Paraglider Spots Bigfoot on Mountain Top, Then The Worst Happens – Sasquatch Encounters
CHAPTER ONE: THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS
I know how this is going to sound. I’ve rehearsed the words in my head a thousand times, tried to make them seem rational, believable. But there’s no way to tell what happened in those mountains without sounding like I’ve lost my mind. Still, I have to share it—because what I experienced changed everything I thought I knew about the world.
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Paragliding had been my passion for seven years. I started in the rolling foothills near my childhood home, gradually working my way up to bigger, more remote launches. There’s a purity to flight—just you, the wind, and the silence—that strips away the noise and stress of everyday life. Up there, floating above the world, the problems that weigh you down simply disappear.
Mid-January last year, I planned a solo trip to the Northern Cascades in Washington. Winter paragliding is risky—the conditions are unpredictable, the thermals strange, and if anything goes wrong, you’re on your own. But that was part of the allure. The forecast looked perfect: clear skies, light winds, temperatures hovering around twenty degrees.
I’d scouted my launch point the previous summer—a jagged peak rising to nine thousand feet, with a good approach and a clear landing zone five miles away. The morning I set out, everything felt right. The hike up took ninety minutes through knee-deep snow, and by the time I reached the summit, the sun was fully up, turning the mountains into a glittering expanse of white diamonds.
The launch was flawless. For twenty minutes, I soared above a ridge, savoring the flight. Then, on a neighboring peak half a mile away, I saw something—a figure, too tall to be human. I pulled out my binoculars and focused on it. My stomach dropped. Covered in dark reddish-brown fur, it stood upright, massive and broad-shouldered, easily eight feet tall. Even at that distance, I felt its gaze fixed on me.
I lowered the binoculars, hands shaking, trying to rationalize what I’d seen. A bear, maybe? But bears don’t stand balanced and upright for that long. Its proportions were wrong—too tall, too human-like in the torso and shoulders. I looked again, and the creature had moved, now on the ridge itself, following my flight path with long, loping strides that devoured the snowy terrain.
I watched, transfixed and terrified, as it covered two hundred yards in half a minute, moving through waist-high drifts as if the snow wasn’t there. It wasn’t running, exactly, but it was fast—far too fast for those conditions. I tried to convince myself I was misjudging the distance, the angle, the bright snow playing tricks with perspective. But the fear wouldn’t leave.
I adjusted my flight path, angling away from the ridge, circling toward my planned landing zone. The creature matched my direction, running for stretches, then stopping to look up at me. Its behavior was deliberate, calculated. It wasn’t just an animal moving in the same direction—it was tracking me, staying beneath me, following my flight.
My mind raced, trying to figure out what to do. My original landing zone was three miles ahead, but if the creature kept following, it would be there when I landed. That would leave me vulnerable—focused on landing safely, then trudging two miles through deep snow with something unknown nearby. I had enough altitude to change my plan. I remembered a smaller clearing a mile east, further from my truck, unfamiliar terrain—but it would get me on the ground faster. Maybe I could lose it in the trees.
I made my decision, banking hard to the right as the wind picked up, making my descent rougher. I scanned the landscape below, searching for the creature, but the trees were too thick, the shadows too deep. Not knowing where it was became almost worse than seeing it. I focused on my approach, the clearing looking smaller than I remembered, surrounded by dense pine forest. The snow was knee-deep, not ideal for landing, but there was no turning back.
My landing was rough—feet hitting the snow at a bad angle, skidding ten feet before the wing collapsed. I lay there, wind knocked out of me, staring up at the blue sky through pine branches, shoulder aching, cold snow seeping into my jacket. Survival instinct kicked in. I scrambled to gather my paraglider, hands shaking, stuffing the wing into my bag without care. Every second in that clearing felt too long. The forest was silent—no birds, no wind, just my ragged breathing and pounding heart.
I hoisted my heavy pack, scanning the tree line, the shadows deep and impenetrable. My truck was three miles west, through unknown terrain. I picked the easiest-looking path, a gap in the trees, and started walking, snow swallowing my legs to the knees, each step a battle. The forest closed in, the silence oppressive and unnatural. I’d hiked plenty of forests before, always some sound—birds, wind—but here, the quiet felt wrong, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.
After fifteen minutes of exhausting progress, I heard something off to my right—a heavy sound, branches snapping, snow falling from disturbed trees. I froze, listening. The sound stopped when I stopped. I waited, breath clouding in the cold air, straining to hear. Nothing. I started walking again, and the sound resumed, moving parallel to me, matching my pace. When I sped up, it sped up; when I stopped, it stopped. Something was following me, staying just out of sight.
