Bigfoot Attacked a Logging Crew… What Happened Next Will Shock You – Sasquatch Story

The Pacific Northwest is a place of shadows and stories. Its forests are ancient, the trees older than memory, the ground soft with moss and rain. For those who work the land, the wilderness is both a challenge and a comfort—a place where the mind can wander and the imagination sometimes gets the better of you. But every so often, something happens that blurs the line between myth and reality, leaving behind a question that lingers long after the chainsaws fall silent.

This is a story about a logging crew, a stretch of old growth timber outside Forks, Washington, and a series of events that left more questions than answers. It’s a story about what happens when you step into the unknown, and what you choose to do when the forest looks back.

The Work Begins

In late September 2014, I was running a small crew about forty miles outside Forks, near the Cascades. Our job was straightforward: clear a new section of timber before winter set in. The company, Timber Ridge LLC, had the permits and the deadlines. We worked hard, dawn to dusk, five days a week. Six of us—myself, the foreman, two experienced loggers, a skitter operator, a loader operator, and a young guy we called Rookie, who handled the grunt work.

The site was remote, tucked at the end of a decommissioned logging road, two miles in from the main route. The canopy was thick—Douglas fir and red cedar, some trees older than the state itself. The ground was soft, rich with decades of needle rot. We set up a staging area: a portable trailer for tools and paperwork, a generator, our machines parked in a row each night. No fence, no security, just one camera mounted on the foreman’s trailer—a precaution after a chainsaw disappeared the month before.

The first week was uneventful. We dropped thirty trees, hauled out half. The work was hard but honest, the pay good, and nobody asked questions. The forest felt like any other—quiet, steady, familiar.

Signs and Whispers

The second week, small things started to feel off. Tools weren’t where we’d left them. A fuel can tipped over, though no one admitted to touching it. One morning, we found a pile of stones stacked near the treeline—a cairn, Rookie joked, like something out of the Blair Witch. We laughed, but the mood shifted.

Some of the crew brought their hunting dogs. Usually, they lounged near the machines, but suddenly they wouldn’t go near the trees. They whined, paced, tails tucked. We figured there was a bear or cougar nearby, shrugged it off.

By the third week, the unease spread. Conversations grew quieter, guys packed up earlier, eager to get back to town before dark. Raymond, a veteran logger, mentioned he’d heard something late one night—a scream, deep and strange, like a human imitating a horn, coming from the ridge above the site. I asked if it could’ve been an elk. He shook his head. He knew elk.

Friday came. We shut down early for the weekend. I did my usual walk around, checked the machines, locked the trailer, and drove home. The feeling of being watched clung to me all the way back, but I told myself it was just the isolation, the tricks of the mind in deep woods.

The Weekend Omen

That Sunday night, Cole, the skitter operator, called. He’d driven past the turnoff after a camping trip and thought he saw a fire—maybe a glow through the trees. I told him it was probably moonlight or a reflection, but he sounded uneasy. I promised we’d check it first thing Monday.

That night, I lay awake, thinking about the stacked stones, the dogs, Raymond’s scream. By morning, I’d convinced myself it was nothing.

The Discovery

Monday, we caravanned in at sunrise. Mist hung low in the trees. I was first to the site. As I rounded the bend, my stomach dropped. The skitter was on its side, tipped like a toy. The loader’s boom was bent, twisted metal glinting in the early light. The foreman’s trailer had been shoved ten feet, gouges in the earth marking its path.

The crew arrived behind me. We walked through the wreckage in silence. Hydraulic lines ripped out, fluid pooled in the dirt. The cab door was gone, later found thirty yards away, hinges sheared clean. Rookie found claw marks on the loader—four deep grooves, two feet long. Cole checked the fuel tanks, punctured and leaking into the moss.

Raymond found footprints near the treeline. Barefoot, huge—sixteen, maybe seventeen inches long, five toes, deep heel strike. The stride was at least four feet between prints. I crouched, put my hand next to one. It dwarfed me.

No one spoke what we were thinking. We didn’t have to.

The Footage

I remembered the camera. Ran to the trailer, yanked open the bent door, grabbed the DVR unit. The camera was still mounted, lens intact. I pulled the hard drive, plugged it into my laptop. The crew gathered around.

