What Happens When Bigfoot Realizes It’s Being Recorded? A Terrifying Encounter!

I never believed in Bigfoot until the summer of 1980 when I met one that spoke to me in perfect English on a hiking trail in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon. What happened when that creature realized I was recording our conversation changed my entire life, forcing me to choose between proof and survival.

My name is Vincent Holloway, and in 1980, I was a 27-year-old freelance nature photographer based out of Portland, Oregon. It was a good time to be young and independent. The economy was recovering, and I was making decent money selling photographs to outdoor magazines like Field and Stream and National Geographic. I had a deep love for the wilderness, developed during my childhood exploring the forests around Salem, Oregon. After dropping out of Oregon State University, I pursued photography full-time, proving my parents wrong as I built a successful career.

The summer of 1980 was particularly hot. I spent as much time as possible in the mountains, capturing images of wildlife and landscapes. On July 18th, I drove east from Portland into the Cascade Range, heading for a remote area near Mount Hood, where I had heard reports of a family of black bears. My assignment was for Outdoor Life magazine, which wanted a photo essay on bear behavior during salmon spawning season.

I arrived at a remote forest service access road by 7:00 a.m. and began my hike, following a trail that was not on any official map. I had learned about it from an old logger named Walt, who had described a valley where bears congregated due to a creek with exceptional salmon runs. Following his directions, I hiked northeast through thick forest, climbing steadily. The morning was beautiful, with shafts of sunlight filtering through the canopy, illuminating patches of ferns and wildflowers.

Around 9:00 a.m., I reached the creek Walt had described. It was perfect—crystal clear, flowing over rounded stones with several deep pools where salmon rested. I set up my equipment on a small rise, mounted my Nikon with a 400 mm lens on the tripod, and settled in to wait. I also set up my Sony TCM 600 cassette recorder to capture the ambient sounds of the forest.

For the next several hours, I waited patiently, taking photographs of the creek, the salmon, and a red-tailed hawk. Around 2:00 p.m., I finally saw what I had come for—a large black bear emerged from the forest on the opposite bank of the creek. As I photographed the bear, I suddenly heard a voice behind me say in perfect, unaccented English, “That’s a nice camera you have there.”

I froze. Turning slowly, my heart raced as I found myself looking up at something that shouldn’t exist. It stood about 15 feet behind me, partially concealed by the shadows of a large cedar tree. The creature was massive, easily 7 and a half feet tall, covered in dark brown hair. Its face was a blend of human and ape-like features, with intelligent dark brown eyes watching me with curiosity.

For several moments, neither of us moved. My mind raced, trying to process what I was seeing. Then the creature spoke again, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve been watching you photograph the bear. You’re very patient.”

I managed to stammer, “You can speak?”

“Of course,” it replied. “I rarely get the opportunity. You’re the first human I’ve spoken to in… oh, must be three years now.”

The creature settled onto a fallen log, its massive frame somehow graceful. “How do you speak English?” I asked, still in disbelief.

“I learned it the same way anyone learns a language—by listening, observing, practicing. I’ve lived in these mountains for 47 years, close enough to hear conversations, to listen to radios and ranger stations.”

I was speechless. Here I was, sitting in the forest, talking to a creature that was supposed to be a myth. “What are you?” I asked. “I know people call you Bigfoot, but what do you call yourselves?”

The creature chuckled softly. “We don’t have a word for ourselves that would translate into your language. We’re simply the people of the deep forest, the ones who walk between the trees.”

“How many of you are there?” I asked.

“Fewer than there used to be. When I was young, there were perhaps 200 of us in the Pacific Northwest. Now, maybe 60 or 70 at most. Your species expands; ours contracts. It’s the natural order of things.”

I felt a mix of sadness and awe. “I’m a nature photographer,” I said. “I document the natural world.”

The creature gestured toward my camera. “Yet you haven’t reached for it to photograph me. Why is that?”

“It feels private somehow,” I admitted. “Like it wouldn’t be right.”

The creature regarded me with respect. “You have more wisdom than most of your kind. Yes, it would be a violation. My people have survived precisely because we remain unphotographed, unproven, existing in the realm of legend and doubt.”

“But if you let me photograph you, it could help protect your habitat,” I argued.

The creature’s expression hardened. “It could also lead to our capture, our study, our dissection. No, Vincent. Anonymity is our greatest defense.”

I was stunned. “How do you know my name?”

“Your wallet in your back pocket. I saw you take it out earlier to look at something.”

I was taken aback by its keen observation. “What were you doing here?” I asked.

“I was fishing,” it replied, pointing downstream. “There’s a deep pool where salmon gather. I come here often during spawning season.”

As we spoke, I felt a strange connection forming. This creature was intelligent, articulate, and deeply aware of its surroundings. “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

“Because I’m lonely,” it said softly. “My people don’t gather often. I haven’t spoken to another of my kind in over a year, and I haven’t had a real conversation with a human in… well, three or four years.”

