This Boy Has Been Friends With Bigfoot for 2 Decades, Finally Shares the Truthd – Sasquatch Story

I Grew Up With Bigfoot — And I Abandoned Him

I was ten years old the first time I realized the woods behind my family’s farm were not empty.

I grew up in rural Oregon, the kind of place where silence stretches for miles and the forest feels older than memory itself. My parents worked long hours, and like most kids out there, I raised myself between school and sunset. The rule was simple: don’t wander too far, be home before dark.

The woods became my second home.

That summer, I built a fort half a mile into the trees — a crooked little shelter of logs and branches hidden inside a thicket of young alders. It was nothing special, but it was mine. I spent entire afternoons there, reading comics, doing homework, listening to the forest breathe around me.

Then things started moving.

Not disappearing. Not breaking. Just… changing.

Logs shifted slightly. Pinecones rearranged themselves into careful circles. Stones I stacked were flipped over, as if someone had inspected them. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Kids misremember things.

But it kept happening.

Something was visiting my fort.

The day I met him, I didn’t scream. I didn’t run. I couldn’t.

I heard heavy footsteps circling my shelter — slow, deliberate, powerful. Not a deer. Not a bear. The ground vibrated with each step. Branches cracked under a weight no animal should carry on two legs.

When he pushed aside the branches and looked inside, time stopped.

He stood over eight feet tall, covered in thick, dark brown hair, built like a living mountain. His arms hung long and heavy, his shoulders impossibly wide. But it was his eyes that broke me.

They weren’t animal eyes.

They were amber, flecked with gold, full of curiosity… and something else. Awareness.

He didn’t roar. Didn’t threaten.

He knelt, reached into my fort, and gently placed a smooth river stone at my feet.

A gift.

Then he backed away and vanished into the trees.

I sat there shaking for an hour before I ran home. I didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe me?

But I went back the next day.

And the day after that.

Soon, we had a routine. I’d leave food — apples, bread, jerky. It would be taken carefully. Wrappers folded. Nothing torn apart. Two weeks later, he returned, sat ten feet from me, and ate slowly while watching me like I was the strange one.

We never spoke.

We didn’t need to.

Over months, fear turned into familiarity. He was gentle in a way I didn’t know something so powerful could be. He examined my backpack like it was a sacred object. Studied my shoes like they were unsolvable mysteries. When I handed him one, he smelled it, huffed softly, then gave it back like he understood it belonged to me.

I was ten years old, and my best friend was a creature the world said didn’t exist.

He taught me how to survive.

Which plants would kill you. Which berries could save your life. How to find clean water bubbling straight from the earth. How to move through the forest without disturbing it. He fished with his bare hands — lightning-fast, perfect timing — and shared every catch with me.

We ate raw trout by the stream, cold and clean and alive with flavor. He always gave me the larger piece.

He protected me, too.

Once, a mountain lion appeared at the edge of my camp. Before fear could reach my brain, he stepped forward and roared — a sound so deep it shook my chest. The lion vanished.

When I was fifteen, I fell from a tree and shattered my arm. I remember the pain, the panic, the wrong angle of my bones.

I remember waking up against his chest as he carried me home.

He laid me gently at the tree line, touched my cheek with one finger, and disappeared before my mother saw him.

That was when I understood: this wasn’t curiosity.

This was care.

Years passed. High school. College. Life.

I told myself I’d go back. Always later. Always soon.

Soon became years.

When I finally returned as an adult, my fort was gone. My jacket — the one I’d left as a promise — still hung on a branch, rotted and faded.

But he wasn’t there.

The guilt crushed me. I had grown up. Moved on. Left behind a friend who had never asked for anything but time.

Then, two years ago, my wife and I moved back to help my parents.

The first night, I heard it.

That low, rumbling call from the woods.

I ran.

He was waiting by the stream, older now. Slower. His fur grayed. But his eyes were the same.

He touched my face.

I cried like a child.

We sat together until sunrise, saying nothing, needing no words. Before he left, he placed a smooth stone in my hand — just like the first one, twenty years ago.

A reminder.

I visit him every week now. Sometimes twice. I bring food. I sit. I talk, even though I know he doesn’t understand the words.

I know he won’t live forever.

And I know one day I’ll walk into the woods and he won’t be there.

But for now, he waits.

Still bringing stones. Still watching the stream. Still rumbling softly when I arrive.

People ask if I believe in Bigfoot.

I don’t.

I believe in friendship.

And I believe some bonds are so rare, so impossible, that the world would rather deny them than accept that they exist.

But I know the truth.

Because for over twenty years, Bigfoot was my friend.

And this time… I won’t leave him again.