‘I SAW BIGFOOT ATTACK A HIKER’ Hunter’s Terrifying Sasquatch Encounter Story
Shadow in the Pines
Chapter One: Into the Woods
The third week of November always brought a chill to the mountains of northern Oregon, and for me, a familiar sense of anticipation. I’d been hunting these woods for fifteen years, knew every trail, every ridge, every creek that wound through the valleys. My favorite spot lay eight miles from the main road, where an old logging trail cut through dense forest and opened into a series of meadows. Deer liked to graze there at dawn, and I’d taken some of my best bucks from a stand I’d built in a massive old-growth fir, thirty feet up. That morning, I was up at 4:30, coffee in hand, breakfast quick and forgettable, my mind already on the hunt. The drive up the mountain was silent except for the hum of my truck and the darkness pressing against the windows. The forecast promised clear skies and crisp air—perfect hunting weather.
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I parked just as the first hint of gray crept into the eastern sky. The hike to my stand took forty-five minutes, following the old road for a mile and a half before cutting onto a game trail that wound up through the timber. I moved slowly, stopping to listen every few hundred yards. The forest was alive with subtle sounds—wind in the branches, a distant raven’s call, my own breath amplified by the cold. I reached my tree as the first light filtered through the canopy, climbed up, and settled in, rifle loaded, senses sharp. From up there, I could see for two hundred yards in most directions, except where the forest grew thick. Hunting is mostly waiting, and I’d learned how to become part of the tree, how to breathe quietly, how to let hours slip by unnoticed.
The first hour was uneventful. Squirrels darted across branches, blue jays complained about my presence, but no deer. Around 7:30, I caught movement on the ridge to my left. At first, I thought it was a deer, but something was off—too upright, too deliberate. I raised my binoculars, heart pounding, and focused on the spot. What I saw next still haunts me. It walked on two legs, but it wasn’t human. Eight feet tall, covered in dark, matted hair, shoulders broader than any man I’d ever seen, arms hanging past its knees. It moved with a fluid, powerful grace, as if it owned the forest. And it was carrying something over its shoulder—a limp, human body dressed in a red jacket and dark pants. The way the arms and legs dangled, lifeless, told me the person was dead.
I’d seen enough dead weight in my life to know it instantly. But what chilled me wasn’t just the sight of the body—it was how effortlessly the creature carried it. A grown man, maybe 180 pounds, slung over its shoulder like a sack of flour. The creature’s gait never changed, never slowed, and the body bounced with each step, arms swaying like a rag doll. Through the binoculars, I saw thick, matted hair, darker around the shoulders, lighter on the chest. Its head was massive, with a pronounced brow ridge and a jutting jaw. When it turned, I glimpsed large, animalistic teeth. My heart hammered so loud I worried it might give me away.
The thing headed toward a series of limestone caves deeper in the mountains, caves I’d explored years ago before deciding they were too dangerous. Most ran back hundreds of yards, with twisting passages that could easily get you lost. The creature moved with purpose, never hesitating, stepping over logs and pushing through brush that would have slowed me to a crawl. It was clear this wasn’t its first time. The rational part of me screamed to stay put, wait until it was gone, then get out and call the authorities. But another part, the part that saw the lifeless body, knew someone’s family would be waiting for answers. If there was any chance that person was alive, I had to try.
I waited until the creature disappeared, then climbed down, legs shaking from adrenaline. Rifle ready, I followed the same direction along the ridge, moving from tree to tree, every step calculated to avoid making noise. The forest was unnaturally silent, as if holding its breath. It took nearly an hour to reach the caves, every shadow a potential threat. Halfway there, I found a footprint in a muddy clearing—eighteen inches long, seven wide, with claw marks extending from each toe. My size eleven boot looked like a child’s shoe next to it. Whatever made it weighed at least five hundred pounds. I snapped a photo, knowing no one would believe it, and pressed on.
The closer I got, the stronger a musty, organic smell became—earthy, like a basement, but layered with something rotten and animalistic. The cave entrance was hidden behind young firs and berry bushes, but the vegetation was trampled, saplings snapped at chest height, claw marks gouged into tree bark. The opening was six feet high, four wide, leading into darkness. Around it, the earth was marked by smudged footprints, and the smell was overwhelming—a mix of animal musk, rotting meat, and something metallic that made my stomach churn.
