New Alaska Sasquatch Evidence: What We Discovered Deep in the Backcountry

I need you to understand something before you write this off as another campfire story.

We didn’t go to Alaska to get spooked. We didn’t go to howl into the dark and claim “Sasquatch answered.” We didn’t go to drink cheap whiskey and dare each other to wander off-trail.

We went to prove it.

And we came back with proof—real, measurable, physical evidence.

.

.

.

But we also came back with something else: the certainty that whatever lives out there isn’t just a rare animal hiding from people.

It’s a presence.

It’s intelligent.

And it does not tolerate being hunted.

1) Who We Were (and Why Alaska Was the Only Place That Made Sense)

There were four of us. All experienced outdoorsmen. Hunters. The kind that don’t get lost because a trail disappears. The kind that know what “quiet” sounds like in a healthy forest—and what it sounds like when the forest goes still for a reason.

Between us we had wilderness first aid, cold-weather operation training, map-and-compass navigation, the ability to read sign that most people walk past without noticing. We’d tracked elk across rock and timber by broken twigs alone. We’d hunted bear in rough country. We’d slept in weather that would send most people running for a hotel.

The obsession started years earlier—footprints in Washington, then Oregon, then Northern California. Always the same impossible features: oversized impressions, five toe marks, stride lengths that didn’t match any bear. We did what serious people do: documented, compared, researched. We studied credible reports, talked to researchers, tore apart hoaxes to understand how they worked.

Eventually Alaska became the focus for one simple reason:

Alaska has enough wilderness for something huge to exist without ever being forced into the open.

We picked an area north of Denali—remote, brutal, and loaded with consistent reports: bush pilots seeing tall figures on glacial edges, hunters finding tracks in snow that made no sense, indigenous stories predating modern hype by generations.

We saved for two years. Bought top-tier gear. Twelve trail cameras with night vision and heat triggers. Audio stations with parabolic microphones. GPS units with satellite comms. Enough supplies for a month.

We weren’t going to “hunt” a Bigfoot.

We were going to document one.

That was our mistake.

2) The Outpost Warning

Our last stop before the wilderness was a tiny outpost that barely qualified as a settlement—six permanent buildings, a general store, a gas pump that looked like it had survived three decades of bad weather, and a restaurant that doubled as the local bar.

The woman behind the counter was friendly until we said what we were doing.

Then she just… stopped.

No smile. No small talk.

She stared at us like she’d suddenly realized we were about to do something stupid and irreversible.

“That area isn’t safe,” she said.

We thanked her and did what outsiders always do—filed it under folklore.

Outside the store, while we were sorting our packs, an old man approached us. A retired trapper. Seventies. Weathered face like bark. Eyes that didn’t blink much.

He told us he’d worked those mountains for forty years and stopped because he’d seen things he couldn’t explain—things that made trapping not worth it anymore.

Then he said the line I think about more than anything else:

“They know when you’re hunting them.”

Not hunting like game.

Hunting like searching.

He told us three experienced outdoorsmen had gone missing in that territory over the last decade. Search parties found torn clothing. Blood. One camp looked like it had been hit by a tornado—gear scattered across a quarter mile. Authorities blamed bears and carelessness.

The trapper shook his head.

“Those ones down south? Shy. These ones?” He glanced toward the treeline. “Territorial. Smart.”

We should have listened.

Instead we smiled, thanked him, and relied on the most dangerous thing we carried:

Confidence.

3) Two Days In (and the Silence That Didn’t Feel Natural)

The hike took two full days.

Seventy-pound packs. Cold mornings. Spruce forest so dense the world felt like perpetual dusk. Moss swallowing footfalls. Valleys choked with alder and willow, devil’s club tearing at our clothes like the forest was trying to grab us back.

We made camp on a ridge in a small clearing, tents in a rough circle, food hung high, everything done by the book.

And the silence came down like a curtain.

No birds.

No insects.

Just wind in the upper branches.

It should’ve felt peaceful.

Instead it felt like… attendance being taken.

Like something had noticed four new bodies in its country and was deciding what to do about it.

4) The Grid (Twelve Cameras and Three Listening Posts)

On day two, we split into pairs and set our equipment.

We placed the cameras seven feet high, angled down, camouflaged with bark and moss. We positioned them along travel corridors—game trails, water sources, ridgelines with clean sight lines. The audio stations went even deeper, hidden, parabolic mics aimed to triangulate vocalizations.

Everything was logged. GPS coordinates. Time stamps. Notes.

By late afternoon, we had a five-square-mile net of surveillance.

We were proud of it.

We didn’t realize we were building a net inside someone else’s living room.

