‘My Camera Caught Bigfoot On My Property’ – Bizarre Bigfoot Encounter Story

The Shadows at Cedar Ridge

Chapter One: The Bargain

I never believed in Bigfoot. Not until I bought that cabin in the mountains and saw what my trail cameras captured.

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It started simply enough: my wife and I, burned out from city life, searching for a weekend escape. We’d been living among concrete and traffic for years, our marriage reduced to passing glances and hurried dinners. We needed a place to reconnect—a sanctuary where the only sounds were wind in the trees and the call of distant birds.

But our budget was a joke. Every listing we found was twice what we could afford. Then, one late night, I stumbled onto a listing that seemed too good to be true: a cabin in the North Cascades, forty miles from the nearest town, sitting on twenty acres of pristine forest. The photos were stunning—rustic log walls, a stone fireplace, a wraparound porch overlooking endless wilderness. The price? Thirty thousand dollars. I checked again, convinced it was a typo. Similar cabins in the area were selling for two hundred thousand or more.

My wife was skeptical. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked, scrolling through the listing. The photos showed a well-maintained interior, massive timber beams, floor-to-ceiling windows. “Why so cheap?”

I didn’t know. But sometimes you take a leap. We were desperate for change, and even if the cabin needed repairs, the price was a risk we could afford. I called the seller, Dave, an older man whose voice carried a weary relief. He said the property had been in his family for decades, but nobody used it anymore. He wanted it to go to someone who’d appreciate it.

We drove up that Saturday, winding through remote mountain roads, the last five miles a rutted gravel track that threatened our car’s suspension. But when we crested the ridge and saw the cabin nestled among towering pines, all doubts faded. It was more beautiful than the photos, surrounded by forest on three sides and opening to a vista of endless mountains.

Dave greeted us on the porch, his hands weathered and eyes tired. The cabin was solid—thick logs, a metal roof, a stone chimney. Inside, the great room dominated the main floor, with a kitchen and bathroom tucked in one corner. Upstairs was a single large bedroom under the eaves, windows looking out over the forest canopy.

I kept waiting for the catch. Maybe the well was dry, the septic failed, or there was some legal snag. But the longer we explored, the more convinced I became: we’d found something rare.

As we prepared to leave, Dave mentioned wildlife. “Animals are more active these days,” he said, glancing at the tree line. “If you plan to stay often, install a security system.” My wife asked what kind of animals, and Dave listed black bears, mountain lions, but his manner was evasive, like he was holding something back.

We shook hands, drove home, and finalized the paperwork in record time. Dave seemed desperate to close the deal. Within three weeks, we owned the cabin.

Before our first visit, I took Dave’s advice. I bought six motion-activated trail cameras with night vision. Expensive, but worth it. At the local ranger station, a woman named Sarah marked the best spots for cameras on a map, her voice carrying an undercurrent of concern. “Predators are bolder up there,” she said. “Be smart about food storage. Cell coverage is spotty, but you can get a signal on the ridge.”

We thanked her and drove up, arriving at sunset. The cabin glowed in the golden light. We set up the cameras, focusing on the main approaches and wildlife trails. Each camera had a thirty-foot range, capturing photos and video when triggered.

That night, we cooked dinner on the propane stove, drank wine by the fire, and slept deeper than we had in months. The silence was profound—no traffic, no sirens, just the wind and the occasional owl.

Chapter Two: The Visitor

The next morning, I was eager to check the cameras. I downloaded the data while my wife made breakfast. Most cameras captured what I expected: deer, raccoons, a fox trotting along a game trail. Normal mountain life.

But one camera, positioned on the property’s north side, had something different. The timestamp was 3:17 a.m., the night vision image grainy. At first, I thought it was another deer. But zooming in, the shape was all wrong—large, dark, upright at the edge of the detection range. Only a single frame before it moved out of sight. Too tall and broad for a deer, too upright for a bear.

I called my wife to look. “Probably a bear standing up,” she said, returning to her coffee. Black bears often rear up to get a better scent. I shrugged it off, made a mental note to be careful with food.

We spent the weekend hiking, exploring meadows and a year-round creek. By the time we left, we were already planning our return.

A month passed before we could return. Work and family obligations kept us away. When we finally arrived, the cameras had been busy. Dozens of triggers: deer, squirrels, birds. But the same large dark shape appeared on multiple cameras, always at night, always at the edge of the range. The images were frustratingly unclear, but something big was out there.

The most concerning were photos from the camera near the cabin’s back door. Over a single night, something approached much closer. The progression was clear: a dark mass at the frame’s edge, then closer, then a massive upright figure at the detection limit. The final image was the clearest—a large, bipedal figure with long arms hanging at its sides. Not a bear rearing up, but something walking upright.

My wife studied the images, zooming in and scrolling through the sequence. “That’s really weird,” she admitted. “What do you think it is?”

I didn’t want to voice my growing suspicion. The figure was too tall, too broad, too muscular, moving with purpose and intelligence.

