He Shot a Bigfoot in 1975. He Kept the Body Hidden in His Barn. What Happened Next

The Thing I Hid for Ten Years

For ten years, I walked past the freezer in my barn every single morning.

It sat in the far back corner, beneath a dangling bulb that flickered whenever the wind shook the old boards. Most days, I didn’t look at it directly. I pretended it was just another piece of farm equipment—old, loud, and forgettable. But I always knew it was there. And I always knew what was inside.

My name is Jerry Bishop. I’m a cattle rancher in rural Montana, about sixty miles west of Great Falls. I inherited this land from my father in 1968—four hundred acres of grassland and pine forest pressed up against the Rocky Mountain Front. My wife Ellen and I raised three kids here. By 1985, they were grown and gone, and life had finally settled into a quiet routine.

Except for the secret in the barn.

It began on October 23rd, 1975.

That fall had come early and hard. Snow dusted the high pasture weeks ahead of schedule, and mountain lions had already taken three of my calves. That evening, I was checking fence lines near the forest edge, carrying my Winchester .30-06 the way I always did—not to hunt, but for protection.

The sun was sinking fast when I heard movement in the trees.

It wasn’t deer. It wasn’t elk. Whatever it was moved heavy—slow and deliberate. I stopped, raised my rifle, and waited.

Then it stepped into a clearing.

At first, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing. It stood upright—well over seven feet tall—covered in dark brown fur that looked almost black in the fading light. The shape of it was wrong for a bear. Too straight. Too intentional.

It hadn’t seen me yet.

I had seconds to decide.

The rational part of me screamed that it had to be a man in a costume, some cruel joke. But the farmer in me—the man who had survived forty winters in Montana—saw something massive and unknown thirty yards away as daylight vanished.

I pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the trees. The creature spun toward me, and for one horrifying moment, our eyes met. They weren’t animal eyes. They were dark, intelligent… aware.

Then it fell.

I stood there frozen, my heart hammering, waiting for it to rise again. It didn’t.

When I finally approached, I knew immediately—this wasn’t a bear, and it wasn’t a man.

It was something else.

Seven and a half feet tall. At least six hundred pounds. Hands like a man’s, but larger. Feet nearly eighteen inches long. And a face that looked… human enough to haunt me for the rest of my life.

I had killed something that, according to science, did not exist.

I panicked.

I didn’t call the sheriff. I didn’t tell anyone. Instead, I loaded the body onto a trailer under cover of darkness and brought it home. I spent four hours forcing that massive body into an old chest freezer we used for meat after butchering season. When I finally locked the lid and plugged it in, I sat on the barn floor shaking.

That night, I crawled into bed beside Ellen and told my first lie.

Over the next ten years, I told thousands more.

I checked the freezer every few months, terrified it would fail, terrified someone would open it. Each time I saw the creature frozen inside, guilt crushed my chest. I had taken a life—and then hidden it.

I told myself I was protecting my family. Protecting our farm. Protecting our quiet life.

Then, in July 1985, everything collapsed.

A state livestock inspector arrived unannounced for routine brucellosis testing. I wasn’t worried—until he asked to inspect the barn.

When he reached the back corner and saw the locked freezer, my mouth went dry.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asked.

I knew refusing would raise suspicion. So I unlocked it.

When the lid opened, the inspector stumbled backward.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

He gave me twenty-four hours to report it myself—or he would.

That night, I finally told Ellen.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry at first. She just looked at me like she was seeing a stranger.

“How could you lie to me for ten years?” she asked.

I had no answer.

The next day, I called the sheriff. I called a university biologist. By afternoon, my quiet ranch was swarmed with police, scientists, and news vans. Cameras pointed at my house. Reporters shouted questions from the road.

My wife packed a bag and left.

The federal agents arrived the next morning.

They seized the freezer, the body still inside. They charged me with unlawful possession of an endangered species, failure to report, and obstruction. Six months in prison. Tens of thousands in fines.

Before they left, I asked one question.

“What was it?”

The lead agent looked at me coldly.

“You don’t get to know,” she said.

That night, my barn was empty for the first time in ten years. The hum of the freezer was gone. So was my marriage. So was my anonymity. So was the life I thought I was protecting.

I still walk out to the barn some mornings out of habit. I still glance at the corner where the freezer used to be.

I don’t know if the world will ever learn the truth about what I killed that night in 1975. But I know this:

Some secrets don’t stay buried.

And some choices echo for the rest of your life.