Man Films Three Bigfoot Infants on His Property Pleading for Help—A Remarkable Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Night the Forest Sent Help

Picture this: You set up trail cameras around your property, expecting to catch footage of deer wandering through at dawn, maybe a black bear raiding your trash cans, or at most a coyote prowling near the tree line. Instead, your phone buzzes with a motion alert. Curious, you check the live feed, and what you see makes your blood run cold.

In the darkness, three small figures huddle close together—tiny, trembling—completely unlike anything you’ve ever seen in the woods. Not deer, not bears, but something else entirely. Three young Bigfoot, barely four feet tall, their eyes reflecting the infrared light like terrified animals caught in a trap. They look helpless, scared, and utterly alone.

That was me last autumn. And what happened next changed everything I thought I knew about the wilderness behind my cabin.

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The First Encounter

My name doesn’t matter for this story, and honestly, I prefer to keep it that way. What matters is what I witnessed, what I did, and what I learned. This isn’t a fairy tale or some campfire story meant to entertain. It’s the truth about three Bigfoot infants I found on my property—and the weeks I spent caring for creatures that science insists don’t exist.

I live alone in a cabin tucked deep into the dense forests of the Pacific Northwest, about forty miles from the nearest town. I moved here five years ago after retiring from a career that kept me chained to a desk for too long. Out here, my closest neighbors are trees, and I like it that way. My property spans roughly eighty acres of thick woodland, with a creek winding through the eastern edge.

Months earlier, I’d installed motion-activated trail cameras throughout the property, mainly to monitor wildlife and keep an eye out for trespassers during hunting season. It was a routine I took seriously—more than a hobby, really. I studied the patterns, learned where the deer traveled at different times, and planned my hunts accordingly.

But that night, everything changed.

The Night of the Cameras

It was late October, a cool, crisp evening. I was in the kitchen, heating up some chili, when my phone lit up with a notification from one of the cameras near the creek. I almost ignored it—usual stuff, probably a raccoon or a squirrel. But something compelled me to check the live feed.

When I did, my stomach clenched. Three tiny figures, huddled together in the darkness, their bodies pressed close like frightened children seeking comfort. They weren’t deer, and they weren’t bears. They looked like small people—small Bigfoot infants, maybe four feet tall, covered in matted, dark fur.

Their eyes reflected the infrared glow, glowing white in the night vision. They kept looking around nervously, heads swiveling as if searching for something—or someone. One of them made a soft hooting sound, a plaintive call that sounded heartbreakingly lonely. The others responded with similar sounds, pressing even closer together.

I stood there, frozen, watching the screen for what felt like forever. The scene was haunting—these tiny, helpless creatures, abandoned or lost, trembling in the cold night. They looked so vulnerable, so alone, no sign of any adult Bigfoot nearby to comfort or lead them away. They just sat there, exposed, helpless.

The Dilemma

As darkness fell over the forest, my mind raced with questions. Were they abandoned? Had something happened to their family? Were they injured? And most troubling of all—what the hell was I supposed to do?

Every rational part of my brain told me to stay inside, to keep my distance. Approaching wild animals I couldn’t even identify was dangerous and foolish. But another part—my deep respect for the wilderness and all its creatures—refused to ignore their obvious distress.

I watched the live feed for another five minutes, hoping to see an adult Bigfoot arrive and gather the young ones. Nothing happened. The three infants sat trembling, making those soft hooting sounds, their eyes reflecting the cold night.

The temperature was dropping fast. I could see their breath condense in the air, tiny puffs of vapor. They were shivering. A terrible feeling settled in my gut. These creatures, whatever they were, needed help.

The Decision

I made a snap decision—probably reckless, but instinct took over. I turned off the stove, pulled on my heavy jacket and boots, grabbed my rifle (not because I intended to shoot, but because I knew this was dangerous), and snatched my flashlight and first aid kit. I hesitated just a moment, then left the cabin.

The walk to the creek took fifteen minutes, moving carefully through the dark woods, trying not to make a sound. Every step was deliberate, every rustle of leaves made my heart leap. I kept my flashlight low, scanning the shadows, listening for any signs of movement.

When I finally reached the creek, I paused behind a thick cedar tree, watching. The three infants were still there, huddled, trembling, eyes glassy with cold and fear. Their fur was muddy and matted, their tiny bodies shivering uncontrollably.

I whispered softly, trying to reassure them. I pulled out a granola bar, broke off a piece, and extended my hand. They looked at me with wide, frightened eyes. The smallest one, trembling and tearful, slowly crawled toward me, reaching out with a tiny hand. I waited, holding my breath, as it touched my fingers with a tentative, feather-light stroke.

Then, in a rush, it snatched the food from my hand and scrambled back to its siblings. They ate ravenously, devouring the food like they hadn’t eaten in days. The smallest one looked up at me, eyes still wide with fear, but now tinged with something else—hope.

The Connection

Over the next few hours, I stayed hidden in the shadows, watching as the infants ate and huddled together, their tiny bodies trembling. They seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. I realized they had been abandoned—probably orphaned or separated from their family.

I couldn’t leave them there. I couldn’t just walk away and hope they’d find their way back into the wild. I had to do something.

I slowly approached, speaking softly, trying to calm them. They didn’t run. They didn’t attack. Instead, they looked at me with wide, trusting eyes—like they knew I was trying to help.

I wrapped them in an old blanket I kept in the truck, carried them carefully back to the cabin, and made sure they were warm and fed. They devoured everything I offered—berries, nuts, cooked meat. They were ravenous, desperate, and utterly helpless.

The Night of the Storm

That night, I kept a close watch. The three infants curled up on the couch, their fur damp and muddy, but alive. They slept fitfully, trembling in the cold. I stayed awake, listening to the forest, watching over them.

At dawn, I noticed something strange—a faint, rhythmic sound coming from the woods. A low, deep hooting that seemed almost like a heartbeat, a pulse echoing through the trees. I thought I was imagining it, but then I heard it again—more distant, more resonant.

The infants stirred, waking up, their eyes darting toward the window. They made soft, curious sounds. I knew then—they were calling for their family. They missed their home, their parents, their pack.

And I knew I couldn’t keep them forever.

The Choice to Release

Over the next few weeks, I watched as the infants grew stronger. They became more confident, more curious about the forest. They explored, climbed trees, even caught fish in the creek. But they still looked to me with those trusting eyes, as if seeking reassurance.

One morning, I made my decision. I would return them to the wild. They belonged there—free, unconfined, part of the forest’s ancient fabric. I couldn’t keep them in captivity, no matter how much I cared for them.

I prepared a small clearing near the creek, leaving food and water, and built a simple shelter. I gently led them outside, watching as they hesitated at first, then slowly ventured into the woods. They looked back at me once—those big, dark eyes filled with gratitude—and then disappeared into the trees.

The Last Sightings

Since that day, I’ve seen them only rarely. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of a large, dark figure watching from the shadows. Other times, I hear their distant calls echoing through the forest. They’re out there—free and wild—living as they should.

I often wonder about their families, their origins, their future. Are they safe? Are they thriving? I hope so. I hope the forest has taken them back, and they’re living in the way nature intended.

The Lesson

This isn’t a story about monsters or myths. It’s about compassion, trust, and the profound connection between species. I learned that these creatures—these young Bigfoot—are not just animals. They’re intelligent, emotional beings capable of suffering and hope. They’re family, just like us.

And I learned that sometimes, doing the right thing means risking everything. It means ignoring the fears and doubts and trusting your heart.

Because in the end, the forest sent help. And those three little lives, helpless and alone, found a chance to survive—thanks to a human who dared to believe in the impossible.