Bigfoot is 100% REAL, Trail Cam Captures Shocking Footage – Sasquatch Story

Back in 2014, I was sixty‑eight years old, living alone in a cabin near the North Cascades. Retired from the Forest Service after forty‑two years, widowed for three, my days were filled with routine—coffee at dawn, chores until noon, reading until bed.

That October, I set up trail cameras to monitor deer movement. What I captured instead changed everything. The footage was clear enough to be undeniable. Within a week of showing it to the wrong person, a ranger and two men in plain clothes appeared at my door. They told me to delete it. They said it was for my own safety. They said people weren’t ready.

I still have the files hidden where they’ll never find them.

Chapter One: The Isolation

The cabin sat forty‑three miles from the nearest town, accessible only by Forest Road 23 and a half‑mile gravel driveway. I had no neighbors within five miles. Just me, the Douglas firs, and the occasional black bear.

After my wife died, the cabin became my full‑time residence. I liked the quiet, liked the routine. But that autumn, deer traffic shifted. They avoided the eastern section of my property, staying closer to the cabin. I’d seen this before—usually meant a predator had moved in. Cougar, most likely.

So I set up four Bushnell trail cameras. Motion‑activated, infrared for night shots. I mounted them along game trails, angled to catch anything moving through.

The first week yielded nothing unusual. Deer, elk, coyotes. Normal forest activity. But camera three, positioned near a creek, showed gaps. The recordings skipped ahead three or four minutes. No motion detected, but the timestamp jumped forward.

Chapter Two: The Knocks

Late one afternoon, stacking firewood, I heard it. Three deliberate strikes, deep and resonant. I froze. Thirty seconds later, three more knocks from another direction.

I’d heard woodpeckers all my life. This wasn’t that. This was something using a heavy object against wood, rhythmic and purposeful.

The next day in town, I ran into Tom Hrix, a hunting guide. He mentioned clients complaining about strange sounds—whooping calls, wood knocks. One group had packed up early, spooked by something they couldn’t see. Tom laughed it off, but his eyes betrayed unease.

I asked if anyone had mentioned Bigfoot. His expression changed. He lowered his voice. “There’s been talk. Tracks near the upper ridges. Trees twisted in ways that don’t make sense. The Service closed a trail last month. Said erosion. I don’t buy it.”

Chapter Three: The First Image

That night, I reviewed footage again. Camera three had more gaps. In three instances, I saw movement at the edge of the frame. A shadow, a blur. Then the recording skipped forward.

I adjusted the sensitivity, repositioned the camera. Two nights later, at 2:47 a.m., the infrared caught something crossing the creek.

At first, I thought bear. But bears don’t walk like that. This moved with a fluid bipedal gait, tall, broad‑shouldered, covered in dark hair. It paused midstride, turned its head toward the camera, then continued into the trees.

Eight seconds. I watched it forty times. My hands shook. I knew exactly what I was looking at.

Chapter Four: Proof

I moved camera three closer, added a fifth on the opposite bank, set up an audio recorder. For three nights, nothing. Then the knocking returned—closer, maybe fifty yards from the cabin.

I stepped outside with flashlight and rifle. Silence. Then three knocks. Then three more. Then three again. A pattern.

The next morning, camera five had captured it. Less than twenty feet from the lens. Details clear. Broad, flat face, pronounced brow ridges. Eyes reflecting infrared like a cat’s, but larger, expressive.

It reached out, touched the tree where the camera was mounted. The hand was enormous. Five fingers, opposable thumb. Unmistakably primate.

I saved the file to three drives, printed high‑resolution images. Proof.

Chapter Five: The Warning

I called Marcus Chen, an old colleague. He drove up from Seattle. We watched the footage together. He sat back, rubbed his face, whispered, “Jesus.”

He told me during his last years with the Service, he’d been part of a team investigating unusual wildlife reports. Most were hoaxes. Some weren’t. There were protocols—chains of command bypassing normal reporting. Rangers told to document, file, and never speak.

