Unveiling the Unknown: What Really Happens to Human Bodies in the Presence of Bigfoot?
In the winter of 1997, I stumbled upon a truth that would forever alter my understanding of life, death, and the creatures that inhabit our world. My name is David Thornton, a forensic anthropologist, and what I found in an underground cavern in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State was far more disturbing than any legend could prepare you for. After 27 years of silence, it is time to share the story I was once told never to tell.
The Call to Action
December 1997 was one of the coldest winters the Cascade Mountains had seen in decades. Snow blanketed the forests of central Washington, transforming the ancient pines into a winter wonderland. Yet beneath this picturesque beauty, something dark was unfolding. I was 34 years old at the time, deeply engrossed in my work, analyzing skeletal remains and helping to identify bodies. My job fascinated me.
On December 18th, I received an urgent call from Detective Patricia Brennan of the Stevens County Sheriff’s Department. “Dr. Thornton, we need your expertise on something unusual,” she said, her voice tight with stress. “We’ve had four hikers go missing in the past six weeks in the Callville National Forest. All experienced outdoorsmen. All disappeared without a trace.”
Her words sent a chill down my spine. “Have you found bodies?”
“No, that’s the problem. We found their campsites, equipment, even their vehicles, but no bodies. No blood. No signs of struggle. It’s like they just vanished into thin air.” She paused. “But we did find something else. Tracks.”
The Unusual Tracks
My curiosity piqued. “What kind of tracks?”
“They’re humanoid, but wrong—too large. The stride is too long, and they’re always found near the locations where people vanished. We need someone with your background to look at this scientifically.”
Despite my busy schedule, something in Detective Brennan’s voice compelled me to help. Two days later, I found myself driving north on Highway 395, my Jeep Cherokee loaded with equipment, warm clothing, and supplies for a week in the mountains. The forecast predicted more snow, but the sheriff’s department insisted this couldn’t wait.
I arrived in Kovville, a small logging town of about 5,000 people, just as the sun set behind the mountains. The sheriff’s department was modestly decorated with Christmas lights, an incongruous sight given the grim circumstances. Detective Brennan met me in the parking lot, her demeanor reflecting the weight of the case.
“Dr. Thornton, thanks for coming on such short notice,” she said, shaking my hand firmly.
“Call me David,” I replied. “You mentioned unusual tracks?”
The Missing Hikers
Inside the conference room, the walls were covered with maps, photographs, and timelines. Four faces stared back at me from missing person posters: Gregory Chen, 29, who disappeared on November 9th; Michael Kowalski, 35, missing since November 23rd; Rachel Foster, 31, who vanished on December 5th; and James Anderson, 42, who disappeared on December 12th. All were experienced hikers.
“These weren’t amateur tourists who got lost,” Brennan explained. “Chen was a wilderness guide. Kowalski had army survival training. Foster had climbed in the Himalayas. Anderson was a park ranger with 15 years of experience.”
She pulled out photographs taken at each disappearance site. Large footprints were visible in the snow and mud—clearly humanoid but enormous, at least 16 inches long. The stride length indicated something that walked upright but took steps far longer than any normal human.
“Bigfoot tracks?” I said, unable to hide my skepticism.
“Detective, you can’t seriously think—”
“I don’t know what to think,” she interrupted. “That’s why you’re here. But look at this.” She showed me another set of photos taken at the Chen site, revealing drag marks leading from Chen’s campsite into the forest.
“Could be the victim trying to crawl,” I suggested, though something about the pattern didn’t fit.
“That’s what we thought at first. But look at the distance. These marks go on for over 200 yards before they disappear into dense forest. And there’s no blood, David. Not a drop.”
The Local Legends
As we examined the evidence, I asked, “What do the locals say?”
Brennan’s expression darkened. “The old-timers in town, the loggers who’ve worked these forests for decades, won’t go into that part of the Kovville National Forest anymore. They say the area is cursed. That people who go in don’t come out. They talk about…”
“About what?” I prompted.
