My Trail Camera Recorded BIGFOOT and I Paid the Price for This – Bigfoot Encounter Story

The Price of Proof

Chapter One: The Skeptic’s Sanctuary

I never believed in any of this. Never. All those stories about creatures in the woods, people seeing things that shouldn’t exist—I always thought it was nonsense. Campfire tales, internet hoaxes, people desperate for attention. Growing up, I’d heard the usual legends: Bigfoot in the Pacific Northwest, the Yeti in the Himalayas, mystery creatures caught on grainy video. Every time someone claimed to have evidence, it turned out to be fake—a guy in a gorilla suit, Photoshop, someone chasing their fifteen minutes of fame.

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I was the guy who laughed at those stories. The skeptic. The one who’d point out all the logical reasons why these creatures couldn’t exist. No fossil record, no bodies, no concrete evidence despite thousands of supposed sightings. If these things were real, we’d have found one by now. Bones, DNA, something. But we never did, because they weren’t real.

But I’m not here to convince anyone. I’m just telling you what happened. What I saw. What I lived through. You can decide for yourself whether to believe me or not. All I can do is tell you what’s true for me. And the truth is, I saw something out there in those woods. Something that changed everything I thought I knew.

I own a small ranch in the wilderness, about forty acres bordered by national forest on three sides. My nearest neighbor is six miles down a dirt road that turns to mud when it rains. The closest town is twenty miles away—population maybe three hundred if you count all the farms in the area. No cell service, no internet except for a satellite connection that works half the time. It’s isolated. That’s why I bought it. I spent fifteen years in the city, working an office job under fluorescent lights, in endless meetings. I made good money, but I hated every minute. I dreamed of getting away, living somewhere quiet, somewhere I could breathe.

When I finally had enough for a down payment, I started looking at rural properties. The further from civilization, the better. I found this place listed online. The photos looked rough—an old cabin that hadn’t been lived in for years. The previous owner had died, and the family just wanted to sell it cheap. I drove out to see it on a muddy spring morning. The road was barely passable, but when I arrived and saw the place, I knew it was perfect. Mountains in the distance, dense forest all around, a little creek running through the property. The cabin needed work, but it had good bones. I made an offer that day.

I spent three years fixing up the old cabin—built a new roof, replaced every window, added a workshop out back, put in solar panels and a new well. I made it comfortable. I made it mine. Those first few years were the best of my life. I woke up with the sun, made coffee on the propane stove, sat on the porch and watched the forest come alive. I worked on whatever needed doing—chopping firewood, fixing fences, clearing brush. Real work that left me tired in a good way, not the soul-crushing exhaustion of city life. Living alone suited me fine. Peace and quiet, no drama, no traffic, no neighbors complaining about nonsense. Just me and the land.

The wildlife never bothered me. Deer grazed near the tree line, black bears passed through in summer, mountain lions left tracks sometimes but kept their distance. Coyotes sang at night, eagles hunted in the pines, elk came down to the creek in winter. Raccoons raided the trash if I forgot to secure it. All of it felt right, normal. This was what living in the wilderness was supposed to be like. Everything had its place. Everything made sense. For three years, it was perfect.

Chapter Two: The Scream in the Night

Then the sound started. Late September, early fall. The weather was just starting to turn cold at night. I was on the porch after sunset, coffee in hand, watching the day end. The sun had just dipped below the mountains, the sky turning from orange to purple. The forest had gone quiet, the way it does sometimes—no birds, no insects, no breeze. Just silence.

Then a scream cut through the air, distant but loud enough to hear clearly, coming from somewhere up in the mountains north of my property. It sounded almost human, like someone in terrible pain. But wrong somehow—deeper, more powerful than any human voice. The sound echoed down the valley, lasting maybe five seconds, then stopped. Silence again.

I stood at the edge of the porch, looking toward the sound. I couldn’t see anything—just dark trees and darkening sky. I waited, listened. Nothing else. I figured it was an elk. They make some weird noises during rut. Or maybe a mountain lion. I went inside, didn’t think much more about it.

But the sounds kept coming back every few nights. Sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, always after dark, usually around the same time—the transition between day and night. Always that same screaming quality, almost human, making the hair on my neck stand up. I started keeping my rifle closer at night, loaded and by the door. Told myself it was just being cautious, but I was starting to worry.

After two weeks, I couldn’t sleep. I’d lie in bed, listening, waiting for the sound. Sometimes it would come, sometimes it wouldn’t. The uncertainty was almost worse than the sound itself. By early October, it was getting worse. The screams were getting closer to the cabin. One night, I heard it maybe two hundred yards out in the trees. That same horrible scream, much clearer than before. I could hear the raw power in it. Whatever was making that noise had lungs like nothing I’d ever heard.