We repositioned cameras for better coverage and searched for physical evidence. Near the back corner, we found footprints in soft earth—enormous, at least eighteen inches long and eight wide, five distinct toes, an arch and heel, but proportions wrong for a human. Seven prints led from the forest to within ten feet of the cabin, then returned along a different path. Deep impressions suggested something incredibly heavy.

My wife found branches broken at eight feet and scratches on trees higher than either of us could reach.

That evening, as we sat by the fire, I finally said it: “What if it’s Bigfoot?” My wife laughed nervously. “You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?” I didn’t—but the evidence was mounting.

We researched Bigfoot sightings in the area. The Pacific Northwest had more reports than anywhere else, descriptions consistent: large, bipedal, covered in dark hair, seven to eight feet tall, intelligent, avoiding direct contact but fascinated by human habitation. Six sightings within fifty miles of our cabin in the past decade.

“Maybe that’s why Dave sold the place so cheap,” my wife suggested. “Maybe he had encounters and wanted out.”

We stayed up late, jumping at every sound. The peaceful forest now felt full of watchers, every creak and rustle a possible sign of our mysterious visitor.

Chapter Three: The Escalation

The next morning, the cameras showed our visitor had returned, moving around the property with increasing boldness. The most disturbing sequence came from a camera along the main approach—over two hours, it captured the creature’s approach, a long period of stillness, then retreat. One frame showed its face, looking directly into the lens. Large, intelligent eyes reflected the infrared flash, a heavy brow ridge casting shadows over disturbingly human features.

We debated reporting our findings, but who would believe us? Blurry photos and footprints weren’t enough.

Over the following weeks, I obsessed over the mystery—documentaries, eyewitness accounts, grainy evidence. Most was fake, but enough credible reports made me think there was something to it. Our cabin fit the pattern: remote, surrounded by wilderness, visited by something matching all the classic descriptions.

On our third visit, I upgraded the cameras, positioned them strategically based on the creature’s movements. We planned to stay a week, hoping for quality time but also, if I’m honest, for a direct encounter.

The first night was quiet, but the atmosphere had changed. There was a sense of being watched, invisible eyes in the dark forest.

The second night, our visitor announced itself more dramatically. We went to bed around ten-thirty, tired from hiking. Just as I was drifting off, footsteps circled the cabin—heavy, deliberate, upright, fifty feet away. I nudged my wife awake, and we lay listening as the steps completed a full circuit, pausing as if to examine something, then resuming.

The sound went on for twenty minutes before fading into the forest. Neither of us slept well.

Morning brought frustration. Several cameras triggered, but most showed only glimpses of something large moving between trees. More concerning: three cameras had been moved, not knocked over, but deliberately repositioned. One now aimed at a tree trunk, another turned to face the cabin. Our visitor understood the cameras well enough to neutralize them—intelligence that made me deeply uneasy.

We reset the cameras and searched for evidence. Footprints formed a rough circle around the cabin, matching the estimated distance of the footsteps. Deep scratches in the bark at heights from seven to ten feet, some fresh, inner bark exposed. The porch railing was damaged, thick posts showing bite marks too large for any known animal.

That afternoon, exploring a ravine half a mile away, we found a shelter—branches and logs arranged to create a windproof enclosure big enough for something huge. The construction was sophisticated, smaller branches woven between supports, camouflaged expertly.

Inside, a depression lined with grass and leaves, a bed for something eight feet tall. Scattered tools: sharp stones, digging sticks, a crude bowl. Most disturbing, a pile of bones, systematically broken for marrow, showing strength far beyond human.

We didn’t linger. The shelter felt like a violation, and I sensed we were being watched. We took quick photos and retreated, shaken.

Chapter Four: Siege

That night, as we lay awake, something began pounding on the cabin walls. The impacts shook the structure, windows rattled. The pounding moved around the building, testing its strength. When it reached the front, the porch railing cracked and splintered.

My wife gripped my arm as the pounding continued. Wood groaned, and I worried the walls might give way. The assault lasted ten minutes, then stopped abruptly. Silence returned, somehow more terrifying.

We didn’t sleep. Morning revealed dents and gouges on the walls, the porch destroyed, deep scratches around windows and doors. Most cameras had been smashed, only two survived, recording only darkness and the sound of wood splintering.

We should have left, but we’d invested everything. And whatever was out there had never harmed us—maybe it just wanted us gone.

We spent the day reinforcing defenses—plywood over windows, furniture against doors, checking the landline (disconnected). That night, something tried to break down the front door. Impacts came steadily, wood cracked, metal strained. We huddled upstairs, clutching each other as the pounding continued, accompanied by scratching, heavy movement, sniffing at windows. The door held, but the frame was badly damaged.

Next morning, our truck wouldn’t start. Tires slashed, wiring torn out, hoses cut. Deliberate sabotage. We were stranded, forty miles from town, food for three days, no cell signal, landline dead.