I tried to convince myself it was a deer or elk, but the sounds were too heavy, too deliberate. Deer don’t follow alongside you; they bolt away. I pushed harder through the snow, legs burning, lungs aching. The sounds drew closer—branches snapping, then a chunk of ice flew out of the forest, smashing into a tree trunk ten feet ahead, exploding into powder. Another chunk whistled past, hitting the snow near my feet. A third hit a tree behind me. Something was throwing ice, aiming for me.
I stopped thinking. My body just reacted. I turned and ran, or tried to—lurching through deep snow, desperate, pack bouncing on my back. Behind me, the creature crashed through the forest, relentless, powerful. I stumbled over a buried log, pain shooting through my knee, but kept going until my legs gave out, collapsing into a drift, snow up my nose and mouth, coughing, shaking, unable to move.
That’s when the smell hit me—thick, musky, rotten, wild, so strong it made my eyes water and my stomach clench. I’d smelled dead animals, livestock, garbage, but this was all of that multiplied. It triggered every primal warning in my brain. I lay there, barely breathing, chest heaving, trying not to vomit. Then I heard the breathing—close, heavy, rhythmic, each exhale creating visible clouds of vapor above the ridge. Whatever was making that breath had lungs far larger than any human.
I stayed frozen, watching those vapor clouds, hoping it wouldn’t come closer. Time stretched out, seconds feeling like minutes. Then movement—a shadow between the trees, enormous, broader than any man, taller than should be possible. The creature moved behind snow-laden pines, lost from view, but I could still hear it, footsteps crunching, branches pushed aside. The shadow appeared again, closer, moving across my field of vision, dark fur matted and thick, sparkling with ice and snow.
The breathing stopped. Silence. Footsteps moved away, growing fainter. Whatever it was, it was leaving. But I didn’t move, shivering in the snow, waiting until I was sure it was gone. Eventually, when the cold became unbearable, I sat up, soaked and freezing, scanning the trees. That’s when I saw the tracks—enormous footprints, eighteen inches long, deep in the snow, four clear toe impressions. The prints circled where I’d been lying, the creature had walked all the way around me, studying me from every angle.
The realization made my skin crawl. I got to my feet, everything hurting, but I couldn’t stay there. I had to keep moving, had to get out.
CHAPTER TWO: THE TERRITORY OF SHADOWS
The terrain grew rougher as I descended, snow deeper in places, brush catching on my pack and clothes. My jacket tore on a branch, but I didn’t stop. After half an hour of hard hiking, I saw something strange—a dead tree, I thought, but as I approached, I realized it was branches stuck upright in the snow, arranged in an X pattern, seven feet tall. Not natural. Another stood fifty yards away, then a third, a fourth—dozens scattered through the forest, some eight or nine feet high, far too tall for a person to reach from the ground.
I’d read about tree structures in wilderness encounter stories—markers, boundaries, warnings. Seeing them filled me with dread. They formed a rough line, and I’d been walking parallel to it, unknowingly moving along the edge of something’s territory. Tracks were everywhere—massive footprints crisscrossing the area, some fresh, some old, paths leading from one tree structure to another, others into thicker forest or higher elevations. The sheer number of tracks was overwhelming. This was its home range. I was deep in its territory.
Other signs appeared—scratch marks on tree trunks too high for any bear, branches bent and broken unnaturally, depressions in the snow where something large had bedded down. The sense of being watched intensified, hair standing up on my neck, hands shaking. I changed direction, heading steeply downhill, away from the tree structures, not caring about the rough terrain or getting lost. I just needed to escape.
The slope led me into a ravine, steep and rocky, snow making it treacherous. I slid down on my rear, snow filling my jacket and pants, reaching the bottom soaked and shivering. A small stream, mostly frozen, ran through the ravine, the sound of running water comforting after hours of oppressive silence. I paused, leaning against a rock, legs shaking from exhaustion.
That’s when I saw it—on the opposite bank, sixty feet away, bent over the stream, breaking ice with its hands. It hadn’t noticed me yet, focused on drinking. I had a clear view—eight and a half feet tall, covered in thick reddish-brown fur, shoulders enormous, muscle visible even under the coat. Arms hung past its knees, hands huge, fingers thick, nails dark and curved, caked with dirt and ice.
I watched, frozen, as it cupped water and drank. Its head was cone-shaped, no visible neck, face flatter than an ape’s but disturbingly humanlike. Something fundamentally wrong, as if it had evolved along a different path. I tried to step back, and my foot snapped a branch. The creature’s head snapped up, water dripping from its mouth. We made direct eye contact—dark brown eyes, intense, intelligent, assessing me.
Its lips pulled back, teeth large and yellowed, not human, not ape. A low, rumbling growl came from its chest, vibrating through the air and my bones, echoing off the ravine walls. The sound was pain, rage, and surprise all mixed together. The creature took three enormous strides toward me, each covering seven feet, snow exploding around its feet. The ground seemed to shake.
