Man Recorded Bigfoot Sneaking Into His Cabin, Then This Happened – Sasquatch Story
Sixteen Days in the Shed: My Winter with Bigfoot
Prologue: The Camera and the Truth
I caught a Bigfoot on camera sneaking into my cabin shed. That’s the short version. The long version involves sixteen days, a winter storm that nearly killed us both, and learning that the monsters we’re told to fear might just need help like anything else.
This is what really happened, start to finish.
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I always figured Bigfoot was just stories—folklore passed down and exaggerated with each telling. Mistaken identity, bears standing on hind legs, shadows playing tricks on tired eyes, or just plain made up for attention. Some people want to believe in mysteries so badly, they see them everywhere.
But after what happened last winter at my cabin, I can’t deny what I saw anymore. What I lived through. What I’m about to tell you is the truth. Every single word of it. And I hope you’ll hear me out before deciding I’ve lost my mind. I know how crazy this story sounds. Trust me, I know. But this happened. All of it happened. And I have the scars on my shed and the tufts of fur to prove it—even if those things don’t mean much to anyone but me.
Chapter 1: The Quiet Life
I’ve been living alone in my mountain cabin for about three years now. It’s remote—forty miles from the nearest town if you follow the winding forest roads, tucked deep into the woods where the pines and firs grow thick and tall, where the winter snow piles up deep enough to bury a vehicle if you’re not careful.
The cabin is small but solid, just two rooms and a shed attached for storage. I built most of it myself over two summers, learning carpentry as I went, making mistakes and fixing them, creating something that could withstand the harsh mountain winters. The nearest neighbor is probably fifteen miles away, though I’ve never actually met them or even seen their property. Out here, people value their privacy above almost everything else.
I came to the mountains to get away from everything after thirty years in the city, working jobs that slowly drained the life out of me. I needed the quiet like I needed air. Needed space to think and breathe and remember what it felt like to be human instead of just another cog in a machine.
Out here, it’s just me, the endless forest, and whatever wildlife decides to pass through my little corner of the woods. I’ve seen plenty of animals—bears, elk, mountain lions, coyotes, foxes, deer, raccoons, eagles, chickadees. You learn to respect them, and they mostly leave you alone. That’s the unspoken agreement of living in the wilderness: they have their space, you have yours, and as long as nobody crosses those invisible lines, everyone gets along fine.
I make my living doing freelance computer work when I have internet, which isn’t always reliable this far out. I’ve got solar panels for power and a wood stove for heat. A well for water that runs deep and cold. Six chickens for eggs. A vegetable garden in the summer that produces more than I can eat. I’m not completely off the grid, but I’m close enough. It’s a simple life, quieter than anything I ever experienced in the city, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Chapter 2: The Feeling
But this past winter felt different from the very start. I can’t explain it exactly, but there was this uneasy feeling I couldn’t shake. This persistent sense that something fundamental had shifted in the forest around me, like the rules had changed when I wasn’t looking.
I’d be out gathering firewood, doing my usual routine, and I’d get this prickling sensation on the back of my neck. That primitive instinct that tells you you’re being watched. I’d stop and turn around slowly, scanning the tree line, looking for whatever was triggering that ancient warning system. But there was never anything there. Just trees and shadows and the usual forest sounds.
At night, lying in bed, I’d hear sounds I couldn’t identify. Not the usual owl hoots or coyote howls, something else entirely. Deep, resonant calls that seemed to echo through the valley. Tree knocks like something was deliberately striking wood against wood in a pattern, rhythmic, purposeful. I’d tell myself it was just branches falling or a woodpecker going at a dead tree. But it sounded intentional, almost like communication.
Sometimes I’d hear footsteps outside, heavy and deliberate, circling the cabin. I’d grab my flashlight and check, but there’d be nothing there. Just my own paranoia. Too much time alone will do that to a person.
