This Bigfoot Attacked a Tree Logger, What Happened Next Is Shocking – Sasquatch Encounter

It’s been years, but I can still feel the tremble in my hands when I think about that day. Mid‑September 2016. I was thirty‑four, working timber contracts outside Hood River, Oregon. The Cascades were just starting to turn, that soft amber light filtering through the pines. I had a good spot about ten miles out on forest service land, quiet and remote. Just me, my F‑250, and the rhythm of the saw.

I didn’t expect anything unusual. You don’t when you’re doing honest work. But that morning, something hit my truck so hard the whole frame shook.

Chapter One: The First Strike

I’d been working that patch of forest for about two weeks. Old growth Douglas fir towered above me, understory thick with salal and Oregon grape. Fallen timber lay scattered from winter storms, perfect for bucking into lengths for the cabin I was building on my brother’s property.

The morning was routine. I drove out before sunrise, gravel crunching under tires, headlights cutting fog. By the time I parked and unloaded the chainsaw, the sun was breaking through, painting everything gold and green.

Around ten, I sat on the tailgate drinking water. The forest was quiet. Then came the sound.

A thud. Sharp, sudden. Like a sledgehammer against steel. The truck rocked.

I jumped down, heart racing. Nothing. No branch, no fallen tree. Just a fresh dent above the wheel well, fist‑sized, creased inward.

I told myself it was nothing. But my hands shook when I picked up the saw again.

Chapter Two: The Silence

By afternoon, I’d cut through two more logs. Sweat soaked my shirt. I stacked rounds in the truck bed. Then it happened again.

A deeper thud. Resonant. The truck shook so hard a log rolled off.

I spun, scanning shadows. Nothing. But the forest had gone silent. No birds. No wind. Just pressing quiet.

Two more dents marked the side panel. Warm to the touch.

Then the smell hit me. Musky, wild. Wet fur mixed with ammonia. My eyes watered.

I backed away, hand on the rifle in the cab. I stood listening. Minutes stretched. Slowly, the smell faded. Birds called again.

I loaded gear fast and drove out, checking the mirror constantly. Nothing followed.

Chapter Three: The Guide’s Warning

That evening, at the hardware store, Rick—who lived five miles from my site—mentioned strange noises at night. Wood knocks, he called them. Deep, resonant. He laughed, but his eyes didn’t.

I didn’t sleep well. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the dents. Felt the truck shake.

Next morning, I almost didn’t go back. But I needed the timber. The cabin wouldn’t build itself.

Chapter Four: The Prints

The drive felt longer. Every turn deeper into something I shouldn’t.

At the site, everything looked the same. Logs, sawdust, equipment. But near the truck, in soft dirt, were footprints.

Huge. Sixteen inches long. Five toes. Heel and ball clear. Too big for human. Too shaped for bear.

The stride was long, purposeful. Prints came from the treeline, passed the truck, then vanished upslope.

My legs felt weak. Mouth dry. The forest was silent again.

I took photos, then drove straight to the ranger station.

Chapter Five: The Ranger

Linda, a ranger in her fifties, studied the photos. Calm, professional.

“Could be bear,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. “They bulk up this time of year. Investigate vehicles.”

“I didn’t have food,” I said. “And those aren’t bear prints.”

She looked again. “No, they don’t look like bear.”

She wrote down coordinates. Promised trail cameras. Suggested I work elsewhere.

I thanked her. But we both knew.

Chapter Six: The Stories

I tried other areas. Timber wasn’t as good. I kept thinking about the dents, the smell, the prints.

I asked around town. Carefully. People mentioned strange calls, wood knocks.

A hunting guide named Tom described a tree structure three miles from my site. Branches stacked in an arch. Deliberate.

“You think it’s Bigfoot?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But something’s out there.”

That night, I read Bigfoot reports from Hood River. Dozens. Sightings. Vocalizations. Vehicle encounters.

I started to believe.

Chapter Seven: The Glimpse

Two weeks later, I returned. Needed to finish. Needed to know.

The morning was cool, clear. I parked, checked the truck. No new damage.

I loaded timber quickly, scanning treeline. The forest was alive with birds, squirrels. But underneath was presence.

Then came the sound. A long, low vocalization. Rising in pitch. Echoing.

Not human. Not animal. Something between.

I froze. The sound came again, closer. I dropped the log, grabbed the rifle.

“I don’t want trouble,” I said aloud. “I’ll be gone soon.”

Rustling in underbrush. Something big.

I raised the rifle. Heart pounding.

A shadow moved between trees. Tall. Eight feet. Dark fur. Upright stride. Fluid.

It paused. Turned. Looked at me.

Then vanished.

I whispered the word for the first time. “Bigfoot.”

Chapter Eight: The Offerings

I couldn’t stop thinking. I watched videos, read reports. My experience fit the pattern.

Three days later, I returned. This time with offerings. Apples, berries, a mirror.

I placed them on a fallen cedar. Waited.

Nothing. Hours passed.

As the sun set, three knocks echoed. Deliberate. From the clearing.

I ran back. The apples were gone.

Movement behind me. I spun, phone recording.

It stood at the edge. Tall, broad, fur absorbing light. Eyes dark, intelligent.

We stared. Then it walked away.

I cried.

Chapter Nine: The Connection

I watched the video a hundred times. Showed my brother. “That’s something,” he said.

I researched more. Patterson‑Gimlin. Sierra Sounds. Reports from loggers, hunters.

Dreams came. Walking through forest. Bigfoot always just out of sight. Watching.

Mid‑October, I returned. Leaves carpeted gold and red.

I left offerings again. Apples, trail mix, mirror.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. Breathing deep. The smell—musky, wild.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said.

Three knocks answered. Close. Vibrating air.

I turned. It stood twenty feet away. Details clear. Fur texture. Massive shoulders. Face between ape and human.

It stepped forward. Took apples. Examined them. Looked at me. Eyes intelligent, cautious.

Then gone. Apples gone too.

Chapter Ten: The Daylight Encounter

In November, I heard knocks near my brother’s property. I followed.

In a clearing, it waited. Full daylight. Eight feet tall. Broad chest. Dark fur. Face gray, lined.

We stared. I felt reverence, not fear.

It rumbled. Not aggressive. Communication. Territory.

“I understand,” I said. “I’ll be respectful.”

It turned and walked away.

Chapter Eleven: The Warning

Late November, I returned to retrieve equipment.

The presence was immediate. Heavy. Watched.

Then the truck shook. Massive blows.

It emerged. Moving toward the truck. Angry.

I ran back. “Stop! I’m leaving.”

It stopped ten feet away. Scars on arms. Gray in fur. Eyes burning intelligence.

“I understand,” I said. “This is your home. I won’t come back.”

It rumbled again. Reached out. Touched the truck hood. Four finger marks in dust.

Then walked away.

Chapter Twelve: The Secret

I gathered equipment, drove out. Whispered the word again. Bigfoot.

I never returned to that site.

I found work elsewhere. But I thought constantly about its eyes, its warning.

People ask if I believe in Bigfoot. I say I’m not sure. It’s a lie.

I know. I have video, photos, audio. Locked away. Hidden.

Because some secrets are worth keeping.

Chapter Thirteen: The Departure

January 2017, I moved from Hood River. Told people it was for work. But really, I couldn’t stay.

Every mountain reminded me. Every forest.

I settled in eastern Oregon. High desert. Open. Safe.

But I knew the truth. The forest wasn’t dangerous. I was the intruder.

Chapter Fourteen: The Dreams

Dreams returned. Walking through forest. Wood knocks echoing. Shape moving at edge of vision.

Bigfoot watching