GIANT SASQUATCH ROADKILL!! | Giant Bigfoot Creature Hit By Truck At 80 MPH
The Night the Woods Came Alive: A Trucker’s Nightmare on the Olympic Peninsula 🌲
My name’s Devin McCriedy. Eight years. It’s been eight long years since that night, and not a single one of my trucker buddies believes me. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me either. But what happened out there in the Olympic Peninsula changed everything I thought I knew about the deep woods of Washington State.
I’ve been hauling freight for over fifteen years, seen all the weirdness the road can offer, but nothing—nothing—prepared me for October 2016.
It started on a Tuesday when my dispatcher, Rick, called me into his office for an off-the-books run. I was behind on truck payments, my ex-wife was demanding more alimony, and my daughter’s college fund was bare. Rick offered a triple rate, $40,000 cash, for one night’s work: hauling old-growth timber from the Hoh River area. This wasn’t just illegal; it was federal crime territory. The timber was already cut and loaded near Forks. My job was simple: pick up the load and deliver it to a mill outside Tacoma before sunrise.
I should have walked away. But $40,000 was $40,000. I took the cash and the detailed, handwritten directions. The route would take my rig, a trusty 2014 Peterbilt 379, through some of the most remote parts of the Olympic Peninsula.
The Road Deteriorates
The drive started normally enough, heading west on Highway 101. But when I turned off onto the smaller roads, the landscape quickly transformed. Dense forest, ancient Douglas Firs and Western Red Cedars, pressed in, their branches forming a canopy so thick my headlights could barely penetrate the darkness.
Around midnight, my GPS signal vanished, forcing me to rely entirely on Rick’s cryptic instructions. By 1:00 a.m., I hadn’t seen another vehicle for an hour. The road had deteriorated into a rough, punishing logging track. The trees here were massive, centuries old, the kind of old-growth forest that people fought to protect. My conscience was starting to gnaw at me.
At 1:47 a.m., I hit something. The impact wasn’t massive, just a decent bump, but within five minutes, the steering felt sluggish. Then came the dreaded thumping sound: a flat tire. I pulled over, set the brake, and climbed down. The front passenger tire was completely shredded.
My rookie mistake: I hadn’t checked my spare. The compartment was empty. Stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service and a quiet CB radio, I was completely, utterly alone.
The Abandoned Cabins
After an hour of frantic, fruitless alternatives, I spotted something through the dense trees: a man-made structure, the edge of a roof. People meant tools, a phone, maybe a spare tire. I grabbed my flashlight and plunged into the underbrush.
It took twenty minutes to reach the spot. What I found were three substantial, abandoned logging cabins, arranged in a semicircle around a clearing. They had been empty for years, their doors ajar, the silence broken only by the wind and a distant owl.
I entered the largest cabin, apologizing for the intrusion to the empty air. My flashlight revealed signs of relatively recent occupation: canned goods, scattered tools, and furniture not fully covered in dust. In what looked like a workshop, I found an impressive array of hand tools and some spare machinery parts. But other items made my blood run cold: heavy chains with locks, animal traps large enough for something much bigger than a deer, and dozens of framed photographs mounted on the walls.
The photos showed the forest from various angles, with dates going back years. But the most recent ones, dated just three days prior, showed footprints: massive, easily twice the size of my boot, pressed deep into the mud.
The Standoff
I was staring at the photographs when I heard the first sound: a low rumble, a vibration felt through the floorboards and into my bones. Then came the crack of breaking branches, moving closer. I turned off my flashlight and peered out.
The rumbling came again, closer, and I identified it: footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and not human. Whatever was making them was massive. The footsteps began to circle the cabin, slow and methodical. Through the thin walls, I could hear its breathing: deep, measured, and disturbingly human-like.
It paused right outside the window where I’d been, and I heard a wet, resonant sniffing, like a bloodhound tracking a scent. I froze, trying to rationalize it—a bear, a large elk—but bears don’t sound like that.
The footsteps moved toward the other buildings. Curiosity, mixed with disbelief, compelled me. I crept back to the window. The clearing was bathed in moonlight, and what I saw will haunt me forever.
It stood nearly nine feet tall, covered in dark hair that absorbed the moonlight. Its body was massively built, pure muscle. The arms hung nearly to its knees. But it was the face that stole my breath. Primitive, with a pronounced brow ridge, but the eyes were intelligent, alert. This wasn’t an animal. This was a Sasquatch, a real, living, breathing Bigfoot.
