than any animal I’d ever worked with. It took more pressure than I expected to make the initial incision. When the blade finally broke through, an even fouler odor escaped, making me turn my head and cough. I made a careful cut about twelve inches long, following the natural line of the body. The skin opened, revealing layers of tissue and muscle beneath. Everything was in an advanced state of decay, making it hard to identify specific structures. But I kept working, slowly widening the opening.

That’s when I started to see something that shouldn’t have been there. At first, I thought it was just more decomposed tissue. But then my headlamp caught something that made my blood run cold. It was tissue, yes, but not from the Bigfoot. It was different. The texture was different. The color was different. And then I saw something that left no doubt. It was a piece of clothing. My heart began to race.

Carefully, I used the tip of my knife to pull some of the material out. It was synthetic fabric, the kind used in modern hiking jackets. Bright red, or it had been before it became stained and deteriorated. And there was a small embroidered logo I could still make out even with the damage. It was from Columbia Sportswear. I remembered the missing person posters I’d seen all over Port Angeles. Sarah Mitchell was last seen wearing a red hiking jacket, a Columbia jacket.

My hands were trembling now, not from fear, but from adrenaline and a growing sense of dread. I kept examining, carefully moving the decomposed tissue aside. Then I found more evidence—small bits of material that clearly didn’t belong to the Bigfoot: a fragment that looked like denim, probably from jeans; a piece of rubber that might have been from a hiking boot sole; and then something that confirmed my worst fears.

Buried deeper in the stomach contents, I found something small and shiny. I used my knife to carefully pull it out and wiped it on the moss beside me. It was a pendant, a small silver heart-shaped pendant on a thin silver chain. There was an inscription on it, but it was hard to read in the dim light and under the grime. I took my water bottle from my belt, poured some over the pendant, and rubbed gently with my thumb. Slowly, the letters became visible: “To Sarah, with love, Mom and Dad, 2015.”

I sat back on my heels, my mind racing. There was no more doubt. This creature had something to do with the disappearance of Sarah Mitchell. But how? Why? Bigfoot were supposedly peaceful creatures, avoiding humans at all costs. Every story I’d ever heard described encounters where they watched from a distance, never aggressive, never hostile. But the evidence here told a different story—a disturbing one I could barely process.

The Revelation

I continued my investigation, working for another thirty minutes, mentally documenting everything I found. There were more fragments of clothing, more bits of hiking gear—a broken backpack buckle, part of a shoelace, a small piece of plastic that might have been from a water bottle. But what disturbed me most wasn’t what I found. It was what it meant. The stomach contents didn’t just show that the Bigfoot had encountered Sarah Mitchell. They showed that something terrible had happened—something that went against everything we thought we knew about these creatures.

I looked again at the creature’s face, trying to understand what could have caused this—hunger, desperation, or was something darker at play? And what had happened to the Bigfoot itself? What had brought it to this end? I examined the body again, this time looking for any signs of trauma that might explain the creature’s death. There were no obvious external wounds, no bullet holes, no signs of struggle. But then I noticed something strange about the creature’s mouth.

Leaning in closer, I used my knife to gently pry open the jaw. The smell that came out was different from the rest—more chemical, more artificial. And then I saw something caught between the back teeth: a small piece of colored plastic, part of an energy bar wrapper. That made me think. Sarah Mitchell, like any experienced hiker, would have carried food—energy bars, trail mix, maybe even some dehydrated meals. If the Bigfoot had consumed those along with, well, everything else, maybe something in that processed food had poisoned it.

It was a theory that made some sense. Wild animals often get sick after eating human food. Their digestive systems aren’t adapted to preservatives, artificial colors, and chemicals. For a creature like this, one that had probably never eaten anything but natural forest food, the effects could have been severe. But that still didn’t explain the original event. What had driven the Bigfoot to do what it did?

I’d spent my entire life studying predators—bears, cougars, wolves—and one thing they all have in common is that they don’t attack humans without a reason. It’s usually because they’re injured, sick, protecting their young, or cornered and feel threatened. I began to examine the rest of the body more carefully, looking for signs of illness or old wounds. That’s when I noticed something on the creature’s left hind leg. The skin there was marked and scarred, the hair growing back in uneven patches. It looked like an old wound, maybe months old.

The Connection

I used my knife to carefully part the hair and examine the scar more closely. It was extensive, running about eight inches along the back of the thigh. And there was something odd about the shape of the scar. It didn’t look natural. It didn’t look like the kind of injury that would come from a fight with another animal or from an accident in the forest. It looked almost like a trap.

That changed everything. If this creature had been injured by an illegal hunting trap—and there were plenty of those scattered throughout these forests—that could explain its altered behavior. A wounded animal is an unpredictable one. Pain and stress can make even the most peaceful creatures act in unexpected ways. I pictured the scene in my head: the Bigfoot, already wounded and likely in chronic pain from that leg injury, encounters Sarah Mitchell on the trail. Maybe she was startled. Maybe she screamed or tried to run. That could have triggered a predatory response in the creature, especially if it was weakened and struggling to find its normal food sources.

