My Dashcam Captured Moment I Crashed Into BIGFOOT, Then I Had To Help It – Sasquatch Encounter Story

I hit a Bigfoot with my car last November and then I saved its life. That’s not something I ever thought I’d say out loud. The entire thing is on my dash cam—every impossible second of it. But I can’t show anyone. What happened after the crash changed everything I thought I knew about what’s really out there in those mountains.

Six months ago, I would have laughed off any mention of Bigfoot. I’m a doctor, after all. My world is built on evidence, on rational explanations. If someone had told me this story, I would have smiled politely and changed the subject. But it happened. This is my story, and I need someone else to know these creatures are real, that they’re out there, and that they’re far more remarkable than anyone imagines.

I’m an emergency room physician at a major hospital in Seattle. Twelve years of practice have shown me the full spectrum of human trauma and suffering. Gunshot wounds, car accidents, overdoses, heart attacks—every kind of pain and miracle and tragedy imaginable. I thought I’d seen it all. I was wrong. Nothing in my medical training prepared me for what I encountered on that forest road last November.

The Road to Glacier

It was a Friday evening, November 17th. I was driving to check on my mother, who lives alone in a remote cabin outside Glacier, a tiny town just south of the Canadian border. She’d called that morning, her voice thin and worried. She said she wasn’t feeling well, hadn’t slept, and asked if I could come visit. My mother is fiercely independent, stubborn to a fault. If she was asking for help, something was genuinely wrong.

I left the hospital at 4:30, grabbed gas and a terrible cup of coffee, and hit the road. The first two hours were easy—interstate through farmland and small towns. The last ninety minutes, though, were rough. The road narrowed, winding into the mountains, flanked by dense pine forest. The pavement was cracked and pockmarked, no guardrails, frequent signs warning of rockslides and ice.

By 6:30, I’d left the interstate and was climbing into the foothills. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink behind the mountains. I was thinking about my mother, about what could be wrong. I was also speeding—65 on a 45 mph stretch—hoping to beat the darkness.

I was only about twenty minutes from her cabin when it happened. I hadn’t seen another car in half an hour. The road was deserted, which was normal for that hour. Deer crossing signs lined the road, but I barely registered them anymore.

I was distracted, running through logistics in my head, when a sharp left turn came up faster than I expected. I started to brake—and my headlights swept across something standing in the middle of the road.

My brain registered it as a deer. That’s what made sense. But even as that thought formed, another part of my mind screamed that something was wrong with the shape. Too tall, too broad. The proportions were all wrong.

I slammed on the brakes, both feet on the pedal, turning the wheel hard. The tires screamed, anti-lock brakes pulsing under my foot, but it was too late. The impact was horrible. Metal crumpled, glass shattered, the airbag exploded into my face, and the car spun, world blurring around me. When it stopped, I was facing the wrong direction. The engine had stalled. The only sound was ticking metal and the hiss of the radiator.

The Impossible Wreck

My face stung from the airbag powder. I sat there for thirty seconds, trying to process. My hands shook. My heart pounded. I did a quick check—everything seemed to work, just bruises and aches.

My first thought was that I’d totaled my car hitting a deer. My second thought was my mother, waiting for me, not knowing I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. I unbuckled, shoved the jammed door open, and climbed out.

The front end was smashed, the hood crumpled. Steam rose from the radiator. The car was undrivable. I looked around for the deer carcass. Nothing.

Then I turned and saw it—fifteen feet behind my car, a massive dark shape barely visible in the fading light. It was not a deer. Too large, proportions all wrong.

I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight. No signal, but the light worked. I approached cautiously, every instinct screaming to get back in the car. The shape was enormous, covered in dark brown fur, almost black in the dim light. Lying on its side, one massive arm stretched across the pavement.

I saw the arm first—thick, muscular, twice the diameter of my own. Not a bear’s arm. Human-like structure. Five distinct fingers ending in nails, not claws.

My light traveled up the arm, across a massive torso, and finally to the head. The face was turned toward me. Not an animal’s face, not quite human, but something in between. Flat, wide nose. Pronounced brow ridge. Heavy jaw. But there was intelligence in the structure, something undeniably aware.

The thing was breathing—chest rising and falling, wet, labored sound with each breath. Wheezing, struggling. That sound snapped me out of my shock. I’d heard breathing like that in trauma patients—broken ribs, punctured lungs.

