Hunter’s Trail Camera Recorded Bigfoot’s Speech. That Midnight He Regretted It – Sasquatch Story
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The Encounter: A Hunter’s Tale of Bigfoot
I never believed in Bigfoot until that night in November when something followed me home from the woods. What I saw on that SD card still haunts my dreams, but what happened at midnight was far worse. I survived by sheer luck, and I hope sharing this story will save someone else from making the same mistake I did.
I’m an avid hunter from northern Montana, having spent 15 years hunting the same territory. I know every ridge and hollow like the back of my hand. My hunting area is about 12 miles from the nearest road, deep in backcountry that most people will never see. It’s rugged terrain, where cell phones don’t work, and you can go days without encountering another soul. The mountains rise steeply on all sides, blanketed in thick pine and Douglas fir. Streams cut through the valleys, cold and clear—it’s beautiful, wild, and untouched.
Every fall, hunters flock to this area, hoping to catch a glimpse of elk and black bear. Most stick to the easier terrain closer to the roads, where they can drive their trucks right up and set up camp without much effort. I prefer the deeper woods, where the elk are bigger and the crowds are non-existent. That’s where I set up my trail cameras, where I’ve taken my best trophies over the years.
However, locals whisper about other things that inhabit those woods. Stories passed down through generations speak of massive creatures seen moving through the trees at dusk, sounds heard in the night that don’t match any known animal—deep whooping calls echoing through the valleys, footprints too large to be from a bear or a man, trees bent and broken in ways that suggest incredible strength. Most dismiss these tales as folklore, campfire stories meant to scare tourists. I always believed the same, having spent 15 years hunting without seeing anything unusual—until last November.
Early that month, I headed out to check my trail cameras, which I’d left up for two weeks, hoping to capture footage of the elk migration. This is prime time for elk hunting when the big bulls are still around before the deep snow drives them to lower elevations. I run about five cameras spread across my hunting area, each positioned to catch different game trails.
The furthest camera is mounted on a big pine tree overlooking a salt lick I maintain. I haul salt blocks up there every few months, creating a mineral lick that draws elk and deer. It’s hard work, but it pays off during hunting season. That particular camera has given me my best footage over the years, capturing trophy bulls and does with their fawns.
The morning I went out to check the cameras, something felt off right from the start. As soon as I turned onto the logging road leading to the trailhead, I noticed the woods were too quiet. Normally, you’d hear birds calling, squirrels chattering, the usual forest sounds that indicate life. But that day, there was nothing—just an eerie stillness that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was the kind of silence that occurs when predators are around, and every small animal has gone into hiding.
I pushed the feeling aside and continued on. I had driven two hours to get out there, woken up at 4:00 a.m., and I wasn’t about to turn back just because the forest was quiet. I rationalized it as maybe the temperature; it had been an unusually cold night, dropping into the low 20s. I checked my first three cameras without incident, getting good footage of a bull elk and a few does, but that feeling of wrongness never left me.
As I reached my furthest camera, I noticed something was wrong. The SD card slot looked damaged, the plastic housing cracked and bent. I initially thought a bear had tried to mess with it, but as I worked to retrieve the card, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. Then I heard it—a branch snapping nearby, loud in the oppressive silence. My heart raced as I glanced around, but I saw nothing.
I hurried to retrieve the SD card, my instincts screaming at me that something was off. I finally got the card out and took a break, sitting on a fallen log, trying to calm my nerves. That’s when I heard the footsteps again—heavy, deliberate steps moving through the trees, matching my pace. I could feel the presence of something big, something that was watching me.
I hurried back to my ATV, relief flooding me when I reached it. I started the engine and sped away, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. As I drove, I glanced back, and there it was—a massive dark figure standing among the trees, watching me. My heart dropped. I didn’t wait to see more. I floored the accelerator, driving faster than I should have, desperate to get away.
When I reached my truck, I felt a moment of safety. I unloaded my gear and drove home, shaken but relieved to be back in civilization. But the memory of that figure haunted me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me, something that knew where I lived.
That night, I tried to sleep, but every sound made me jump. I kept thinking about the creature I had seen, the way it had looked directly at the camera, the sounds it had made. I finally drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of heavy footsteps on my porch. My heart raced as I listened, terrified. The door rattled as something tried to open it. I grabbed my rifle and prepared for the worst.
When the footsteps moved to the back of the house, I heard glass breaking—my bedroom window. The creature was trying to get in. I raced upstairs, but it was too late. I could see its massive arm reaching through the window, trying to unlatch it. In a panic, I fired my rifle at the ceiling, hoping to scare it off. The Bigfoot withdrew, letting out a deep, rumbling roar that echoed through the night.
I knew I had to leave. I sprinted for my truck, barely making it inside before the creature could grab me. I drove away, adrenaline pumping, but the fear of what had happened lingered. I didn’t return to my cabin after that. I moved to a safer place, closer to town, where I could feel secure.
Months later, I still think about that night. The Bigfoot had left a message, a warning that I had ignored. I realized that the wilderness isn’t empty; it’s occupied by things we don’t understand. The encounter changed me forever. I learned to respect the signs, to heed the warnings of the wild.
And I hope that by sharing my story, others will learn to do the same. Because some places are not meant to be hunted, and some creatures are not meant to be disturbed. The Bigfoot taught me that lesson, and I’ll carry it with me for the rest of my life.