Most of the footage was darkness, outlines of machines, shadows shifting in the wind. Then, at 2:47 a.m., movement. A figure emerged from the treeline—massive, upright, walking on two legs. Night vision gave everything a grainy green glow, but the shape was clear: broad shoulders, long arms, a head set forward on the neck.

It walked to the skitter, paused, then reached out and pulled the cab door free. Metal screamed. The figure tossed it aside, moved to the hydraulic lines, tore them out. Fluid sprayed. It circled the machine, methodical, purposeful, then crouched low, lifted the skitter, and toppled it.

For a moment, it turned toward the camera. Its face was flat, broad, eyes catching the infrared and glowing white. Then it walked back into the trees and was gone.

We watched the footage three times. Rookie whispered what we were all thinking. Raymond nodded. I closed the laptop, hands shaking.

What Comes Next

I called the company, reported vandalism—left out the footage. The manager said he’d send an adjuster and a security contractor, asked if we could keep working. I looked at the crew. Fear was written on every face. I told him we needed a day to assess.

By noon, the crew had packed up and left. I stayed, walked the site alone, following the footprints into the forest. The trees thickened, the canopy almost black. I heard a low, distant rumble, like a growl. I turned back.

That night, I searched online: Bigfoot Washington sightings. Hundreds of reports—footprints, vocalizations, structures made of branches. Much of it was nonsense, but some matched what we’d seen: stacked stones, dogs refusing the treeline, deep vocalizations.

I found a forum, posted a vague description. Replies came quickly: territorial behavior, machinery targeted as a warning, advice to leave the area. One said to check for nests or dens nearby, that we might have gotten too close to a family.

The Ridge

The next morning, I returned alone. Parked at the staging area, hiked toward the ridge, following footprints washed out by rain. The forest was silent—no birds, no squirrels, just my boots on wet moss.

About a quarter mile in, I found it—a shelter built into the hollow of a massive cedar, the opening low but deep. Inside, bent branches arranged like bedding, and near the entrance, smaller prints—maybe ten inches long.

My heart pounded. Cubs. I backed away slowly, careful not to disturb anything. Then I smelled it—wet fur, earthy and thick. I turned and saw it, standing thirty feet away, partially hidden, watching me. It didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, just stood there.

We stared at each other for what felt like an hour, but was probably ten seconds. Then it stepped deeper into the shadows and was gone.

The Choice

I called the crew to a diner, told them what I’d found—the shelter, the prints, the encounter. Raymond believed me immediately. Cole was skeptical, Rookie uncertain. I showed them the footage again, pointed out the intelligence in its actions.

The question was what to do. The company wanted us back on site. If we showed them the footage, it would go public—news crews, researchers, hunters. The forest would be swarmed. The family would be driven out, or worse.

I decided to delete the footage, tell the company it was a bear or equipment malfunction, and recommend we halt operations in that section. Raymond nodded. Cole asked what we’d say if people asked. I said the ground was unstable, risk of landslides—plausible enough.

That afternoon, I met with the adjuster, walked him through the site, stuck to the story. He bought it. The company reassigned us to a new site fifteen miles south, lower elevation, already partially cleared. The damaged section would be left alone until spring.

The Winter

I deleted the footage, smashed the drive, threw the pieces away. The only copy left was in my memory.

We started work at the new site in October. The trees were smaller, the ground more forgiving. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the old site, the mother and her cubs. Sometimes I drove past the turnoff, just to see. The forest looked the same, quiet and undisturbed.

Rookie quit after a month. Raymond and Cole stayed on, but we didn’t talk about what happened. It was an unspoken agreement. We moved on, or tried to.

Messages

One morning, I found a bundle of branches on my truck’s hood, woven into a rough circle. I took it as a message—a thank you, maybe, or a reminder. I hung it in my garage.

Winter hit hard. We shut down operations mid-December to February. I spent the time fixing equipment, staying busy. But I kept thinking about the old site, wondering if the family was safe.