“They talk about the guardian of the bones.”
“Guardian of the bones?” I echoed, intrigued.
“It’s a local legend that goes back to before the town was founded. The Spokane and Callispel tribes have stories about a creature that lives in the deepest parts of the forest. They say it collects the deceased and takes them to a sacred place. They call it different names, but the meaning is the same—a being that guards the boundary between life and death.”
I leaned back, processing this information. As a scientist, I didn’t believe in legends or supernatural guardians, but four people were missing, and the evidence suggested something unusual was happening. “What do you need from me?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning, we’re sending a search team to the area where Anderson disappeared six days ago. It’s the most recent site, and we’re hoping there might still be evidence that hasn’t been buried by snow. I want you there. I want your expert opinion on anything we find.”
The Search Begins
The following morning, I met Detective Brennan and her search team at the sheriff’s department at 6:00 a.m. Eight of us set out: Brennan, myself, two deputies named Harris and Yamamoto, two experienced search and rescue volunteers named John Whitfield and Maria Santos, and two tracking dogs with their handler, Earl Patterson.
We drove for about 40 minutes into the mountains, the roads becoming increasingly treacherous as we climbed higher. Snow fell steadily, thick flakes sticking to the windshield faster than the wipers could clear them. Finally, we reached a small parking area where James Anderson’s truck still sat, now covered in several inches of snow. Yellow police tape marked it as a crime scene.
“His camp was about a mile and a half northeast of here,” Brennan explained as we geared up. “Last radio contact was December 12th at 4:30 p.m. He reported everything was fine, the weather was clear, and he’d be hiking out the next morning. That was the last anyone heard from him.”
We set out into the forest, following the trail Anderson would have taken. The dogs led the way, their breath visible in the freezing air. Despite my layers of clothing, the cold seeped through. The forest was eerily quiet—no birds, no sounds of small animals—just the crunch of our boots in the snow and our own breathing. Even the dogs seemed uneasy, whining softly.
The Campsite Discovery
After about 40 minutes of hiking, we reached Anderson’s campsite. His tent was partially collapsed under snow but still intact. Inside, his backpack, sleeping bag, and supplies remained. The campfire pit showed signs of a fire that had been deliberately extinguished.
“Something’s wrong here,” Earl Patterson said quietly, his hand on one of the tracking dogs. Both animals were whining, pulling backward on their leashes instead of searching forward.
“Dogs don’t want to go any further,” Brennan noted, kneeling beside Anderson’s tent and examining the entrance. There were no signs of forced entry, no blood, no indication of a struggle. “It’s like he just walked away from his camp and never came back.”
I moved around the perimeter of the site, looking for anything unusual. The snow around the camp was relatively undisturbed except for our own footprints and the remnants of Anderson’s movements. But then I noticed something.
“Detective, come look at this,” I called out. About 20 yards from the tent, partially filled with fresh snow but still visible, were tracks—large tracks. The same pattern I’d seen in the photographs back at the sheriff’s department. Humanoid but massive, each print at least 16 inches long.
“Fresh?” Brennan asked, kneeling beside me.
“Hard to say for certain with the snowfall, but I’d estimate these were made sometime in the last few days. If these were from six days ago when Anderson disappeared, they’d be completely filled in by now.”
“Whatever made these tracks has been back here since Anderson vanished,” Deputy Harris said, looking increasingly uncomfortable.
Following the Trail
“Possibly,” I replied, pulling out my camera to document the prints. I took measurements, photographs from multiple angles, and made detailed notes. The stride length was enormous, nearly six feet between prints. Whatever made these tracks weighed at least 600 pounds, maybe more.
“Deputy Harris grew very quiet, his face pale. ‘My grandfather used to tell stories about these woods,’ he said softly. ‘He was a Spokane tribal elder. He said there were places in the forest where the spirits take the dead to rest. Places humans aren’t supposed to go.’”
“Spirits don’t leave footprints,” Yamamoto said, but her voice lacked conviction.
