Hunter Witnesses Brutal Grizzly Bear vs Bigfoot in 2025 | BIGFOOT ENCOUNTER

Rex’s Last Stand: A Secret from the Rocky Mountains

Prologue: A Secret Buried for Decades

Twenty years. That’s how long I’ve kept this story buried deep inside me—locked away like some terrible secret that gnaws at your soul in the quiet hours before dawn. I’ve told no one. Not my wife, not my closest friends, not even the therapist I saw for three years after what happened. But I can’t carry this burden alone anymore. The nightmares haven’t stopped. The guilt hasn’t faded. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there needs to know what really lurks in the remote wilderness of the Rocky Mountains.

.

.

.

My name is Tom Belly, and I’m a 52-year-old insurance adjuster from Denver, Colorado. Twenty years ago, I was a different man—young, adventurous, and foolishly confident in my ability to handle whatever the wilderness could throw at me. I’d been hiking and camping in the Rockies since I was a teenager, following in my father’s footsteps. He taught me everything: how to read trail markers, how to navigate by the stars, how to survive if things went wrong. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for what I witnessed on that September morning in 2004.

Chapter 1: Into the Wild

September 15, 2004, started like any other perfect autumn day in Colorado. The aspen leaves were just beginning their annual transformation from green to gold, and the crisp mountain air carried the promise of winter still months away. I’d planned a three-day solo hike through the remote Sangre de Cristo range, specifically targeting an area near the Blanca Peak Wilderness that few people ever visited. The trail was unmarked, accessible only to those willing to bushwhack through dense forest and navigate by compass and instinct.

I wasn’t completely alone, though. My faithful companion, Rex, trotted beside me as we loaded my truck that morning. Rex was a four-year-old German Shepherd mix I’d rescued from a shelter two years earlier. He was intelligent, loyal, and had an uncanny ability to sense danger long before I could. Standing about 80 pounds with a thick coat of black and tan fur, Rex had been my hiking partner on dozens of trips. He loved the mountains as much as I did, his ears perked forward in constant alertness, his nose working overtime to catalog every scent the wilderness offered.

The drive to the trailhead took three hours on increasingly rough roads. The last twenty miles were barely more than glorified deer paths, forcing me to engage four-wheel drive and crawl along at walking speed to avoid damaging my truck’s undercarriage. When I finally reached the end of the road—really just a small clearing where the forest became too dense for vehicles—it was nearly noon. The silence was profound. No other cars, no sign that anyone had been here in weeks, maybe months.

“Just you and me, boy,” I said to Rex as I shouldered my 40-pound pack. He responded with an excited bark that echoed off the surrounding peaks, then immediately began sniffing around the clearing, already picking up interesting scents.

The first day’s hike was everything I’d hoped for. We climbed steadily through mixed forests of pine, fir, and aspen, crossed crystal-clear streams that tumbled down from the high peaks, and emerged into meadows carpeted with wildflowers that somehow managed to bloom despite the approaching autumn. Rex ranged ahead and behind, never straying more than fifty yards, always returning to check on my progress with the enthusiasm that only a dog can display.

By evening, we’d covered nearly twelve miles and gained over 3,000 feet in elevation. I made camp in a small clearing beside a creek, the kind of spot that seems designed by nature specifically for backpackers. The water was clean and cold. There was level ground for my tent, and the surrounding trees provided both shelter and firewood. Rex immediately claimed a spot near the fire ring, watching attentively as I set up camp.

That first night was peaceful. I cooked a simple dinner of dehydrated beef stew while Rex crunched on his kibble, and we both enjoyed the luxury of a small campfire as darkness settled over the mountains. The stars were spectacular, the kind of display you can only see when you’re truly away from civilization’s light pollution. I fell asleep to the sound of the creek and Rex’s steady breathing beside my tent.

Chapter 2: The Warning

I woke before dawn on September 16 to Rex’s low growling. At first, I assumed he’d detected a deer or elk nearby—common enough in these mountains. But this growl was different, deeper and more sustained than his usual wildlife alerts. I unzipped my tent and peered out to find him standing rigid beside the dying embers of our fire, his hackles raised, staring intently into the darkness beyond our camp.

“What is it, boy?” I whispered. Rex glanced at me briefly, then returned his attention to whatever had disturbed him. I grabbed my flashlight and swept it in the direction he was looking, but saw nothing except the familiar shapes of trees and underbrush. After several minutes, Rex relaxed slightly, though he remained alert. I attributed it to normal forest sounds—a raccoon, perhaps, or a curious mule deer. I built up the fire and made coffee, and by the time the sun crested the eastern peaks, the incident was forgotten.

