I Caught Footage of Bigfoot Sneaking into My Farm, He Was Trying to Warn Me
Back in September of 2016, I was forty-one years old, living the quiet life I had always wanted.
My wife, Emily, and I ran a small farm near the western edge of the Cascade Mountains in Washington State. We had been there for eight years—long enough for the land to feel like part of us. We raised goats and chickens, repaired fence posts that winter storms knocked loose, woke every morning to fog rolling down from the tree line, and fell asleep each night to the steady, reassuring sounds of the forest.
It wasn’t a glamorous life, but it was honest.
The kind of life where you learn to pay attention.
The year before, after losing a handful of chickens to coyotes, I had installed a few basic security cameras around the property. Nothing fancy—just motion-activated cameras with night vision. They weren’t meant to capture anything extraordinary. They were just there to help me keep animals safe.
I never imagined they would capture evidence of something the world insists does not exist.
The Night the Footage Appeared
Late September that year was strange.
Wildfires were burning somewhere east of us—far enough away that the news said they were contained, close enough that the air smelled faintly of smoke. The sky stayed hazy even on sunny days. Ash settled on our porch railings like gray snow.
More concerning than the smoke was the animals.
Our chickens refused to leave the coop. Even when I scattered feed, they huddled inside, feathers puffed, eyes alert. The goats, normally curious and stubborn, stayed bunched together in the barn, pacing nervously and stamping their hooves. Animals know things before people do. I’d learned that much from farming.
That evening, I sat at the kitchen table reviewing security footage while Emily cleared dinner dishes.
The first two cameras showed nothing unusual.
Then I opened the feed from the third camera—the one mounted near the northern tree line.
My blood went cold.
A massive figure moved deliberately through the frame.
It was upright. Broad. At least seven feet tall. Covered in dark fur, clearly visible even through the grainy green tint of night vision.
“Emily,” I said quietly. “Come look at this.”
She leaned over my shoulder as I rewound the footage.
We watched together as the figure stepped fully into view, stopping about twenty feet from the camera. It turned its head and looked directly at the lens.
Then it did something I will never forget.
It raised one arm slowly, deliberately, and pointed.
Not at the camera.
Not at the house.
It pointed north—toward the mountains.
The gesture was sharp. Urgent. Intentional.
The figure held that pose for several seconds, then lowered its arm and walked calmly back into the forest, disappearing between the trees.
Emily’s hand tightened on my shoulder.
“What is that?” she whispered.
I didn’t answer.
Because I already knew.
Understanding the Impossible
I had grown up hearing stories.
Loggers talking about massive footprints deep in the Cascades. Hunters hearing wood knocks echo through valleys at night. Rangers quietly mentioning stacked stones where none had been before.
Bigfoot.
Sasquatch.
I’d always dismissed it as folklore layered over misidentification.
But this footage…
This wasn’t a confused bear.
This wasn’t a prank.
That pointing gesture wasn’t animal behavior.
It was communication.
Emily asked if we should call someone.
“And tell them what?” I said. “That Bigfoot pointed at the mountains behind our farm?”
We watched the footage loop over and over, trying to rationalize what we were seeing.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Around three in the morning, I stepped onto the porch. The smoke smell was stronger now. The air felt heavy, oppressive. On the eastern horizon, I could see a faint orange glow.
I checked fire maps on my phone.
The nearest active wildfire was forty miles east. No evacuation notices. No alerts.
Nothing to explain the urgency in that pointing gesture.
And then it hit me.
The creature hadn’t pointed east.
It had pointed north.
Signs on the Land
At first light, I walked the northern fence line.
I didn’t have to look long.
Near the stream, pressed deep into soft earth, were footprints.
Seventeen inches long. Five clear toes. Deep impressions that told me whatever made them weighed far more than any human.
I placed my hand next to one print.
My entire hand fit inside the toe area.
As I followed the tracks, I found something else.
Three large stones stacked carefully near a fence post.
They hadn’t been there the day before.
I kept walking.
Seven stone stacks total, placed at regular intervals, forming a line that pointed directly north into the forest.
My hands shook as I took photos.
This wasn’t random.
This was deliberate.
The creature had returned—multiple times—leaving markers that reinforced the same direction it had pointed on camera.
Emily studied the photos quietly.
“It came back,” she said. “These are fresh.”
“What does it want?” she asked.
I swallowed.
“I think it’s trying to warn us.”
Following the Warning
That afternoon, I hiked north into the forest.
The deeper I went, the quieter it became.
No birds.
No squirrels.
Just silence.
After forty minutes, I found more signs.
Broken branches bent at chest height, all pointing in the same direction. Sap still sticky, the breaks fresh. Something large had passed through recently, marking a trail.
The smell of smoke was stronger here.
That didn’t make sense.
The fires were east.
Then I found the first dead animal.
A deer lying in a clearing. No wounds. No signs of predation. Foam around its muzzle.
Smoke inhalation.
Further on, a raccoon. Then a fox.
Same cause.
My heart pounded as I climbed a small rise to get a better view.
That’s when I saw it.
A thin column of smoke rising from deep in the northern forest—about five miles from our property.
This wasn’t on any map.
This was a hidden fire.
Smoldering underground.
I noticed three deep scratches carved vertically into the trunk of a Douglas fir nearby—fresh, unmistakable warning marks.
The creature had found the fire before anyone else.
And it had come to warn us.
When Authorities Didn’t Know Yet
I ran back to the house.
“There’s a fire,” I gasped. “North of us.”
Emily didn’t question me.
I called 911 and reported smoke and dead wildlife. The dispatcher was skeptical. Official maps showed nothing.
“Forest Service will check in a few hours,” she said.
“A few hours?” I asked. “This could spread.”
She repeated protocol.
I hung up, furious.
That night, I reviewed every second of security footage from the past week.
The creature had been there night after night.
Each visit more urgent.
In the most recent video, it struck a fence post three times—wood on wood—loud enough to register on audio. Then it backed away and swept its arm in a wide arc that encompassed our entire farm.
Danger is coming.
Get out.
Confirmation and Evacuation
At dawn, the Forest Service called.
“You were right,” the ranger said. “There’s a fire. Lightning strike. Been smoldering underground for ten days. Winds are pushing it south.”
Toward us.
Evacuation warnings were issued.
We packed immediately.
Neighbors helped move livestock. Trucks and trailers lined the dirt road.
“How did you know?” one asked.
“Got lucky,” I said.
But it wasn’t luck.
It was a warning.
As we loaded the last of the animals, I saw it.
Standing at the tree line.
Watching.
When it noticed me, it raised one hand—not pointing this time, but palm out.
Go.
I raised my hand back.
Thank you.
After the Fire
The fire exploded that night.
Twelve thousand acres burned.
Homes were lost.
Ours barely survived.
The barn was gone. The house scarred by heat and smoke.
But we lived.
When we returned weeks later, I found another stone stack—placed on fresh ash.
It had survived.
And it had come back.
A Shared Understanding
We rebuilt.
And the signs continued.
Woven grass.
Stacked stones.
Planted saplings.
We left apples, carrots, water during dry months.
They were always gone by morning.
Replaced with something else.
Three wood knocks would echo from the forest at night.
I’d knock back from the porch.
Conversation without words.
Years later, I still have the footage.
Locked away.
Because proof would bring destruction.
What mattered wasn’t evidence.
It was survival.
Final Truth
I used to believe Bigfoot was a myth.
Now I know better.
Something intelligent lives in these mountains.
Something that understands danger before we do.
Something that chose to warn us.
And sometimes, the greatest truths aren’t meant to be proven—
Only respected.