The tracks led us to a rocky outcropping, a cliff face rising about 60 feet above the forest floor. The footprints went right up to the base of the cliff and then stopped. “That’s impossible,” Whitfield said, examining the area carefully. “The tracks just end. There’s no sign of it climbing. No prints leading away in any other direction. It’s like whatever made these tracks just vanished into the rock.”
I studied the cliff face, looking for any explanation. That’s when I noticed it—a narrow opening in the rock, partially concealed by hanging icicles and accumulated snow. It was about four feet high and three feet wide. Easily missed if you weren’t looking for it.
“There,” I said, pointing. “A cave entrance.”
We approached cautiously. The opening was dark, and cold air flowed out like a breath. I pulled out my flashlight, and the others did the same. Our beams of light penetrated only a short distance into the darkness before being swallowed up.
“We need to report this,” Yamamoto said. “Call for backup before we go in there.”
Brennan pulled out her radio, but only static came through. “No signal. We’re too deep in the mountains.” She looked at each of us. “We vote. Do we go in now, or do we mark this location and come back with more people and better equipment?”
“Those people have been missing for weeks,” I said. “If there’s any chance they’re in there—alive or otherwise—we need to know. Every hour we wait in this cold reduces the chances of finding anything useful.”
Brennan nodded. “I agree, but we go carefully. Whitfield, Santos, you two stay here at the entrance. If we’re not back in one hour, you head back and get help. The rest of us go in.”
The cave entrance required us to crouch, but after about ten feet, it opened up enough to stand. Our flashlights revealed a natural tunnel, the walls smooth limestone carved by ancient water. The air was cold but strangely still, without the wind we’d been fighting outside. We moved forward slowly, our lights creating dancing shadows on the walls.
The Cavern of Secrets
The tunnel descended gradually, taking us deeper underground. After maybe 50 yards, it opened into a larger chamber, and that’s when we smelled it. It wasn’t the smell of decomposition; I knew that odor intimately. This was something else—something organic but not putrid, almost sweet, mixed with earth.
“What is that?” Harris whispered.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I think we’re about to find out.”
The chamber expanded before us, our flashlight beams barely reaching the walls. The floor sloped downward, and we could see that the tunnel continued deeper still. But what made us freeze were the marks on the walls—symbols carved into the limestone. Hundreds of them, deliberate markings, geometric patterns, spirals, shapes that might have been pictographs. They covered every surface we could see, descending into the darkness below.
“Someone’s been here,” Brennan said unnecessarily. “Someone’s been using this cave for a long time.”
We continued descending, following the tunnel as it spiraled deeper into the earth. The temperature was warmer here than outside, probably constant year-round at this depth. The symbols on the walls continued, becoming more elaborate the deeper we went.
Then the tunnel opened into a cavern so large our flashlights couldn’t reach the ceiling or the far walls. The space felt enormous, cathedral-like in its dimensions. And in the center of the cavern, illuminated by our beams, we saw something that made my blood run cold—structures.
Not modern buildings, but something ancient and primitive. Platforms made of stone and wood arranged in concentric circles around what appeared to be a central pit. And on those platforms—oh my god—Yamamoto whispered. Bodies. Human bodies arranged carefully on the stone platforms, but not recently deceased. These were skeletal remains, some completely bare bone, others with desiccated tissue still clinging to them—dozens of them, maybe more than a hundred.
My training as a forensic anthropologist kicked in, overriding the initial shock. I moved forward carefully, my flashlight sweeping across the cavern, documenting what I was seeing, even as my mind struggled to process it. “Nobody touch anything,” I said, my voice echoing in the vast space. “This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
The Ritual of Burial
The remains were arranged with deliberate care. Each body lay on its own stone platform, positioned in what looked like peaceful repose—hands crossed over the chest, legs straight, head elevated slightly. Some skeletons were ancient, the bones darkened with age; others were more recent, still showing tissue and clothing.
I approached the nearest platform slowly, examining the remains without touching them. The skeleton was complete, undisturbed, lying exactly as it had been placed. Beside it were personal effects—a watch, a wallet, a wedding ring, glasses.