One weekend in January, I drove up there. The road was snow-packed and icy, the staging area buried under two feet. The machines were still there, rusting. I hiked to the cedar. The shelter was sealed off, but signs of recent use lingered—broken branches, a faint trail leading farther up the ridge.

I left a bag of apples at the base, an offering. On my way back, I heard a vocalization—low, long, echoing through the trees. It sounded almost acknowledging.

Writing It Down

When I got home, I started writing everything down—not for proof, not for publication, just for me. The crew, the wreckage, the footage, the shelter, the cubs. The choice I’d made. The mother’s eyes.

In February, we went back to work. The new site was almost done. The company was scouting locations, and I made sure none were near the old site. I didn’t have much pull, but I did what I could.

By March, we were scheduled farther south. I felt a weight lift.

The Last Visit

In April, I returned to the old site one last time. The snow had melted, the forest waking up. The staging area was overgrown, machines reclaimed by moss and vines. The cedar shelter was empty. They’d moved on.

I sat on a fallen log, listened to the forest—birds singing, a squirrel chattering, the wind whispering through branches. I thought about the footage, about what would have happened if I’d kept it—the fame, the attention, the consequences. Hunters, cameras, crowds. The family driven out, or worse.

I’d made the right choice.

As I stood to leave, I found a stone, smooth and black, placed carefully on a piece of bark. Next to it, a tuft of dark fur. I picked up the stone, felt its warmth, looked toward the deeper forest. I didn’t see anything, but I felt it—the presence, the watching.

Sharing the Story

That night, I told my wife everything. Showed her the stone, the notebook, described the footage. She listened, asked if I regretted deleting it. I said no. She asked if I believed what I saw. I said yes. She nodded, said she believed me. That was enough.

Raymond texted me a photo of a structure he’d found hiking near Mount Rainier—branches stacked in a teepee shape, too purposeful to be natural. I recognized the pattern. Told him to leave it alone, not to go back. He agreed. That was the last time we talked about it. The word “Bigfoot” stopped feeling strange. It was just a fact now, something we’d encountered and chosen to protect.

We finished the job and moved south. I kept the stone in my desk drawer, pulled it out when I needed to remember why I did what I did.

Aftermath

Other crews reported strange sounds, equipment moved overnight, tools gone missing. I listened, nodded, suggested they work elsewhere. Sometimes I left small offerings near the tree lines—food, supplies, nothing that would draw attention. I didn’t know if it helped, but it felt right.

A documentary filmmaker called, asking for stories. I declined. Watched his film later—dozens claimed encounters, none had proof like what I’d destroyed. I felt guilt and relief.

Cole left for construction. Raymond retired. Rookie never came back. The new crew didn’t know. The secret was lighter that way.

I stopped going to the old site. The company sold the rights. The new outfit started clearing lower sections, no problems. Maybe the family had moved deeper. I hoped so.

Closure

One night, I dreamed of the ridge—the mother and her cubs, taller now, almost adolescent. She looked at me, raised a hand, turned, and walked into the trees. The cubs followed. I woke with a sense of closure.

I listened to the forest more, paid attention to the signs. If I saw stacked stones, I moved the crew. If the dogs acted strange, I called it early. The company trusted my judgment. No more wrecked machines, no more encounters. Just honest work in a forest that felt a little less empty.

I never saw Bigfoot again. But I carried the memory, the footage I’d destroyed, the choice I’d made. It shaped everything that came after, and I wouldn’t change it.

Legacy

In the years since, I’ve thought about what it means to see something the world doesn’t believe in, to hold proof and choose to destroy it. People talk about Bigfoot like it’s a mystery to be solved, a puzzle with a missing piece. For me, it stopped being a mystery the moment I saw the cubs. It became a responsibility—a choice between curiosity and compassion, between fame and doing the right thing.

I chose compassion. I’d make the same choice again.

I still have the stone. Still keep the notebook. My wife knows. My son knows. He asked if I ever wished I’d kept the footage. I said no. He asked why. I told him, “Some things are more important than being believed. Some things you protect because it’s the right thing to do, even if no one ever knows.” He nodded.

The forest is still there—the ridge, the cedar, the trails. I drive past sometimes, but I don’t stop. The memory is enough.

Bigfoot is real. And that’s all I need to know.