Footage Captured of Bigfoot Attacking a Logging Crew, What Followed is Shocking
Back in the fall of 2015, I found myself deep in the Cascades of Washington, working overnight security for a small logging operation. I was 41 then, and the solitude suited me. The job was simple: keep watch over machinery left two miles into the forest, make sure nothing went missing, and keep a record of anything unusual. I set up trail cameras around the site, just standard protocol. I never expected them to become the centerpiece of a mystery that would haunt me for years.
The timber company was based out of Seattle, clearing a twelve-acre section of old growth. The crew was small—five men, all seasoned loggers. Marcus Webb, the foreman, had worked these woods for decades. He told me on my first day that the forest had a way of keeping secrets, and that it paid to respect what you didn’t understand. I took it as a joke, but it stuck with me.
For the first two weeks, the job was uneventful. I’d park my truck near the site at dusk, do a walk-through, check the cameras, then settle in with coffee and a paperback. The forest was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt ancient, untouched. Sometimes deer wandered through, or a black bear nosed around the equipment. Mostly, it was just me, the trees, and the darkness.
But in early November, the forest changed. The usual sounds—owls, wind, small animals—faded, replaced by a silence so deep it felt unnatural. I mentioned it to Marcus. He shrugged. “Animals move around,” he said. “They’ll come back.” But he looked uneasy, and I could tell the crew felt it too.
Strange things started happening. Footprints appeared near the equipment, too large and deep for any human. There was a lingering smell—wet fur and decaying leaves—that seemed to seep from the ground. One logger swore he heard heavy footsteps circling the site after dark, but found nothing when he checked. I didn’t believe in Bigfoot. I’d heard the stories, but they sounded like campfire tales, not something that belonged in the real world.
Still, the feeling that something was watching us grew stronger. On November 10th, I set up more cameras, six in total, night-vision capable, motion activated. If anything came near the equipment, I’d have it on video.
That night, I did my usual rounds. The bulldozer was parked near a half-cleared section, the excavator beside a pile of logs, chainsaws locked away. Everything seemed normal. I settled into my truck, but sleep wouldn’t come. Around 10:00, a low, guttural sound drifted through the trees—a call that didn’t belong to any animal I knew. I locked the doors and waited for dawn.
The next morning, I reviewed the footage. Five cameras showed nothing. But the sixth, positioned near the bulldozer, captured something at 11:47 p.m. A figure walked into frame—tall, broad, covered in dark fur, moving on two legs. It paused, looking directly at the camera, eyes reflecting the infrared light. Then it turned and disappeared into the trees.
I watched the footage over and over, hands shaking. It was clear, undeniable. Not a man in a suit, not a bear. Something else. I called Marcus. He came out, watched the footage in silence. “That’s Bigfoot,” he said, voice low.
The crew was uneasy. Ray, one of the loggers, wanted to quit. “I’m not messing with Bigfoot,” he said. Marcus convinced him to stay, but the fear lingered. We decided to continue with precautions—more cameras, daylight work only, no one left alone.
That night, I set up eight cameras, covering every angle. At 10:15 p.m., every feed went black. I found mud smeared across each lens, thick and deliberate. Whatever was out there knew what the cameras were for. That night, I heard footsteps circling the site—heavy, slow, deliberate. I never saw what made them, but I knew it was watching.
The attack happened on November 12th. I left at 6 a.m., as usual. The crew was scheduled to arrive at 7. At 8:30, Marcus called. “Get back here. Now.” When I arrived, the crew was staring at the bulldozer—flipped onto its side, panels torn off, engine exposed. The excavator was damaged, the chainsaws smashed. It looked as if something had systematically dismantled the machines.
Three cameras were destroyed, memory cards missing. But five were intact. The footage showed the creature returning at dawn, moving with purpose. It approached the bulldozer, gripped the side, and slowly lifted it, flipping the machine. Then it tore into the panels, removed components, worked with deliberate intent. It paused, looked at one camera, then smashed it. The attack lasted eleven minutes. When finished, the creature stood in the center of the destruction, surveying its work, then vanished into the forest.
No one spoke. Marcus rewound the footage, played it again. Ray wanted to call the police. Marcus shook his head. “And tell them what? That Bigfoot destroyed our equipment?” He was right. The footage was too unbelievable. The company would call it a hoax, blame us for negligence. We’d lose our jobs, maybe face charges. Marcus decided to keep the footage private, for now.