I crouched behind a fallen log thirty yards from the cave and waited, hoping the creature would leave, giving me a chance to check on the body. Every sound made me jump—a branch falling, a bird calling, wind in the trees. I imagined movement inside, heavy footsteps echoing off stone, but couldn’t be sure. After ten minutes, I heard it for real—heavy, irregular footsteps, scraping sounds, grunting. I pressed myself down, rifle ready but praying I wouldn’t have to use it. The creature emerged, even more terrifying up close—eight and a half feet tall, arms like tree trunks, face primitive but intelligent, eyes calculating, ears pointed and moving independently. It scanned the forest, paused to stare directly at my hiding spot. I held my breath, sure it had seen me, but after a moment it turned and walked off into the trees.
When I was sure it was gone, I approached the cave entrance. The smell was stronger now, not just musty but reminiscent of a meat locker left too long. I pulled out my flashlight and stepped inside.
Chapter Two: Bones in the Dark
The cave’s entrance chamber was larger than I remembered—twenty feet across, twelve high. My flashlight beam swept across the floor, revealing bones. Not just animal bones, though there were plenty, but human ones—skulls, rib cages, long bones, some old and bleached, others fresh. Fifteen feet in, I found the body in the red jacket. A young man, maybe twenties, hiking boots, small backpack. I knelt, checked for a pulse, though I already knew. Cold skin, rigor mortis. Dead for hours, maybe since the night before.
I was about to check his backpack for ID when I heard heavy footsteps echoing from deeper in the cave. The creature was coming back, fast. The sound reverberated through the limestone, louder and more urgent. I clicked off my flashlight and scrambled for cover, squeezing into a narrow gap between two boulders, pressing my face against cold stone, trying to control my breathing.
Twenty feet from the body, I waited, heart pounding. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by low rumbling breaths and scraping claws. Then I saw the glow of its eyes—large, greenish, reflecting the faint light. The massive silhouette moved with surprising grace, straight to the body. I heard its breathing—deep, rhythmic, with a whistling undertone. The smell was overpowering, a blend of wet fur, rot, and something sharp, metallic.
It examined the body, turning the head, pressing a massive hand to the chest, checking for life. Satisfied, it let out a resonant sound—more than a growl, a predator’s satisfaction. Then it picked up the body and walked deeper into the cave. Their sounds faded into the labyrinth, echoing off distant walls. I waited until all was quiet, then crept toward the entrance as quietly as I could. But the caves were full of loose rock, and I kicked a stone that bounced across the floor like a gunshot.
An answering growl came from the depths, vibrating through the stone. Heavy footsteps thundered closer, no longer stealthy but furious. I abandoned stealth, ran for the entrance, flashlight beam wild, heart racing. Behind me, the creature roared, a sound that shook the very walls. It was gaining fast. The cave wasn’t deep—maybe a hundred yards—but something that size could cover ground in seconds. I stumbled, scraped my shoulder, nearly fell, but saw daylight ahead.
I burst out into the forest, running uphill through thick brush, jumping logs, crashing through undergrowth. The creature was close, its roars echoing off the ridges, its speed terrifying. I risked a glance back and saw it emerge from the cave, sunlight catching its fur, arms swinging, claws glinting. It roared and charged, moving through the forest like the trees weren’t even there.
My lungs burned, legs felt like rubber, but I forced myself onward. The creature was built for this terrain, gaining with every stride. I spun, dropped to one knee, raised my rifle as it closed to fifty yards. Its face twisted in a snarl, massive teeth bared, eyes locked on me. I fired for center mass. The shot echoed, the creature staggered, dark blood sprayed, but it didn’t fall. It roared louder, kept coming. I fired again, aimed for the head, but hit the shoulder. Another spray of blood, but no slowdown.