The second day’s hike was more challenging. We left the established game trails behind and began bushwhacking through dense forest, navigating by compass toward a high alpine lake I’d spotted on topographic maps. The terrain was steep and rocky, forcing us to pick our way carefully through deadfall and loose slopes.

It was around midday when I first noticed the tracks. I’d stopped beside a small stream to filter water and give Rex a drink when I saw them in the soft mud along the bank. At first glance, they looked human—five toes, an arch, a heel—but they were enormous, easily eighteen inches long and seven inches wide. The depth of the impression suggested something incredibly heavy had made them, much heavier than any human.

My first thought was that someone was playing an elaborate prank, but that made no sense. We were at least fifteen miles from the nearest road in terrain that would challenge even experienced hikers. Who would carry fake Bigfoot feet all the way up here just to leave fake tracks? And these tracks were fresh, made within the last day or two based on how crisp the edges were.

Rex sniffed at the tracks with unusual intensity, his ears flattened against his head. When he looked up at me, I could see something in his eyes I’d never seen before—genuine fear.

“It’s probably just a hoax, boy,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him. But even as I spoke, I found myself scanning the surrounding forest with new unease.

We continued climbing, but the mood had changed. Rex stayed closer to me now, no longer ranging ahead with his usual enthusiasm. Every few minutes, he would stop and test the air, his nose working frantically. I began to notice other disturbing signs: trees with bark scraped off at heights no bear could reach, branches broken in ways that seemed deliberate, and an odd smell that came and went on the wind—musky, animal-like, but unlike anything I’d encountered in twenty years of hiking.

Chapter 3: The Encounter

We reached the alpine lake around 4:00 p.m. Despite my growing unease, it was spectacular. The lake sat in a natural bowl carved by ancient glaciers, surrounded by towering peaks that reflected perfectly in the still water. It was the kind of place that makes you understand why people risk everything to explore the wilderness.

I made an early camp on a flat shelf of granite about a hundred yards from the lake shore. The location offered good views in all directions and would be easy to defend—if I caught myself thinking that way and shook my head. Defend against what? I was letting my imagination run away with me.

But Rex wasn’t acting normal. As I set up my tent, he paced nervously around the perimeter of our campsite, stopping frequently to stare into the forest. Dogs have senses we don’t, and Rex had never acted this way before.

I was just finishing with my tent when Rex suddenly froze, every muscle in his body rigid. His ears were pricked forward, focused on something in the dense pine forest about fifty yards up the slope from our camp. Then I heard it too—a sound that made my blood run cold. It started as a low rumble, almost subaudible, like distant thunder. But thunder doesn’t rise and fall with the rhythm of breathing. Thunder doesn’t carry the unmistakable cadence of something large and alive moving through the forest.

As the sound grew closer, I could make out the crack and snap of branches breaking under enormous weight. Rex began to back toward me, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. I grabbed my bear spray from my pack, suddenly feeling foolish for bringing such a small canister, and tried to make myself appear larger by raising my arms above my head.

“Hey!” I shouted toward the forest. “Hey, bear, go on, get out of here.”

The sound stopped immediately. The forest fell silent, except for my hammering heartbeat and Rex’s rapid panting. For several minutes, we stood frozen, waiting. Then the smell hit us. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—a combination of wet fur, decay, and something else. Something primitive and predatory that triggered every alarm bell evolution had wired into my brain.

Rex whimpered and pressed against my legs, and I found myself fighting the urge to run.

That’s when I saw it. The creature emerged from the treeline about thirty yards uphill from our camp, and my rational mind immediately rejected what my eyes were telling me. It was massive, at least eight feet tall and built like a linebacker, but covered in dark, matted fur. It moved upright on two legs with a fluid grace that no bear could match, its long arms swinging at its sides. When it turned its head in our direction, I caught a glimpse of its face—disturbingly humanlike, but twisted into something savage and alien.

For a moment that seemed to last forever, the creature and I stared at each other across the rocky slope. I could see its chest rising and falling with each breath, could see the intelligence in its dark eyes as it evaluated us. Then it threw back its head and let loose a roar that seemed to shake the very mountains—a sound of such primal fury and power that my knees nearly buckled.

Rex, to his eternal credit, didn’t run. Instead, he stepped forward and placed himself between me and the creature, growling with every ounce of courage in his body.

