‘I befriended a Sasquatch’ Woman’s Strange Bigfoot Encounter Story – Part 2
THE HAND THAT CAME FROM THE WOODS
Part Two
Chapter Five: The Language Without Words
Food became our first true language.
The bread fascinated him—the soft texture, so unlike anything the forest provided. He pressed it between his fingers, then against his cheek, as if memorizing the feel of it before tasting. The cheese made him wrinkle his broad nose, clearly unsure, but curiosity won out and he sampled a small bite anyway. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, deciding.
.
.
.
But the apple—that changed everything.
He bit into it, and his eyes widened in unmistakable surprise. Juice ran down his chin as he devoured it entirely, core, seeds, stem and all, making low, pleased sounds deep in his chest. I laughed despite myself, joy bubbling up at such a simple, shared moment. Watching him discover flavors I had taken for granted my entire life felt oddly profound.
Later, almost without thinking, I pulled out paper and a small box of colored pencils. I had brought them on a whim, unsure why—just a quiet instinct telling me they might matter. I drew a simple stick figure and handed him a pencil. The tiny tool looked absurd in his massive hand. He turned it over, examining it from every angle, then looked from the pencil to me to the paper, clearly trying to understand what I wanted.
So I drew again, slower this time. I exaggerated each movement, showing how the pencil left marks behind, how lines became shapes. He leaned in so close I could feel his breath on my hands, his attention absolute.
When he finally tried, the marks were clumsy at first—too much pressure, then too little. But he learned astonishingly fast. Within minutes, something recognizable began to take shape.
Two figures.
One large. One small.
Standing side by side.
My throat tightened as tears burned behind my eyes. This wasn’t mimicry. This wasn’t trained behavior. This was understanding—symbolic thought, abstraction, intent. He had drawn us. Together.
In that moment, something irreversible formed between us.
That second visit became the first of many.
Chapter Six: Seasons of Learning
I returned every few weeks, whenever life allowed. Sometimes he was already waiting, sitting near the cave entrance as if he had known I would come. Other times, I waited for hours until he emerged from the forest, materializing from shadow like a memory becoming real.
I learned his patterns, his wide-ranging territory, the way the cave served as a kind of anchor—a home base. I brought gifts: picture books filled with color, bright fabrics of silk and wool, simple tools, mirrors, combs, foods of every kind. Each visit became an exchange, not just of objects, but of ideas.
I taught him fire—not just how to make it, but how to control it. He practiced until sparks became flame without effort. I watched the exact moment understanding dawned, the way his posture shifted when something clicked.
In return, he taught me the forest.
Which plants healed and which harmed. Which roots could be eaten raw, which leaves eased pain, which berries would kill you slowly or quickly. He led me through the woods, pointing, vocalizing, creating a vocabulary we built together over time. I learned to recognize meaning in tone, rhythm, gesture.
He moved through the forest without sound. I tried to follow. I was never as graceful, never as silent, but I learned.
Technology fascinated him most. One day, he spent nearly an hour with a flashlight, clicking it on and off, shining it against cave walls, on his hand, on my face, delight rumbling through him at light without flame. When the batteries died, his disappointment was so genuine I promised myself I would never forget replacements again.
He learned games. Tic-tac-toe scratched into dirt. Pattern copying. Even rock-paper-scissors, though it took time. Once he understood, he began making deliberately silly choices, clearly teasing me just to see my reaction.
Humor, too, crossed the divide.
Chapter Seven: Proof of Care
Some moments changed everything.
One spring day, I arrived to find a careful arrangement near the cave entrance: smooth river stones, quartz crystals, fossilized shells. Each piece chosen, cleaned, arranged with intent. When he noticed me noticing, he gestured eagerly.
They were gifts.
He had thought of me when I wasn’t there.
The realization overwhelmed me. I cried openly, and he grew anxious, touching my face gently, worried he had caused harm. I showed him—through smiles, sounds, delight—that these were happy tears. He relaxed instantly, pleased.
Another day, he saved my life.
He grabbed me suddenly, pulling me behind a tree, covering my mouth before I could react. Moments later, a massive black bear lumbered past, less than forty feet away. He held me still, arm protective around me, until the danger passed.
He had been watching.
He cared.
Winter brought new worries. I brought him a heavy wool blanket. When I wrapped it around his shoulders, the expression on his face—pure joy, gratitude—nearly broke me. Then he pulled me inside the blanket with him, sharing warmth, huddled together like that was the most natural thing in the world.
Inside the cave, he had prepared meticulously: stored food, insulated bedding, thoughtful planning. On one bitterly cold visit, I brought hot soup. The concept stunned him—warm liquid, nourishing, comforting. He drank every drop, cradling the thermos afterward like something precious.
Winter visits were harder, but I never stopped coming.
Neither did he.
Chapter Eight: Memory and Art
Years passed.
When I injured my shoulder one spring, he remembered. He vanished into the forest and returned with the exact same medicinal mixture he had used on my ankle decades earlier. He remembered the first night. Remembered caring for me.
That was when I knew: this was not coincidence. This was memory. Attachment.
Our shared meals became sacred rituals. Food prepared together. Silence comfortable. Presence enough.
His drawings evolved. Stick figures became scenes. Scenes became stories. One autumn, I arrived to find the cave walls covered in charcoal murals—a timeline of our friendship. Our first meeting. Fire. Food. Sunsets.
Art.
He stood beside me as I took it in, reading my face. When I cried, he touched my cheek gently, just as he always had.
Later, I met another of his kind—young, cautious. I watched him teach, passing knowledge forward. Not just survival—but trust.
Chapter Nine: The Gift and the Goodbye
In my early sixties, I brought a locket. Inside was a photo of me from the year we met. He studied it, then me, then back again. Understanding flickered in his eyes.
Time.
Aging.
He disappeared briefly and returned with a smooth blue stone, wrapped carefully. A gift he had saved for the right moment. I wear it still.
My last visit came six months ago.
We sat together for hours, holding hands. I spoke. He listened. When words ran out, he touched my face one final time.
That touch said everything.
I didn’t look back as I left.
Chapter Ten: What Remains
I’m old now. People will doubt this story. That’s fine.
I won’t give locations. I won’t give proof. Some things are meant to be protected.
This is my gift to you: the truth of an impossible friendship. Carry it gently. Share it wisely.
The world is stranger—and more beautiful—than we know.