Chapter 3: Signs
It started in early December. The first real snow of the season had already fallen, covering everything in pristine white. I went out one morning to check on my chickens, but when I opened the coop door, they acted strange—huddled together in the far corner, making nervous little sounds, eyes wide, looking toward the door like they expected something terrible to come through it.
I checked the coop for signs of a predator—holes in the wire, blood, feathers. Nothing. No sign of forced entry. But they stayed nervous all day.
Over the next few days, I noticed eggs going missing. Not every day, but a few times a week. At first, I thought maybe they just stopped laying as much—winter can do that, especially if they’re stressed. But the math didn’t add up. I have six hens, all healthy, all in their prime laying years. They should be producing consistently.
I figured I had a fox or raccoon problem. I reinforced the coop, added extra latches, checked every possible entry point, filled gaps with hardware cloth. Still, eggs kept disappearing. Not enough to be a serious problem, but enough to be noticeable. Enough to add to that general feeling that something was off.
Then I started finding footprints in the snow around my property. Big ones, way too big to be human. My first thought was bear, but these prints looked wrong—almost human-shaped, just absolutely massive. Five toes visible, but the proportions were off. More like a giant human foot if such a thing existed.
I measured one with my boot. It was easily twice the size of my foot, maybe more. I’m a size 11, so these prints had to be pushing twenty inches long or more, and deep—whatever made them was incredibly heavy.
I followed the tracks for a while. They led from the forest, circled my cabin at a distance, went past the chicken coop where they paused, then continued back into the trees. The stride length was enormous. Whatever this was, it was tall. Really tall.
Chapter 4: The Intruder
One morning, about a week into December, I went out to my shed to grab some tools. The shed’s attached to the cabin, with both an exterior door and an interior door that connects to the living space.
When I got to the exterior door, I found it damaged—scratched up pretty badly. Claw marks, deep gouges running vertically down the door like something had tried to rake it open. The latch was bent, warped out of shape, like something had tried to force it but given up.
That made me nervous for real. The shed connects right to my cabin through that interior door, which wasn’t as strong as the exterior ones. I reinforced the latch with a heavier padlock, added a 2×4 across the door, checked the interior door, and added a deadbolt.
That night, maybe 10 p.m., I heard it. Loud scratching from the shed, then banging. Heavy, rhythmic banging like something was deliberately striking the wall. My heart started pounding. I grabbed my hunting rifle, checked that it was loaded, and tried to steady my breathing.
The sounds continued from the shed—scratching, banging, something heavy being moved around. I thought it had to be a bear. That was the only thing that made sense. I grabbed my flashlight and headed to the exterior shed door. The scratching had stopped. Everything had gone quiet, which somehow felt worse.
Slowly, I opened the door, swept the flashlight beam into the shed, rifle ready. At first, I didn’t see anything. Then the light caught movement in the far corner behind the shelving unit. Something huge was hunched over, covered in dark, matted fur. It turned to face me.
Chapter 5: The Encounter
I froze. Every muscle in my body locked up. It wasn’t a bear. It was standing on two legs, maybe eight feet tall, even hunched over. Covered in dark brown fur, massive shoulders, arms that looked strong enough to tear my shed apart. But the face—too human. Not human exactly, but closer to human than to ape. The eyes were too aware, too intelligent. There was thought behind them.
I raised the gun automatically. The creature just watched me, didn’t move, didn’t show aggression. Then I noticed it was injured—blood matted the fur on its right shoulder, more blood down one leg. The wounds looked bad: deep gashes, like from a fight or a fall. Its eyes looked exhausted, not threatening, just tired. There was something in that look, something almost pleading.
I slowly lowered the gun. The Bigfoot watched the rifle go down, and something in its posture relaxed slightly. I backed away, keeping my eyes on it, not turning my back. My hands fumbled for the door handle. I pulled the door shut, stood there in the cold night air, heart hammering.
What the hell had I just seen?