I turned and ran, crashing through the ravine, branches whipping my face, feet catching on rocks and roots, stumbling, keeping going. Behind me, the creature gave chase, but it wasn’t running—its walking pace faster than my sprint. Heavy footfalls, steady and relentless. I reached a cluster of boulders, instinct driving me to squeeze into a crevice, wedging myself as far back as I could, hoping the snow would hide me.
Breathing hard, heart pounding, I tried to stay silent. The creature approached, footsteps stopping near the boulders. The smell seeped into my crevice, making my eyes water. A massive fur-covered hand reached in, feeling around, fingers as thick as broom handles, nails jagged and dirty. It searched methodically, inches from my leg. If I’d been six inches further forward, it would have touched me.
The hand withdrew, and the creature started pulling at the rocks. The boulders shifted, daylight appearing where none had been, snow and pebbles raining down. It was strong enough to move thousands of pounds of granite. I fumbled in my pack, numb fingers finding my bear spray. Would it work on this thing? Would it work in the cold? It was all I had.
I pointed the spray at the opening and emptied the canister in one burst. A roar erupted, deafening in the confined space, vibrating in my chest. The creature withdrew, thrashing through the forest, moving away fast. I stayed in the crevice for over an hour, adrenaline fading, exhaustion crashing over me. The cold became dangerous—shivering uncontrollably, numb fingers and toes, thoughts slow and fuzzy.
Eventually, I forced myself to move, emerging slowly, scanning for danger. The area around the rocks was disturbed, snow kicked up everywhere. Massive footprints circled the boulders, claw marks gouged into the granite. The creature was gone, but I knew it could return. I had to keep moving, had to get down the mountain.
CHAPTER THREE: THE HUNT
I stumbled through the snow, following a frozen stream downhill, drinking from it despite the risk of parasites—dehydration was the more immediate threat. The terrain opened up, the sun rising, transforming the landscape into a beautiful morning. After another hour, the stream led me to a logging road, tire tracks visible under the snow, hope flickering.
But fresh tracks crossed the road ahead, steam rising from the compressed snow. The creature hadn’t given up. It was ahead of me now, waiting in the forest, setting an ambush. The intelligence behind its behavior was terrifying. I couldn’t follow the road. I turned perpendicular, pushing into the forest, not caring about direction—just needing to survive the night.
The sun touched the horizon, orange and pink painting the snow. I found a dense thicket of pine trees, crawled underneath, pulled out my emergency blanket, wrapped myself as best I could. Wet clothes were a problem, but I couldn’t strip down or make a fire. Darkness fell quickly, the moon rising, everything shades of gray and black.
Movement started again—something large circling the thicket, branches cracking, snow falling, footsteps steady, never hurrying. Sometimes I heard its breathing, sometimes glimpsed movement. It was psychological warfare, terrorizing me, wearing me down. Deep guttural noises echoed, almost like words, coming from different directions. It was trying to flush me out, toying with its prey.
Around midnight, it started shaking the pine tree above me, snow raining down, trunk creaking, ground shaking. The pattern continued for hours—shake, wait, shake again. My mind played tricks, every shadow the creature, every sound impossibly loud. Time lost meaning.
At three in the morning, it started throwing ice chunks at the thicket, crashing through branches, hitting my leg, my pack, sporadic and unpredictable. I couldn’t relax, couldn’t let my guard down. First light came slowly, the sky lightening. I crawled out, muscles protesting, legs barely working, hands stiff claws, face numb—frostbite.
Massive footprints circled the thicket, dozens of them, some less than ten feet from where I’d sheltered. I tried to stand, nearly fell, forced myself up. My pack felt impossibly heavy. I checked my water bottle—still frozen. I hadn’t had a drink in eighteen hours. Dehydrated, hypothermic, exhausted. I started moving downhill, brain narrowed to simple goals: lower elevation, water, people, help.
After an hour, I found another stream, broke the ice, drank until my stomach hurt. I followed the stream, terrain opening up, sun fully up, another logging road. I’d been following it twenty minutes when I came around a bend and stopped dead. The creature stood in the middle of the road, forty feet ahead, blocking my path.
Full daylight revealed every detail—eight and a half feet tall, thick reddish-brown fur, enormous shoulders, cone-shaped head, face leathery and lined. We locked eyes, and I understood: it had been playing with me, toying, showing how easily it could catch me. It began pounding its chest, thunder echoing across the mountains, snow falling from trees, vibrations through the ground.
Then it screamed—a low resonance rising to a piercing shriek, echoing, multiplying, the whole range screaming. It charged, covering half the distance in seconds, snow exploding around its feet. I stumbled back, hands up in useless defense. The creature stopped twenty feet away, pounded the ground, snow and earth flying. Another bluff charge, closer now, breath clouds visible, the smell overwhelming.
