A Hiker Secretly Photographed a Man Meeting Bigfoot—But When They Noticed Him, Everything Changed: Unforgettable Sasquatch Encounter Story

I’ve spent decades trying to bury what happened deep in the Olympic National Forest.
Back then, I was just a quiet hiker with a cheap camera and a habit of taking trails no one else bothered to explore.
I never expected to witness a man meeting Bigfoot face to face, let alone capture the moment in a photograph.
But the real story began the second they noticed me watching.
What happened next was so sudden, so impossible that I’ve spent years trying to convince myself it couldn’t have been real.
Now, for the first time, I’m ready to tell everything.

.

.

.

My name is Joseph Moore, and what I’m about to share will change everything you think you know about what exists in the remote forests of the Pacific Northwest.

In March of 1993, I was 28 years old and working as a maintenance technician for a telecommunications company in Seattle.
But my true passion had always been exploring the isolated trails of the Cascade Mountains and the Olympic Peninsula.
On weekends, I traded my work uniform for hiking boots and headed off to places where few people ever ventured.

That spring, I had saved up two weeks of vacation and planned a solo expedition through the Olympic National Forest.
I had an ambitious itinerary—follow some old logging trails abandoned in the 70s, explore areas that didn’t appear on conventional tourist maps.
My 1989 Ford Ranger pickup was loaded with supplies for ten days: tent, sleeping bag, Coleman stove, dehydrated food, water purifier, and my photography gear.

Photography was my other great love.
Since I was a teenager, I documented my hikes with a Nikon FM2—sturdy, reliable, bought used in 1987.
I always carried several rolls of Kodak Gold 200 film and Trix 400 for black and white shots.
I also had a Nikon 300mm telephoto lens that had cost me three months’ salary, but it was worth every penny whenever I managed to capture an elk or bear from a safe distance.

It was Monday, March 15th, when I left Seattle at 5 a.m.
Interstate 5 was relatively empty, and soon I took Highway 101 heading north.
I stopped in Port Angeles for breakfast at the Olympic Cafe—a classic diner where the apple pie was legendary.
The waitress, a woman in her 60s named Martha, filled my Stanley thermos with fresh coffee when I mentioned I’d be spending days out in the forest.

“Are you going alone?” she asked, frowning with maternal concern.
“A park ranger was here last week, saying they found some strange footprints near Lake Crescent. Probably just bears coming out of hibernation,” I replied, used to local stories.
The region was famous for Sasquatch sightings, but I’d always been skeptical.
In seven years exploring those mountains, I’d never seen anything that couldn’t be explained by known wildlife.

After breakfast, I drove another 40 minutes along increasingly narrow roads until I reached the trailhead I’d chosen—the Doe’s Wallops River Trail.
It followed a crystal-clear river up the mountain. My plan was to follow it for two days until reaching an old-growth forest area, where, according to old topographic maps I’d studied, there was a wide clearing perfect for camping.

At 9:30 a.m., I locked my pickup, double-checked my 65-liter Kelty backpack, and started hiking.
The temperature was around 50°F—perfect for trekking with a heavy pack.
The air was cool and damp, filled with scents of Douglas firs and giant cedars.
The sound of the river was like a constant relaxing soundtrack.

The first few hours were peaceful.
I walked at a steady pace, stopping occasionally to photograph interesting mushrooms or sunbeams piercing the canopy.
The trail was well-maintained for the first five kilometers—probably because it was accessible enough for casual hikers.

Around noon, I stopped for lunch near a wooden bridge crossing a tributary.
I sat on a flat rock, pulled out my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and checked my map.
I was making good time. If I kept that pace, I’d reach my campsite before nightfall.

While eating, I noticed something unusual.
Fresh footprints in the mud near the creek—larger than my size 11 boots.
My first reaction was to think of a bear, but the shape was odd.
No claw marks. It looked elongated, humanoid, almost.
I took a few photos, more out of curiosity than belief—probably just a hiker with big boots, I thought.
Or maybe the recent rains distorted normal footprints.

The trail became less defined after ten miles—this was where casual hikers turned back, and only the experienced continued.
Vegetation grew denser; I had to step over fallen logs.
Exactly the kind of wild environment I loved.

By 4 p.m., I started looking for a place to camp.
I wanted to find a spot before it got completely dark—setting up a tent in dense forest in the dark with only a flashlight is tough.
That’s when I heard it. A strange sound—like a distant scream echoing through the mountains.
It wasn’t a bear or a cougar. It was something I’d never heard before.
It was guttural, powerful, but almost melodic. The hairs on my neck stood up.

The sun was low, casting long shadows across ancient cedar trunks.
I decided to pick up the pace and find a campsite quickly.
Fifteen minutes later, I found a small clearing about a hundred yards off the trail—flat, concealed, with a view of the valley.