Chapter 6: The Decision
I went back into the cabin, locked the door, set the rifle against the wall. My legs felt weak, so I sat at the kitchen table and tried to process what had just happened. After maybe twenty minutes, I heard movement from the shed—shuffling, boxes being shifted. It was still in there, just on the other side of the wall.
I was too afraid to check, too afraid to open that interior door and see it up close again. My hands were still shaking. My breathing hadn’t steadied. I sat there listening to the small sounds from the shed until exhaustion finally pulled me toward my bedroom.
I didn’t sleep much that night. Every sound made me tense up, wondering if it was coming through the door, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.
But I’d seen those injuries, seen how human its eyes looked. If I went in there aggressive, it might defend itself. This thing was massive, and it could easily overpower me if it felt threatened.
What should I do? Call someone? Who would I call? The sheriff was forty miles away and would think I’d lost my mind. Go in and confront it? But those injuries looked serious, deep and bleeding. And there had been something in those eyes that made me hesitate. It was hurt and scared and looking for shelter just like any wounded animal would.
Except this wasn’t really an animal, was it? Not in the normal sense.
Chapter 7: The Truce
When dawn finally broke, I worked up the courage to check on the shed. The cabin was quiet. No sounds from beyond the wall. Either it had left during the night or it was sleeping.
I grabbed the rifle again, though I wasn’t sure I could actually shoot the thing. I quietly opened the interior door, just a crack. The early morning light coming through gaps in the shed walls provided just enough illumination to see by. The Bigfoot was still there, lying on the floor among some old tarps and drop cloths, apparently having arranged them into a makeshift bed, asleep or at least resting with its eyes closed.
In the better light, I could see the injuries more clearly. Deep gashes across the shoulder, parallel cuts like claw marks. Smaller cuts down the leg, scratches and scrapes. The wounds looked infected, the fur around them crusted with dried blood and pus. The shoulder was swollen, the flesh angry and inflamed. The creature’s breathing was labored, its chest rising and falling slowly with occasional hitches like it hurt to breathe. It looked vulnerable.
I stood there watching it breathe, trying to decide what to do. The logical part of my brain said to chase it off, but the more I looked, the more that seemed wrong. This was just a creature that needed help, hurt and exhausted, seeking shelter.
I went back into the cabin and looked through my kitchen, taking stock of what food I had. I put roast chicken, bread, apples, carrots on a plate, added a bowl of water, and carried it to the shed. I set the plate and bowl on the floor, maybe six feet from where it lay, then backed out and closed the door.
Chapter 8: Building Trust
From the cabin window, I watched and waited. Two hours passed. Finally, I heard movement. When I checked later, the plate was empty and the water bowl was knocked over. The food was gone.
The second day, I brought more food—a big pot of stew, venison and vegetables. I stayed in the doorway longer. The Bigfoot watched me but didn’t move away or show any sign of aggression, just sat there propped up against the wall, watching me with those alert brown eyes. I spoke softly, said I wasn’t going to hurt it, that I just wanted to help, that it could stay as long as it needed to heal.
It made a low rumbling sound, not threatening, more like an acknowledgement. Like it understood I wasn’t a danger.
On the third day, I sat just inside the shed entrance while it ate. The hands were massive, each finger as thick as my wrist, but they moved with surprising delicacy when picking up pieces of food. The eyes were deep brown, almost black, and intelligent in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable. This wasn’t an animal looking at me. This was a thinking being, processing and evaluating.
But the shoulder wound was getting worse despite my food offerings. I realized I was going to have to do something about it.
Chapter 9: Healing
On the fourth day, I gathered my first aid supplies—antiseptic, clean water, gauze, bandages. I brought the supplies into the shed slowly, keeping my movements calm and predictable, letting it see everything I was doing.
The Bigfoot watched me but didn’t retreat or show defensiveness. I gestured to its injured shoulder, pointed at my supplies, tried to communicate what I wanted to do through body language. It seemed to understand, shifted its position to give me better access to the wound.