For the first time, I felt genuine fear. The creature had made sure we couldn’t leave.

We explored escape routes—the ridge to the south offered a chance for a cell signal, but the climb was steep and dangerous. Staying wasn’t an option; the creature was growing bolder.

In the storage shed, we found an emergency kit—first aid, water tablets, flares. In the basement, an old journal from Michael, a previous owner. His entries described similar encounters—something stalking the property, damaging equipment, trying to get in. His final entry ended mid-sentence, trapped inside, no more pages.

We couldn’t wait. At first light, I volunteered to climb the ridge for help. My wife would stay, maintain defenses. If I got a signal, I’d fire a flare.

Chapter Five: The Encounter

Neither of us slept. Our visitor moved outside, testing defenses. Just before dawn, the activity stopped. I gathered supplies and slipped out the back door, my wife watching from upstairs.

The forest was dark, only a faint glow on the horizon. I moved quickly, following the route I’d memorized. The climb was exhausting, slopes steep, fallen logs and loose rock threatening every step.

Halfway up, I realized I was being followed. At first, just a sense of being watched. Then glimpses of something large moving parallel to my route, branches shifting, heavy sounds in the underbrush.

I kept climbing, every instinct screaming to hide or turn back. The ridge was an hour away, my legs shaking, breath ragged. But I had to try—my wife was counting on me.

As I gained elevation, my follower grew bolder. I saw it more clearly—a dark, massive shape flowing through the forest, impossibly quiet for its size, staying a hundred yards behind, slowly closing the distance.

The final approach was the steepest, a scramble over loose rock and roots. When I pulled myself over the edge, the view was breathtaking. My phone showed two bars. I dialed 911, hands shaking, explained our situation. The dispatcher promised a rescue team, but it would take hours.

I prepared to fire the flare when I saw it—standing at the edge of the clearing, fifty feet away. The creature was even larger than I’d imagined, eight feet tall, massive shoulders, long arms, covered in dark brown hair. The face was intelligent, eyes studying me with curiosity, not aggression.

We stared at each other for what felt like eternity. I was frozen, terror and fascination mingling. The creature stood still, chest rising and falling slowly. Then, without a sound, it melted into the forest, vanishing as if it had never been there.

I fired the flare, watched it arc toward the cabin. The descent was terrifying, adrenaline driving me past exhaustion. My wife met me at the door, relief flooding her face. I told her about the rescue, but not the encounter.

We spent the day preparing, gathering essentials, trying to repair damage. The helicopter arrived at sunset, its rotors echoing off the mountains. We were loaded aboard within minutes. As we lifted off, I saw one final glimpse—a dark shape at the forest’s edge, watching our departure.

Chapter Six: Aftermath

We never went back. Within a month, we sold the property for what we’d paid, lucky to break even. The new owner, a rancher, called months later—his crew refused to work after strange incidents, equipment moved, damaged, clients feeling watched, finding enormous footprints. Within a year, he abandoned the property.

As far as I know, the cabin sits empty, slowly falling apart as the forest reclaims it. Somewhere in those woods, a creature science doesn’t acknowledge continues its solitary existence, leaving footprints, appearing as a blurry shape on trail cameras.

I never reported our experience. What would be the point? Blurry images, footprints, our testimony—none of it enough to convince anyone who hadn’t lived through it.

But I know what we saw. I know what stalked us and drove us away. Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if we were the intruders, not the creature. Maybe it was just protecting its home.

It never hurt us, never tried to harm us, just made it clear we weren’t welcome. I’ve read many similar accounts since—remote cabins, encounters with something large and intelligent, driving humans away without violence.

Most of the time, people leave. Sometimes, they disappear. Michael, the previous owner, might have been one. His journal ended abruptly; no record of what happened.

We learned a valuable lesson—be careful what you wish for. We moved to the suburbs, neighbors close, the comforts of civilization. But sometimes, I feel watched, scanning the shadows, remembering those intelligent eyes.

There are things in this world science hasn’t cataloged, creatures that prefer the shadows. Once you’ve looked into those eyes, you never quite feel alone again.

I still have the trail camera images—blurry, grainy, proof of something or nothing. Sometimes I think of sharing them, but what would it accomplish?

Maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved. Maybe there are places where humans aren’t the dominant species. Maybe we need reminders that we’re not alone.

Our cabin taught us respect for fear, for boundaries, for the unknown. It was an expensive education, but one that stays with us. Sometimes, on quiet nights, I swear I hear heavy footsteps circling just beyond perception, reminding me the world is stranger and more wonderful than most will ever know.

We never talk about what happened, not even between ourselves. It’s a bond, silent and profound. We know what we saw. We know what changed us. But we’re alive, we’re safe, and we’ve learned to appreciate the simple pleasures of civilization.

The creature in those mountains is still out there, I’m certain. Still leaving footprints, still watching from the shadows, still protecting its home. And that’s probably exactly as it should be.

End.