This Bigfoot Attacked These Loggers, What It Did Next Will Shock You – Shocking Sasquatch Encounter
The Three Knocks: A Cascade Encounter
September 2013, Cascade Mountains. The forest was quiet, the kind of hush that settles in the Pacific Northwest when evening falls and the usual chorus of cicadas and birds fades away. I shouldn’t be telling this, but it’s been years now, and the weight of what happened has never left me.
.
.
.
I was leading a small crew of loggers—good men, tough as nails—clearing a patch of timber up near an old service road, forty miles from the nearest town. No cell service, just us and the endless trees. I’d been logging these mountains for twenty-three years, started right out of high school. That season, my crew was five: Jimmy, young and eager; Carl, my oldest friend; Mike and Torres, reliable hands.
We finished clearing for the day as dusk slipped in, and then the strange sounds started. Thud, thud, thud—knocking, like someone tapping a log with a heavy stick. We thought it was one of the guys messing around, until it came again, closer and louder. It smelled different, too—wet fur and something else, something ancient. I should’ve told the crew to pack up and go, but it was already too late.
That night, the forest was silent. No birds, no wind, just the sound of our boots and the clanking of gear. We set up camp: four canvas tents and a tarp for cooking, nothing fancy. I shared a tent with Carl. Jimmy, Mike, and Torres had their own. Around nine, after dinner, I sat by the fire writing in my logbook, documenting the day’s work. The fire crackled, the radio picked up nothing but static.
Then, three distinct knocks—wood on wood, deliberate, evenly spaced. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Carl stared into the darkness. Jimmy stopped mid-sentence. “What was that?” Torres asked. “Probably a branch falling,” Mike said, but nobody believed it. “That was something hitting a tree,” Carl whispered. The forest was silent, too silent. No night sounds at all.
We sat there, listening. The fire burned low. No one wanted to add more wood. Eventually, we all drifted to our tents, but I stayed by the fire, convincing myself it was nothing. Then I heard it again—three knocks, closer, maybe fifty yards into the trees. I grabbed my flashlight, swept the beam across the treeline. Nothing but shadows. But the smell hit me—strong, musky, like wet dog but heavier. I didn’t sleep well.
The next morning, everyone was tired. No one mentioned the knocking, but we all felt it. Something was off. We worked the south section, fog clinging to the ground. Around ten, Jimmy called out. He’d found a footprint in the mud—huge, eighteen inches long, five distinct toes. “Bear?” Torres asked. Carl shook his head. “Not a bear. Look at the toes, the heel.” Nobody wanted to say what we were all thinking.
We went back to work, but the mood had changed. That afternoon, the wind picked up and rain began to fall. The knocks came again, but this time in a pattern—three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, three knocks again. It moved around us, circling. Carl put down his chainsaw. “I’m done.” Mike tried to joke, but his voice shook. Jimmy looked pale. “My uncle saw Bigfoot here in the eighties,” he whispered.
The musky smell returned, stronger than ever, and then a sound—low, guttural, not quite a growl, not quite a roar. It made my bones feel cold. “Pack it up,” I said. We threw equipment into the truck and hurried back to camp, built a bigger fire, stayed close together. The knocks echoed through the darkness.
The next day, we found more footprints—a trail circling our work area, fresh prints, deep impressions. “It’s following us,” Jimmy said. “It’s just curious,” I lied. But I knew better. The knocking, the smell, the footprints—it was too purposeful.
We packed up early, considered leaving, but pride kept us one more day. September 20th, the sun finally broke through. Birds sang, and for a moment, it felt normal. We worked fast, determined to finish and leave. By noon, Jimmy disappeared.
One minute he was working, the next his chainsaw sat running on the ground, and he was gone. We searched, found drag marks leading into the forest, wide and deep, mixed with those massive footprints. “Bigfoot,” Carl whispered. I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. Deep down, I knew.
Search and rescue arrived at dusk. Dogs, spotlights, trackers. Sheriff Martinez asked questions. Drag marks, footprints, knocking. She listened, then said quietly, “My grandfather called it Bigfoot, but the old-timers had older names. These mountains are ancient. Sometimes I think there are things here we’re not meant to find.”
They searched all night. By dawn, nothing. Jimmy was gone.
But then, around noon, my phone rang. Sheriff Martinez: “We found him. He’s alive.” Three miles from where he vanished, sitting by a creek, wet and cold but unharmed. At the hospital, Jimmy’s eyes were distant. “It took me,” he whispered. “Bigfoot.” He described it—eight feet tall, covered in dark hair, human eyes. “It carried me. Moved faster than anything that size should. Put me down by the creek. Looked at me, then left.”
Sheriff Martinez closed the area, cancelled the logging contract. “It didn’t hurt him,” she said. “It could have, but it didn’t. We were warned. To Bigfoot, we’re the invaders.”
That night, I watched a video I’d taken days before—fifteen seconds of shaky footage, a shape at the treeline, too tall, too deliberate. Proof. But I deleted it. Some things aren’t meant to be proven.
Jimmy quit logging, moved to Seattle. Carl retired early, haunted by the knocks. Mike and Torres found work elsewhere. I became a safety inspector, kept crews away from that part of the Cascades. Reports came in—strange sounds, footprints, musky smells. I always advised crews to leave. Bigfoot didn’t attack, just defended its territory, warned us when we pushed too far.
Years later, Sheriff Martinez retired. She gave me her grandfather’s file—decades of reports, sightings, warnings. “Leave it alone,” she said. “Don’t hunt it. Don’t chase it. Just let it be.”
Now, I’m retired, living outside Bellingham, close enough to see the mountains from my porch. I don’t regret deleting that video. Some mysteries should remain mysteries. If the world knew, the forests would be overrun. Hunters, scientists, cameras—someone would catch one, kill one, and the wonder would be lost.
Jimmy has a family. We don’t talk about what happened, but sometimes, late at night, he texts me three words: Still hear it.
Carl passed away, but his wife said he’d sit on the porch, listening to the trees, smiling like he heard something only he understood.
I keep Martinez’s file in my closet. All those reports, all those stories—knocking, footprints, smells, sightings. None of them could prove it, but maybe proof isn’t what matters. Maybe it’s the experience, the encounter, the realization that the world is stranger than we think.
I don’t tell people about Bigfoot anymore. If they believe, they believe. If they don’t, that’s fine. I know what I saw. I know what watched us that September, what carried Jimmy three miles and left him unharmed.
It was Bigfoot. And it’s still out there, knocking on trees, leaving footprints, protecting its territory. I hope it stays hidden. Some mysteries are sacred.
Sometimes, late at night, I stand on my porch and look toward the mountains. The Cascades rise dark against the stars. And if the wind is right and the world is quiet, I hear it—three soft knocks, distant but unmistakable. A reminder, a message from something that remembers me as clearly as I remember it.
I don’t go looking for it. I just listen, acknowledge the sound, and whisper into the darkness, “I know you’re there.” Because respect goes both ways.
Bigfoot respected us enough to warn us, to let Jimmy go. So I respect it enough to keep its secret, to let it remain a mystery, to protect it the way it protected us.
That’s the deal we made, even if it was never spoken. Even if it was just understood in that moment when Jimmy looked into those human eyes and saw intelligence, saw awareness, saw something that deserved dignity.
The knocking fades. The night grows quiet. I go back inside, carrying the weight of what I know. The burden of truth. The responsibility of silence.
Somewhere in those mountains, Bigfoot is moving through the trees, watching over its territory, living its life far from human eyes. Free, because people like me chose to keep it that way.