It moved to the next cabin, running its massive hands along the walls. Then it stopped, tilted its head, and looked directly at the window of my cabin. Our eyes met. Recognition. It knew I was there.
The creature began walking toward my cabin with purposeful strides.
The Chase and the Crash
I made a split-second decision: I crashed through the back door and plunged into the forest. Behind me, I heard the front door of the cabin being torn apart, followed by a horrific, echoing roar—part human scream, part animal bellow.
The chase was on. Running through the dense, nighttime forest while being pursued by an eight-hundred-pound creature that knew the terrain was pure terror. My flashlight died, leaving me in darkness. I could hear it gaining ground, its footsteps shaking the earth. I was running on pure adrenaline, stumbling over roots and crashing through underbrush.
After what felt like an hour, I collapsed behind a fallen cedar, my lungs burning, thinking I’d lost it. Then came the sniffing, right on my trail. The creature was tracking me by scent.
With my energy fading, I found myself at the edge of a steep ravine. I could hear the creature closing in, thirty seconds away. Then, far below, I saw them: headlights on asphalt. A road.
I half-jumped, half-fell down the steep slope, hitting the road hard. But I was level now, on a surface where a human had a chance against that bulk. I ran down the center line, hoping for a car.
Headlights appeared from ahead. I waved my arms like a lunatic. A late-model Honda Civic swerved to avoid me, lost control, and slammed into a massive Douglas Fir on the left side of the road. The front end crumpled.
Before I could reach the wreck, the creature arrived. It had reached the road and was charging toward the commotion, drawn by the sound of the crash. In the glow of the car’s headlights, I saw it, all nine feet of fury, approaching at impossible speed.
The creature didn’t see the obstacle. It hit the wrecked car at full momentum, its massive body slamming into the tree with a sickening crunch. Pinned between the Honda and the Douglas Fir, it thrashed for a moment, and then went completely still.
The Cover-Up
I could hear the driver moaning inside. A young woman, unconscious but breathing, cut by the steering wheel. The creature, all 800 pounds of muscle and bone, was clearly dead, its neck bent at an impossible angle.
Panic overrode my duty. I couldn’t explain this. Who would believe a Bigfoot had chased me and accidentally killed itself in a car crash? I ran down the road for an hour until I reached Clearwater, a tiny town with a sheriff’s office.
I burst inside at 4:30 a.m., telling the deputy, Morrison, about an accident on Forest Road 47, an injured woman, and “something else he needed to see.”
We set out with an ambulance, a fire truck, and Morrison’s patrol car, but we never made it. Five miles from town, we were met by a roadblock: two black SUVs and several men in dark suits. The lead agent informed Morrison that a “federal investigation” was in progress and the road was closed. When Morrison protested about the injured motorist, the agent simply replied the situation was being handled and ordered us to turn around. They had an authority that went deeper than local law enforcement.
By sunrise, I was drinking coffee in a diner while Morrison finished his report. I lied, saying I thought it was just a “really big bear” that got hit. He let a tow truck retrieve my disabled Peterbilt, which magically had its flat tire repaired and was waiting for me in Forks.
I drove toward Tacoma with no cargo and a story I couldn’t tell. Rick was surprisingly unconcerned about the illegal timber, only advising me to keep quiet.
The cover-up was total. The abandoned cabins didn’t exist on any official maps. The incident with the injured driver vanished; the state patrol had no record of any accident on Forest Road 47 that night.
The Unending Mystery
Eight years later, I know the truth. Sasquatch exists. And I know that some very powerful people went to extraordinary lengths to ensure its existence, and its death that night, never became public. The creature wasn’t the only secret in those woods; there was a coordinated cover-up.
I still drive, but I avoid the deep forest, especially the Olympic Peninsula. The question that keeps me awake isn’t if they exist, but why the government is so determined to keep it secret.
I’m one of the few who’ve seen the impossible and lived. And I know that the world is bigger and stranger than most people imagine. I keep my spare tires checked and my phone charged, always vigilant. Sometimes, late at night, I catch a glimpse of a shadow in the tree line, and I wonder if one of them is watching me pass, remembering the human who witnessed their secret.
I saw one of them die, pinned between a Honda Civic and a Douglas Fir. But I know there are others out there, and I’ll keep driving, keep hauling, and keep watching for the signs of things that officially don’t exist.
Would you be interested in hearing more about the documented patterns of government cover-ups related to alleged cryptid sightings in the Pacific Northwest?