I felt a surge of compassion. Here was this incredible being, taking a risk to connect with me. “I understand,” I said quietly. “And I’m grateful you trusted me enough to talk to me.”

Then, suddenly, the creature’s demeanor shifted. “You’re recording this?” it asked, its voice cold.

“Yes, but I didn’t mean to,” I stammered. “I set it up to capture forest sounds.”

The creature took a step closer, towering over me. “Do you have any idea what that tape is worth? What people would pay for it?”

I felt panic rise within me. “I won’t use it. I’ll erase it right now!”

The creature’s gaze was unwavering. “Your word? A human I’ve known for less than an hour?”

“Because I respect you,” I said, my voice steady. “You trusted me enough to talk to me, and I won’t betray that trust.”

After a tense moment, the creature handed me the recorder. I pressed the stop button, then the rewind button, watching as the tape spooled backward, erasing every word of our conversation. When it finished, I held out the empty cassette.

The creature took it, examining it before crushing it in its massive hands. “Thank you,” it said quietly.

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of what had just happened settling between us. “I misjudged you,” it said finally. “You chose integrity over profit. That’s rare.”

“Not everything has a price,” I replied, feeling a sense of kinship with this creature.

“I should go,” Walker said, glancing around. “It’s not safe for us to spend too much time together. Will I ever see you again?”

“Perhaps,” it said. “If you come back to this valley, stay respectful and quiet. I may visit you again, but no recording devices, no cameras pointed in my direction.”

I nodded, feeling a mix of hope and sadness. “I’d like that.”

With that, Walker turned and walked away, disappearing into the forest. I stood there for a long time, processing what had happened. I had met Bigfoot, had a conversation with it, and chosen to erase the proof because it felt right.

As I hiked back to my Bronco, the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I listened to the radio during the drive home, reflecting on the day’s events. I developed the film from that day, and while the photographs of the bear were good, they felt less important now. What I had experienced was unique, irreplaceable—something that couldn’t be reduced to film or tape.

Three weeks later, I returned to the valley, bringing no recording equipment, just myself and a thermos of coffee. Around noon, Walker appeared, stepping out of the forest as casually as if we had arranged to meet. We talked for hours, sharing stories about our lives. Walker revealed its name, a name it had chosen after listening to humans discuss names and their meanings.

Over the next several years, I made regular trips to that valley. Each time, Walker would appear, and our conversations deepened. Walker shared insights about Sasquatch social structure, survival, and the challenges posed by human encroachment. I learned about the balance between civilization and wilderness, and Walker’s wisdom changed my perspective on life.

But nothing lasts forever. In the spring of 1984, I arrived to find Walker injured by a bear trap. I treated its wound, and during that encounter, Walker revealed it would be migrating north, possibly permanently. I felt a profound sense of loss as we said goodbye, knowing I might never see my friend again.

Life moved forward, and I continued working as a nature photographer. I built a solid reputation, publishing books and advocating for wilderness preservation, all while keeping Walker’s existence a secret. The conversations we had changed me in fundamental ways, instilling a deep respect for the wild places of the world.

As the years passed, I often thought about Walker, especially during quiet evenings on my porch. I wondered if it had found safe territory and if there were still wild places for beings like it to survive.

Now, at 72 years old, I live in the same cabin I bought in 1995. I still photograph the natural world, but I worry about the future of creatures like Walker. The world has changed dramatically, and privacy is disappearing.

Then, one evening, something remarkable happened. I heard a familiar vocalization from the forest behind my cabin. I stood slowly, my heart pounding, and there, standing in the shadows between the trees, was Walker. Though older and more lined, its intelligent eyes still held recognition and affection.

“Hello, Vincent,” Walker said, and I found myself crying, unable to speak for a moment. We talked for hours, catching up on 45 years. Walker had survived, finding others of its kind, and I felt a sense of joy and relief.

As the moon rose and the stars appeared, Walker stood to leave. “This is goodbye, Vincent. Truly goodbye this time. I won’t be back.”

I promised to keep my word, to protect the wild places, and to remember the lessons Walker had taught me. As it walked back into the forest, I stood there, reflecting on our friendship and the choices I had made.

Now, as I write this account, I face another choice. What do I do with this story? I’ve decided to seal it in an envelope to be opened only after my death. I want to protect Walker’s existence, to keep its secrets safe.

To whoever eventually reads this, I’m Vincent Holloway, and I’m telling you the truth. Bigfoot is real. They’re intelligent, articulate, and desperately trying to survive in a world that keeps shrinking around them. Respect their choice to remain hidden. Some things are more important than proof. Some friendships are sacred enough to protect at any cost.

That’s my story. That’s what happened when a Bigfoot spoke to me in perfect English on a summer day in 1980. I’m not asking you to believe it. I’m just asking you to respect it.