The Bigfoot—because that’s what it was, I could no longer deny it—tilted its head as if curious about this much smaller challenge.

“Easy, Rex,” I whispered, but I could see the decision forming in my dog’s eyes. He was going to fight this thing to protect me.

The creature took a step forward, then another. With each movement, more of its incredible size became apparent. Its shoulders were broader than any human’s. Its arms hung nearly to its knees, and its hands—its hands were large enough to crush a man’s skull like an egg.

Rex launched himself forward with a bark that contained every ounce of protective fury in his brave heart. What happened next still haunts my dreams twenty years later.

Chapter 4: The Sacrifice

Rex hit the creature at knee level, his teeth seeking purchase in the thick fur covering its legs. For a moment, I thought he might actually succeed. His attack was so sudden and fierce that the Bigfoot stumbled backward, letting out a surprised grunt. But the size difference was simply too great. The creature recovered its balance and reached down with those massive hands. I watched in horror as it grabbed Rex around the middle and lifted him off the ground as easily as I might pick up a house cat.

“No!” I screamed, but my voice seemed tiny and lost in the vast wilderness.

Rex continued fighting even as he was lifted into the air, twisting and snapping at the creature’s arms, refusing to give up even though he must have known he couldn’t win. The Bigfoot held him at arm’s length for a moment, studying him with what might have been curiosity or respect. Then it threw him.

Rex hit a large boulder fifteen feet away with a sickening crack that I felt in my bones. He tried to get up—God help me, he actually tried to get up—but his back legs wouldn’t respond. Still, he kept trying to crawl toward the creature, toward me, his front paws scrabbling against the rock.

The Bigfoot turned its attention back to me, and I saw my death in its eyes. But Rex wasn’t finished. With his last ounce of strength, my brave companion managed one final bark—not at the creature, but at me. It was clear what he was trying to tell me.

Run!

Chapter 5: The Hunt

I ran. I dropped my pack and ran toward the lake, hoping the creature might be reluctant to follow me into the water. Behind me, I could hear Rex’s final struggle, the sound of the Bigfoot pursuing me, and my own ragged breathing as I crashed through the underbrush.

I didn’t make it to the water. My foot caught on a hidden root, and I went down hard, rolling several feet before fetching up against the base of a massive dead pine tree. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and for a moment, I lay gasping, expecting to feel those enormous hands close around me.

Instead, I heard something that chilled me even more than the creature’s roar—the sound of Rex’s final whimper, cut short.

Rage flooded through me, then, temporarily overriding my terror. Rex had died protecting me, and this monster had killed him like he was nothing. I found myself on my feet, screaming at the creature in fury and anguish. The Bigfoot was watching me from about twenty feet away, Rex’s still form visible on the rocks behind it, blood covering its hands and forearms—my dog’s blood.

When it heard my screams, it cocked its head again, then began moving toward me with deliberate, unhurried steps. That’s when I noticed the crack in the ancient pine tree behind me. Lightning had split the massive trunk years ago, creating a fissure just wide enough for a man to squeeze into. Without thinking, I backed into the opening, pressing myself as deep into the narrow space as I could.

The creature reached the tree and peered into the crack, its face close enough that I could smell its breath—carrion and decay and something wild. One massive hand reached into the opening, fingers probing for me, but the space was too narrow. I pressed myself against the back wall of my wooden refuge and held my breath.

For several minutes, the Bigfoot tried different angles, reaching and grasping, even attempting to widen the crack by pulling at the edges. But the dead pine was solid, seasoned by years of mountain weather, and its efforts only resulted in frustrated grunts. Finally, it stepped back and studied the tree. I thought it might try to break the trunk entirely, which it probably could have done given its size and strength. Instead, it did something that terrified me more than physical assault. It sat down cross-legged in front of my hiding place and began to wait.

Chapter 6: The Siege

What followed were the longest hours of my life. The creature settled in about ten feet from the tree and simply waited, watching the crack with the patience of a predator that knows its prey has nowhere to go. Occasionally, it would grunt or shift position, but it never left. It was toying with me, I realized, like a cat waiting outside a mouse hole.

As the afternoon wore on, I could hear it moving around my hiding place, sometimes circling the tree, sometimes approaching close enough that I could hear its breathing. The smell never went away—that musky, wild odor that spoke of something that had never been civilized, never been tamed.

Worse than the creature’s presence, though, was the sight of Rex’s body lying motionless on the rocks where he’d fallen. From my position in the crack, I had a clear view of my faithful companion, and the guilt was almost unbearable. He died because of my stupidity, my arrogance in thinking I could handle whatever the wilderness threw at me.

