Farmer Lived Alone for Years—Until a Bigfoot Tribe Moved In Nearby: An Astonishing Bigfoot Story of Unexpected Neighbors

What happened to me up in those mountains still keeps me awake at night.
And I’m not the kind of man who scares easily.
But after everything I witnessed—everything that drove me away from the only place I had left in this world—I believe people deserve to know what’s really out there in the wilderness.

My name doesn’t matter, and neither does the exact location of what used to be my farm.
What matters is that for seven years, I lived completely alone on 60 acres of mountain land in the remote backcountry, trying to rebuild a life that had completely fallen apart.
And for seven years, something was watching me from the tree line. Something that wasn’t human.

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Five years ago, my world came crashing down all at once.
The construction business I’d spent twenty years building went under during the recession.
Jobs dried up, contracts got canceled, and the bank foreclosed on everything—my office, my equipment, even my house in town.
Around the same time, my wife decided she’d had enough.
Our kids were grown and out of the house, and I guess she figured there wasn’t much keeping us together anymore.
She’d been talking about wanting something different for years, but when the money troubles hit, that was the final straw.
The divorce papers came just two weeks after the foreclosure notice.

In the span of three months, I lost my business, my home, my marriage, and most of my friends.
The few people who stuck around seemed to look at me differently—like failure was contagious.
I was fifty-three years old and had nothing left except a beat-up truck, some tools, and about eight thousand dollars in cash.

That’s when I remembered my father’s old place up in the mountains.
He’d bought the land back in the 70s as a hunting retreat, but after he passed ten years earlier, nobody in the family wanted to deal with it.
The property taxes were cheap, and my siblings were happy to let me take it over if I wanted the headache.

The farmhouse was really just a rundown cabin with two rooms and an outhouse.
No electricity, no running water, no phone service.
The nearest neighbor was twelve miles down a dirt road that became impassable in winter.
My father had always talked about living off the land like his grandfather did, but he never got the chance.

Looking at my empty bank account and my empty life, I figured it was worth a shot.
Those first few months were brutal. I had to learn everything from scratch—dig a well, install a solar panel system, preserve food without refrigeration.
My father had shown me some basics when I was a kid, but I’d forgotten most of it during my years in the city.

I started small—cleared about two acres for vegetables, built a chicken coop from scrap lumber I found in the old barn, bought six hens and a rooster from a farm supply store three towns over.
Set up a basic gravity-fed water system from a spring higher up the mountain.

The physical work was actually good for me.
After months of sitting in lawyers’ offices and bankruptcy court, it felt honest to swing an axe and dig fence posts.
My hands got calloused again. My back got stronger. And I started sleeping better than I had in years.

By the end of the first year, I had the basics figured out.
The garden was producing enough vegetables to last through winter if I canned them properly.
The chickens laid eggs regularly.
I’d managed to trade some repair work for a couple of goats, which meant fresh milk and cheese.

It wasn’t comfortable, but it was sustainable.
I kept expanding slowly—added a greenhouse made from old windows, built proper fencing around the garden to keep out deer and rabbits, bought a few pigs, and eventually some cattle.

By year three, I was actually making a small profit selling eggs, vegetables, and meat to people in the nearest town.
The isolation didn’t bother me much after everything that had happened.
I preferred being alone—no one asking questions, no one judging, no one depending on me for anything.
Just me, the land, and the rhythm of the seasons.

But I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
It started during my second year on the mountain. I’d be working in the garden or fixing fence, and I’d catch movement in my peripheral vision.
When I looked up, there’d be nothing there except trees swaying in the wind.

At first, I figured it was just deer or maybe a bear checking out the new human on their territory.
My eyesight had never been great, and it was getting worse as I got older.
I’d been meaning to get new glasses for years, but with everything else going on, it kept getting pushed to the bottom of the list.

So, when I’d see these shadows moving between the trees, I told myself it was probably just my eyes playing tricks.
But it kept happening almost every day, usually in the late afternoon when the light was getting low.
A dark shape moving just inside the tree line, maybe a hundred yards from the house.
Too big to be a deer, too upright to be a bear.

I started thinking it might be hikers or hunters passing through—even though the property was posted and there weren’t any trails nearby.

The first time I got a clear look at whatever it was, I was splitting firewood behind the barn.
I heard a branch snap, looked up, and saw a figure standing at the edge of the forest.
Even with my bad eyes, I could tell it was massive—probably seven or eight feet tall.
It was too far away to make out details, but something about the way it stood didn’t look right—too broad in the shoulders, too long in the arms.

I set down my axe and took a few steps toward it, and immediately it melted back into the trees.
Didn’t run or walk away—just disappeared into the shadows like it had never been there.

That night, I loaded my father’s old hunting rifle for the first time since I’d been on the mountain.
I told myself I was being paranoid, but something about that encounter had left me unsettled.
If someone was watching my place, I wanted to be ready.

Over the next few months, the sightings became more frequent.
Not just one figure, but sometimes two or three at different spots around the property.
They never came close to the house or the barn, but they were definitely watching.
Always at dusk or early morning, always just visible enough to know they were there.