“These aren’t victims,” I said, my voice filled with awe and confusion. “These are burials. Proper, respectful burials.”
Brennan came up beside me, her flashlight joining mine. “But who would bury people down here, and why?”
I moved to another platform. This one held more recent remains—a body that had been here perhaps a few months based on the state of decomposition. The clothing was modern—jeans, a hiking jacket—and near the head, placed with obvious care, was a small bouquet of winter berries and pine branches.
“Offerings,” I whispered. “Someone’s been leaving offerings with the deceased.”
Deputy Harris had moved to the edge of the central pit, shining his light down into it. “Dr. Thornton, you need to see this.” I joined him at the pit’s edge. It was about 15 feet deep, and at the bottom was a pool of water, perfectly still, reflecting our flashlight beams like dark glass. But around the edge of the pit, carved into the stone, were more of those symbols—different from the ones in the tunnel, more elaborate, more purposeful.
“They remind me of something I’ve seen before in my research,” I said, recognition dawning. “These are petroglyphs—similar to those found at Native American burial sites throughout the Pacific Northwest. These symbols are about death, transition, and the journey to the afterlife.”
“So Native Americans built this place?” Yamamoto asked.
“No,” I said slowly, studying the carvings more carefully. “These symbols are similar, but not identical. It’s like someone learned from Native American traditions but adapted them, creating their own burial customs based on what they observed.”
The Guardian Appears
A sound from deeper in the cavern made us all freeze—a low, resonant vocalization that echoed off the stone walls. It came from the darkness beyond our lights, from a passage we hadn’t noticed on the far side of the cavern.
“We’re not alone,” Brennan said quietly, her hand moving to her weapon.
The vocalization came again, closer this time, and then we saw movement in the darkness—a massive shape emerging from the shadows at the edge of our light. It stood at least eight feet tall, covered in dark reddish-brown hair that seemed to absorb the light from our flashlights. Broad shoulders, long arms, a face that was simultaneously human and utterly alien. Its eyes reflected our lights with an amber glow, and it watched us with an expression that looked almost sad.
“Don’t move,” I said softly. “Nobody make any sudden movements.”
The creature took a step forward, and I could see it more clearly now. It was old, its fur grizzled with gray around the face and shoulders. It moved with a slight limp, favoring its left leg. And in its massive hands, it carried something—a body. A human body cradled carefully in its arms.
My heart sank as I recognized the clothing. James Anderson, the park ranger who disappeared six days ago. The Bigfoot moved past us without aggression, carrying Anderson’s body to one of the empty stone platforms. It laid him down with surprising gentleness, positioning his hands across his chest, straightening his legs, adjusting his head to rest comfortably on the stone.
It was performing a burial ritual.
We stood frozen, watching this impossible scene. The creature worked methodically, removing items from Anderson’s pockets—his ranger badge, compass, wedding ring—and arranging them beside his body. Then it reached into a leather pouch that hung from its shoulder and pulled out a small bundle of winter berries and evergreen branches, placing them near Anderson’s head.
When it finished, the Bigfoot stood back, bowed its head, and made a long, low vocalization that resonated through the cavern—a sound of mourning, a sound of respect for the deceased.
“It’s not killing them,” I whispered, understanding finally washing over me. “It’s burying them. It’s been burying people who die in these forests for God, maybe centuries.”
The Bigfoot turned to look at us, and I saw intelligence in those eyes—understanding. It knew we were watching. It knew we understood. And slowly, deliberately, it gestured around the cavern, at all the carefully preserved remains, at the offerings, at the symbols carved into stone. Then it pointed at Anderson’s body and made a gentle sound.
It pointed at its own chest, then at the body again, then gestured as if cradling something carefully.
“It found him,” Brennan said softly. “Anderson must have died from exposure or an accident, and this creature found him, brought him here.”
