For 40 Years I Secretly Fed a Bigfoot—Now I Finally Understand Why It Fears and Avoids Humans: Remarkable Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Last Witness: A Life in the Shadow of the Mountain

I’ve kept a secret for nearly four decades—a secret that, if revealed, would change everything. They say time dulls memory, but some truths are too heavy to forget. I’ve cared for him since 1984, when I first found him dying in the snow of the Pacific Northwest mountains. And what he showed me about his kind—and why they fear us—will stay with me until my last breath.

I’m in my seventies now, living alone in the same remote cabin where it all began. My husband passed away years ago, leaving me with this land, these mountains, and memories that run deeper than the roots of the ancient trees surrounding me. I grew up here, learned to hunt, fish, and survive from my father. Being alone in these woods never frightened me—until I met him.

That winter in 1984 changed everything.

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The First Encounter

It was late November when the first big storm hit. The snow fell relentlessly, piling up three feet in just two days, trapping me inside my cabin. I had supplies enough to last weeks—firewood, canned food, a sturdy stove. I was used to the isolation. But on the third night of the storm, I heard something outside. Not the usual creak of branches under snow or the wind howling through the pines. This was different—heavy, deliberate movement near my woodshed.

I stayed awake, listening. The sound was unnatural—something large, moving with purpose, slow but steady. I grabbed my rifle, more out of habit than expectation. The next morning, I bundled up and went out to investigate.

The fresh snow had been disturbed—massive footprints, easily seventeen inches long and seven or eight wide, with five distinct toe impressions. They led from the woods to my shed and then veered back into the forest. My heart pounded as I followed them, rifle slung over my shoulder.

About a hundred yards into the trees, I saw him.

He was enormous—easily eight feet tall, covered in dark brown fur that was matted with ice and blood. He was collapsed on the ground, trembling. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle—injured badly. His chest rose and fell with shallow, labored breaths. I froze, unsure whether to approach or run.

His eyes opened slowly, locking onto mine. Dark, intelligent eyes—fear mixed with resignation. He didn’t threaten me, didn’t growl or attack. He simply looked at me, accepting whatever was coming.

We stared at each other for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. I saw something in those eyes—something human, something that understood suffering, that accepted death as inevitable.

The Choice

Back in my cabin, I stood in the kitchen, trembling, trying to decide what to do. Every logical part of my brain told me to leave him alone—let nature take its course, call someone, get help. But I couldn’t. Not after seeing those eyes. Not after sensing the quiet acceptance of death.

My late husband would have helped—he always had a soft spot for injured animals. He’d bring home birds with broken wings, deer hit by cars, nurse them back to health. Most of them died, but some survived, and those moments meant everything to him. I knew what he would have done. I knew what I had to do.

I gathered blankets, food, a thermos of hot broth, and headed back into the snow. It took three trips to get everything out there. The creature watched me silently, unmoving, barely reacting.

I left the food about fifteen feet away, then slowly approached, backing off step by step. I laid blankets over his massive shoulders and sat nearby, talking softly about the cabin, about my husband, about the mountains. His eyes followed me, sometimes tilting his head like he was trying to understand.

When I left that day, I promised I’d return. And I did—every morning and evening, for weeks. I brought dried meat, vegetables, fish, whatever I could find. He ate slowly at first—testing the food, unsure if it was safe. But gradually, he accepted it, trusting me enough to eat when I was there.

His injuries were severe. His leg was badly broken, probably weeks old. I fashioned a splint from cedar branches, carefully working around his massive, dexterous hands. He tensed when I touched him, but he didn’t lash out. He watched with those intelligent eyes, understanding more than I could say.

Building Trust

Over the months, our routine became a quiet companionship. I’d sit with him, talk softly, sometimes leave small gifts—smooth stones, worn wood, berries he liked. He began leaving things for me, small tokens—rare, polished stones, a handful of wild strawberries arranged on a flat rock. It was his way of communicating, of reciprocating the kindness I showed him.

He was a male, middle-aged, I guessed. His face was a strange blend of human and ape—pronounced brow ridge, wide face, but eyes that radiated awareness, thoughtfulness. Despite his injuries, he moved with cautious grace, and I watched him grow stronger.

