This Man Met a Talking Bigfoot and Helped It Raise Its Baby Bigfoot – Sasquatch Encounter Story

LIVING WITH BIGFOOT

A wildlife photographer’s summer in the Cascades

Chapter 1 — The Call of the Wilderness

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I never thought I’d spend three months living with a Bigfoot and helping to raise its baby. But that’s exactly what happened to me in the summer of 2019. This is my story, and I’m sharing it because people need to know these creatures exist, and they’re not what we think they are. I work as a wildlife photographer, which means I spend a lot of time alone in the woods. That summer, I was camping in the Cascade Mountains in Washington State, trying to capture shots of elk and bears for a nature magazine. I’d been out there for about a week, staying in a small tent near a creek when things started getting strange. At first, it was small things. My food cache would be disturbed even though I’d hung it properly in a tree. My campfire would have fresh logs on it in the morning that I didn’t remember adding. Footprints appeared around my tent that were way too big to be human. I figured it was a bear, but the prints didn’t match any bear tracks I’d ever seen. These prints had five distinct toes and looked almost human, just massive.

On the eighth night, I heard something walking around my tent—heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate. Whatever it was stood on two legs because the pattern was step, step, not the four-legged loping of a bear. My heart pounded so hard I thought my chest would explode. I grabbed my flashlight and my knife, which now seems ridiculous because a knife wouldn’t do anything against what I was about to meet. I opened my tent and shined the light out into the darkness. About twenty feet away, standing between two pine trees, was a Bigfoot. I know how crazy that sounds, but there’s no other way to describe it. The creature was at least eight feet tall, covered in dark brown fur, with massive shoulders and arms that hung down past its knees. Its face was flat and leathery, with deep-set eyes that reflected my flashlight beam like a cat’s eyes. We stared at each other for what felt like an hour, but was probably only thirty seconds. The Bigfoot didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, just watched me.

Then it did something I never expected. The Bigfoot raised one enormous hand and made a gesture, palm up, like it was asking for something. My brain couldn’t process what was happening. Was this Bigfoot begging? Asking for food? Without thinking, I grabbed a granola bar from my pack and tossed it toward the creature. The Bigfoot caught it one-handed, examined it for a second, then ripped open the wrapper with its teeth and ate the whole thing in one bite. Then it looked at me again and said two words that made my blood run cold. “More, please.” I stood there frozen. The Bigfoot could talk. It knew English. I threw the creature another granola bar, then another. The Bigfoot ate four more before making a huffing sound that might have been satisfaction. Then it turned and walked back into the forest, disappearing between the trees like a shadow.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I sat in my tent with my flashlight and knife, listening to every sound in the forest, wondering if the Bigfoot would come back. Part of me thought I’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’d been out in the woods too long and was hallucinating. But in the morning, when I went outside, I found the granola bar wrapper stacked neatly on a rock near my tent. The Bigfoot had been real.

Chapter 2 — Into the Heart of the Forest

The Bigfoot came back the next night. I heard the same heavy footsteps, the same deliberate walk. This time I was ready. I’d gone into town that morning and bought two bags of groceries, mostly fruit, protein bars, and beef jerky. I figured if the Bigfoot wanted food, I’d give it food. Maybe then it would leave me alone. When I heard the footsteps, I grabbed the grocery bags and stepped out of my tent. The Bigfoot was standing in the same spot as before, between the two pine trees. In the moonlight, I could see it more clearly. The creature looked thinner, like it hadn’t been eating well. Its eyes were sunken and tired.

I set the grocery bags on the ground and stepped back. The Bigfoot came forward slowly, watching me the whole time, and picked up the bags. It looked inside, then looked at me. The expression was hard to read because of its flat face and fur, but I swear it looked grateful. The Bigfoot nodded once, a very human gesture, then turned to leave. That’s when I heard it—a high-pitched crying sound coming from the direction the Bigfoot was heading. It sounded like a baby crying, but deeper and stranger.

The Bigfoot froze, then looked back at me with what I can only describe as panic in its deep-set eyes. “Baby, sick,” it said. Those two words changed everything. This Bigfoot wasn’t just scavenging for food. It was trying to feed a sick baby. The creature was a parent, desperate and scared, just like any human parent would be. Without thinking about how insane this was, I asked if I could help. The Bigfoot stared at me for a long moment, weighing the risks of letting a human near its baby. Finally, it nodded and gestured for me to follow.

I grabbed my flashlight and medical kit, which had some basic first aid supplies, and followed the Bigfoot into the forest. We walked for maybe twenty minutes, climbing over fallen logs and pushing through thick underbrush. The Bigfoot moved through the forest like a ghost, barely making a sound despite its massive size. I crashed through like an elephant in comparison. Eventually, we came to a small cave hidden behind a cluster of boulders. The crying was coming from inside. The Bigfoot ducked into the cave, and I followed, shining my flashlight around.

The cave was small, maybe ten feet deep, with a floor covered in pine needles and moss. In the back corner, wrapped in what looked like woven grass and bark, was the baby Bigfoot. It was about the size of a human toddler, maybe two feet tall, covered in lighter brown fur than its parent. The baby’s face was scrunched up and red, wailing with that strange, deep cry I’d heard before. The adult Bigfoot knelt down and gently picked up the baby, rocking it back and forth.

The cave itself showed signs of careful habitation. The walls were smooth where the Bigfoot had worn away rough spots by brushing against them over time. Small alcoves had been carved or worn into the stone, serving as storage spaces. I noticed a pile of primitive tools, stone implements shaped with surprising precision. This was not just a shelter; it was a home.

I could see immediately what was wrong. The baby Bigfoot’s left arm was swollen and bent at an unnatural angle. The little one had broken its arm somehow, and the break was bad. The skin around the break was hot and inflamed. If this was infection setting in, the baby was in serious trouble. The adult Bigfoot looked at me with those tired, desperate eyes and said, “Fix, please.”