I made myself as big as I could, arms spread, primal instincts taking over. I yelled, a weak croak. We faced each other for thirty seconds, the creature studying me. Then it turned and walked away, deliberately moving through deep snow, leaving massive footprints, making sure I saw them. It wanted me to know—I was being allowed to leave.
It walked fifty yards, turned to look back, then disappeared into the forest. I stood on the road, unable to move, legs shaking, forcing myself to keep going. I followed the road downhill, stumbling, falling, everything hurting.
Then I heard it—the most beautiful sound: a snowmobile engine ahead. Two snowmobiles appeared, drivers stopping, their expressions changing to alarm at my appearance. They steadied me, asked what happened. I almost told them the truth, but stopped—how could I explain? They’d think I was crazy, delirious. So I said I’d had an emergency landing and got lost.
They accepted it, gave me hot coffee, the warmth almost painful. They radioed for help, and another snowmobile arrived. As we prepared to leave, one hunter pointed to tracks crossing the road—massive, four-toed, eighteen inches long. “Been seeing tracks like that for twenty years,” he said quietly, not looking at me. The silence that followed was heavier than words.
During the ride down, we passed more sets of tracks—some crossing the road, some running parallel, disappearing into the forest. Each time I saw them, my stomach clenched. The creature had followed me almost to rescue, maybe watching as I was found. The thought made my skin crawl, even surrounded by people.
At the ranger station, a medic checked me—minor frostbite, early hypothermia, dehydration, bruises, scratches. The sheriff took my statement; I stuck to my story. At the end, he mentioned other incidents—hikers followed, strange tracks, unusual sounds, a hunter disappeared three years ago. He didn’t push, but his look said he knew there was more.
They drove me back to my truck, buried under fresh snow. My equipment was still there, but the excitement of flight felt like another lifetime. I blasted the heat, checked the rearview mirror for miles, half expecting to see something massive watching me leave its territory. But there was nothing, just empty road and snow-covered mountains.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE SECRET OF THE WILDERNESS
Over a year has passed. My injuries healed, but the psychological scars remain. I still have nightmares—those dark, intelligent eyes, the sound of something massive walking through snow, the realization that I was being hunted by something that strategized.
I still paraglide, but I’ve changed—no more winter launches, no more remote locations, only popular sites near civilization. I’ve read other accounts, stories of encounters, and what strikes me is the intelligence behind the behavior. This wasn’t a mindless animal—the tracking, the circling, the psychological warfare. It could have killed me at any point, but it didn’t. It wanted me to know it could have.
Maybe it was sending a message, establishing boundaries, or simply playing. I’ll never know. Those mountains are still there, that creature—or creatures—still living in thousands of square miles of wilderness. Every winter, when the snow is deep and the cold keeps people away, it has the range to itself.
I think of the hunter who found me, who’d seen tracks for twenty years. I wonder how many others have had experiences they never talk about, how many have seen things they can’t explain and stayed silent. I wonder about the ones who didn’t make it out—the hunter who disappeared, the others over the years. Were they hunted the same way? Did they see the same thing? Did they survive the night?
I was lucky. Everything had to go right for me to survive—the snowmobilers, the bear spray, the cold not killing me. Any one thing goes wrong, and I’m just another missing person, another mystery in the mountains.
That creature is still out there, leaving tracks in the snow, watching anyone who enters its territory. The next person who launches from those remote peaks and makes eye contact with something impossible might not be as lucky.
That’s why I’m telling this story—not because I expect you to believe, but because if you ever find yourself in remote mountains, especially in winter, and see something on a distant ridge that looks too big to be human, change your course. Leave. Don’t investigate. Because whatever I encountered, whatever hunted me through those frozen mountains, is still there. It knows the terrain better than any human ever will. And it’s patient.
The wilderness is beautiful, awe-inspiring, but also dangerous in ways most people never consider. We prepare for avalanches, exposure, bears, mountain lions, but there are dangers we don’t prepare for because we don’t believe they exist.
I didn’t believe, not really. I’d heard the stories, read the accounts, seen the blurry photos, but I didn’t truly believe until I saw those eyes, heard those vocalizations, saw those massive footprints circling my hiding place.
Now I believe. And now I know that those mountains hold secrets we’re not meant to discover. Maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved, some territories unexplored. All I know is that I’ll never forget those 24 hours, never forget the terror of being hunted by something that shouldn’t exist, never forget the intelligence behind those dark eyes.
And I’ll never go back to those mountains in winter. Because whatever lives up there, it’s still waiting, still watching, still leaving tracks in the snow for anyone brave—or foolish—enough to follow.
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