I grabbed my spotlight and rifle, went out on the porch, heart pounding, hands shaking, swept the beam across the tree line. Nothing. Just shadows and pine trunks. But I could feel something out there, watching. That’s when I remembered the old stories. Legends going back decades—longer, really. The native tribes had stories about tall, hairy beings in the woods, creatures that avoided humans. More recent stories told of hikers who never came back, campers who vanished, search parties finding abandoned campsites but never bodies.

Local folks would mention these things when I went into town for supplies. The old-timers, especially, would say, “Be careful out there.” Or, “Don’t go wandering too far from your cabin.” I always thought they were being superstitious. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

I decided I needed to know what was out there. Sitting in my cabin every night, wondering, wasn’t doing me any good. I needed answers. So I ordered a set of trail cameras—motion-activated, night vision, high resolution, weatherproof. They cost me almost $200 each, and I ordered six. Worth every penny if they could tell me what was going on.

The cameras arrived a week later. I spent a whole day setting them up—one near the creek, another along the game trail, two at the edges of the clearing around my cabin, two deeper in the woods, in places that made me uneasy. I mounted them high, tested each one, made sure the motion sensors and night vision worked.

That night, I slept better than I had in weeks. The cameras would tell me what was out there. Probably just a bear or an elk. Maybe a moose. I’d see the photos in a few days and laugh at myself for getting spooked. At least I’d know.

Chapter Three: The Evidence

I waited three days before checking the cameras. The weather had been cold and clear, perfect conditions. After breakfast on the third day, I collected the SD cards, replaced them with fresh ones, and headed back to the cabin. I made coffee, settled in at the table with my laptop, and started loading the cards one at a time.

The first card, from the creek, showed deer, raccoons, a black bear. The game trail camera caught elk, more deer, a fox. Normal wildlife, nothing unusual. I felt a mix of relief and disappointment. Maybe there was nothing after all.

Then I loaded the card from the north tree line, one of the deeper cameras. The first dozen photos were normal. Squirrels, birds. Then photo number thirteen made me stop breathing. A figure, standing upright, captured in night vision. Grainy, but clear enough. It was huge—eight or nine feet tall, covered in thick, dark fur. The body looked wrong for a bear—too narrow, too upright. The shoulders were broad, the arms long and thick, the chest flat. The proportions were all wrong for any animal I knew.

But the face—God, the face. Not a bear. Not quite human. Something in between. A pronounced brow ridge, deep-set eyes, a flat nose, broad nostrils, a jaw hidden in fur. The eyes looked intelligent, aware, like they were looking right at the camera.

I stared at the screen for five minutes, coffee going cold in my hand. This couldn’t be real. It had to be someone in a costume. But who would do that? Why? And why did it look so real?

I clicked to the next photo. The creature had moved closer. More details—fur of different lengths, muscles showing through, definition in the shoulders and arms. The next photo, even closer. The eyes were dark, almost black, reflecting the camera flash in a strange way. The expression wasn’t threatening—more curious, like it was studying the camera.

Five more images, then it was gone. The next photos were just trees and darkness. My hands were shaking as I closed the laptop. I walked to the window and looked out at the forest. Everything looked normal, safe, but something was out there. Something that shouldn’t exist.

I opened the laptop again, zoomed in, studied every detail. The more I looked, the more convinced I became—this was real. Not a person in a suit. This was an actual creature. A Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Whatever you want to call it.

My first thought was to show the photos to people, post them online, prove to the world these creatures existed. I’d be famous. Scientists would study the area, news crews would show up, documentaries, book deals. But then reality set in. Photos aren’t enough. Not anymore. People fake photos all the time. No one would believe me. They’d call it fake, another hoax. I needed more than photos. I needed the creature itself—dead or alive. Physical proof nobody could deny. A body would be best. Or, even better, a living specimen.

That’s when the greed set in. I started planning. Bear traps, heavy-duty snares, steel cables, chains, more ammunition, maybe tranquilizers if I could get them. I drove to different towns for supplies, spread out my purchases. Didn’t want anyone getting suspicious. I loaded my truck with thousands of dollars’ worth of traps, chains, ammo. It was an investment. One successful capture and I’d make it all back a thousand times over.

Chapter Four: The Price of the Hunt

I spent two days setting everything up. The bear traps were fifty pounds each, spring-loaded jaws with teeth, designed to hold a grizzly. I positioned them near the tree line, along game trails, covered them with leaves and branches. I set up snares in the trees, cables attached to trunks, shooting positions with clear sight lines. By the time I finished, it was almost dark. The property was ready. When that creature came back, I’d be ready.

That night, the forest was completely silent. Not a cricket, not a coyote, not even the wind. The silence was so complete it felt unnatural. Wrong. I stayed up until three in the morning, rifle in hand, windows locked, but nothing happened. Eventually, exhaustion won and I collapsed into bed.

I woke late, grabbed my rifle, and went outside to check the traps. The first trap was destroyed—not sprung, destroyed. The steel jaws bent apart, the chain snapped, the trap thrown twenty feet away. Every single trap was demolished. The snares torn down, cables ripped apart. It wasn’t random. The creature had found every trap, every snare, and destroyed them all.