The timber company sent an investigator, Sarah Chen, to assess the damage. She walked the site, took photos, interviewed the crew. When Marcus showed her the footage, she dismissed it. “A man in a gorilla suit,” she said. “Insurance fraud.” The claim was denied, and the operation suspended. Marcus and the crew were put on unpaid leave. I was fired.
I watched the footage again that night, unable to sleep. It wasn’t a hoax. No human could flip a bulldozer. No costume could move like that. But no one wanted to believe. I started researching, found reports of similar incidents—machinery destroyed, sightings near logging sites, always dismissed as vandalism or hoaxes. A pattern emerged: Bigfoot appeared where forests were threatened, where its home was being taken apart.
I realized the attack wasn’t random. The creature had waited until we were gone, targeted the machines, not the people. It was protecting something. Its territory, its home.
I made copies of the footage, stored them in multiple locations. I reached out to researchers, sent clips to a few trusted investigators. Most were skeptical, but one, Dr. Henry Vaughn, believed. He’d spent thirty years studying Bigfoot, collecting reports, analyzing footprints. He said the footage was the clearest evidence he’d seen. He asked to use it in his research, promised not to reveal the location.
Three months later, Dr. Vaughn published a paper in a cryptozoology journal, discussing defensive behavior in Sasquatch. He used still frames, analyzed the creature’s movements, argued that it was defending its habitat. The paper didn’t make mainstream news, but among researchers, it was groundbreaking. People started talking about habitat protection, about the need to preserve old growth forests—not just for trees, but for the creatures that lived in them.
Marcus found work with a smaller company, replanting trees instead of cutting them down. Ray left logging entirely, became a park ranger. The site where the attack occurred was left alone, the land too unsettled for crews to return. The forest grew back, wild and untouched.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the creature, about what it was fighting for. I returned to the Cascades, not to the logging site, but deeper into the woods. After hours of hiking, I found a clearing. In the center was a shelter—branches and moss woven together, crude but deliberate. I stood at the edge, feeling the weight of what we’d nearly destroyed.
A low grunt sounded behind me. I turned slowly. The creature was there, watching from the tree line. We stared at each other, and I understood. It wasn’t a monster. It was a guardian, trying to survive, trying to protect its home. I raised my hand in peace. The creature watched, then turned and vanished into the trees.
I left food near the shelter—apples, bread, dried meat. Each time I returned, the offerings were gone. Sometimes I found footprints, broken branches arranged in patterns, river stones stacked near the shelter. I felt a connection, a silent understanding.
Dr. Vaughn continued his research, using the footage in private presentations to conservationists and policymakers. The reactions were always the same: shock, disbelief, then acceptance. The footage was too clear to dismiss. Small changes followed—logging permits denied, wilderness areas expanded, protections put in place for endangered habitats.
In 2018, a protected wilderness designation passed, covering 200 square miles of old growth in the Cascades. No logging, no development. The official reason was biodiversity, but I knew the truth. Dr. Vaughn had shown the right people what was at stake.
I visited the clearing the day the designation was announced. “You did this,” I said out loud. “You saved this place.” I didn’t know if the creature could hear me, but I hoped it understood.
I kept the footage private. Journalists, filmmakers, researchers contacted me, offering money, fame, a chance to make Bigfoot real to the world. I turned them all down. Some called me selfish, accused me of withholding proof. Maybe they were right. But I’d seen what happened when we invaded its territory. I wouldn’t be responsible for that again.
Dr. Vaughn passed away in 2020, leaving his research to a conservation archive, but not the footage. He honored his promise. The forest remains protected, wild. I visit less often now, knees stiff, hikes harder. But I still leave food, still check for signs. The shelter remains, footprints appear, stones are stacked. The creature is still there, watching, waiting.
The footage sits on my computer, encrypted, backed up. Sometimes I think about deleting it, destroying the evidence. But I can’t. It’s too important. If the forest is ever threatened again, if protections fail, I’ll release it. Until then, it stays hidden—a secret between me, the creature, and the trees.
People ask if I believe in Bigfoot. I say I don’t know. It’s easier that way. The truth is, I don’t believe. I know. I’ve seen it. I’ve protected it. And I always will. That’s the real story. That’s why the footage will never be released.
Bigfoot wasn’t a monster. It was a protector. And sometimes, the greatest mysteries are the ones we choose to keep.