The Bigfoot made an affirmative sound, startlingly humanlike. Then it moved to another platform nearby, one that held older remains. It pointed at those bones, then made a gesture of walking, then falling, then pointed at its chest again.
“The others,” I said. “Chen, Kowalski, Foster—they all died out there in the forest. Accidents, exposure, maybe heart attacks or other natural causes, and this creature found them, brought them here to this burial ground.”
The Bigfoot moved to the cavern wall where the most elaborate carvings were located. It placed its massive hand on the stone, then looked back at us. In that gesture was a story. This place was ancient. This tradition was ancient. Long before European settlers came to these mountains, long before logging towns and hiking trails, something had been collecting the deceased from these forests and bringing them to this sacred place.
“The guardian of the bones,” Harris whispered, remembering his grandfather’s stories. “It’s real. It’s actually real.”
A Gesture of Peace
The creature watched us for a long moment, then did something that stunned me. It approached slowly, stopping about ten feet away. Then it knelt down, lowering itself to make itself less threatening, and extended one massive hand, palm up, in what could only be interpreted as a gesture of peace.
I looked at Brennan. She looked at me. In her eyes, I saw the same conflict I felt. Everything we’d been taught said this creature didn’t exist. But here it was, showing us something that challenged every assumption about what we thought we knew.
Slowly, carefully, I took a step forward, then another. The Bigfoot remained still, its hand extended. I could see the details of that hand now—thick fingers, a palm creased with lines not unlike a human’s, fingernails rather than claws. When I was close enough, I reached out and touched its palm with my own hand.
The contact lasted only a moment, but in that moment, I felt something profound. This wasn’t a monster. This wasn’t some primitive beast. This was an intelligent being that had developed its own culture, its own rituals, its own understanding of death and respect for the deceased.
The Bigfoot withdrew its hand and stood. It gestured again at the platforms, at all the remains carefully preserved in this underground chamber. Then it pointed up toward the surface and made a sound that seemed to be asking a question.
It wanted to know what we were going to do.
“If we’re going to expose this place, destroy what it’s been protecting,” I said, looking around the cavern at the evidence of decades, maybe centuries, of careful burial practices. Bodies that might otherwise have been lost forever in the wilderness, their families never knowing what happened. Here they were, preserved, treated with dignity, honored in death.
“The missing people,” Brennan said quietly. “Their families deserve to know what happened to them. They deserve closure.”
“But this place,” I gestured at the cavern. “This is sacred ground, a burial site that’s been maintained longer than any cemetery in this state.”
The Bigfoot watched us, waiting. I could see tension in its massive frame—uncertainty about whether we would respect what we’d found or destroy it.
“We take Anderson,” I said finally, making a decision I hoped was right. “We can tell his family he died from exposure, that we found his remains and brought him home. We document the others, too. Identify them if we can. Bring closure to families who’ve been waiting for answers. But we don’t reveal this place to the world. We don’t bring cameras and scientists and tourists to destroy what’s been protected for so long.”
The Bigfoot seemed to understand. It moved back to Anderson’s platform and carefully picked up the ranger’s body, bringing it to me. As it handed over the deceased, our eyes met, and I saw gratitude there—trust and understanding that we would keep its secret.
The Final Farewell
There was one more thing, I said, looking at the creature. “The recent disappearances. If these people died naturally, we need to understand why. We need to make sure others don’t suffer the same fate.”
The Bigfoot gestured for us to follow, leading us to another passage leading out of the main cavern. This tunnel was shorter, and it opened onto a different part of the mountainside, far from where we’d entered. And there, carved into rocks and marked with piles of stones, were warnings.
“Trail markers,” Maria Santos said, examining them. “These are marking dangerous areas, places where the terrain is unstable or where exposure is particularly dangerous.”
The Bigfoot made an emphatic gesture at these markers, then mimicked human hikers walking, then falling, then pointed at its chest again.
“It’s been trying to prevent more deaths,” I said, understanding dawning. “These markers are warnings about dangerous areas, but hikers don’t recognize them. They think they’re just natural rock formations.”