I’m not a doctor or a veterinarian. I’m just a photographer who knows basic wilderness first aid. But I couldn’t leave this baby to suffer. I knelt beside the adult Bigfoot and examined the arm carefully. The baby screamed and tried to pull away, but the adult held it still, making soft cooing sounds. The break was clean, which was good. If I could set it properly and splint it, the baby might heal. I had some wooden splints in my first aid kit, meant for human arms, but they might work.

I looked at the adult Bigfoot and tried to explain what I needed to do. I pointed at the baby’s arm, then mimed straightening it out and wrapping it up. The adult Bigfoot watched me carefully, then nodded. I worked quickly, applying antibiotic ointment to the inflamed skin, hoping it would penetrate deep enough to fight the infection. Then I positioned the splints along either side of the baby’s arm, wrapping it in bandages.

The baby screamed again, and the adult Bigfoot held it tight, murmuring softly. Finally, I had the arm stabilized. The baby went limp, exhausted from crying. The adult Bigfoot looked at me with an expression I’ll never forget—gratitude, relief, and something deeper. The adult Bigfoot reached out with one massive hand and gently touched my shoulder. “Thank you.”

Those two words, spoken in a deep, gravelly voice, made me realize this Bigfoot wasn’t just an animal. It was a person—maybe not human, but definitely a person with thoughts and feelings, capable of caring for another being.

Chapter 6 — A New Life in the Hidden Valley

After that, I spent nearly every day at the cave. The adult Bigfoot would be waiting for me, and I would bring food, mostly fruits and vegetables and meat, and medical supplies to change the baby’s bandages. The baby Bigfoot healed remarkably well. The swelling went down, and the arm straightened out. The adult Bigfoot seemed relieved, and I could see the bond between them grow stronger.

The baby Bigfoot started to recognize me. When I arrived at the cave, it would stop crying and reach out with its good arm. The baby Bigfoot’s fur was soft as down, much softer than the adult’s coarser fur. When the baby Bigfoot looked at me, I felt a connection that transcended species.

As the weeks passed, I learned more about their lives. The adult Bigfoot taught me about foraging and hunting, how to find food in the forest. We’d go out together, and I would help gather berries, roots, and occasionally fish from the creek. The baby Bigfoot watched with wide eyes, absorbing everything.

I documented everything in my notebooks, filling pages with drawings and notes about their behaviors, their social structures, and their culture. I drew pictures of the baby playing, of the adult teaching, of our daily routines. I wanted to preserve this knowledge, to prove that they existed and deserved protection.

As fall approached, the air grew crisp, and the leaves turned vibrant shades of orange and gold. The adult Bigfoot prepared for winter, gathering extra food and storing it in the cave. I assisted, learning how to smoke meat and dry berries. The community worked together, reinforcing their shelters against the cold.

Then came the day I realized I had become part of their family. The baby Bigfoot, now almost as tall as my waist, had developed a playful personality. It would steal my flashlight and giggle, imitating my movements. The adult Bigfoot would watch us, sometimes shaking her head with a low chuckle, clearly amused by our interactions.

But as winter approached, the challenges of survival became more pronounced. The valley, while beautiful, became harsh. Snow piled high, and the temperature dropped. Food became scarce, and the adult Bigfoot had to venture out in dangerous conditions to hunt. I worried constantly about their well-being, but the adult Bigfoot’s determination never wavered. She taught the baby Bigfoot to be resourceful, to be patient, to understand the rhythms of the forest.

During one particularly brutal storm, we all huddled together in the cave, packed tightly for warmth. I could feel the heat radiating from the adult Bigfoot, and for the first time, I realized how much I had come to depend on this strange family. I had left my old life behind, and I was okay with that. I had found a sense of belonging that I had never expected.

As winter deepened, I found myself reflecting on the choices that had led me to this hidden valley. I had entered the forest looking for wildlife, and instead, I had found a family. I had learned to see beyond the surface, to understand the complexity of life that exists in the shadows. And I realized that my life as a wildlife photographer had transformed into something much richer and deeper than I had ever imagined.

With each passing day, I grew more connected to the adult Bigfoot and the baby. I learned their ways, their fears, their joys. I watched as the baby Bigfoot grew stronger, learning to climb trees and catch fish. I felt privileged to witness their lives unfold, to be part of a world that most people would never understand.

But I also knew that the outside world was still there, waiting. I had made a promise to protect their secret, and I intended to keep it. I would not risk their safety for my own curiosity or desire for validation. I would carry this knowledge with me, a burden and a gift, until the day I could no longer do so.

As spring approached, I found myself at a crossroads. The baby Bigfoot was growing up, and the adult Bigfoot was becoming more independent. I knew I had to make a choice. Would I stay with them forever, or would I return to the world I had left behind? And if I chose to leave, what would happen to them?

I spent my last days in the valley reflecting on the bonds we had formed, the lessons I had learned, and the love that had grown between us. I knew that whatever choice I made would shape the rest of my life.

Finally, I made my decision. I would leave, but I would never forget. I would carry their story with me, a testament to their existence and their resilience. I would protect their secret, ensuring that they could continue to live in peace, hidden from a world that would never understand them.

As I hiked out of the valley for the last time, I took one last look at the place that had changed me forever. I promised the adult Bigfoot and the baby that I would keep their secret safe, that I would honor their lives and their legacy. And with that promise, I stepped back into the world of humans, forever changed by the experience of living with Bigfoot.

I hope that someday, others will come to understand what I learned in that hidden valley—the importance of respecting the unknown, the beauty of coexistence, and the power of connection that transcends species. For now, the world may not believe, but I know the truth, and I carry it with me always.