Hunters Used AI to Translate Bigfoot’s Sounds… They Immediately Regretted It – Sasquatch Story
They Used AI to Understand the Forest’s Voice — and Learned the Earth Was About to Break
In September of 2014, the mountains of Washington felt wrong.
I didn’t know how else to describe it at the time. The air was heavier than usual. The forest carried a pressure that sat in the chest instead of the lungs. My brother Carl and I had hunted these Cascade foothills our entire lives. We knew every creek bend, every game trail, every sound that belonged — and every sound that didn’t.
That autumn, we were running a small hunting outfitter business. Nothing fancy. Just two brothers, trail cameras, elk patterns, and long days in the woods. Carl was the technical one. He loved new gear, new software, new ways to predict animal movement. That year, he upgraded our trail cameras — audio recording included. He said we could analyze elk bugles more precisely.
That decision changed everything.
On the third night, Camera Seven recorded something we couldn’t identify.
It wasn’t an animal call. It wasn’t random noise. It was structured.
Three deep pulses.
A pause.
Three more.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it was powerful — low-frequency, resonant, vibrating through bone instead of air. It repeated five times over eight minutes. When Carl played it back the next morning, the coffee went cold in my hands.
“This isn’t wind,” I said.
Carl nodded. “And it’s not elk. Or bear. Or anything in the database.”
Two nights later, the exact same sound returned. Same time. Same pattern. Same duration. When Carl layered the waveforms on his laptop, they aligned perfectly. Identical.
Animals don’t do that.
That’s when Carl did something we both pretended was a joke.
He ran the audio through an experimental AI translation program — software originally designed to detect structure in extraterrestrial signals. It wasn’t meant for animals. It wasn’t meant for forests.
But the AI didn’t care what it was meant for.
Three minutes later, the translation appeared.
Ground will break.
Water will rise.
13 days.
We stared at the screen in silence. I remember feeling embarrassed by how scared I was. Embarrassed because the idea sounded insane. Bigfoot? Prophecies? AI translating forest sounds?
So we ran it again.
Same result.
We told ourselves it was coincidence. Pattern-seeking software finding meaning in noise. But the words stayed lodged in my chest. Ground will break. Water will rise. Thirteen days.
The Cascades sit on fault lines. Volcanoes. Subduction zones older than memory.
Mount Rainier.
That night, neither of us slept.
We went back to Camera Seven.
The forest fell silent at exactly 11:47 p.m. No insects. No wind. No movement. Then the sound came again — closer this time. Not echoing. Present. The pulses rolled through the ravine like pressure waves, rattling something deep inside me.
When we ran that recording through the AI, the translation had changed.
Leave now.
That was the moment fear turned into certainty.
Over the next week, the sounds continued. Always the same cadence. Always the same intelligence behind them. And each time, the message shortened. Sharpened.
Six days. Last warning.
Mountain wakes.
Fire comes.
We didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe us? Two hunters claiming an AI-translated Bigfoot was predicting a geological catastrophe? We prepared in silence. Moved our families east. Stocked supplies. Reinforced basements. Lied to people we loved because the truth sounded crazier than the lie.
The countdown continued.
On October 9th, at 11:47 a.m., Mount Rainier erupted.
Not the end-of-the-world eruption people fear — but enough. Enough to fracture ice. Enough to melt glaciers. Enough to send lahars roaring down river valleys like liquid concrete.
Ground broke.
Water rose.
Fire came.
Towns evacuated in panic. Roads flooded. Communities shattered. Lives lost — but not nearly as many as could have been. Scientists called it “unexpected.” Authorities said the monitoring systems showed no clear warning signs.
Carl and I watched it unfold from a motel hundreds of miles away, shaking, sick, and silent.
We had known.
Something in the forest had known.
And it had tried to warn us.
Afterward, we erased everything. The recordings. The translations. The proof. Not out of fear — but out of guilt. If people knew we’d had thirteen days of warning and failed to convince anyone, the question would never stop: Why didn’t you do more?
Carl moved away. I stayed.
I couldn’t explain why I returned to the mountains. Maybe part of me needed to be near the thing that had tried to save us. I never set up cameras again. Never searched. I just listened.
Sometimes at night, I heard the pulses. Distant. Calm. No warning now. Just presence.
Once, I found stones stacked carefully on my porch. Another time, bark carved with deliberate marks. And once — just once — I saw it. Tall. Broad. Still as the trees. Watching from the edge of the clearing.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
It tilted its head. Then turned and vanished into the forest.
Ten years have passed.
Last week, I found nine carved lines on a piece of bark. Three sets of three.
A countdown.
Seismic activity in the Cascades is elevated again, they say. Nothing alarming. Normal fluctuations.
But I know better now.
This time, I’m not staying silent.
Because whatever lives in those woods — whatever listens to the language of stone and fire and time — it isn’t our enemy.
It tried to save us.
And this time, I intend to listen.