The cameras were torn down, smashed, SD cards gone. The worst part was the trees. Several large trees near the traps had strange markings gouged into the bark—deliberate patterns, symbols, too high for me to reach, made with incredible force. The creature had been here. While I slept.

I should have stopped then. Packed up and left. But I didn’t. The thought of all that money kept running through my head. I had a few traps left. I hid them better, dug them into the ground, set them in thick brush. I was more careful, more thorough. By the time I finished, it was dark. I loaded my rifles and waited.

That second night was even worse. Silence again. I sat by the window, rifle in hand, hours crawling by. Eventually, I fell asleep. Morning came. I checked the traps—all destroyed again, even the hidden ones. More marks on the trees, closer to the cabin. Footprints in the dirt, huge, eighteen inches long, five toes, deep impressions. The prints circled the cabin, some only twenty feet from the walls.

I should have been terrified. Part of me was. But another part was still thinking about the money. The creature was intelligent, but intelligence could be used against it. I just had to think harder.

That afternoon, I heard heavy footsteps coming through the trees toward the cabin. I grabbed my rifle, ran to the window. There it was—a massive brown shape, walking upright, coming straight for my cabin. Not hiding, not quiet, just walking like it owned the place. My hands shook as I chambered a round. The creature was a hundred yards out, then fifty, then thirty, then in the clearing. I could see every detail—the face, the eyes looking right at me.

Then it started hitting the cabin, testing it. The whole structure shook. I fired through the wall, again and again. The impacts stopped. I heard that scream, louder than ever, right outside the cabin. Then footsteps running away. I thought I’d scared it off, maybe even hit it.

But then it turned, charged the cabin like a freight train. The whole cabin shook, wood splintered, the wall cracked, then collapsed. Through the gap, I saw it—massive, covered in blood, eyes full of rage. I fired until the rifle was empty, grabbed the shotgun, fired again and again. The creature pushed through the wall, halfway inside, face fixed on me. I ran for the cellar, dropped the shotgun, yanked open the trap door, and dove down the ladder. The creature roared behind me.

I slammed the trap door shut, threw the bolts, piled furniture on top. The creature hit the door, the metal flexed, the hinges groaned, but it held. The assault continued, then stopped. Silence.

Chapter Five: The Lesson

I sat in the dark cellar, heart pounding, covered in sweat, listening. Hours passed. No more attacks. I ate canned food, drank water, tried to sleep, but couldn’t. My mind raced—over the photos, the traps, the attack, the greed that brought me here. The creature had just been living its life, and I tried to capture it for money, for fame. Now I was trapped in my own cellar while it destroyed my home.

Eventually, I had to come out. I moved the furniture, unlocked the trap door, peeked out. The cabin was destroyed—walls collapsed, roof full of holes, everything wrecked. But the creature was gone. I found blood on the splintered wood. I had hit it, but not enough. The blood trail led into the forest, then vanished.

I grabbed my rifle, made sure it was loaded, and stepped outside. The clearing looked like a war zone. My truck was undamaged. I made for it, hotwired the engine, and drove away as fast as I could. I didn’t stop until I was miles away, in a motel room on the edge of town, shaking, unable to sleep, haunted by what had happened.

Weeks passed before I went back. I brought a friend, told him a bear had destroyed the cabin. He believed me. We worked fast, collected what I could salvage. I saw fresh tracks by the tree line—the creature was still around. I didn’t tell my friend, just said we should go. I put the property up for sale, sold it cheap, took the loss. I just wanted to be done with it.

The photos were gone, the SD cards destroyed. Even if I’d had them, I wouldn’t share them. Not after what happened. Some things are better left alone. That creature is still out there. It survived my shots, healed up, went back to its territory. I learned my lesson the hard way. Greed almost got me killed.

Sometimes I wonder about the next person who might go looking for it. Some hunter, researcher, thrill-seeker. I hope they’re smarter than I was. I hope they turn around if they find anything. Because that thing out there, it’s intelligent. More than any animal has a right to be. It knew what I was doing with those traps. It destroyed my cameras to prevent me from getting more evidence. It knew I was trying to catch it, and it responded with force, with intelligence, with purpose.

I got lucky. I survived. The next person might not. That creature was injured, angry. If someone goes after it again, it might not let them escape. So that’s my story. That’s what happened when I found Bigfoot on my property. When I tried to catch it. When I learned the hard way that some things are better left alone.

You can believe it or not. I don’t care anymore. I know what I saw. I know what happened. And I know I’ll never go back. The creature is still out there, still protecting its territory. I hope it stays hidden. I hope nobody else finds it. I hope nobody else makes the same mistake I did. Because the price for trying to catch Bigfoot is too high. I lost my home, nearly lost my life, and I’ll carry those memories forever.

Some mysteries should stay mysteries, some legends should stay legends, and some creatures should be left alone.

For more stories from the edge of the unknown, keep searching the shadows. Some truths are better left undiscovered.