Why? Officially, to prevent panic and protect the creatures. But Marcus suspected deeper motives. If Bigfoot’s existence were acknowledged, the government would have to protect its habitat under the Endangered Species Act. That meant shutting down logging, halting development, closing vast sections of land. Easier to pretend they don’t exist.

Marcus left, warning me to be careful.

Three days later, a ranger and two men in civilian clothes arrived. They asked to see the footage. They suggested I delete it. They said spreading unverified claims could attract hunters, researchers, tourists.

I lied, said I had no copies. After they left, I buried an external drive under the woodshed.

Chapter Six: The Gifts

The knocking continued almost nightly. I left food out—apples, bread, venison. Sometimes it vanished. Sometimes not.

I found tracks near the creek. Sixteen and a half inches long, seven wide. I made plaster casts.

Then one night, I heard a vocalization. A long, low call that echoed through the valley. Not elk, not cougar, not wolf. Something else.

The next morning, I found a gift on my porch. A woven arrangement of cedar boughs and ferns, circular, two feet in diameter. Intricate, deliberate. Crafted.

I hung it on the cabin wall.

Chapter Seven: The Hunters

Hunters began showing up. Trucks at trailheads, gunshots echoing. Rumors spreading.

One hunter from California shot something he thought was a bear. When he approached, he realized his mistake. He panicked, buried it. The story leaked.

Within days, news crews arrived. The Forest Service issued a statement calling it a hoax. Marcus called, said he’d heard the Service had retrieved a body, transported it to an undisclosed facility.

I installed motion lights, kept the rifle loaded, distributed copies of evidence to trusted friends with instructions to release if something happened to me.

Chapter Eight: The Cave

In February, I found fresh tracks near a remote canyon. Multiple sizes—family group. They led to a cave system I’d explored decades ago.

I approached quietly. Heard low vocalizations, movement, breathing. They’d taken shelter there.

I didn’t go closer. I marked the location, left.

But I made a mistake. I mentioned the cave to Marcus over the phone. The line was tapped. Three days later, a helicopter circled the canyon. That night, the cave was empty.

Inside, I found nests of ferns and moss, a fire pit, handprints on rock walls. They’d lived there for weeks. And now they were gone.

Chapter Nine: The Displacement

Logging expanded. Chainsaws tore through old growth. The knocking stopped. The forest felt empty.

I dreamed of them in cages, studied in laboratories. Hunters posing with bodies.

In June, I received a letter from the Department of the Interior. They offered to buy my property for inclusion in a wilderness preserve. Voluntary, they said. I declined. They doubled the offer. I declined again.

Patricia, the ranger, visited. Concerned for my safety. I told her I planned to die here.

Chapter Ten: The Return

That summer, gifts reappeared. Woven grass, stacked stones, feathers. They were back.

One night in August, I heard soft knocking. Tentative. I knocked back. Silence. Then three more knocks, closer. We continued for several minutes. A conversation in the simplest language.

I cried. They trusted me again.

That night, I saw one. Smaller, maybe seven feet tall, slender. Bathed in moonlight. We looked at each other for thirty seconds. It raised a hand, palm forward. I raised mine. Then it turned and walked back into the forest.

Chapter Eleven: The Choice

I understood then. The footage, the photos, the casts—all had to stay hidden. They had shown me trust. I couldn’t betray it.

I destroyed half the evidence. Burned photos, smashed casts, wiped drives. I kept only one copy buried deep.

The government stopped pressuring me. Patricia’s visits ceased. Marcus called occasionally. I lied, said nothing unusual.

The creatures and I developed a routine. Gifts exchanged. Knocks answered. Boundaries respected.

But I knew it couldn’t last. Humans are relentless. Resorts planned, trails expanded, wilderness carved away.

Epilogue: The Keeper of Secrets

I’m seventy‑four now. The cabin shows its age, and so do I. My knees ache, my hands shake. But I’m still here. Still keeping the secret.