I set up my tent quickly, using the last of the daylight.
There was something comforting about routine—laying out the tarp, assembling the poles, tightening the guidelines.
Inside, I organized my gear, hung my food in a tree to avoid bears, and cooked a simple dinner—instant ramen and Campbell’s soup.

As darkness fell, I turned on my Coleman lantern and sat on a log, listening.
Owls hooted. Branches snapped—probably deer or elk moving through the night.
But I didn’t hear that strange scream again.

By 9:30 p.m., I was inside my sleeping bag, reading Into the Wild.
But my mind kept drifting back to those footprints and that unexplainable sound.

Logic told me there had to be a rational explanation.
The forest is full of noises that seem strange if you’re not familiar.
Eventually, exhaustion took over, and I fell asleep to the gentle sound of rain on my tent.

I woke suddenly. My watch read 3:47 a.m.
There was a sound outside—something moving, snapping branches and crunching dry leaves.
My heart began pounding.
Bear, I thought immediately. It had to be a bear.
I stayed perfectly still inside my sleeping bag, breathing shallowly.
The protocol for bear encounters was clear: make yourself look big, make noise, don’t run.
But in a tent at night, the best strategy is usually to stay quiet and hope it moves on.

The sound went on for minutes.
Whatever it was, it was circling my camp, but not getting too close.
Then I heard it—deep, heavy breathing right outside the tent.
It wasn’t the snuffling of a bear. It was different—more controlled, deliberate.

I remained frozen for twenty more minutes until the sounds finally moved away.
It took another hour for my heart to slow enough for me to fall back asleep.

When dawn finally broke, I cautiously stepped outside.
The footprints were everywhere—massive, deep, in the damp ground.
They measured at least 16 inches long and 7 wide.
Unmistakably humanoid in shape, but on an impossible scale.

My scientific mind raced—someone with giant boots? But who would wander the forest at 4 a.m.?
The steps were deep—indicating something extremely heavy.
Toe impressions were visible in some prints.
I photographed everything, trying to document the evidence.

The creature or whatever made those tracks had headed north, deeper into the mountain.
I ate a quick breakfast, then decided to explore further.
If I found evidence of its whereabouts, I might be able to track it down or at least understand what I’d encountered.

I followed the trail for a few miles, marking my route on a map.
The forest here was ancient, towering cedars and furs, a cathedral of nature.
Then I saw it—across a ravine, a figure.
A human. That much was clear.
A man, in his 50s, with a graying beard, wearing a brown jacket, waiting.

He looked like he was waiting for something or someone.
He checked a watch, glanced nervously at the forest.
I was so far away I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he seemed tense.

Suddenly, I heard it again—those deep, guttural calls, closer than before.
And I saw it—another figure, partially hidden among the trees.
It was tall—probably 7 or 7.5 feet—and covered in reddish-brown hair.
It moved toward the man, who greeted it like an old friend.

I was frozen—watching this extraordinary scene unfold.
The creature approached quietly, deliberately, with a graceful, rolling gait.
It was communicating—gesturing, making low vocalizations.
They seemed to be engaged in some kind of exchange.

Then the smaller one, the one I’d seen earlier, moved closer, and they all examined something on the ground.
I couldn’t see what.
The larger creature crouched down, then stood again, scanning the environment with a slow, deliberate turn of its head.
It suddenly froze—its head snapping in one direction, scanning the woods.

I swear I saw it look directly at me.
Those eyes—dark, deep, intelligent—locked onto mine.
And then, just as suddenly, it turned away, focusing on something to the east.

It moved swiftly, silently, into the forest.
And I was left staring after it, trembling, heart pounding.

What I’d just seen defied everything I’d ever believed about these forests.
This wasn’t just a wild animal.
It was a thinking, communicating, organized being—something that understood us, and we it.

The implications haunted me.
Who was that man?
How long had this been going on?
And most importantly—what should I do with this knowledge?

I slowly lowered my camera, clutching it tightly.
I had the evidence—photographs of two Sasquatch, interacting peacefully, in the wild, under the moonlight.
Clear, undeniable evidence.

But what now?
Who would believe me?
Would I become a laughingstock?
And that man—what was his role? Was he helping them? Or was he part of something bigger?

I stared at the camera in my trembling hands.
This was the story of a lifetime—proof that these beings are real, intelligent, and living among us.
And I was the only one who knew, in that moment, what I’d witnessed.

I made my decision.
I would leave the area, keep my silence, and protect the secret.
Some mysteries are better left in the shadows, some beings better left undisturbed.

The forest remains quiet now.
The creature I saw that night—whatever it was—still lives out there, watching, waiting.
And I know I’ll never forget what I saw, or the gift I was given that night.