We Tracked Bigfoot Deep Into the Forest in Alaska Before It Went Wrong – Bigfoot Story Compilation

The Hunters’ Last Season

A Testimony from the Monongahela Wilds

Chapter 1: No Such Thing as Monsters

I’m not the kind of guy who believes in monsters. Hell, I’ve been hunting these mountains for twenty years, and the biggest thing I ever worried about was a black bear or maybe getting lost in a whiteout. But what happened to me and my buddies last November changed everything.

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I’m telling this story because people need to know what’s really out there in the deep woods. The official report says it was a bear attack, but that’s a lie. Bears don’t plan. Bears don’t hunt humans like we’re prey. And bears sure as hell don’t seal you in a cave to die.

Chapter 2: The Last Hunt

Me, Ken, and Bobby had been hunting together every season for the past eight years. We weren’t trophy hunters—just three guys who liked getting away from our wives for a long weekend, drinking beer around a campfire, and maybe bringing home some venison if we got lucky.

Ken was the tracker. That man could follow a deer trail through solid rock if you gave him enough time. Bobby was our cook and camp manager. He packed enough food to feed an army and always remembered the things the rest of us forgot—extra batteries, first aid kit, that kind of stuff.

We picked a spot about twelve miles into the Monongahela National Forest, way past where most hunters bother to go. The area was thick with oak and maple, perfect deer habitat, and far enough from the main trails that we wouldn’t have to deal with weekend warriors taking potshots at anything that moved. Ken had scouted it the previous spring and found plenty of sign—rubs, scrapes, well-worn paths heading to water.

We drove up Friday morning in Ken’s pickup, bouncing along Forest Service roads that got narrower and rougher with every mile. When the road finally ended at a small clearing, we loaded our packs and hiked another three miles to our campsite. It was a nice spot: flat, beside a creek, sheltered by big trees with good sight lines.

Chapter 3: Strange Tracks

That first evening was exactly what we hoped for—grilled steaks, a few beers, and planning our strategy. Ken wanted to work the ridge to the north, where he’d seen the most sign. Bobby and I would take the valley bottom, following the creek downstream to a meadow about a mile away. We’d meet back at camp by noon.

Around midnight, I woke up needing to take a leak. The fire had burned down to coals and the forest was dead quiet except for the creek. As I finished, I heard a low grunt—like a pig, but deeper—across the creek, maybe fifty yards away. I listened, but it didn’t repeat. Bears make weird noises, I thought, and went back to bed.

We were up before dawn, coffee brewing over the camp stove. Ken headed up the ridge while Bobby and I followed the creek. For the first few hours, everything went according to plan. We found plenty of deer sign—tracks in the mud, fresh droppings, browsed saplings. Bobby even spotted a small doe, but she was too far for a clean shot.

Around noon, heading back, Bobby stopped dead. In the mud beside the creek was a footprint—huge, maybe eighteen inches long and eight wide, with five distinct toe marks. It looked human, except no human foot is that big, and the toes were thick and spread out, like whoever made it was used to walking barefoot on rough ground. The print was deep, like whatever made it was heavy. Bobby’s size 11 boot looked like a child’s shoe next to it.

We found two more prints heading into the brush, spaced like whatever made them had a stride longer than any person. We took pictures and marked the spot with tape.

Chapter 4: Night Terrors

Back at camp, Ken was already there, cleaning a six-pointer. We showed him the photos. His expression changed from pride to confusion. Ken had hunted longer than both of us combined. He studied the photos, shook his head, and said he’d never seen anything like it.

That second night felt different. Maybe it was the strange tracks or maybe the forest seemed quieter, but none of us slept well. I kept waking to small sounds—twigs snapping, leaves rustling. Around 2 a.m., I heard that grunt again, closer this time, just outside the circle of our dying firelight.

I grabbed my flashlight and rifle. Bobby and Ken were already awake, flashlights moving around their tents. Ken said he’d been hearing movement for the past hour—something big, walking around our camp, staying just out of sight. We spent twenty minutes listening, but whatever it was had gone quiet.

In the morning, we found more tracks—something had circled our camp during the night, always staying about thirty yards out. The footprints matched the ones by the creek: huge, five-toed, deep. Whatever made them was heavy and walking upright.

Chapter 5: The Shelter

Sunday morning, we packed up and moved camp deeper into the valley. Ken thought we were being watched and wanted to put distance between us and whatever was making those tracks. We hiked two miles downstream to a spot where the creek bent around a steep hillside. It was more isolated, but felt safer.

We spent the morning hunting, but our hearts weren’t in it. Every shadow made us stop. Every bird call made us reach for our rifles.

