BIGFOOT Stole My Weed: Illegal Grower’s Encounter He Can NEVER Share (Has Proof)

The Grow and the Giant

Chapter 1: The Third Check

Tyler Brennan checked the trail camera for the third time that morning, his fingers steady in a way that felt rehearsed. The SD card held nothing but routine: a doe slipping through at 2:47 a.m., a raccoon family at 4:15, the kind of predictable wildlife that made a remote grow site feel safe—not safe in the lawful sense, but safe in the practical sense. In the Six Rivers National Forest, predictability was protection. You didn’t last four seasons running an illegal operation by being careless. You lasted by being invisible.

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His clearing sat three miles from the nearest trail, reached by an overgrown logging road that hadn’t seen official use in fifteen years. Sixty plants, clustered beneath canopy in a way that looked accidental from any angle that mattered, watered by a diverted creek, small enough to dodge the eyes that hunted from above and large enough to erase his debts if everything went clean. Harvest was two weeks away. He should have been thinking about trimming schedules, curing space, buyers who didn’t ask questions. Instead he felt wrong, like someone had rearranged the forest overnight while he slept.

He tried to name it as he walked the perimeter. Late September air, cool and wet, mist snagging on Douglas fir boughs, the smell of damp earth and needles. Birds stitched their normal patterns. Squirrels scolded each other with familiar outrage. Everything appeared ordinary—and Tyler’s shoulders remained tight, his gaze darting back over his own tracks as if he expected to find footprints following his footsteps in real time.

The first concrete sign sat near the eastern camera: a fir sapling, six inches thick, snapped clean at roughly eight feet high. Not cut. Not gnawed. Not storm‑broken. Twisted, as if something had grabbed it and torqued until the fibers gave. Fresh sap bled from the break, bright and wet against dark bark. Tyler stared at it too long, trying to make his brain fit it into a category it recognized. Bears broke things, sure, but not like this, not that high, not with that clean violence. Wind could do almost anything, but there had been no storm. His skin prickled anyway, the animal part of him tallying a new fact: something had been here when he wasn’t looking.

Chapter 2: The Blur at 3:22

By midday he had found three more snapped saplings, all at the same unnatural height, forming a rough crescent along the northern edge of the grow. It looked less like random damage and more like pacing—an inspection line drawn by something that didn’t need to stay hidden. When he checked the northern camera, the footage offered a second wrongness: at 3:22 a.m., something large crossed the frame so fast the night vision caught only a smear of upright shape and swinging mass.

Tyler rewound it again and again until the motion became a stuttering ghost. The silhouette suggested a biped—upright, shoulders high, head riding above where any deer should be. The camera had triggered, tried to see, and failed. Too fast. Too close to the edge. Too deliberate to be chance. Tyler had spent years learning the difference between paranoia and instinct. Paranoia was what he felt when a branch snapped in the wrong direction. Instinct was what he felt now: the certainty that the forest’s attention had shifted onto him.

He checked his phone out of habit, already knowing there’d be no signal. The solar panel charging the batteries was undisturbed. The irrigation lines still ran. The plants looked healthy, leaves glossy, resin building. Everything was still his—except the air. The air was quieter, heavier, as if the woods were listening for something.

Near the creek he found the tracks. Not deer. Not bear. Not boot. The print was massive—sixteen inches long at least, pressed deep into mud, five toes splayed in a shape that was vaguely human and profoundly wrong. The heel sank deeper than the forefoot as if the weight carried upright and forward. Tyler crouched for a better look, a cold bead of sweat sliding down his spine. He took photos from three angles anyway, because the need to document was stronger than the knowledge that documentation meant nothing if you couldn’t show it to anyone without confessing why you were here.

As he lowered the phone, he realized the forest had gone silent. No birds. No insects. Not even wind. Just a quiet so complete it made his ears ring. Tyler stood slowly, vertebra by vertebra, the instinct to flee rising like bile—and then he saw it across the creek.

Forty yards away, in dense understory, something stood absolutely still in the trees. Not a trunk. Not a shadow. A vertical presence too solid to be illusion. Tyler’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Seconds stretched long enough to become a minute. Then, with a soft scrape of branch on bark, the shape stepped backward into deeper cover and vanished. Gone so fast and quiet that if Tyler hadn’t felt his heart hammering against his ribs, he could have convinced himself it had been nothing.