5) The Footprint That Made Us Believe We’d Won

Day three, near midday, we found the print.

Deep in mud near a stream—clean enough that our brains locked onto it like it was a magnet.

Eighteen inches long.

At least seven inches wide at the ball.

Five toe impressions.

And what looked disturbingly like dermal ridges.

The depth suggested something heavy—not a bear on hind legs, not a prank. The stride to the next print was over six feet.

We took dozens of photos. Measured everything. Mixed plaster. Made casts—three of them—because we couldn’t bear the idea of messing up the best evidence of our lives.

Then we followed the trackway until rock swallowed it.

On the ridge above, we found crushed vegetation like something massive had knelt or sat. Broken branches eight to nine feet up. And a rock stack—cairn-like, but wrong: stones from different places, different colors, arranged deliberately, fresh.

A marker.

A warning.

We documented it all and went back to camp feeling like we’d already won.

That night, eating freeze-dried stew, we made the classic mistake of men who think they’re in control.

We talked about what we’d do when we got back.

Who we’d contact.

How the media would react.

How skeptics would choke on the casts.

We were laughing when the first howl cut through the night.

6) The Howl That Didn’t Belong to Anything We Knew

It came from the north, maybe half a mile away.

Low at first—almost a moan—then rising into a shriek that made my scalp tighten and my stomach drop. It carried for fifteen seconds, then dissolved into guttural grunts like something speaking through a throat too large for human sound.

It wasn’t a wolf.

Wolves are musical.

This was orchestrated—powerful, singular, and wrong.

Then another answered from the east—closer.

Then another from the south—deeper.

Then another from the west—closest yet, only a couple hundred yards.

Four distinct voices.

A rough circle.

We weren’t listening to random calls.

We were listening to coordination.

We grabbed rifles and formed a tight circle, backs together, lights out into the dark. The howling continued for nearly twenty minutes, voices rising and falling as if information was being passed.

Then it stopped.

And the silence afterward felt like the forest leaning in.

No one slept.

7) Morning: The Proof Was Still There… and the Cameras Were Gone

At dawn we debated leaving.

We had the casts.

We had photos.

We had rock markers and broken branches.

But pride is heavy, and it makes people do stupid math: We only need one more piece of evidence.

We decided to check the cameras.

The first one was destroyed—ripped from the tree, casing shattered. Memory card missing.

The second one was gone entirely—only screws left in the trunk.

The third was still mounted, but the card was… empty. Not “nothing happened.” Empty like it had been wiped.

By midday it was clear:

All twelve cameras had been found.
All twelve had been eliminated.
Destroyed, removed, or wiped clean.

Our expensive net of surveillance—placed carefully over two days—had been dismantled in one night.

Not by chance.

Not by weather.

Not by bears.

By something that understood exactly what cameras were and what they meant.

The worst part wasn’t losing equipment.

The worst part was what it implied:

They’d watched us set them.

They’d followed us while we worked.

They’d let us believe we were alone.

Then, while we slept, they’d moved through the woods like ghosts—within feet of our tents—collecting and erasing evidence like a team.

And still, they didn’t hurt us.

Not yet.

8) We Stayed (Because We Thought We Were Still the Hunters)

We should have left that day.

Instead we stayed.

Two more days, we told ourselves. Forty-eight hours. Replace what we could. Try for daylight visuals. We already had casts—maybe we could get audio.

It wasn’t logic.

It was obsession.

It was arrogance.

And Alaska punishes arrogance.

Day five we found a structure: a teepee-like weave of saplings, bent and interlocked, about eight feet tall.

Inside were bones.

Lots of bones—deer, elk.

And a few shapes that made our stomachs tighten because they looked too close to human to be comfortable.

We didn’t touch anything.

We took photos.

Then we heard wood knocks: three sharp hits like a bat against a trunk.

From the west.

Then three from the north.

Then three from the south.

They weren’t hiding anymore.

They were pacing us, signaling position and movement like a coordinated unit.

We moved back to camp quickly, rifles ready, not running—because running triggers the oldest predator math in the world.

The knocks followed from different angles the whole way.

By the time we reached camp, we were sweating in freezing air.

That night, the howls began at sunset.

Closer than before.

Right at the edge of our lights.

Then footsteps—heavy, deliberate—circling, breaking branches like they wanted us to know silence was no longer part of the negotiation.

And then we saw one.

Just a second, in the sweep of a flashlight:

Eight feet tall.

Dark hair.

Eyes reflecting red in our beams.

It raised an arm and slapped a tree trunk three times—wood knocks, up close, like punctuation.