He helped me in subtle ways. Once, a storm knocked a heavy branch onto my roof. The next morning, I found it moved aside, as if he’d dragged it away. Another day, I was struggling to lift a heavy log, and he appeared, studying the task, then gently pushing the logs into place.

He was not just an animal. He was intelligent—more than that, aware. I began to think of him as a person, in his own way.

The Seasons of Friendship

Spring arrived slowly, but he was already moving more confidently. He fished in the streams, foraged in the woods, and even climbed trees despite his limp. He stayed near my property, as if he had chosen this place for a reason.

Over the years, our bond deepened. I told him stories—about my childhood, my late husband, the changing world. He listened, tilting his head, sometimes touching my hand with his massive paw. I wondered how much he understood, but just the act of listening seemed important to him.

He showed me his world—hidden places in the mountains, old burial sites, evidence of violence and loss. I learned that his kind had once thrived here—families, children, a culture of their own. But they had been hunted, killed, driven away.

He led me to a cave behind a waterfall, where I saw the bones of his kin—large skulls, bones shattered by bullets, evidence of a long history of violence. He drew pictures in the dirt, gestures of family, survival, loss. He showed me scars—on his leg, on bones—reminders of the constant danger from humans.

He was the last of his kind.

The Threats and the Loss

Over the years, I saw the signs of ongoing threats—new logging roads, survey markers, trail cameras—each one a reminder that his world was shrinking. Development encroached on his territory, destroying the cover he needed to stay hidden. Hunters still came, some seeking trophies, others driven by greed, hunting expeditions sponsored by wealthy collectors or government agencies.

He showed me evidence—rusted trap jaws, abandoned campsites, recent footprints. The forest was no longer the sanctuary it once was. It was a battleground, and he was losing.

He watched me, always cautious. I posted no-trespassing signs, chased off hunters, tried to keep the wilderness safe. But I knew the danger was growing.

The End of Innocence

In his final years, he slowed. His fur grayed, his movements became labored. I worried about him—about us. I wondered how much longer we had. I tried to prepare for the inevitable, documenting everything, hiding bones, leaving maps. I arranged for the land to be protected after I was gone, hoping that some part of his world would remain untouched.

One day, he led me to a hidden cave—an ancient burial site of his ancestors. Bones laid out with reverence, skulls with bullet holes, bones burned by fire. He showed me a space he’d prepared for himself—his own resting place.

He knew he was dying. And he was at peace.

The Final Goodbye

On a cold winter morning, I found him sitting at the edge of the forest, watching the sunrise. I sat with him, offering apples and salmon. We shared a quiet hour—two old friends, at the end of their journey.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and gently touched my shoulder. A silent thank you—an acknowledgment of all we’d shared. In that moment, I understood what he had been trying to tell me all along.

He trusted me. He had shown me his pain, his history, his hope. And I had kept his secret all these years, because some truths are too precious to reveal.

The Last Promise

Now, I am old. My body weakens, and I know my time is near. But I’ve made a promise—to him, and to the memory of his people—that I will protect their resting places, their bones, their history. When I die, I want my ashes scattered in the forest, where he once sat, where his ancestors lie buried. Maybe some fragment of me will find its way to him, in the wind, in the trees.

I’ve lived with this secret all my life, and I’ll carry it to my grave. Because I know the truth: They were not monsters. They were beings like us—families, individuals, survivors. And we, as a species, failed them.

Reflection

I don’t expect anyone to believe this story. I have no proof—no photographs, no bones, only my word. The bones are hidden, the evidence sealed away. But I know what I saw, what I experienced. And I trust that somewhere, somehow, their story isn’t over.

Perhaps in some remote corner of the world, others still live in peace—hidden, cautious, waiting. Maybe they will survive, maybe they won’t. But I will keep their memory alive—by sharing this story, by honoring the trust he once placed in me.

Because some bonds transcend species, and some truths are too vital to forget.

And so, I leave you with this:

They fear us because they know what we are capable of. They’ve seen our greed, our violence, our destruction. They have every reason to hide, to disappear, to vanish into the shadows. And perhaps, in their silence, they are still watching, waiting for a world that might someday understand.

Until then, I will keep bringing food to the forest, respecting the boundaries we’ve established. And I will remember him—my friend, the last of his kind, a gentle giant who trusted me with his story.

Because in the end, that’s all any of us can do—bear witness, remember, and hope.