Helicopter Pilot Films a Giant Bigfoot Carrying the Body of a Missing Hiker Through the Wilderness — A Shocking Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Last Flight

I saw something so bizarre and disturbing I can’t stop thinking about it. Something I wish I’d never seen. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Every time I fly my helicopter, I remember. And every time I do, I hate myself a little more for what I didn’t do.

I’m a helicopter pilot for a logging company in northern Washington. I’ve flown these forests for twelve years—over fog, rain, snow, and sunshine. I thought I knew these mountains. I thought I’d seen everything they had to offer. But I was wrong. So wrong.

It was October 3rd, 2023—a day like any other. Clear blue sky, calm winds. The perfect day for flying. I was heading to one of our most remote camps, a place that’s almost impossible to reach without a helicopter. I’d made this route hundreds of times. I knew every ridge, every valley. The wilderness was familiar, predictable. Or so I thought.

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The Routine

I started my flight at dawn, loaded with supplies: food, fuel, parts, everything the crew needed. The first two stops went smoothly. I dropped off tools and checked in with the crew, all tough guys who worked chainsaws and heavy machinery. They’re used to the mountains’ dangers, or so I thought.

But camp three was different. Miles from help, nestled deep in a valley between two ridgelines, it was a place that felt like it was at the edge of the world. The crew there had been acting strange lately—tools going missing, strange noises after dark, and reports of something watching them.

The older guys whispered about “the mountain’s ghosts,” but I knew better. I knew what they really feared. The stories of the Silles, the legendary Bigfoot of the Pacific Northwest, had always been dismissed as folklore. But that day, I saw it with my own eyes.

The Sight

I was about half a mile from camp when I noticed movement in a clearing below. I slowed the helicopter, dropping altitude to about 800 feet. Through my camera, I zoomed in. And what I saw made my stomach turn.

There, walking upright in broad daylight, was a creature—massive, covered in dark fur, at least nine feet tall, maybe taller. Its shoulders were broad, muscles rippling beneath the coarse hair. It moved with a purpose, deliberate and steady, as if it belonged here.

And it was carrying something.

A limp, lifeless human body draped over its shoulder. Bright red jacket, blue jeans—clothing that screamed “hiker,” but the body was completely limp, hanging like a sack of grain. No struggle, no resistance, just dead weight. The creature carried it with an ease that defied logic.

I froze. The camera’s zoom kept the image steady, but my mind refused to accept what I was seeing.

The Horror

The creature turned slightly, adjusting the body on its shoulder with a casual movement—like adjusting a backpack. Its face was partially visible in profile: heavy brow, flat nose, wide jaw. The eyes—deep-set, intelligent—locked onto the camera, as if it knew I was watching.

My heart hammered in my chest. My hands trembled on the controls. I wanted to run, to hide, but I was frozen in place. The creature didn’t seem to notice me. It just kept walking, steady and unhurried, heading toward the treeline on the far side of the clearing.

That image—so clear, so horrifying—was burned into my mind forever. I see it when I sleep. I see it when I wake. That massive, hairy figure, carrying a body like a trophy, in broad daylight.

And I hate myself for what I didn’t do next.

The Regret

What haunts me most isn’t just the sighting. It’s the choices I made afterward. Fear gripped me. I didn’t land. I didn’t call for help. I didn’t follow. I just watched, helpless, as that creature disappeared into the forest with its prize.

I should have landed. I should have called the authorities immediately. I should have done something—anything—to save that person. But I was paralyzed by fear. Cowardice. I flew away, leaving that scene behind, knowing I might have just condemned someone’s child to a fate worse than death.

That moment—when I saw it all—will haunt me forever.

The Job

Let me back up and explain. I fly supplies to remote logging camps across the Cascades—miles of dense, unforgiving wilderness. The route takes me over some of the most isolated terrain in Washington. I’ve made this run dozens of times—knowing every ridge, every valley.

But that day, something changed.

I was about halfway to camp three when I saw movement in a familiar clearing. I slowed, dropped altitude, and zoomed in with my camera. That’s when I saw it—the creature.

It was walking upright, with that unnatural stride, carrying a body. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought maybe it was a person, but the proportions were wrong. Too tall, too broad. The fur was dark, coarse, unkempt. It looked like a creature from the legends—the Bigfoot of local folklore.

But what it carried chilled me to the core. A human body. Limp, lifeless, draped over its shoulder like a sack of grain.

The Moment of Truth

I couldn’t look away. My hands were glued to the controls, but my mind was racing. I knew I should land, call for help, do something—anything. But I was terrified. What if that thing saw me? What if it decided I was a threat? I felt frozen, helpless.

Then, it did something that still haunts me.

It paused, adjusted the body on its shoulder with a casual, almost routine movement. Like it was adjusting a backpack. Its eyes—those deep, intelligent eyes—met mine through the camera lens. I swear it looked right at me, as if it knew I was watching.

In that moment, I saw recognition. Not hostility, not fear. Recognition. Like it knew I saw what it was doing.

And then, it turned and disappeared into the trees.

The Aftermath

I hovered there for a few minutes, trying to process what I’d seen. I knew I should land, call the authorities, report what I’d witnessed. But fear held me back. I flew on to camp three, unloaded supplies, and kept my mouth shut.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the scene in my mind. The creature, the body, those eyes. I knew I’d seen something extraordinary—something that defied explanation.

But I also knew I’d failed.

The Search

The following days, I organized my own searches. I went back to the site, scoured the forest, looking for any sign of that person. I found footprints—massive, deep, and unlike anything I’d seen before. They led into the woods and then vanished—like the creature knew how to hide its trail.

I found torn clothing, a piece of red fabric snagged on a branch, matching the jacket I’d seen. I followed the tracks for miles, but they always ended at the water’s edge, or in places too difficult to traverse. It was as if the creature knew exactly how to vanish.

The official investigation was soon called off. No body, no evidence—just the footprints and the torn fabric. The family of the missing hiker was left waiting, hoping, grieving.

And I was left with guilt.

The Guilt

I fly that route every week now, always over that same spot. I slow down, scan the forest, hoping for a sign. But I see nothing. No movement. No strange figures. Just endless green, hiding secrets.

I replay the footage in my mind—those deep eyes, the casual way it carried the body, the deliberate movement. I know what I saw. I know it was real.

And I hate myself for not doing more.

The Truth Hidden

The authorities dismiss it as a hoax, a bear, or a hallucination. But I know better. I saw a creature that shouldn’t exist—something ancient, intelligent, and terrifying. The legends are true.

The forest hides secrets—things that live in shadows, in caves, in the unseen depths of the wilderness. They watch us. They know we’re here.

And I fear they’re waiting for us to forget.

The Final Reflection

Sometimes, late at night, I think about that day—about the creature, the body, those eyes. I wonder if it remembers me, if it knows I saw. I wonder if it’s still out there, watching from the shadows, waiting.

And I realize something: I was lucky. I saw it, but I didn’t die. I didn’t get taken. I didn’t become part of whatever dark secret lurks in those woods.

But part of me wishes I’d done more. Wishes I’d had the courage to land, to act, to save that person. Because I know I could have. I know I should have.

And now, I live with that regret.