The Bigfoot made an affirmative sound, then gestured emphatically at the markers again. It pointed at us, then at the markers, making a motion as if teaching or explaining. It wanted us to understand these warnings to help other humans recognize them.
“The recent cluster of disappearances,” Brennan said slowly, “they all happened in the same general area—an area that’s become more popular with hikers in the last year since a new trail guide was published.”
The creature nodded. It had learned the gesture from observing humans. It pointed down the mountain toward where the popular trails must be, then made a gesture of many people walking, then pointed at the dangerous terrain markers again.
“More people were coming, ignoring the warnings it had spent generations placing,” I said. “We can help with that. We can work with the Forest Service to mark these areas as hazardous, put up official warnings that people will recognize and respect.”
The Bigfoot studied me for a long moment, then made a sound that seemed like acceptance. It had shown us its secret, entrusted us with the location of its sacred burial ground. Now it was asking us to help protect the living to prevent more people from becoming residents of that underground chamber.
The Journey Back
We carried Anderson’s body back through the main cavern, and the Bigfoot followed at a respectful distance. As we passed through that vast space filled with the carefully preserved remains of decades, I paused to take mental notes of everything I saw. I couldn’t photograph it; that felt like a violation. But I could remember. I could document what I’d learned without exposing the location.
Before we left, the creature did something unexpected. It moved to one of the platforms holding older remains and picked up a small leather pouch that lay beside the skeletal hand. It brought this to me, pressing it into my palm. Inside were identification documents, weathered and old but still legible—a driver’s license from 1978. The name was Gregory Walsh, age 34.
I recognized the name; it had been a missing person case from nearly 20 years ago—never solved. The Bigfoot pointed at the pouch, then at me, then made a gesture toward the outside world.
It wanted me to take this to give the family closure.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “His family. They’ll finally know what happened to him. They’ll have peace.”
Over the next hour, the Bigfoot brought us identification from several other remains—always the older ones, always people whose families had been searching for decades. Nine people in total. Nine cold cases that could finally be closed. Nine families who could finally mourn properly.
When we emerged from the cave carrying Anderson’s body and the precious identification documents, Whitfield and Santos were waiting anxiously at the entrance. The relief on their faces when they saw us was palpable.
“We were about to head back for help,” Whitfield said, staring past us at the massive figure that had followed us out of the cave. The Bigfoot stood at the cave entrance, silhouetted against the white snow, watching us—making sure we left, making sure we understood the trust that had been placed in us.
I turned back one last time and raised my hand in a gesture of respect and thanks. The creature raised its own hand in response, then melted back into the shadows of the cave, disappearing from sight.
The Aftermath
The hike back to the vehicles was silent. We were all processing what we’d witnessed, understanding the weight of the secret we now carried. When we finally reached the parking area where Earl was waiting with the dogs, the old handler took one look at our faces and asked no questions.
The drive back to Kovville was equally quiet. Brennan radioed ahead that we’d found Anderson’s body, that it appeared to be death by exposure, and that we were bringing him in. She said nothing about the cave, nothing about what else we’d found.
Back at the sheriff’s department, we gathered in the conference room. The six of us who had been in that cavern—Brennan, Harris, Yamamoto, Whitfield, Santos, and myself—looked at each other silently, asking the same question. What do we tell people?
“We found Anderson deceased from exposure,” Brennan said finally. “That’s the truth. We also found evidence that led us to solve nine other missing person cases from the past 20 years. We can say we discovered their remains in a remote area of the forest, which is also true. But the exact location is a sacred burial site that needs to be protected.”
I finished, “We can identify the remains I examined and bring closure to families who’ve been waiting for answers without revealing the cave’s location.”
“And the creature?” Yamamoto asked quietly.
“What creature?” I replied.
“I saw tracks in the snow. Large tracks, probably from a bear.”
“That’s what I’ll put in my official report,” Harris spoke up thoughtfully. “My grandfather used to say that some secrets are kept not because they’re shameful, but because they’re sacred. This feels like one of those secrets.”