Around sunset, something changed. The creature suddenly stood and began sniffing the air with renewed intensity. Its posture shifted from patient hunter to alert predator, and I could see its massive head turning as it scanned the surrounding forest. That’s when I heard the second set of sounds—heavy footsteps, but different from the Bigfoot’s. These were accompanied by huffing breaths and the distinctive sound of something large pushing through underbrush. A new smell reached me on the evening breeze, one I recognized immediately.

Grizzly bear.

Chapter 7: Monsters Collide

The bear emerged from the forest on the opposite side of the clearing from where the Bigfoot had first appeared. It was a large male, probably weighing close to 600 pounds, with the distinctive shoulder hump and dished face that marked it as a true Rocky Mountain grizzly. Under normal circumstances, encountering such a bear would have been the most terrifying moment of my life. Now, it barely registered compared to the monster that had killed my dog.

The grizzly had clearly been drawn by the smell of blood—Rex’s blood. It approached the clearing cautiously, testing the air and surveying the area with the wariness that keeps dangerous predators alive. When it spotted the Bigfoot, it stopped immediately, rising up on its hind legs to get a better view. For a moment, the two giants simply stared at each other across the rocky slope.

The bear dropped back to all fours and began a series of huffing vocalizations and jaw-popping sounds—classic grizzly threat displays designed to avoid actual conflict. The Bigfoot responded with a low rumble that seemed to come from deep in its chest. Neither animal was willing to back down.

The grizzly charged first. Six hundred pounds of muscle and fury launched itself across the clearing, covering the distance with shocking speed. Most animals would have fled from such an assault, but the Bigfoot stood its ground, meeting the bear’s charge with a roar that echoed off the surrounding peaks.

What followed was the most brutal, savage fight I’ve ever witnessed. The bear’s initial momentum carried both animals to the ground—a rolling mass of fur and claws and incredible violence. The grizzly’s claws raked across the creature’s torso, opening long gashes that immediately began bleeding. But the Bigfoot’s longer reach allowed it to grab the bear around the throat. They separated, circled each other, then clashed again. The bear reared up on its hind legs, trying to use its full weight to overwhelm its opponent. But the Bigfoot was taller, and used that advantage to rain blows down on the grizzly’s head and shoulders. The sound of those impacts was like someone hitting a side of beef with a sledgehammer.

The bear got in several good strikes with its claws, opening wounds across the creature’s arms and chest. But for every hit the grizzly landed, the Bigfoot delivered two in return, its massive fists striking with a force that would have killed a human instantly.

Finally, the Bigfoot managed to get a solid grip on the bear’s head. With a display of strength that defied belief, it lifted the 600-pound grizzly completely off the ground and slammed it down onto the rocks. The bear hit with a sound like thunder, then tried to roll away, but the creature was already on top of it. What happened next was mercifully quick. The Bigfoot grabbed the grizzly’s massive head in both hands and twisted with a sharp, violent motion. The crack of the bear’s neck breaking was audible, even from my hiding place fifty feet away.

The sudden silence that followed the bear’s death was almost as terrifying as the fight itself.

Chapter 8: The Escape

The Bigfoot stood over its defeated opponent, chest heaving from exertion, blood streaming from multiple wounds. For several minutes, it simply stood there, and I wondered if it might be more seriously injured than it appeared. Then it turned and looked directly at my hiding place, and I knew it hadn’t forgotten about me.

The creature approached the tree slowly, limping slightly from its encounter with the grizzly. When it reached the crack where I was hiding, it pressed its face close to the opening again, and I could see intelligence in its dark eyes. Intelligence—and something that might have been amusement. It knew I was trapped. It knew I couldn’t stay hidden forever. And now it had proven beyond any doubt that nothing in these mountains was a match for its strength.

The Bigfoot settled down in front of my tree again, but this time it was different. Before it had been hunting. Now it was simply waiting for me to emerge so it could finish what it started. The casual way it began grooming its wounds, licking at the claw marks the bear had left, made it clear that it considered my capture a foregone conclusion.

As darkness fell over the mountains, I faced a horrible choice. I could stay in the crack and hope the creature would eventually leave. But that seemed unlikely given its patience so far. Or I could try to make a run for it in the darkness and hope I could reach my truck before it caught me. Neither option offered much hope, but staying meant certain death—if not from the creature, then from exposure and dehydration. At least running gave me a chance, however small.

