FBI Agent Admits They’ve Been Forced to Hunt Bigfoot for Ages – Sasquatch Encounter Story

They Told Me Bigfoot Was a Myth — Then They Made Me Hunt It

For thirty-seven years, I wore a badge that represented truth, law, and order. And for nearly twenty of those years, I lived a lie so deep that even now, writing these words, my hands tremble.

The official line was simple: Bigfoot didn’t exist. A campfire story. A joke. A blur on grainy film.
But that lie collapsed the day the FBI flew me into the Cascade Mountains and handed me a rifle.

I was young then—1989—fresh out of the academy, full of ambition and naïve faith in the system. They told me I’d been chosen for a “special unit.” No details. No paperwork. Just a helicopter ride into the wilderness with four strangers and a man everyone called Dutch. When the rotors finally died down, Dutch showed us a plaster cast of a footprint.

Twenty-one inches long. Five toes. Human heel strike.

“That,” he said, staring us down, “is what we’re hunting.”

I laughed. Then I saw his face. No one was joking.

That was the moment my life split in two—the world everyone knows, and the one hidden beneath it.

Three weeks into that first operation, I saw one.

It stood in a creek, sunlight catching in its dark, matted hair, easily eight feet tall. It caught a fish with bare hands and tore into it while it was still alive. I should have radioed the team. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because when it turned and looked at me, I realized something horrifying.

It was looking back.

Not with animal panic. Not with rage. But with intelligence.

That look followed me for decades.

We hunted them across Washington, Oregon, Montana, Idaho—deep wilderness where maps stop making sense. We found structures woven from branches. Trees snapped at impossible heights. Tools. Patterns. Evidence everywhere. But the creatures themselves stayed just out of reach, as if they knew our plans before we did.

They weren’t animals. They were opponents.

In 1992, we tried to capture one.

We darted it with enough tranquilizer to drop a grizzly. It fell, breathing slow and heavy, and for a moment we thought we’d won. Then the forest answered.

Roars—deep, thunderous—erupted from every direction. Four more emerged from the trees, moving with coordination that still chills me. One charged. It hit my partner Martinez so hard his ribs cracked like dry wood. Bullets barely slowed it.

We ran.

Martinez died that night. The report said “training accident.” His family never knew the truth. Neither did the public.

After that, everything changed.

We stopped trying to capture them. We watched instead. Documented. Counted. Learned.

They lived in families. Protected their young. Communicated with complex vocalizations—some below human hearing that made your skin crawl and your instincts scream leave. They solved mechanical puzzles faster than trained primates. They avoided cameras. Destroyed them with rocks thrown from impossible distances.

Once, we watched a mother feed berries to her child, correcting it gently, teaching it what was safe to eat. It was… human. Too human.

I thought of my own daughter that night and couldn’t sleep.

Not all encounters were peaceful.

In 1998, we lost Sarah—our best tracker. Officially, she fell. In reality, we found her surrounded by dozens of footprints. Her rifle was gone. Her radio smashed. Defensive wounds on her arms.

I will never forget standing at the edge of that ravine, staring at the tracks, realizing they hadn’t fled.

They had gathered.

To this day, I wonder if one of them took her rifle—not as a weapon, but as a symbol. Something dangerous. Something human.

People think the government hunts Bigfoot to control it.

That’s wrong.

Dutch finally told me the truth one night by the fire. He said, “We’re not protecting America from Bigfoot. We’re protecting Bigfoot from America.”

If the truth came out, the forests would flood with hunters. Scientists would demand bodies. Corporations would carve up habitats. Bigfoot wouldn’t survive disclosure. Myth was their shield.

So we kept the secret.

And quietly, heartbreakingly, we watched them decline.

Logging. Roads. Climate change. Development. By the time I retired, we estimated maybe two thousand left across North America. Fragmented. Isolated. Fading.

My last operation was in Montana. A small town expanding into old forest. A Bigfoot family forced to forage in backyards at night. Not aggressive. Just hungry. Just displaced.

I recommended halting development. Creating corridors. Protecting them.

The answer was no.

I retired in 2012, tired and hollow. I thought the dreams would stop.

They didn’t.

I still hear the roars. Still see the eyes. Still feel the weight of being watched in silent woods.

I’m old now. The threats don’t scare me anymore. Prison? For telling the truth? Fine. At least it would be honest.

Bigfoot is real.

But more than that—they are someone, not something. A thinking, feeling species that learned long ago to fear us.

If you ever feel the forest go quiet, if the air seems charged and wrong, if your instincts tell you to leave—listen. You are no longer the observer.

And if you’re lucky, you’ll walk away.

They always let me go.

I’m not sure why.

Maybe because, after all those years, they knew something about us that we still struggle to accept—

That we were never the most dangerous thing in the forest.

And we were never the most deserving of it either.