We all agreed. The official story would be that we found Anderson and evidence leading to other remains. The truth about the burial cavern and its guardian would stay with us.
Conclusion
Over the next week, I worked on identifying the remains from the identification documents the Bigfoot had provided. Each one was a cold case—families who’d been waiting years, in some cases decades, for answers. I contacted them personally, telling them we’d found their loved ones, that they died from natural causes in the wilderness, and that their remains could finally come home. The gratitude and relief in their voices were overwhelming.
One woman, whose brother had disappeared in 1983, cried on the phone. “We always wondered,” she said. “We never gave up hope, but we wondered. Thank you for bringing him home.”
I worked with the National Forest Service to place official hazard warnings in the areas marked by the Bigfoot’s stone carvings. We documented unstable terrain, areas prone to sudden weather changes, and spots where people could easily become disoriented. The warnings were placed prominently, and new trail maps were printed with these hazards clearly marked.
The disappearances in that area of the Kovville National Forest stopped—whether because of the warnings or because the Bigfoot felt its message had finally been heard, I’ll never know.
I returned to my position at the university in Seattle, but I was changed by what I’d experienced. I’d seen something that challenged everything I thought I knew about the world, about death, and about the creatures we share this planet with.
Sometimes late at night, I think about that cavern deep beneath the mountains. I think about the Bigfoot standing guard over those carefully preserved remains, performing burial rituals that had been passed down for generations. I think about the intelligence and compassion it took to care for the deceased of another species, to honor them in death even when their own kind might never know.
And I think about the trust it showed us, emerging from the shadows, revealing its sacred place, asking for our help to protect both the dead and the living. I’ve kept that trust for 27 years now. I’ve told no one the exact location of that cave. I’ve published papers on burial practices in the Pacific Northwest, on the cultural significance of caring for the deceased, but I’ve never mentioned what I really found that winter in 1997.
Now, as I approach retirement, I feel it’s important that the story be told—not the location, never the location, but the truth about what Bigfoot does with human bodies. Not because the creature is a threat or a monster, but because it’s the opposite. These beings, these Sasquatch that we’ve relegated to legend and folklore, have been acting as silent guardians of our deceased for longer than we can imagine.
When people die alone in the wilderness, when they succumb to accidents or exposure or natural causes far from help, Bigfoot finds them. And instead of leaving them to the elements, instead of allowing their remains to be scattered and lost, these creatures perform their own burial rituals. They preserve the deceased with dignity, arrange the bodies carefully, and leave offerings. They maintain a burial ground that would put many human cemeteries to shame in terms of care and respect.
They’ve been doing this for centuries, asking nothing in return, expecting no recognition. They’ve been the guardians of the bones, just as the old Native American legend said. And they’ve been trying to prevent more deaths by marking dangerous areas, though their warnings went unrecognized until we learned to see them.
The day I touched that Bigfoot’s hand in that underground cavern, I understood something profound. Intelligence and compassion aren’t unique to humans. The capacity for ritual, for honoring the dead, for caring about the deceased of another species—these things exist in creatures we’ve dismissed as myths.
So yes, I found out what Bigfoot does with human bodies. And the truth is both terrifying in its implications about what we don’t know about the world and beautiful in what it reveals about the capacity for respect and dignity that exists beyond our species.
The Bigfoot of the Cascade Mountains are still out there, still maintaining their sacred burial ground, still watching over those who die in the forests. And now, thanks to our intervention, fewer people are dying there. The warnings are recognized. The dangerous areas are marked. And somewhere in those mountains, an old Bigfoot with grizzled fur and a slight limp continues its ancient duty, knowing that at least a few humans understand and respect what it’s been doing all along.
That’s the truth I’ve carried for 27 years. That’s the secret I was told never to share. But I believe the world is ready to know—not where, but what. To understand that sometimes the creatures we fear are actually protecting us in ways we never imagined. And that sometimes the most human thing we can do is honor the sacred traditions of those who aren’t human at all.