Then it stepped backward into blackness and vanished without a sound.

That’s when the thrill died.

We’d finally seen a Bigfoot.

And all we felt was terror.

We agreed: leave at first light.

But they weren’t finished.

9) The Screaming Trap

Around 3:00 a.m., we heard screaming.

Not howling.

Screaming—high, desperate, like a woman in mortal terror calling for help.

It came from just beyond the northern edge of camp.

So close our bodies reacted before our minds could.

Every human instinct screamed: Go help.

And that’s exactly why it works.

Because compassion is predictable.

We had read reports about mimicry. People dismissed them as folklore.

In that moment, listening to something imitate human distress so convincingly it made my chest ache, I realized the reports weren’t folklore.

They were warnings.

The screaming cut off mid-shriek.

Silence.

And then the forest exploded.

10) The Charge and the Rocks

We heard them first—multiple heavy bodies crashing toward us, converging from different directions. Our beams caught glimpses: massive shapes moving between trunks, at least four, maybe more.

One of my friends fired a warning shot into the air.

The crack echoed off ridges.

Everything stopped.

A held breath.

For a single second, we believed the noise had worked.

Then rocks started flying.

Not random stones.

Fist-sized projectiles whistling through the air with terrifying speed and accuracy.

One struck a friend in the shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways.

Another slammed into our stove and sent it skidding, fuel spilling.

They weren’t just throwing. They were targeting—hitting gear, supplies, breaking our ability to function.

A few passed close enough to our heads that we heard the air slice.

And then one of them rushed into the edge of camp.

We saw it clearly in flashlight and muzzle flash:

Nine feet, black hair, shoulders like a refrigerator, hands huge—fingers thick, nails like short claws.

It moved fast—too fast for something that big.

It grabbed a tent and shredded it like paper. Poles snapped like twigs. Packs spilled open.

Another Bigfoot appeared opposite, reddish-brown hair, went straight to the food bag hung fifteen feet up.

It yanked the rope.

The branch bent.

Then snapped.

The bag hit the ground and it stomped and tore and crushed everything—not eating, not stealing—destroying.

Then the biggest one stepped in.

Ten feet. Gray-black hair. Posture upright, controlled, like the leader.

It didn’t charge.

It walked.

Calm.

It stopped twenty feet away and looked at us like we were objects to be assessed.

Then it pointed.

A deliberate, human gesture.

It pointed at each of us.

Then pointed toward the direction we’d come from.

Leave.

Now.

This is not your place.

Then it threw its head back and roared so hard the sound vibrated in our ribs.

And the others joined it—five total shapes in the flashes—moving, circling, controlling the space, pressing us without finishing us.

They weren’t trying to kill us.

They were demonstrating that killing us would be effortless.

Finally, as suddenly as it started, they retreated—melting into the trees like smoke.

The whole thing lasted maybe five or six minutes.

It felt like hours.

11) Dawn: They Removed Our Trail Home

In the morning we found the final insult.

Our flagging tape—trail markers we’d set to guide us back—was gone.

Not blown away.

Not torn at random.

Systematically removed.

Every strip.

They had made our exit harder without blocking it completely, like a parent letting a child struggle just enough to learn.

We still had GPS and maps, thank God.

We packed what we could salvage and left at 7:00 a.m., moving fast.

And they followed.

We didn’t see them much—only heard them: wood knocks, branch breaks, heavy footsteps paralleling our route that stopped whenever we stopped.

It wasn’t a chase.

It was an escort.

A forced removal.

Like we were being herded out of their territory under watch.

At midday, when we stopped for water, we saw one standing on a ridge above us—huge, silhouetted against the sky, relaxed like it had all the time in the world.

It watched us for a minute.

Then turned and walked away.

Not hurried.

Not threatened.

Just certain.

12) Why We Never Published the “Proof”

We made it back to the truck near dark and drove like we were escaping a fire.

We didn’t stop until Fairbanks.

Hot showers. Fourteen hours of sleep.

Back home, we reviewed the casts and photos.

The footprint casts were real—undeniable in their size, detail, and shape.

But we didn’t publish.

Not because we were embarrassed.

Because we finally understood the deeper truth:

If these creatures are intelligent enough to find and erase cameras…
and coordinated enough to surround a camp…
and controlled enough to use intimidation rather than slaughter…

Then the reason definitive proof is rare isn’t because Bigfoot doesn’t exist.

It’s because Bigfoot doesn’t want to be proven.

And if you push too hard—if you go to Alaska with cameras and obsession and the idea that you’re the apex mind in the room—something out there will correct you.

We went looking for proof.

We found it.

And then we learned the price of being right.