He backed away from the creek without turning his back, feet finding the path by memory. The grow site suddenly felt like a spotlight. His camp—another small clearing a quarter mile away—felt like a confession waiting to be discovered.

Chapter 3: Rot and Resin

Tyler tried to talk himself down at camp. Bears stood upright. Shadows played tricks. Sleep deprivation did strange things to the mind. He’d been alone for five days, living on instant coffee and granola bars, sleeping in fractured intervals, watching the same green leaves for signs of mold and pests. A human brain in isolation could invent patterns as easily as it could breathe.

But the snapped saplings at eight feet. The footprint. The blur at 3:22. The way the shape had moved—backward, not loping like a bear, not crashing like a bull elk. Underneath every rational argument was a bone‑deep certainty: he’d been evaluated. Something had noticed him and decided he mattered.

He ate anyway, forcing down a protein bar that tasted like compressed sawdust. The truck waited at the end of the logging road, a twenty‑minute hike away. He could leave right now, abandon the crop, write off eight months of risk and debt and careful planning. But harvest was two weeks away. Sixty plants meant money he’d already mentally spent—rent, car repairs, old loans, the kind of financial breathing room he hadn’t had in years. The forest didn’t care about his debt schedule. His body didn’t care either. It only cared about survival.

By late afternoon, routine steadied him. He checked water lines, inspected leaves, adjusted camouflage branches. The work had a soothing rhythm: clip, tie, tuck, step back. For an hour he almost believed the day’s fear had been a fluke.

Then at 6:47 p.m., the smell hit.

It wasn’t normal forest funk. This was thick and wrong—wet dog rolled in something dead, layered with sour musk that burned his sinuses. Tyler froze with an armful of firewood. The smell came from upwind, from the grow site, strong enough to water his eyes. He dropped the wood and moved forward without deciding, drawn by the same stubbornness that had built this operation in the first place. If something was there, he needed to know.

As he neared the clearing, the smell sharpened and mixed with another scent—cannabis, crushed and torn, the distinctive green‑sweet resin released when stems broke. Tyler’s stomach dropped. Something was in his plants.

He reached the treeline and used brush as cover, scanning through dimming light. At first: nothing. Then movement—massive, dark—on the far side. The figure stood upright, at least nine feet tall, fur catching the last rays like dull bronze. It moved with a strange combination of power and delicacy, and the detail that made Tyler’s blood go cold wasn’t the height or the shoulders. It was the hands. Not paws. Hands.

The creature grasped a plant at the top, tugged, and pulled it free with a soft tear of roots from soil. It examined the plant like someone inspecting produce, then bit off the upper portion and chewed methodically. Not frenzy. Not hunger panic. Calm, practiced consumption. It harvested three more plants with the same casual efficiency, then paused, head swiveling toward Tyler’s hiding place.

Tyler pressed against the trunk of a fir, heart hammering so loudly he was sure it would give him away. The creature made a low rumbling sound he felt more than heard, then turned away, grabbed two more plants, and walked out of the clearing to the north—remarkably silent for something that large.

Tyler remained frozen for a full minute after it disappeared. A Sasquatch. A thing from campfire stories and blurry photos, standing in his illegal garden like it owned the place. He backed away and retreated to camp with shaking hands, caught between absurdity and terror. His biggest problem wasn’t rangers or the DEA. It was a cryptid with selective taste.

Chapter 4: The Night Call

He told himself he’d leave at first light. That was the smart choice. But night in the forest has a way of turning “smart” into “impossible.” The trail to the truck was rough. His vehicle was old and temperamental. The idea of it refusing to start in the dark made his throat tighten. So he did what people do when fear competes with need: he rationalized.

The creature hadn’t been aggressive. It hadn’t charged. It hadn’t even fully revealed itself beyond what Tyler already saw. It had taken six plants and left. Six out of sixty. Manageable loss. If it was a one‑time visit, he could still harvest. If it came back, maybe he could… adapt.

He built a fire larger than usual, pretending it was for warmth while really wanting the circle of light, the small lie of safety. He set up a backup camera facing the trail from camp to the grow site, motion‑activated night vision, because if something came through, he wanted evidence even if he could never use it.

The hours crawled. Normal forest sounds became threats in his nervous system. At 2:15 a.m., he heard something large moving through brush east of camp—branches breaking, steady bipedal rhythm. The sound stopped about fifty yards out. Tyler sat still, knife in his hand like a joke.