A .30-06 rifle could drop a grizzly, but this thing barely flinched. I ran again, firing two more shots over my shoulder, one connecting, another roar, but the chase never slowed. The terrain steepened, the sound of rushing water below—the river. If I could reach it, maybe I’d have a chance. The creature was so close now I could hear its breathing, deep and rasping, smell its rank odor over the pine needles.
At the top of a steep slope, the river tumbled through a gorge below—fifty feet down, white water, scattered boulders. An impossible choice. Stay and die, or jump and risk the river. The creature crashed through the last stand of alders behind me. I made my choice. I jumped.
Chapter Three: The River’s Mercy
For a split second, I saw the rocks jutting from the riverbed, sure I was about to die. The water looked shallow, boulders everywhere. But somehow, I hit the one deep spot, missing the rocks. The water was ice-cold, the current stronger than expected. I went under, tumbled along the bottom, fought my way back to the surface, gasping for air. On the cliff above, the creature appeared, silhouetted against the sky, massive, arms like tree trunks. It let out a bone-chilling roar.
I swam downstream, letting the current carry me, the cold biting into my skin. The creature wasn’t done—it hurled boulders into the water, one splashing where I’d been seconds before, another catching me on the shoulder, sending pain through my body. My right arm went numb; I swam with my left and legs, the current my ally. For what felt like hours, but was only minutes, I fought to keep my head above water, the river carrying me through the gorge.
Finally, the river widened and slowed, and I crawled onto the rocky bank, more dead than alive. My lips were blue, body shaking uncontrollably. I lay there, trying to get warm, figure out where I was. The sun was overhead—it had to be noon. My rifle was gone, shoulder injured, clothes soaked, but I was alive. I started walking downstream, hoping to find a road or trail. Every few minutes, I stopped to listen, terrified the creature was following. But all I heard were normal forest sounds.
It took four hours to reach a familiar logging road. By then, the sun was low, and I worried about spending the night in wet clothes. Finally, I found my truck, exactly where I’d left it. I cranked the heat, peeled off my wet clothes, sat in my underwear, trying to process what had happened. I drove straight to the sheriff’s office, told them about the cave, the bones, the dead hiker. But when I described the creature, I saw disbelief in their eyes. They asked if I’d been drinking, hit my head, suffered hypothermia. I stuck to my story, but they humored me, promised to check the cave.
A week later, I called back. They’d searched the area, found no cave matching my description. The deputy suggested my fall into the river had scrambled my memory. But I know what I saw. I know that dead hiker was real, and I know what was carrying him. I’ve been back to those mountains dozens of times since, always carrying a much bigger gun. I’ve never seen the creature again, but sometimes, when the wind blows through the trees just right, I catch a whiff of that same smell—wet fur and rotting meat. And I’ve never found that cave again, no matter how hard I’ve looked. It’s like it was never there at all.
Chapter Four: The Farm’s Last Stand
I’m standing in what’s left of my barn at dawn, looking at splintered boards and tufts of dark fur caught in the wood. The horses are gone. The farm is gone. My entire way of life has vanished. Something was watching my family for years, and I ignored every warning sign until it was too late. Our small horse farm sat against miles of untouched forest, no roads, no trails, just trees and whatever lived in them.
The signs started three years before everything fell apart—broken fence posts snapped clean in half, massive footprints in the mud near the creek, horses acting strange at night, pressed against the far wall of their stalls, eyes rolling, nostrils flared, sweat slicking their coats. The vet said stress, but I knew it was fear. My wife felt watched when she hung laundry near the woods, a creeping sensation that followed her around the yard. She started going to the laundromat in town.
One morning, I found a deer carcass hung in a tree twelve feet off the ground, partially eaten, with finger marks in the flesh. The smell near the property line was musky, rank, like wet dog and rot, strongest at dusk. The horses refused to graze near the woods, bunched up by the barn, planting their hooves when I tried to lead them out. I found clumps of coarse black hair on fence posts, oily and stiff, leaving a smell on my hands that wouldn’t wash off.
My daughter’s swing set was bent, thick metal poles twisted like wire. The barn door had deep scratches eight feet off the ground, parallel like fingers. My wife heard heavy footsteps circling the house at night, each thud shaking the walls. Motion sensor lights triggered in sequence, as if something was walking the perimeter. My son saw a hairy man in the woods from the school bus, walking on two legs, hunched, arms swinging. My daughter said the hairy man looked in her window—eight feet off the ground, palm prints nine inches across. I didn’t let the kids sleep in that room again.