It wasn’t a justification, but it was an explanation. And explanations mattered. Because if this was an isolated incident caused by specific circumstances, it didn’t mean all Bigfoot were dangerous. It meant this tragic situation was a perfect storm of bad factors colliding at once. I spent a few more minutes mentally collecting every detail I could. I took the pendant and a few of the larger fragments of clothing, carefully placing them in a Ziploc bag from my backpack. These would be crucial evidence for the authorities—evidence that could finally give the Mitchell family the answers they deserved.

I looked up at the sky through the forest canopy. It was still dark, but there was a faint brightness on the eastern horizon. It must have been around 4:30 a.m. The sun would rise in about an hour and a half. I knew what I had to do. I had to get back to my camp, gather all my gear, return to my truck, and drive until I had cell service. Then I’d call the King County Sheriff’s Department and report everything I’d found. They’d need to assemble a team to come out here, document the scene, and properly recover the evidence.

But there was a problem. I was miles away from any road, deep in dense forest. And once I left this place, it would be extremely hard to find it again. The Olympic forests were vast and confusing with no clear trails in this area. I needed to mark this spot somehow. I used my Garmin GPS to record the exact coordinates. Then I used my knife to carve distinct marks into several trees around, creating a pattern I could later describe to the search teams. I also stacked a few stones in an unnatural formation near the body, something clearly human-made.

Before leaving, I looked one last time at the Bigfoot lying there. Despite what had happened, despite the tragedy this creature had caused, I felt a strange sadness. This was a magnificent being, probably one of the last of its kind. And it had died here, alone, sick from something its body couldn’t process. Two tragedies, I thought: Sarah Mitchell and this creature, both victims of circumstances that should never have crossed paths.

The Return

I turned and began walking back toward my camp. My mind still processing everything I had seen. The path through the dark forest felt different now. The shadows seemed deeper. The night sounds more ominous. I gripped my rifle tighter, every sense on high alert because now I knew the truth. I knew these forests held secrets far greater than anyone imagined. And I was about to bring one of those secrets into the light.

The hike back to my camp felt like an eternity. Every sound in the forest made my heart jump—the snap of a branch, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl. Everything felt amplified, charged with new meaning. I wasn’t alone out here. I never had been. And that realization changed everything.

When I finally reached my clearing, the sky was beginning to lighten with that gray pre-dawn glow. The embers of my fire had completely died out, leaving only cold ash. My tent was exactly as I’d left it, but somehow it felt different now. Everything did.

I wasted no time. I immediately started breaking camp, working with an efficiency born of years of experience and fueled by the urgency of what I discovered. The tent was down and packed in under five minutes. My sleeping bag was rolled and strapped to my pack. I retrieved my bear canister from the tree, packed my cooking gear, and completely buried the remnants of my fire. Normally, I’d be careful to leave no trace of my presence. Leave no trace was a principle I took seriously. But this time, I cared more about speed. I needed to get out, get to a phone, report what I’d found.

I slung my backpack over my shoulders, tightened the straps, grabbed my rifle, and started the trail back to where I parked my truck. The sky was steadily brightening, and soon I could see the path ahead without my headlamp. The four-hour hike I’d made the day before now felt endless. Every passing minute I thought about the Mitchell family. They’d spent three weeks not knowing what happened to Sarah. Three weeks of fading hope, sleepless nights, and every phone ring bringing the terror of bad news. And now I had answers for them. Not the ones they wanted, not the happy ending they’d prayed for, but at least closure, at least certainty.

I also thought about the wider implications of what I’d found. If the story got out—and it inevitably would—it would cause panic. People would start seeing Bigfoot not as mysterious, but as dangerous predators. There would be hunts, vigilante groups heading into the woods, armed and determined to wipe out anything they found. But I knew that wasn’t the whole story. The Bigfoot I’d found was clearly in abnormal circumstances—injured, possibly sick, definitely not acting in line with the typical behavior of its kind. To condemn all of them because of one compromised individual would be like condemning all bears because one sick or wounded bear occasionally attacks a human.

The Discovery

I reached my truck a little after 8:00 a.m. The sun was fully above the horizon now, bathing the forest in golden light. I tossed my pack into the bed of the pickup, placed my rifle in the rack behind the seats, and climbed into the cab. My hands trembled slightly as I put the key in the ignition. The F250’s engine roared to life, breaking the silence of the forest. I carefully maneuvered, turning the truck onto the narrow logging road and began driving back towards civilization.

The road was rough, full of potholes and rocks, and I had to go slow to avoid damaging the suspension. It took nearly forty-five minutes before I finally reached an area where my phone showed signal. One bar, then two. I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed my phone, and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice was calm and professional.

“My name is Marcus Webb,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m a licensed hunter, and I need to report evidence connected to the missing person case of Sarah Mitchell.”

There was a brief pause. “Sir, could you repeat that?”