I stood there frozen, phone light trained on this impossible creature. Every rational part of my brain screamed that this couldn’t be real. Bigfoot wasn’t real. This had to be a prank, a hallucination, a man in a suit. But the breathing was real. The pain was real.

The Decision

It made low groaning sounds, almost human in their quality. Sounds of pain and distress. I couldn’t just leave it to die.

My medical training took over. This was a patient—an injured patient who needed help. I pushed aside the impossibility and focused on what I knew how to do.

I approached slowly, talking softly, the way I would with a frightened patient. “I’m a doctor. I’m going to help you. Please don’t hurt me.” I got close enough to see the damage—both legs twisted at wrong angles, a gash across the forehead, blood matting the fur, a dislocated shoulder, lacerations across the torso, possibly broken ribs.

I knelt beside it. Its eyes opened—dark, aware, intelligent. We made eye contact. Those eyes were looking at me, really seeing me. There was consciousness there.

I was certain it could kill me. That massive hand could snap my neck without effort. I was completely vulnerable, kneeling on the pavement, weaponless, at the mercy of this creature I’d just hit.

But it didn’t move. It just watched me, breathing hard, in pain, making no move to hurt me.

I started talking again, explaining what I was doing, that I had medical supplies. I told it my name. I went through a quick mental assessment. If I left it, it would die. If I called 911—assuming I could get a signal—the authorities would come, see this creature, and it would be taken away, studied, dissected. The thought made me sick.

I grabbed my emergency medical kit from the trunk—a full trauma kit. I also grabbed three emergency blankets and a flashlight. When I got back, the creature hadn’t moved except for breathing. Its eyes were half-closed, conserving energy.

I cleaned the head wound—superficial, not deep. I applied a pressure bandage. The creature groaned but didn’t pull away.

The legs were the real problem. The right leg was clearly fractured, possibly a compound fracture. The left leg was broken at the shin. I had inflatable splints—designed for humans, but adjustable. I explained what I was doing. “This is going to hurt, but it’ll help. Stay still.” The creature’s eyes opened, and it nodded slightly.

I inflated the splint around the right leg, working carefully. Deep groans of pain, but it let me work. I splinted the left leg, stabilized the dislocated shoulder as best I could, cleaned and bandaged the lacerations. The whole time, the creature watched me.

After twenty minutes, I sat back. The creature was stabilized, at least as much as I could manage. Bleeding stopped, broken bones splinted. But this was just first aid. It needed real medical attention.

I looked at my destroyed car, then at the 400-pound Bigfoot lying in the road, and tried to figure out what to do.

The Impossible Rescue

I couldn’t leave it. Even if I could hike to my mother’s cabin and call for help, what help could I call? If emergency services came, what would happen to the creature?

Then I had an idea—a crazy, probably impossible idea. My mother’s cabin was only three miles down the road. My car might limp that far. If I could get the creature into the car, I could take it somewhere safe.

Getting it upright was the first problem. It couldn’t walk on broken legs, even with splints. I found two sturdy branches for makeshift crutches. I explained my plan, feeling insane for talking to it like it could understand. But those eyes were so aware.

“I need to get you to the car. We’ll use these like crutches. You’ll have to help me.” I braced myself. “On three. One, two, three.”

Fifteen minutes of the hardest physical work I’ve ever done. The creature tried to help, pushing up with its good arm, but most of its weight was on me and the branches. I’m six feet tall and in decent shape, but I felt tiny next to it. It had to be at least eight feet tall. We got it to a sitting position, then standing, leaning heavily on me.

We moved toward the car, each step agony for the creature. The splints held, but the broken bones shifted. We had to stop twice when it nearly collapsed. It took ten minutes to cover fifteen feet.

At the car, I faced the next problem: fitting an eight-foot, 400-pound Bigfoot into a midsize sedan. I opened the back door, pushed the front passenger seat forward. Not enough space. We tried different positions—sideways, diagonal, curled up. Nothing worked.

Finally, I had the creature lie diagonally across the back seat, upper torso hanging out one door, lower legs out the other. Both back doors would stay open, most of the creature outside, but at least partially in the vehicle. I covered it with all three blankets, trying to hide as much as possible.

My car looked insane—front end smashed, steam rising, back doors open, blankets spilling out. If anyone saw, they’d know something was wrong.

I got in the driver’s seat, turned the key. The engine sputtered and caught, sounding terrible. I kept the speed down to 20 mph, afraid anything faster would break it. The back door swung with every bump. I checked the rearview mirror obsessively, making sure the creature was still covered.