Chapter 9: The Flight

I waited until full darkness had settled over the clearing. The Bigfoot had dozed off, or at least appeared to, sitting with its back against a boulder about fifteen feet from my hiding place. Its breathing had settled into the slow, regular rhythm of sleep, though I suspected it would wake at the slightest sound.

Moving as slowly and silently as I could, I began working my way out of the crack in the tree. Every small sound—the whisper of my jacket against bark, the faint creak of dead wood—seemed impossibly loud in the mountain silence. It took nearly an hour to extract myself from the narrow opening, constantly freezing whenever the creature stirred. When I finally stood free of the tree, I was only about twelve feet from the sleeping monster. In the starlight, its massive form was clearly visible, and I could see the rise and fall of its chest with each breath. The smell was overwhelming at this distance.

I took one step away from the tree, then another. My plan was to circle wide around the creature and head for the lake, then follow the stream that fed it back down toward the valley where I’d left my truck. It would be a long, dangerous hike in the darkness, but it was my only chance.

On my third step, I put my foot down on a piece of loose shale that shifted with a soft scraping sound. The Bigfoot’s eyes opened immediately, locking on to mine across the small distance between us. For a heartbeat, we simply stared at each other in the starlight.

Then it smiled. Actually smiled, revealing teeth that belonged in a nightmare.

I ran.

Behind me, I heard the creature getting to its feet with a grunt of effort. It was injured from the fight with the bear, which might slow it down, but not enough to matter. I crashed through the underbrush, abandoning any attempt at stealth for pure speed. The sounds of pursuit followed immediately—heavy footsteps, breaking branches, and an occasional grunt of pain that told me the grizzly had done more damage than the creature wanted to admit. But it was still gaining on me, its longer stride eating up the distance despite its injuries.

I reached the lake and plunged into the icy water without hesitation, hoping the creature might be reluctant to follow. The cold was a shock that nearly stopped my heart, but I forced myself to keep moving, wading toward the outlet stream on the far side. Behind me, I heard a splash as the Bigfoot entered the water. It wasn’t going to let something as simple as a mountain lake stop it.

The current of the outlet stream was swift and treacherous in the darkness, but I let it carry me downstream, using it to increase my lead while the creature struggled through the deeper water of the lake. When I finally hauled myself out onto the rocky bank several hundred yards below the lake, I was hypothermic and exhausted, but still alive. I could hear the creature moving along the bank behind me, tracking me by sound and scent. But its movements were slower now, more labored. The combination of its wounds and the cold water was taking a toll.

For the next eight hours, I stumbled through the darkness, following the stream by feel and the sound of running water. Several times, I heard the creature behind me, sometimes close enough that I was sure it would catch me. But each time, I managed to stay just ahead, driven by desperation and the memory of Rex’s sacrifice.

When dawn finally broke over the mountains, I was still three miles from my truck. But the sounds of pursuit had faded hours ago. Either the creature had given up or its injuries had finally forced it to seek shelter.

Chapter 10: The Aftermath

I found my truck exactly where I’d left it, covered in morning frost but undamaged. My hands were shaking so badly from cold and exhaustion that it took several tries to get the key in the ignition, but the engine turned over on the first attempt. I didn’t stop driving until I reached Denver twelve hours later.

I never reported what happened in the mountains that September. Who would have believed me? A giant hairy humanoid that killed a grizzly bear with its bare hands. They would have assumed I was suffering from altitude sickness or had hit my head when I fell. I told the authorities that Rex had been killed in a bear attack and that I’d been forced to abandon my equipment when the bear charged me. It was close enough to the truth to be believable, and it spared me the humiliation of trying to convince skeptical park rangers that Bigfoot was real.

But the truth has been eating at me for twenty years. Not just the encounter itself, but the guilt over Rex’s death. He died protecting me from something that shouldn’t exist, something that most people would dismiss as a campfire story or a hoax perpetrated by attention seekers. Rex deserved better than to have his sacrifice dismissed as a bear attack. He faced down a monster that could have torn him apart with one hand, and he did it without hesitation because he loved me and wanted to keep me safe.

Epilogue: Rex’s Legacy

The least I can do is tell his story—the real story—even if no one believes it. I’ve gone back to the mountains many times since that night, but never to the remote areas where few people venture. I stick to established trails now, popular destinations where the presence of other hikers makes encounters with the unknown less likely. Sometimes I see tracks or signs that make my blood run cold, but I never investigate. I’ve learned to leave some mysteries unsolved.