I started seeing movement in the woods all the time—something large, purposeful, watching. One evening, I saw it clearly, gripping a tree trunk, watching me work on the fence. Its eyes were dark, intelligent, aware. It pushed away from the tree and walked deeper into the forest, upright, swinging its arms. I abandoned the fence and went straight to the house, shaking.
The attacks escalated—garbage cans dragged into the yard, enormous piles of feces marking territory, barn doors gouged, swing sets twisted. Horses screamed at midnight, stalls kicked, doors ripped off hinges. My youngest mare was missing, found with her neck broken, bruises in the shape of a hand, bite marks too human. The authorities called it a wildlife incident, maybe a mountain lion, but I knew better.
The creatures started appearing at dusk or dawn, standing at the edge of the forest, watching the house, sometimes one, sometimes two. They worked together, coordinated, sent messages. When I fired my rifle, they didn’t run—they backed away deliberately, choosing to leave. The attacks became personal—tools scattered, chicken coop smashed, truck scratched, garden trampled.
One night, three of them ripped out fence posts, threw one at my truck, caving in the door. The message was clear: leave or risk everything. The stress killed one of my pregnant mares—two lives lost in one night. The barn was torn apart, two horses injured. My insurance wouldn’t cover it. My wife cried, my kids were terrified. I knew we couldn’t stay.
Chapter Five: Leaving the Shadows
I sold the horses for a fraction of their worth, each one a memory, each sale a loss. My daughter cried when they took her pony, my son grew hard, too old for his years. We listed the farm below market value, a young couple bought it, dreaming of organic crops. I warned them to be careful at night, but didn’t say more. The week before moving, every night felt like a countdown. The property was quiet, almost too quiet, the forest empty or perhaps just watching.
On closing day, I found fresh tracks in the mud, leading from the woods to the property line and back. The alpha had come to check if we were really leaving. I saw it at the tree line, and it nodded once, slow and deliberate, then vanished into the forest. That was the last time I saw it, but I knew it was still there, always watching.
We moved to a subdivision forty miles away, tiny yard, neighbors close enough to hear their TVs. My kids adjusted, made new friends, joined soccer and karate. My wife sleeps through the night now, no more baseball bat by the bed. I work construction, keep busy, but sometimes wake at 3 a.m. listening for sounds that aren’t there—breaking wood, heavy footsteps, rumbling communication.
Sometimes, I drive by the old farm, slow down as I pass. The new owners seem happy—garden thriving, chickens in the yard, no horses, nothing big to hunt. Maybe that’s why they’re left alone. Or maybe the creatures are still there, just being patient. I still have nightmares of standing in the empty stable at dawn, looking at broken boards, dark fur, wet tracks leading into the forest.
I know I made the right choice. My family is safe, together, alive. But I feel like a coward, like I should have fought harder. Some battles can’t be won. Survival means knowing when to walk away. My kids are safe, and that has to be enough.
Late at night, I look up that forest on satellite maps, acres of untouched wilderness. I wonder how many others have seen what I saw, driven from their homes by something impossible. If you’ve experienced what I have, if you’ve seen something in the woods that watched you from the shadows, made you feel like prey—I believe you. If you’re thinking about buying property near deep forest, pay attention to the signs. Don’t ignore them. Don’t rationalize them away. Because by the time you realize what’s really out there, it might be too late.
I got out. My family is safe. But somewhere in those woods, something is still watching, still waiting. And it always will be, because that’s its home, not ours. We were just visitors who overstayed our welcome. And when we wouldn’t leave on our own, it made us leave. I hope the new owners never see what I saw. I hope their garden and chickens aren’t interesting enough to attract attention. But sometimes I worry, sometimes I think about warning them. But what would I say? How do you explain something like that to someone who hasn’t lived through it? You can’t. So I don’t say anything. I just drive by, check that the lights are on, that everything looks normal, and hope that’s enough.
End.