“Sarah Mitchell, the woman who went missing in Olympic National Park three weeks ago. I found evidence—personal items belonging to her.”

The operator asked where I was located, and I gave her my approximate location on the highway. She told me to stay where I was; an officer would be dispatched to my position. She kept me on the line, asking questions about exactly what I’d found, but I was vague with the details. This wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone. It needed to happen in person with the proper investigators present.

About twenty minutes later, a sheriff’s department SUV appeared on the road, lights flashing. The vehicle stopped behind my truck, and two officers got out. One was an older man, maybe in his late fifties, with short gray hair and a serious expression. The other was younger, probably in his early thirties, with a notepad already open in his hand.

“Mr. Webb,” the older officer approached. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Tom Brennan, and this is Deputy Collins. We understand you have information regarding the Sarah Mitchell case.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. But before I explain, I need to warn you that what I’m about to say is going to sound impossible, but I have physical evidence to back up everything I’m going to tell you.

The two officers exchanged glances. Deputy Brennan nodded. “All right, Mr. Webb, why don’t we start from the beginning?”

The Investigation

I took a deep breath and began to tell my story. I told them about my hunting trip, about waking up to the strange smell, about following the odor until I found the body in the forest. And then, seeing the skeptical look starting to appear on their faces, I said it plainly: I found a dead Bigfoot, a Sasquatch, and inside that creature’s stomach, I found personal belongings of Sarah Mitchell.

The silence that followed was heavy. Deputy Collins stopped writing and looked up, disbelief on his face. Deputy Brennan just studied me, his expression giving nothing away. “Mr. Webb,” Brennan finally said, his voice carefully neutral. “Are you aware that making a false report to the authorities is a crime?”

“I’m aware, sir, and I’m not making a false report.”

Brennan grabbed his walkie-talkie with slightly trembling hands. “Team, we’ve confirmed the location. I need everyone to understand what we’re about to process here is unusual. I expect absolute professionalism from everyone. Dr. Chen, you can move in now.”

Collins and I stepped aside as the medical examiner and the wildlife specialist entered the forest. I guided them through the same path I’d taken days earlier, my heart racing with every step. When we reached the clearing, I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the reality of what we’d find.

The body was still there, lying just as I had left it. The smell was overpowering, but I forced myself to look. Dr. Chen and Dr. Hartley began their examination, their expressions shifting from skepticism to shock. They documented everything meticulously, taking photographs and collecting samples.

As they worked, I felt a growing sense of dread. The implications of what we were uncovering were staggering. This wasn’t just about a missing person; this was about a species that had eluded discovery for generations. And now, it was dead, lying in the forest, a victim of circumstances we couldn’t fully understand.

The Aftermath

After hours of investigation, the team prepared to transport the body. The news crews were already gathering outside the park, waiting for any information. I felt the weight of the world pressing down on me, knowing what this discovery would mean for the Bigfoot community and for the Mitchell family.

But then, as the sun began to set, I heard it—the three knocks echoing through the trees. It was distant but unmistakable. The team paused, looking around, confusion etched on their faces.

“Did you hear that?” one of the agents asked.

“Yes,” I replied, my heart racing. “It’s the Bigfoot. It’s warning us.”

But the team dismissed it, focusing on their task. They were professionals, trained to deal with the facts, but they couldn’t see the bigger picture. They didn’t understand the connection I had forged with this creature. They didn’t know the trust it had placed in me.

The body was transported, and the investigation continued. The media frenzy exploded, and I found myself caught in the whirlwind. Interviews, questions, speculation. I had to keep the truth hidden, to protect Marcus and the legacy of what we had shared.

The Consequences

Months passed. The investigation concluded, and the world moved on. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still watching, still waiting. The three knocks became a distant memory, but they haunted me, reminding me of the connection I had with the creature that had saved me from myself.

I tried to return to normal life, but the shadows of the past lingered. I avoided the woods, avoided the places that reminded me of that fateful encounter. I buried myself in work, in family, in anything that could distract me from the truth.

Then one night, I heard it again. Three knocks, clear as day, echoing through the night air. I sat up in bed, heart racing, knowing what it meant. It was a reminder. A call to remember. A call to protect.

The Final Decision

I realized then that I couldn’t keep running. I had to confront the truth, to embrace the reality of what I had witnessed. I needed to tell the story, not just for myself but for Marcus and for the legacy of the creatures that had been here long before us.

So here I am, sharing my story, hoping that someone will listen. Hoping that someone will understand the importance of protecting the wild places and the beings that inhabit them. Because some things are meant to stay hidden, but some truths need to be spoken.

I may never see Marcus again, but I know he’s out there, still watching, still waiting. And as long as I carry this secret, I’ll ensure that the legacy of the Bigfoot lives on, hidden in the shadows, safe from those who would seek to exploit it.

Thank you for listening. If you ever find yourself in the woods and hear those three knocks, remember my story. Remember to respect the boundaries of the wild. Some things are more important than being believed. Some things deserve to remain a mystery.