Halfway there, headlights approached—pickup truck, someone heading home. They passed without slowing, not noticing my wrecked car or open doors.

The relief was overwhelming. I kept driving—three more miles, two, one. I thought about my mother, about how she’d react to this.

Finally, I saw her porch light through the branches. I parked close to the porch. The car shuddered and died. We’d made it.

The Secret at the Cabin

My mother came out, tiny and thin, her hand to her mouth in shock at my car. I told her I was okay but needed her help. Something had happened—something she needed to see.

She approached the car, saw the blankets, and her expression changed. I pulled back a blanket to reveal the creature’s face. I expected her to scream, faint, back away. Instead, she went quiet, stared for a long moment, then looked at me and said, “I see you’ve met one yourself, then.”

I stood there, mouth open. What did she mean, “met one”? She knew about these things? For how long? Why hadn’t she told me?

But she was already moving past me, taking charge with a calm efficiency. “Help me get it inside,” she said. “We’ll talk after. Right now, it needs help.”

Together, we helped the creature out of the car. It could stand with heavy support, leaning on both of us. The porch steps were difficult, but we managed. My mother had cleared a space on the floor, laying out blankets like she’d known we were coming.

We lowered the creature onto the makeshift bed. My mother examined the injuries, checked the bandages, tested the splints. Her movements were confident, practiced, like she’d done this before.

I started to ask questions, but she shushed me. “Not now. The creature needs help first. We’ll talk after.” She brought hot water, clean towels, and a first aid kit more comprehensive than mine. We worked together, cleaning wounds, rebandaging, applying herbal paste she made in the kitchen.

She explained that these creatures heal fast, faster than humans, but still need help. The herbs would reduce inflammation and speed healing. I didn’t ask how she knew.

After two hours, the creature seemed more comfortable. Its breathing was easier, the groans of pain had stopped. It watched us with those dark, aware eyes, and I saw gratitude.

My mother made coffee, and we sat at her kitchen table. Through the doorway, I could see the creature resting.

My Mother’s Secret

She told me she’d seen these creatures for fifteen years, ever since moving to the cabin. The first encounter was terrifying—a massive hairy face at her window, intelligent eyes inches from the glass. She’d frozen, certain she was about to die. But the creature watched her, then walked away.

Over time, they returned. Always at night, always careful. She started leaving food out—apples, vegetables. By morning, they were gone. In return, she found gifts: rocks, feathers, bones, pine cones arranged in spirals. They understood the exchange, food for acknowledgment.

She described their behavior—curious, fascinated by tools, mimicking her movements, opening latches, using sticks. Their intelligence was remarkable. They could problem-solve, manipulate objects with dexterity, untie knots, open containers.

They avoided most humans but were drawn to people who lived respectfully in their territory, who didn’t hunt or try to prove their existence. People like her.

She described their vocalizations—whoops and screams for warning, softer sounds for communication. Their social structure was family groups, adults with young, multiple generations. She’d watched them play, practice skills, care for each other.

She talked about their eyes—aware, conscious, processing, understanding. Deeply unsettling and humbling.

She confirmed the wood knocking—used to communicate distance and location, triangulate positions. Stick structures marked territory. Their diet was mostly vegetation, berries, roots, fish from streams. They avoided hunting when possible.

She talked about their hands—opposable thumbs, manual dexterity equal to humans, combined with terrifying strength. She’d seen them untie knots, open latches, handle tools.

She mentioned their infrasound ability—sometimes they could make you feel intense fear or dread, a defensive mechanism. Their feet were flexible, almost like hands, giving them incredible balance.

When I asked why no one had found a body, she said they bury their dead. She’d found disturbed earth, large areas carefully filled back in. Graves.

She’d become attached to the family group visiting her property. She recognized individuals—the tall one, his mate, offspring. A family trying to survive.

She thought the one I’d hit was running from something—hunters, dogs, spooked into the road at the wrong moment.

We talked until past midnight. She’d kept the secret to protect them. If people knew, they’d be hunted, captured, studied. The Bigfoots trusted her because she’d proven she could keep the secret.

Farewell

We took turns watching the creature through the night. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about everything I’d experienced. Around 2:00 a.m., I relieved my mother. I watched the creature breathe, studied its face—the brow ridge, flat nose, massive head, hair thinning on the face and hands, revealing tough, weathered skin.

At 3:00 a.m., its eyes opened. We made eye contact, held it. The creature looked at me, then closed its eyes again. It felt like trust.