My hands shook as I reached out to touch it. The fur was coarse and thick, the skin warm. I carefully parted the fur around the wound. It was deep, probably from a sharp branch or maybe an antler. Three parallel gashes, each about six inches long, cutting through the thick hide and into the muscle. Definitely infected.
I poured antiseptic over the wound and it tensed, but didn’t pull away or lash out. Just sat there and endured it. I cleaned the wound as thoroughly as I could, then applied more antiseptic. The Bigfoot’s breathing had gone quick and shallow, but it never moved, never tried to stop me.
I wrapped gauze around the shoulder as best I could. Throughout the process, I kept being struck by how human this creature seemed, despite being so obviously not human.
On the fifth day, I repeated the wound cleaning, changed the bandages, applied fresh antiseptic. The infection was starting to improve. The Bigfoot allowed the treatment without any resistance, just sat there patiently while I worked. When I finished, it reached out one massive hand and briefly touched my arm—gentle despite the size and strength.
Chapter 10: Storm
On the ninth day, the radio called for a major winter storm—eighteen to thirty inches of snow, winds up to sixty miles per hour, the worst storm of the season. I started preparing, bringing in extra firewood, checking supplies, making sure my generator had fuel.
The Bigfoot became restless, pacing in the limited space. The wind picked up that evening. By nightfall, the temperature had dropped dramatically. Snow started falling around sunset, hard and driving.
By morning of the tenth day, the storm was raging. The wind howled, shaking the cabin, whistling through every gap. Snow was falling so thick I couldn’t see twenty feet in any direction. I heard a loud cracking sound from the shed. I knew that sound—wood failing.
Inside, I found the Bigfoot standing with its massive shoulders pressed against the main roof beam, which was sagging badly. Snow was piled at least three feet deep on the roof, and more was accumulating by the minute.
I ran back to the cabin for tools and materials. Inside the shed, the Bigfoot was still holding the beam. We had to work together or we’d both lose our shelter. It might lose its life if that roof came down.
I started setting up support beams, working as fast as I could. The Bigfoot understood immediately what I was doing. It shifted its weight, adjusted its position to give me room to work while still supporting the main beam. I’d position a board, the creature would hold it in place with one massive hand while I hammered it secure.
We braced multiple weak points. The Bigfoot seemed to know exactly where the stress points were. Maybe it was experience from building its own shelters in the wild, maybe just an intuitive understanding of physics.
The wind tore at the shed walls, snow blew in through spaces around the door. Both of us were soaked from melting snow, shivering from cold. But we kept working. There was no choice.
Finally, the structure stabilized. The roof still sagged, but it wasn’t getting worse. We’d saved it.
Chapter 11: Shelter
That night, we huddled in the shed together, listening to the wind scream. It was too dangerous to try to get back to the cabin. I’d have to ride out the storm here.
The Bigfoot fell asleep eventually, its breathing deepening and slowing. I dozed fitfully, too cold and uncomfortable to really sleep, too exhausted to stay fully awake. When pale light finally filtered through the gaps in the walls, the wind was still howling, but maybe not quite as hard.
The second day of the storm, we checked all the supports we’d installed, made small repairs and adjustments. The Bigfoot showed an impressive understanding of structural integrity, pointing to weak spots I’d missed, helping distribute weight more evenly.
By evening of the second day, the wind finally started to die down. The snow kept falling, but not as heavily. The worst of it had passed. We’d survived. The shed had held.
Chapter 12: Farewell
When the storm finally cleared, it left approximately three feet of fresh snow covering everything. The world outside was transformed, buried in white.
The Bigfoot and I worked together to dig out the shed entrance. I had a snow shovel and started clearing a path. The Bigfoot used its massive hands like shovels, scooping up huge amounts of snow and throwing it aside.
