Bigfoot Attacks Tour Train in Alaska, Passengers Recount the Horrible Encounter – Sasquatch Story

I used to believe trains were safe.

Steel. Weight. Predictability. Tracks laid down through wilderness like a promise that humans had claimed at least this narrow path of control.

That belief died on a frozen January afternoon in Alaska.

Three years have passed since the Arctic Explorer Line was attacked, and I still wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing, my lungs burning, hearing that howling echo through my dreams. I still see them—massive silhouettes standing silently in the snow, watching us the way wolves watch wounded prey.

The government says it was an avalanche.

They are lying.

What attacked our train wasn’t weather. It wasn’t mechanical failure. It was Bigfoot. Not one—but a coordinated group of them. And they hunted us for two days through the frozen wilderness until almost all of us were dead.

There were twenty-three passengers when we boarded that train.

Only five of us survived.

I remember counting everyone that morning. A couple celebrating their anniversary, laughing and taking selfies by the windows. A group of college students on a winter ecology trip. Older locals dressed for real cold, not the tourist kind. A teenage girl traveling alone, sitting quietly near the back, fear already written across her face.

The conductor was a grizzled man who looked like he’d lived his whole life in the cold. He joked about the temperature—twenty-two below zero—and warned us not to open doors or windows. We laughed. The heater hummed. The windows fogged. Everything felt safe.

For the first two hours, it was beautiful.

Snow-covered forests stretched endlessly. Mountains loomed in the distance. A moose wandered near the tracks, and the conductor slowed so we could watch. Cameras clicked. People smiled.

Then the landscape changed.

The train entered a narrow mountain pass where the forest pressed in close. Ancient spruce trees sagged under heavy snow. The light faded fast, even though it was still afternoon. The engine strained, crawling through deep drifts.

I remember thinking how exposed we were.

That was the moment everything shattered.

The first impact slammed us sideways. I hit the window hard enough to crack my ribs. Screams erupted as people were thrown from their seats. Metal shrieked—an unholy sound of steel being forced where it was never meant to go.

This wasn’t a derailment.

Through the frosted glass, I saw it.

A massive dark shape pressed against the train.

At least nine feet tall. Covered in thick black fur. Muscles rippling beneath it as it pushed—pushed—with impossible strength. The wall of the train bent inward. Rivets popped loose. Windows cracked.

Nothing alive should be able to do that.

Then came the second impact.

Harder.

The train tilted violently, lights flickering before plunging us into darkness. Emergency lights bathed everything in red. Blood streaked the windows. Someone prayed. Someone screamed for their mother.

The conductor shouted into his radio—“Massive animal… multiple contacts”—before the signal cut out.

They had disabled us.

That’s when we realized there wasn’t just one.

Through broken windows, I saw them emerging from the trees. Three. Four. Maybe more. Moving with coordination. One at the front. One at the back. Rocking the train together.

This wasn’t an attack.

It was a hunt.

The howling began—deep, resonant calls that vibrated in my chest. Answers echoed back from deeper in the forest. We were surrounded.

One of them approached the door.

I watched as it gripped the steel frame and ripped it away like paper. Freezing air exploded into the car, bringing with it a stench of wet fur and something ancient and feral. It stood in the doorway, eyes reflecting the dim red light.

Not angry.

Focused.

It reached inside.

An elderly man was grabbed and dragged screaming into the snow. The sound stopped abruptly. That silence was worse than the scream.

Panic took over.

We smashed a window on the opposite side and escaped into the cold, jumping into waist-deep powder. The pain was immediate. The cold felt alive, biting through clothing, stealing breath.

Eight of us made it out.

Behind us, people were still screaming.

We ran—stumbled—collapsed—dragged ourselves through snow that swallowed our legs. I looked back once.

The train lay torn open.

Bigfoots moved through the wreckage, dragging people out like animals hauling carcasses. They ran effortlessly through snow that trapped us.

They caught the conductor.

Lifted him.

Slammed him into the ground.

Then the howling intensified.

They were calling reinforcements.

We fled into the forest, hiding under branches, in ravines, anywhere the wind couldn’t reach. The cold killed one man before midnight. He just… stopped breathing. We left his body behind.

The next day, we realized the truth.

They were tracking us.

Footprints—huge, deliberate—followed our trail. They flanked us. Herded us. When one woman fell into a frozen stream, the howls returned almost immediately.

They came in formation.

We scattered.

More screams.

More silence.

By the second night, only two of us remained—the teenage girl and me. We hid in a snow cave while they prowled outside, their footsteps shaking the roof. Something walked directly over us.

I thought we were buried alive.

At dawn, we crossed a frozen lake.

They stood at the shore watching.

Waiting.

When the helicopter finally appeared, they rushed us, charging from the trees. Rangers opened fire—not to kill, but to hold them back. They knew exactly what they were dealing with.

That told me everything.

As we lifted off, I saw them standing below—six massive figures in the snow—watching us leave.

Not afraid.

Just waiting.

The official report called it an avalanche.

They paid us to stay silent.

Eighteen people died.

I survived.

And I will never forget the truth.

The wilderness isn’t empty.

And something out there knows how to hunt us.