By dawn, the change was remarkable. Breathing was easier, swelling down. The creature flexed its legs, tested them within the splints. The dislocated shoulder looked better. My mother said we should remove the splints by evening. I was skeptical, but she was confident.

Early that afternoon, the creature tried to stand. We helped, amazed at how much better it was moving. Limping, but walking.

My mother said it needed to go back to its family. They’d be worried. If others came looking, it could be dangerous for us and them. The creature seemed to understand, nodded slightly.

We guided it to the edge of the forest. It stopped, turned to look at us. My mother stepped forward, patted its forearm. “Be safe,” she said. “Stay off roads. Watch for cars.” The creature made a low sound, then reached out and gently touched my mother’s head—a gesture of affection.

It turned to me, extended its hand. I took it. The hand engulfed mine, warm and rough, squeezing gently, then released. It made soft sounds, then turned and walked into the forest. Within seconds, it had disappeared.

From deep in the woods came a single sharp wood knock. My mother smiled. “That’s thank you,” she said.

Aftermath

I stayed with my mother for two more days. We didn’t talk much about what had happened. She showed me the collection of gifts—rocks, bones, pine cones, feathers, each placed carefully.

On my third morning, I found a massive elk antler on the porch rail. “That’s from the one you helped,” my mother said. “He’s saying thank you.”

I drove back to Seattle, my dash cam loaded with footage—the moment of impact, the creature lying in the road, me approaching, loading it into my car. All of it recorded in perfect digital clarity. But I’ll never share it. Who would believe me? And even if they did, what would happen? Scientists, government, hunters. Everything my mother built would be destroyed.

I filed an insurance claim, said I hit a deer. The adjuster approved it. The body shop found long dark hair in the grill. “What kind of animal did you hit?” they asked. I said I didn’t know. They shrugged and crushed the car for scrap.

Now, when I visit my mother, I watch the woods differently. I listen for wood knocks, whoops, calls. I look for stick structures, X patterns, teepees. I leave apples on the porch rail. By morning, they’re gone, sometimes replaced by a rock or a feather. I know they’re watching. I feel eyes on me, not threatening, just aware.

Late at night, I hear sounds in the forest—soft hooting calls, wood knocks, one answering another. I wonder if it’s him, the tall one, healed and back with his family. I wonder if he tells them about the human who hit him and then helped him.

Twelve years in medicine taught me about anatomy, trauma, healing. I thought I understood what was possible. That night changed all of that. It’s not just about believing in Bigfoot. It’s about understanding that intelligence and consciousness aren’t uniquely human. There are other minds out there, other ways of thinking and being.

The way that creature trusted me, let me treat it, move it, could have killed me but didn’t. The gentleness of that final touch, the way it placed its hand on my mother’s head. That was emotion, gratitude, affection.

These creatures aren’t just unknown primates. They’re intelligent, emotional, conscious beings who’ve chosen to live apart from us. They’ve watched us for thousands of years and decided distance is safer than contact. They live in wild places we’ve forgotten, aware of us every second, watching, avoiding, existing in parallel.

I think about that creature often. I wonder if the broken legs healed, if the shoulder gives it trouble, if it remembers me. I keep the dash cam footage on an encrypted drive. Sometimes, late at night, I watch it—the headlights sweeping across that massive figure, the impact, the eyes opening, looking directly at me.

It’s proof. But it’s proof I’ll never share. Some secrets are too important. Some encounters are meant to change just one person, or to confirm what one person already knew, and teach another to see the world through new eyes.

My mother was right—they respond to kindness. They understand it in ways that challenge everything we know about animal intelligence and consciousness.

I’m grateful for that night. Grateful I got to see something most people never will. To touch something that shouldn’t exist, but does. Grateful I had the chance to help, to make a difference for a creature that had every reason to hurt me but chose not to.

Now, when I look at the forest behind my mother’s cabin, I don’t just see trees and shadows. I see possibility. I see mystery. I see life existing in ways we don’t understand, living by rules we haven’t discovered, thinking thoughts we can’t imagine.

Maybe some things are meant to stay hidden. Maybe some mysteries are more valuable unsolved. Maybe the world is richer because of what we don’t know than what we do.

The footage stays on that encrypted drive. The story stays with me and my mother. And the creatures stay in the mountains, watching us with those intelligent eyes, living their lives in the spaces between our understanding.

And that’s exactly how it should be.