Alaskan Hunter Films a Real Bigfoot — And This Footage Is Absolutely Terrifying

On June 29, 2013, Jimmy Duhan set a trail camera on his family’s private land in Louisiana. He expected deer, maybe hogs. What he captured instead was a figure that refused to be dismissed.

At first glance, the image seemed ordinary. A gray‑green hunting blind stood in the frame, crows pecked in the foreground. But to the left, half‑hidden, loomed something upright. Thick. Heavy. Bow‑legged. Arms too long, proportions too wrong.

Skeptics said it was a man in dark clothing, maybe a cheap gorilla suit. But the longer you stared, the less human it became. The stance was unnatural, the bulk unsettling. When the team from Finding Bigfoot visited, they placed Bobo—nearly seven feet tall—beside the blind. Even bow‑legged, the figure in the photo matched his height.

Seven‑foot men exist. But seven‑foot men don’t wander private Louisiana woods in fitted ape suits, bow‑legged beside blinds, while crows circle like omens. Something about the image whispered wrongness.

II. Voices in the Dark

Photographs are fragile evidence. But sound—sound lingers.

In the 1970s, Ron Morehead and Al Berry camped in the Sierra Nevada mountains. What they recorded became legend: guttural growls, strange whoops, chatter that seemed patterned, almost linguistic.

Scott Nelson, a retired Navy cryptologist, studied the tapes. His conclusion was startling: the vocalizations carried hallmarks of language—phonemes, syntax, structure. Not random noise. Not human mimicry. Something else.

Wildlife biologists noted the range of pitch and frequency exceeded any known species. Dr. Lynn Rogers said, “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever studied in the wild.”

The forest had spoken, and its words were not ours.

III. The Christmas Visitor

On Christmas Day 2009, a trail cam in Washington State triggered. The team behind Extreme Expeditions Northwest had baited their camp with food and scent attractants.

The infrared image showed a figure crouched at a picnic table. No neck. Shoulders massive. Back furrowed with a deep groove—the spinal erector muscles visible, a detail too anatomical to fake.

Its torso dwarfed the table. Pale fur coated its body. At the bottom corner, what looked like trash bags might have been feet, bent beneath a kneeling posture.

If it was a hoax, it was oddly subtle. No dramatic pose, no clear face. Just bulk, posture, anatomy. Enough to unsettle, never enough to prove.

IV. The Hunters Who Knew Too Much

Dr. John Bindernagel, wildlife biologist, collected testimonies from seasoned hunters. One described a creature kneeling by a creek, drinking with cupped hands. Shoulders massive, head conical, hair dark and shaggy.

“I’ve hunted bears and moose my whole life,” the man said. “This wasn’t a bear. Not even close.”

Bob Strain, retired firefighter, saw one from eighty yards in the Sierra Nevada. It walked on two legs, stride fluid, taller than any human he’d seen. It turned, looked at him, then vanished.

Law enforcement officers spoke too. A retired sheriff in California described a figure crossing the road in front of his patrol car. Smooth. Fast. Alive.

These were not campers chasing shadows. These were professionals, men who knew the woods, men who knew what wasn’t supposed to exist.

V. The Old Stories

Long before cameras and radios, the stories lived in oral tradition.

The Salish called them Sasquatch. The Shoshone, Ma. The Lummi, Semiquas. Names varied, but the beings were the same: guardians of wilderness, brothers of the forest.

Chief Dan George said, “The Sasquatch is not a myth to us. It is part of our history as real as the bear or the eagle.”

A Cheyenne elder described his own encounter: “Tall, covered in hair, moving with a grace no man has. We’ve always known they’re out there. They are our brothers of the forest, ancient and wise.”

For indigenous communities, Sasquatch was not monster. It was symbol. The wild itself, untamed, walking.

VI. The Park at Dusk

At Salt Fork State Park, a father camped with his son. They saw a dark figure moving between trees. He filmed it, shaky, grainy. Enhanced later, the video showed a bipedal silhouette slipping through woods.

Too poor in quality to prove. Too strange to forget.

VII. The Tourists Who Didn’t Run

Mission, British Columbia. A group of Chinese tourists spotted something crouched beside a road. A furry, human‑like creature digging into earth.

They filmed it, laughing nervously, almost unfazed. The video went viral. Some said bear. Others said Sasquatch.

Whatever it was, it crouched with intent, massive and unafraid.

VIII. The Eyes in the Subdivision

A homeowner heard noises. Found footprints. Called investigators.

At the southwestern edge of his land, construction for a subdivision pressed against forest. Too quiet. Then movement.

A figure emerged. Tall. Broad. Fur dark. Eyes glowing red.

The camera caught it. Staged or real, the image unsettled. Because glowing eyes in the woods are never just eyes.

IX. The Transparent Watcher

Voyager Overland, a YouTube channel devoted to Jeep adventures, camped in Alberta’s Ruby Falls Mountains. They set a trail cam.

At night, it recorded a humanoid figure walking through camp. Stopping. Scanning.

The footage was strange. The figure looked partly transparent, blurred by infrared. Filters brightened it, enlarged it. Still bizarre. Still unexplained.

Encounters like this are rare. But when they happen, they remind us: the wild is not empty.

X. The Pattern That Emerges

Taken together, the stories form a mosaic.

A Louisiana trail cam showing proportions too wrong for man.
The Sierra Sounds, voices patterned like language.
A Christmas visitor in Washington, anatomy too precise to fake.
Hunters and firefighters describing fluid strides, cupped hands, living presence.
Indigenous elders reminding us these beings are not myth but memory.
Tourists filming crouched figures. Homeowners catching glowing eyes. Jeep adventurers recording transparent watchers.

Each piece alone is fragile. Together, they whisper something larger.

XI. The Forest Speaks

The mystery of Bigfoot is not in proof. Proof would end the story.

The mystery lies in persistence. In photographs that unsettle the longer you stare. In sounds that carry syntax. In footprints that steam in mud. In gifts left on porches.

The forest speaks in fragments. And those fragments, when gathered, form a language older than ours.

XII. The Final Question

What if the truth is not that Bigfoot exists, but that Bigfoot endures?

Endures in photographs, in sounds, in testimonies, in stories passed down. Endures in the way the forest resists being emptied.

Endures because mystery itself is survival.

And perhaps that is the lesson. That compassion, curiosity, and reverence are the only tools we have when facing the unknown.

Because the unknown is watching.