Around noon, Ken found something that turned unease into fear: a crude lean-to made from broken branches and dead logs, big enough for something the size of what we’d been tracking. The ground was packed down hard, and there were bones scattered nearby—deer bones, but some that might have come from smaller animals. The smell was a mix of rotting meat and something wild and musky.

Ken took pictures and backed away slowly. When he got back to camp, we decided we’d had enough. We were packing up and heading home.

Chapter 6: Surrounded

As we broke camp, the noises started. At first, it was just wood knocking—something hitting tree trunks in a rhythm. Tap tap tap, then silence, then tap tap tap from a different direction. Ken said some hunters claimed Bigfoot used wood knocking to communicate.

As we stuffed our gear into our packs, the knocking got closer and more frequent. Soon, it was all around us, like we were surrounded. Bobby suggested we knock back. Ken and I told him that was a terrible idea.

By the time we were ready to move, the knocking had stopped. The forest was completely silent—no birds, no insects, no wind. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.

Chapter 7: The Hunt Begins

We started hiking back toward the truck. After twenty minutes, we heard the first howl—behind us, back toward our old campsite. Not quite human, not quite animal, but something that raised every hair on my neck. Then another, from the left. Then another, from the right. We were being tracked by multiple creatures, and they were talking to each other.

Ken took point, Bobby brought up the rear, I stayed in the middle. We picked up the pace, half-jogging when we could. Every few minutes, another howl, always from a different direction, always closer. We weren’t just being watched—we were being herded.

About an hour in, we crested a rise and Ken suddenly dropped to one knee, fist up. He pointed to a cluster of boulders fifty yards away. At first, I saw nothing. Then one of the shadows moved. Massive, at least eight feet tall, covered in dark brown hair. It stood upright like a man, but built like a gorilla, with arms to its knees and shoulders broad enough to flip a car.

It just stood there, watching us, making no attempt to hide. We stared at each other for what felt like an hour, then the creature let out a roar that shook the trees and started walking toward us—not running, just walking, like it knew we couldn’t get away and was in no hurry.

Chapter 8: The Attack

We turned and ran, crashing through brush, branches tearing at our clothes. Behind us, heavy footsteps and the sound of small trees being pushed aside. After ten minutes, Bobby stumbled and went down hard. When we turned back to help him, we saw them—three creatures coming through the trees in a line, driving us toward something.

Bobby had twisted his ankle. Ken and I grabbed him under the arms and half-carried, half-dragged him toward a steep hillside. The creatures followed at a steady pace, never getting closer, never falling behind.

We reached the base of a cliff and realized we were trapped. Ken told us to spread out and get ready to fight. I had my grandfather’s .30-06, Ken a .308, Bobby a 12-gauge loaded with slugs.

The first creature broke from the trees forty yards away. Its face was almost human, but wrong—the jaw too big, the brow too heavy, the eyes too small and deep. Its hands ended in thick, black fingers.

Ken fired first, hitting it high in the chest. It stumbled but didn’t go down. It roared—a sound I’ll never forget. The other two charged. Bobby’s shotgun boomed twice. I saw one creature spin and fall, dark blood spattering the leaves. I put a round into the biggest one; it dropped to one knee but kept coming.

The wounded creature reached us first. It grabbed Ken around the waist and lifted him off the ground. Ken screamed, trying to bring his rifle around, but the grip was too strong. I heard his ribs crack. I tried to get a clear shot, but the second creature hit me from the side, pinning me to the ground, reaching for my throat. Its breath was horrible, its eyes completely black.

Bobby was still fighting, working his shotgun and putting rounds into anything that moved. But there were more of them now. The creature on top of me was too heavy to throw off. I was starting to see spots when Bobby’s shotgun went off above my head, blasting the creature in the skull. It rolled off, thrashing. I scrambled away, saw Ken on the ground, unmoving. Bobby was backing toward the cliff, his face white, hands shaking.

Two more creatures emerged from the brush, moving more carefully now. One was dragging its leg, blood matting its fur. The wounded creature was still crawling toward us with one good arm. Bobby put a slug into its head and it stopped moving.

Chapter 9: The Escape

There were still three left, and Bobby was almost out of shells. I found my rifle, chambered another round. One creature was circling left, trying to flank us. I led it like a deer and squeezed the trigger. The bullet spun it around but didn’t drop it.

The creature that killed Ken dropped his body and turned toward us, Ken’s blood on its hands. It roared, then charged. Bobby’s last shot took it in the chest at fifteen yards, but it kept coming. My final round hit its head, snapping its neck back. It finally went down.