The physical scars from that night have long since healed. The cuts from branches and rocks, the scrapes from my desperate flight through the darkness. But the emotional scars remain as fresh as they were twenty years ago. I still wake up sometimes to the sound of Rex’s final bark, still see that brave dog throwing himself at a creature ten times his size to buy me a few precious seconds to escape.

People ask me sometimes why I don’t get another dog. I tell them I’m too busy, that my lifestyle doesn’t allow for pets, that I travel too much for work. But the truth is that no dog could ever replace Rex, and I don’t deserve another companion as loyal and brave as he was.

In the years since that encounter, I’ve done extensive research into Bigfoot sightings and unexplained phenomena in the Rocky Mountains. What I’ve learned has only deepened my conviction that we share this world with things we don’t understand and wouldn’t want to understand. The area where I encountered the creature has a long history of unexplained disappearances and strange sightings. Native American tribes in the region have stories going back centuries about giant hairy beings that live in the high country and occasionally venture down into the valleys. Early settlers reported encounters with wild men that match descriptions of what I saw. More recently, there have been dozens of reports from hikers, hunters, and campers who claim to have seen creatures matching the description of what killed my dog. Most are dismissed as hoaxes or misidentifications. But having seen one myself, I believe many of these witnesses are telling the truth.

The creature I encountered was no misidentified bear or person in a costume. It was something else entirely, something that combined human intelligence with animal ferocity and physical capabilities that defied explanation. It knew I was trapped in that tree and chose to wait rather than force its way in. It recognized the bear as a threat and fought with a tactical awareness that went beyond mere animal instinct. Most disturbing of all, it seemed to take pleasure in the hunt, to enjoy the fear it inspired—the smile it gave me before I ran was the expression of a predator that delighted in its superiority over its prey.

I’ve wondered many times over the years what would have happened if I hadn’t escaped that night. Would my disappearance have been chalked up to a hiking accident? Another unfortunate reminder of the dangers posed by the wilderness. Would search teams have found my remains? Or would I have simply vanished without a trace like so many others?

Twenty years later, I still carry Rex’s collar in my hiking pack. It’s weathered and faded now, but it reminds me of his courage and sacrifice. He was just a dog, a rescued mutt with no special training or breeding. But when faced with a monster that terrified me into paralysis, he didn’t hesitate to fight. That collar has become my talisman, a reminder that heroism comes in all forms and that love and loyalty can overcome even the most impossible odds.

Rex didn’t win his fight against the creature, but he won something more important. He saved my life and gave me the chance to escape. I’ve tried to honor his memory by living a life worthy of his sacrifice. I volunteer at animal shelters now, helping other dogs find the kind of homes Rex had with me. I donate to wilderness conservation organizations working to preserve the wild places that, despite their dangers, represent something essential about our world. But most importantly, I finally found the courage to tell this story—Rex’s story—because he deserves to be remembered for what he really was: a hero who faced down the impossible to protect someone he loved.

I know many people will read this account with skepticism, and I understand that reaction. If someone had told me this story twenty years ago, I would have smiled politely and changed the subject. The rational mind rebels against the idea that creatures like this could exist in our modern world, hidden in the vast wilderness areas that still cover much of North America. But the wilderness is vast, and we understand less about it than we like to admit. Every year, hundreds of people disappear in our national parks and forests, many without a trace. The official explanations usually involve animal attacks, falls, exposure, or simple disorientation. But how many of those disappearances might have other causes? Causes that we’re not prepared to acknowledge or investigate.

I’m not asking anyone to believe my story. I’m simply sharing it because I can’t carry the burden alone anymore. And because Rex deserves to have his courage acknowledged. He died defending me from something that most people would dismiss as fantasy. But his sacrifice was real, and it saved my life.

The mountains of Colorado are beautiful, majestic, and awe-inspiring. They’re also dangerous in ways that go beyond the obvious hazards of altitude, weather, and terrain. If you choose to venture into the remote areas where few people go, be prepared for the possibility that you might encounter something that challenges everything you thought you knew about the natural world. And if you do encounter something unexplained, remember Rex—an ordinary dog who chose to fight the impossible rather than abandon someone he loved. His courage in the face of the unknown is a reminder that heroism doesn’t require size or strength or special abilities. Sometimes it just requires the willingness to stand up for what matters, regardless of the odds.

Rex has been gone for twenty years now, but his spirit lives on in this story and in the memory of the bravest soul I’ve ever known. He faced down a monster so I could live to tell this tale, and I finally have.

Rest in peace, boy. You were the best of us all.

END