Then came the vocalization: low at first, then rising into a shrieking howl that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It wasn’t a roar. It was an announcement. A territorial signature stamped into air. Tyler’s body reacted like prey: muscles tight, stomach dropping, skin going cold. The call faded. The footsteps resumed, moving away north toward higher elevation.

At dawn he checked the camera. There was activity at 2:17 a.m.—a close pass, too close to capture fully. A mass of fur and bulk sliding through frame like a moving wall. Tyler pocketed the SD card and laughed once, bitter and short. He had proof of the impossible filmed in the middle of a felony. The perfect evidence trapped inside a confession.

He returned to the grow site and found only six plants missing. In daylight, with caffeine warming his hands, his brain made another decision for him: he would stay until harvest. Two weeks. Then he’d be gone forever. He’d set more cameras, watch more carefully, keep distance. If the creature wanted plants, he could survive a partial loss.

Desperation makes people negotiate with the unreasonable.

Chapter 5: The Deal Nobody Spoke

The next three days were a blur of hypervigilance. Tyler slept in broken chunks, never more than two hours at a time. Each morning he collected SD cards, reviewed footage, and found the creature appearing often enough that pattern emerged. It arrived between midnight and three, always from the north. Sometimes it took plants. Sometimes it only stood at the edge of the clearing as if observing the space the way a landlord observes a tenant.

The footage was uncomfortably good. Clear bipedal movement. Deliberate avoidance of cameras—as if it knew where blind spots were. Tyler found himself studying it with a mixture of fear and fascination. This wasn’t a mindless animal wandering into a food source. It selected mature plants and left younger ones untouched. It knew what it wanted.

On the fourth night, Tyler watched in person from downwind through a night‑vision monocular. At 1:43 a.m. the creature emerged, paused at the treeline, scanned slowly as if checking for threats, then walked directly to Tyler’s largest, most resinous plants and harvested them with careful precision. It pulled, shook soil from roots, bit off upper portions, and carried others away intact. For twenty minutes Tyler watched it work like a farmer harvesting a crop.

When it finished, it turned and looked directly at Tyler’s hiding spot. Not vaguely. Directly. The eyes caught moonlight and reflected pale green through the monocular. A low rumble rolled out of its chest. Then it walked away.

Tyler spent the morning running numbers. If it kept taking six to eight plants per visit, he’d lose the season. He could leave, take the loss, survive. But debt didn’t vanish because you fled. So he made a decision that would’ve sounded insane to his past self: he would try to negotiate.

At noon he placed a waterproof box at the creature’s usual entry point, filled with two pounds of high‑quality dried buds from last season, worth a thousand dollars easy. He painted a message on a flat rock in white: TAKE THIS. LEAVE REST. It looked ridiculous in daylight—like a child’s sign in a world that didn’t read.

That night, at 2:37 a.m., the creature approached the offering cautiously, as if sensing a trap. It opened the box, recognized the contents, then looked up and locked onto Tyler’s hiding position. It lifted one massive hand and pointed—one finger extended with unmistakable meaning. I see you.

Tyler’s blood ran cold. The creature closed the lid, set the box back on the rock, then harvested six fresh plants anyway. It left the offering untouched.

Whether it rejected the deal or simply preferred fresh plants to dried, the message landed the same: Tyler’s problem was not negotiable.

Chapter 6: The Boundary

Exhaustion eroded Tyler’s ability to think straight. By evening he made his first truly reckless decision: he would be visible when it arrived. Not threatening—no knife, no light, hands empty—but present. If it understood “mine” versus “yours,” maybe presence would matter more than painted words.

At 11:47 p.m. the creature stepped into view and stopped about twenty yards away. Tyler stood slowly, palms open. He took one step forward. It didn’t retreat. Another step. Stillness. Close enough now that Tyler could smell the musk and see the rise of its chest. He forced himself to speak, voice steadier than he felt. “These are mine. I need them. I’ll share, but you can’t take them all.”

The creature tilted its head—eerily human. It made a softer vocalization, not the territorial howl, something lower and rising like a question. Tyler had no answer. The moment became absurd, balanced on the edge of terror. Then the creature walked around him wide, harvested three plants—fewer than usual—and left.

The pattern held for three nights. Tyler’s presence reduced the loss. Whether that meant understanding or coincidence, he couldn’t prove. He only knew it kept him alive and left him with more crop. He stopped trying to interpret and started obeying the new ritual: be visible, stay still, don’t approach.