I started carrying the rifle with me when I worked outside, though I never had to use it.
Whatever was out there seemed content to observe from a distance.

Part of me wondered if I should drive into town and report it to the sheriff, but what would I say?
That I was seeing shadows in the woods?
They’d probably think the isolation was getting to me.

The strangest part was how quiet they were.
I’d grown up hunting and knew how much noise deer and bears made moving through the forest.
These things were completely silent until they wanted to be heard.
Sometimes I’d hear the sound of a branch breaking or leaves rustling, but only when they were far enough away I couldn’t see them clearly.

It was around year three that I started finding the marks.
First, on the fence posts around the pasture where I kept the cattle.
Deep scratches in the wood—too high for any normal animal to reach—four parallel gouges that looked like they’d been made by claws or maybe a rake.
But they were eight feet up, and I couldn’t think of any animal in these mountains that could do that.

Then I started finding them on trees at the edge of the cleared land.
Always on the side facing the house, like whatever made them wanted me to see.
The scratches were deep, fresh-looking, not weathered.

The footprints appeared around the same time.
First, in the soft mud near the spring where I got my water—huge, maybe 18 inches long, six inches wide.
At first glance, they looked almost human—then I examined them closer.
Proportions were all wrong—too wide, too deep, with what looked like claw marks at the toe end.
I made plaster casts of a few, though I’m not sure why—I guess I wanted proof.

By year four, they’d become bolder.
The markings appeared closer to the house, and I started finding other signs—stacks of rocks arranged in circles, woven branches hung from trees, small cairns like territorial markers.

The most unsettling discovery was in the barn one morning.
All my tools had been moved—neatly, deliberately organized.
Hammers lined up by size, screwdrivers sorted, nails and screws in perfect containers.
Nothing missing or broken—just rearranged with obsessive care, like some primitive but intelligent form of communication.

The cattle started acting strange.
Huddled in the far corners of the pasture, trembling and staring at the woods.
If I tried to move them closer to the fence, they’d panic and bunch together.
They could sense something I couldn’t.

That Easter, my son called.
He was in town, and he asked if I wanted to visit for the holiday.
We hadn’t talked much since the divorce, but I agreed.
I hadn’t left the mountain in almost two years, and I was craving human connection.

The visit was strange but good.
My daughter-in-law convinced me to stay for her birthday. The grandkids’ school play.
For a few days, I felt almost normal—until I returned to the mountain.

What I saw then made my blood run cold.
All the trees along the property line—massive pines and oaks—had been uprooted and repositioned to form perfect X shapes.
Root balls intact, trunks crossing at right angles, as if arranged by giants.
No machinery tracks, no signs of heavy equipment—just the trees, moved by hand.

There were five of these sculptures, spaced evenly around the property.
Each one was enormous—three feet in diameter, sixty feet tall—and the precision was terrifying.
They looked like ancient symbols or some kind of primitive art—deliberate, organized, impossible for humans to do alone.

The cattle were gone.
I found them a half-mile into the forest, huddled together in a meadow, terrified—no injuries, just pure fear.
They refused to come near the house again.

That night, I sat on my porch with my rifle, watching the woods.
I could feel them out there—more than ever—just beyond the tree line, moving silently, waiting.
Any rational person would have left then.
But this place was all I had left. I’d built a life here, and I wasn’t ready to abandon it.

Instead, I decided to try communication.
The next morning, I left a carved wooden bowl with apples on the porch.
The following day, I found it replaced with a carved bone figure—depicting animals, with the same obsessive detail I’d seen before.
Over weeks, I left simple gifts—rocks, bones, tools—and they returned with their own artifacts—maps, symbols, intricate carvings.

They seemed to be studying me as much as I was studying them.
One carved stone was different—black, polished, covered in shifting symbols.
It depicted a human figure among tall, hairy beings, all facing outward, like a summons.

That night, I heard them closer than ever—voices, rhythmic knocking, and glowing organic lights flickering in the forest.
They were holding some kind of gathering, inviting me to join.

Part of me was tempted.
But the survivor in me knew better.
They had been patient, but now I sensed they were warning me: stay away, or face consequences.

So, I declined.
Left another gift—a pile of coins and paper money—something human, something I thought they’d understand.
The next morning, the porch was empty again. No gifts, no symbols, no signs of their presence.

And then, the next day, I found their gifts—bones broken, artifacts shattered, everything destroyed, arranged in patterns that conveyed a clear message: Leave or be consumed.

I packed up and left that mountain forever.
Took what I could—clothes, tools, photographs—and drove away, knowing I was leaving behind a secret I could never fully explain.

Now I live in town, far from the woods.
The nights are quieter, but I still hear things—footsteps on the roof, scratching sounds, voices in the alley.
My rational mind dismisses it as paranoia, but my gut knows better.

They didn’t evolve in just one mountain valley.
They’ve been sharing this continent with us for thousands of years—adapting, surviving, hiding in plain sight.

As civilization encroaches, I fear their hiding places will disappear.
And I wonder—how many others have seen what I saw? How many have been driven away, or worse?

Most of all, I wonder what we do when we finally face the truth.

Because I know one thing for certain:
They’re out there, watching us. And they’re not going anywhere.