Truck Driver Stumbles Upon a Sasquatch Roadkill on a Remote Highway—Shocking Discovery Sparks a Series of Unbelievable Bigfoot Encounter Stories

The Shadows on Highway 101

I still can’t sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat. It’s been three months since what happened on that stretch of Highway 101 in Northern California, and I’m only now getting to the point where I can talk about it without my hands trembling.

My wife keeps telling me to see someone about it, but how do you explain something like this to a therapist? How do you tell someone that everything you thought you knew about the world changed in one terrifying night?

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I’ve been driving long haul for fifteen years—started right after high school when my girlfriend got pregnant and I needed steady work that paid decent. The night shifts never bothered me much. Less traffic, cooler temperatures, and the pay differential made it worth losing sleep during the day. I’d driven that route between Sacramento and Portland probably 200 times. Hell, I could probably do it with my eyes closed.

October 15th started like any other shift. I grabbed my usual dinner at the truck stop diner—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and way too much coffee. The waitress, an older lady who’d been working nights longer than I’d been alive, always made sure my thermos was topped off before I hit the road. The weather was clear, which was a blessing considering how early the fog usually rolled in during fall.

My rig was loaded with electronics bound for Portland, nothing too heavy, and the truck was running smooth as silk. The first four hours were completely routine. I made good time through the valley, listening to talk radio and old country music. The CB was quiet except for occasional weather updates or speed trap warnings. I remember thinking it was going to be one of those boring but profitable runs where nothing interesting happened. Looking back now, I wish it had stayed that way.

It was just past midnight when I started climbing into the mountains. The road gets twisty up there, winding through dense forests of redwoods and Douglas fir that block out most of the moonlight. Your headlights become your whole world. Sometimes you can drive for 20 or 30 minutes without seeing another vehicle. It’s peaceful in a way—just you, the road, and the steady rumble of the diesel engine. I was about ten miles north of Garberville when I first saw something in the road ahead. At first, it just looked like a dark mass in my lane—maybe a fallen tree or a large piece of debris. I started slowing down and reached for my flashlight, figuring I’d have to get out and move whatever it was off the road.

Wouldn’t be the first time I’d cleared roadkill or storm damage. As I got closer, my headlights lit up what I initially thought was the biggest deer I’d ever seen. But something about the shape wasn’t quite right. The body was too long, too thick through the torso. I pulled up about fifty feet away, put on my hazard lights, and climbed down from the cab. The October air was cold and sharp, carrying that unmistakable smell of wet leaves and pine needles.

My boots crunched on the asphalt as I approached. What I saw made my stomach turn—something that shouldn’t have been there, something I’d never imagined I’d see in all my years of driving these mountains.

It was massive, at least eight feet long from head to toe, lying on its side with its back to me. Covered in dark, matted fur, it looked like some kind of humanoid beast—muscular, wrong proportions, and utterly terrifying. The arms were incredibly long, hanging past its knees, with enormous hands—fingers thick and almost human, but too long and too powerful. Its face was a nightmare: heavy brow ridge, deep-set eyes that reflected the faint moonlight, a massive jaw filled with sharp teeth, and an elongated skull that came to a point at the top.

I stood there, stunned, trying to process what I was seeing. The smell hit me then—musky, wild, animalistic, but with a strange undertone I couldn’t place. It wasn’t the smell of decay or death, just something primal and feral. The body was clearly hit by a vehicle—probably a semi-truck like mine, judging by the damage. The chest was crushed, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath it.

I couldn’t look away. My mind was trying to make sense of it all, but nothing fit. The creature was too big, too muscular, too wrong. Its feet—massive, leathery, with toes that looked almost like fingers—pressed into the asphalt.

Then I heard it. A low, guttural sound—something between a grunt and a cry—coming from the forest across the road. I froze, flashlight trembling in my hand. The sound grew louder, closer. Branches snapped, leaves rustled, and I could feel the weight of unseen eyes watching me.

Suddenly, the forest erupted. Multiple figures emerged—large, hairy, upright—moving with an animal grace that defied their size. They were too tall, too broad, and their eyes reflected the faint glow of my flashlight like a predator’s. The largest, the one I could only describe as a leader, made a deep, mournful sound—almost like a cry of grief.

They gathered around the body, touching it gently, making sounds that sounded like mourning. The scene was surreal—like some primitive funeral ritual performed by beings I’d only ever dismissed as myth.

I was rooted to the spot, trembling, unable to breathe. My mind raced—what were these things? Could they be real? Were they intelligent? I’d read stories, watched documentaries, but I never believed in this. Not until that night.

And then, the unthinkable happened.

The largest creature looked directly at me. Its eyes—bright, intelligent, almost human—locked onto mine through the beam of my flashlight. For a moment, I thought it might attack. Instead, it made a slow, deliberate gesture—raising a massive hand, palm open, as if in greeting or warning.

I froze. My heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode. I knew I should run, hide, or call for help. But I couldn’t move. I just stared, caught in the gaze of something that was neither animal nor human—something ancient and wise, and terrifying beyond words.

Then, it turned and melted into the shadows, and the others followed. The scene faded into darkness, leaving me trembling in the cold night.

The Aftermath

I didn’t sleep that night. I spent the hours staring at the stars, trying to process what I’d seen. The next morning, I examined the road—deep, broad footprints in the dirt, leading into the forest. The damage to the body was extensive—crushed ribs, torn flesh, but no sign of the creature that had made it.

I knew I had to get out of there. I called the local sheriff, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell the full story. How do you tell someone you saw a creature that defies explanation? That it carried a human body? That it mourned?

I told them I’d seen a large animal hit by a truck, that I was shaken and needed help. They sent a rescue team, but they found nothing—no body, no sign of the creature, only the footprints and a few scattered bones.

That night, I left the mountain, driving through the dark, haunted by the memory of those glowing eyes and mournful cries. I’ve been in hiding ever since, living in the city, trying to forget. But I can’t.

The Truth I Carry

I’ve shown the footage to a few trusted friends, but no one believes me. The police dismiss it as a hoax. The media calls it folklore. My family thinks I’ve lost my mind.

But I know what I saw. I saw something that shouldn’t exist—an intelligent, mourning creature, living hidden in the mountains. They’re out there, watching us, waiting for us to forget.

And I fear they’re still there, in the shadows, mourning their own kind, and watching us with eyes that see everything.