On the eighth night, the creature arrived with a second, smaller figure—still huge by human standards, maybe seven feet, moving with juvenile caution. The larger one harvested two plants and offered them to the smaller, which examined and ate like a child learning how to eat something new. Tyler watched parental behavior—teaching, provisioning, warning—played out by something science said didn’t exist.

And then the boundary snapped into place.

The juvenile drifted closer to Tyler’s side of the clearing, curiosity tugging it forward. The adult made a sharp warning sound. The juvenile paused, then took one more step. The adult crossed the distance in three strides—not toward Tyler, but toward the juvenile—and shoved it back hard, physically correcting it away from the human. Then the adult turned its full attention on Tyler.

Tyler saw death in the posture: squared shoulders, arms slightly extended, the body making itself as large as possible. The adult stepped closer, raised an arm, fingers long and thick tipped with heavy nails. It didn’t strike. Instead it unleashed a rising shriek that ripped through the trees—a warning so visceral Tyler felt it in his teeth.

The meaning was clear without translation: You do not get close to my young. You do not become part of this. You stay where you are, or you end.

Then it grabbed the juvenile and led it away at speed, vanishing into timber.

Tyler sat at camp until dawn, shaking, listening to the forest return to normal sound. He understood now that whatever “deal” existed was not friendship. It was tolerance with rules. And rules meant consequences.

Chapter 7: The Ridge and the Mercy

Two nights later, Tyler broke the rules anyway—without meaning to, and that made it worse. Reviewing footage, he saw a third shape in the background. Another presence. His mind hooked onto the new variable like a nail. How many were there? Was he surrounded by a family group? Was his camp inside a territory he didn’t understand at all?

He climbed to a ridge overlook with a low‑light camera and telephoto lens, hid behind a fallen log, and waited. At 1:15 a.m. the familiar adult arrived alone, harvested quickly, taking four plants as if preparing to move. Then a second adult entered from the west—bigger, broader, with a heavier gait that radiated dominance. The two faced each other in the clearing. It wasn’t cooperation. It was dispute. The larger one claimed the resource. The familiar adult yielded, backing away to the treeline.

Tyler watched, fascinated and horrified, until movement to his left nearly stopped his heart. The juvenile stood fifteen feet away, staring at him. He hadn’t heard it approach. The juvenile called out—a high sound that carried down to the clearing. Both adults looked up. The larger one oriented on Tyler’s position and began climbing.

Now Tyler understood what being prey actually meant: the speed at which the world can flip from observation to execution.

He raised his hands, palms out, and stepped away from the camera, trying to appear small, harmless. The larger creature reached the ridge, towering close to ten feet, eyes reflecting green‑gold in moonlight. It looked from Tyler to the camera and, with a motion almost gentle, picked the camera up by the tripod.

It examined it. Turned it. Peered into the lens.

Then it crushed the device in one hand. Plastic and metal crunched like bones. The act wasn’t random destruction; it was comprehension made physical. You are recording. You are not invisible. You are taking more than plants.

The creature stepped toward Tyler. Tyler stumbled backward, caught on the log, and fell hard onto rock, pain exploding through his shoulder. The creature loomed over him, musk filling his lungs, the world narrowing to fur and breath and inevitability. Tyler closed his eyes, waiting for the strike.

It didn’t come.

A sharp vocalization sounded—urgent, commanding. Tyler opened his eyes to see the familiar adult moving between him and the larger one, making placating gestures, speaking in a sequence of sounds that felt patterned, intentional. The two faced each other. Something like authority or hierarchy flowed through the exchange. The larger one vocalized displeasure, then turned and descended the ridge. The juvenile followed.

Tyler lay shaking, stunned by the fact that he was still alive.

The familiar adult looked down at him and tilted its head, that humanlike consideration again. Then—slowly, deliberately—it picked up Tyler’s dropped flashlight and placed it within his reach. A small act. A choice. It turned and disappeared into the trees.

Tyler hiked out at dawn with a bruised shoulder and a half‑salvaged harvest. He never returned. He stored the surviving SD cards in a waterproof case in the back of his closet, evidence he could never share without confessing what he’d been doing out there. He stopped growing. He started working construction. And on certain nights, when the wind moves through trees like distant surf, he swears he can still smell that musk and feel the weight of eyes measuring him from the dark.

Not monsters. Not myths. Something else—something that understood boundaries, and mercy, and the difference between taking food and taking proof.