The wounds were mostly healed by now. The Bigfoot ventured outside for the first time since arriving at my cabin. I watched from the window as it stood in the deep snow, looking toward the forest. Just standing there, not moving, staring at the tree line for a long time.
On the thirteenth day, it stayed close to the shed, but I could see the restlessness increasing. It would walk to the edge of my property line, stand there looking into the trees, then return after a few minutes.
On the fifteenth day, the Bigfoot stood at the shed entrance at dawn. Not inside, outside. Standing in the snow, looking toward the forest, then back at the cabin. The meaning was clear, even without words. It was time. It was ready. The wounds had healed enough. The storm had passed. It was time to go home.
I nodded, understanding what it couldn’t say in words. Understanding that this had always been temporary, that wild things belong in the wild.
Chapter 13: The Goodbye
On the morning of the sixteenth day, I found the Bigfoot standing outside in the snow, fully outside my property, right at the edge where the cleared area met the tree line, waiting like it had been waiting for me to wake up to say goodbye properly.
I brought one last meal, made it special—roasted a whole chicken, added bread, apples, some of the dried fruit I’d been saving. Set it down on a board between us. The Bigfoot ate slowly, like it was savoring each bite, or maybe just delaying the inevitable. I sat there and watched, committing every detail to memory.
When it finished, it stood to its full height. Eight feet of muscle and fur. Powerful and wild and completely alien to everything I’d known before, but also familiar now. Also a friend, strange as that sounded.
It made that low rumbling sound one more time. I said something about being glad it was okay, about hoping it stayed safe out there in the forest, about thanking it for helping with the shed during the storm. Stupid things to say to a creature that probably didn’t understand the words, but I said them anyway.
The Bigfoot reached out one massive hand toward me, slowly, deliberately, giving me time to pull away if I wanted. I hesitated, then placed my hand in its palm. The hand was warm despite the cold air, callused from years of living in the wild. Rough, but not harsh. Real. The fingers closed gently around my hand, not squeezing, just holding. Contact between two very different beings who’d somehow found common ground.
We stayed like that for maybe ten seconds. Then it released my hand and turned toward the tree line. Its footprints were enormous in the fresh snow, each one deep and clear, tracking across the white expanse toward the forest. At the edge of the trees, it stopped and looked back once. I raised my hand in a wave. The Bigfoot watched me for another few seconds, then turned and walked into the forest, moving between the trees with a grace that seemed impossible for something that large. Within moments, it had disappeared.
Epilogue: The Lesson
I stood in the cold for a long time after it was gone, looking at those tracks leading into the forest. They were the only proof left that any of this had happened. In a few days, new snow would cover them, and even that evidence would be gone.
I keep the shed stocked with extra food now, just in case. Part of me hopes I’ll open that door one day and find the Bigfoot there again, seeking shelter from another storm or just visiting an old friend.
Winter doesn’t feel as lonely anymore. Even though I’m still alone, knowing I’m not truly alone in these mountains changes something fundamental. There’s a comfort in that. The silence doesn’t feel as empty when you know something intelligent shares the forest with you, when you know there are mysteries still walking out there, unknown and unnamed.
I understand now that I witnessed something rare, something most people will never believe exists. I have no photos, no video, nothing but my word and a few tufts of hair and the memory of warm, callused skin against my palm. To most people, that’s not enough. They’ll think I imagined it, hallucinated from isolation, or I’m just making it up for attention.
But I know what I saw. I know the weight of that hand in mine, warm and real. I know the intelligence in those eyes, the awareness, the consciousness. I know what we call monsters might just be different, not dangerous. Might just be living beings trying to survive in a world that’s forgotten them.
That’s what I learned from my time with the Bigfoot. That compassion doesn’t require complete understanding. That different doesn’t mean dangerous. That sometimes the strangest experiences teach us the most important lessons about what it means to be human. And that the world still has room for wonder, if we’re brave enough to accept it.
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