Then, more howls from the forest—what sounded like a whole pack. We’d killed three, but there were others, closing in. Bobby grabbed Ken’s rifle and whatever ammo he could find. We couldn’t carry Ken’s body. We started climbing the cliff, looking for any way out.

The rock was loose and crumbly. Bobby’s pack tore open, gear tumbling down. We didn’t stop. Near the top, I found a narrow ledge leading toward a gap in the ridge—barely wide enough for one person, with a hundred-foot drop below.

Chapter 10: The Cave

Bobby went first, back pressed to the rock, sliding sideways. I followed, trying not to look down. Halfway across, we heard howling below. Two creatures at the base of the cliff, looking up. One started climbing, fast, like a spider.

We reached the gap just as the creature pulled itself over the top. Bobby squeezed through, then me. As I pulled myself through, I felt massive fingers brush my boot. I kicked back, felt my heel connect, and the creature grunted and let go.

On the other side, we found ourselves in a different valley, rougher terrain. We could hear the creatures howling to each other. We hiked all afternoon, stopping only when we had to. Bobby’s ankle was worse, but he never complained.

As the sun set, we realized we were lost. Ken had been our navigator. We had two hours of light left and the creatures were still following, howling every twenty or thirty minutes, always closer.

Chapter 11: Sealed In

We found a small cave in the hillside at dusk—just a hollow in the rock, but shelter. We crawled inside, pulled dead branches across the opening, and tried to rest. Sleep was impossible. All night, we heard them moving outside, heavy footsteps circling, sometimes stopping at the cave mouth. Once, something pushed against the branches.

At dawn, the sounds stopped. We waited another hour before moving the branches aside. Tracks everywhere—massive, five-toed prints. We had to get out.

We followed the valley downstream. For hours, the forest was quiet. Then Bobby spotted movement on the ridge—a black bear, I thought, until it stood upright. Then another, then another. They were tracking us like wolves, staying high, out of rifle range.

The harassment started—rocks thrown from the ridges, landing close enough to let us know they could. We picked up the pace, but so did they. Soon, they were ahead, behind, on both sides. The valley narrowed to a canyon. We were trapped.

Chapter 12: The Final Stand

Ahead, a creature stood in the creek, blocking our path. Behind, another with a club. We were caught in a pincer movement. Bobby raised his rifle, but the chamber was empty. I had three rounds left. I shot the one with the club—it staggered, but kept coming. My final shot took it in the head and it went down. The other charged, club raised. Bobby tried to reload, but the club caught him across the head. He went down and didn’t get up.

I don’t remember grabbing Bobby’s rifle or running. I just know I was crashing through brush, my pack abandoned, the creatures howling behind me. I ran until darkness fell, found a narrow cave, and crawled inside—just wide enough for me, too small for them.

I waited in darkness, listening. Then I heard scraping—they were sealing me in, piling rocks at the entrance. I clawed at the rocks until my fingernails broke. I was trapped.

Chapter 13: Alone in the Dark

I spent a day and a night in that cave, thirst gnawing, panic rising. Then, scraping outside—the rocks being moved. Light seeped through. Heavy footsteps moved away. I waited, then crawled forward. The barrier had been partially dismantled, a gap just wide enough for me to squeeze through.

The forest was empty. No creatures, no search party, just moonlight and wind. Why would the creatures that killed my friends and sealed me in a cave come back to let me out? I’ll never know.

Chapter 14: Aftermath

I stumbled through the forest for two days, eating berries, drinking from puddles, until I reached a forest service road. A ranger found me, delirious. They got me to a hospital. When I told my story, nobody believed me. The sheriff listened, but thought I was hallucinating. The park service searched, but never found Ken or Bobby. The official report said bear attack.

I tried to tell people the truth. Showed them the photos of that first footprint. But digital photos can be faked. I described the creatures, their intelligence, the way they hunted us. Most people listened politely, then moved on.

Chapter 15: The Unbelieved

My wife said she believed me, or at least pretended. My kids were too young to understand. Friends and neighbors treated me like I’d suffered a breakdown. The worst part was going to Ken and Bobby’s funerals and hearing people talk about the bear attack that killed them. Their families deserve to know the truth. But what was I supposed to say? That their husbands and fathers were murdered by creatures that aren’t supposed to exist?

It’s been three years since that hunting trip. I’ve had time to research what happened. I’ve learned I’m not the only one with a story like this. But most of us keep quiet. The world doesn’t want to believe in monsters.

Epilogue: The Warning

If you ever find yourself deep in the Monongahela, or any wild place, and you hear something moving beyond the firelight, remember: sometimes the monsters from our childhood stories turn out to be real. And sometimes, they hunt in packs.

End.