I Attempted to Hunt a Bigfoot—But Everything Went Terribly Wrong: A Harrowing Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Last Witness: A Hunter’s Secret in the Idaho Mountains

I’m sitting here in a hospital bed, staring at where my left arm used to be. They had to take it off below the elbow—three weeks ago. The doctors keep asking me what happened, and I keep telling them it was a hunting accident. That’s technically true. I guess we were hunting. But what we found up in those Idaho mountains wasn’t any bear. The stump still hurts—phantom pain, they call it. My brain keeps sending signals to fingers that aren’t there anymore. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, trying to flex a hand that no longer exists. The nurses are kind about it—they’ve seen worse, they say. But they haven’t seen what I saw.

My buddy in the next wing still hasn’t said a word since they brought us in. Just stares at the wall, silent, broken. The psychiatrist visits him twice a day now. They’ve diagnosed him with severe post-traumatic stress disorder and acute dissociative disorder. Clinical terms for a mind shattered by what it’s witnessed. I visited him yesterday. Sat in a chair next to his bed for an hour. He didn’t look at me once. Didn’t acknowledge I was there. Just kept staring at that blank white wall as if it held all the answers.

Our third friend? He never made it out of those woods.

The search teams looked for two weeks before they gave up. They told his family it was a bear attack. I didn’t correct them. What would be the point? Nobody would believe the truth anyway. Nobody ever does. The search coordinator showed me photos—just his torn backpack and one boot. No body, no remains—just vanished into that mountain like he never existed. Like he was erased.

I need to write this down now, while I still remember it clearly. Before my mind starts playing tricks, convincing me it was just a bear. Because it wasn’t. What killed our friend—and what took my arm—wasn’t anything that’s supposed to exist. The insurance company wants a detailed statement. The police closed their investigation, but his family wants answers. And I owe it to him to tell what really happened up there.

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The Call That Changed Everything

It started with a phone call on a Tuesday morning. I was sitting on my porch, drinking coffee, when my cell rang. Unknown number, Idaho area code. I almost let it go to voicemail. Sometimes, those calls are scams, or worse, telemarketers. But something made me answer.

A rough, older voice on the line. Said his name didn’t matter. He was a farmer up near the Sawtooth Range, and he had a problem. Something had been killing his livestock for two months. It started with chickens—maybe a dozen—back in late summer. He’d lost them before he even realized something was wrong. Thought coyotes or foxes, maybe. But then it moved on—sheep, then calves, then his prized quarter horse, Duke.

He told me about Duke with a trembling voice. The horse had been with him for sixteen years, a gentle giant. When he found Duke in the morning, the neck was broken, dragged halfway across the pasture into the woods. The farmer’s voice cracked as he described how strong it had been—how it had broken that massive animal like it was a toy. Then, just a week before, it had taken a full-grown pig, and earlier, a mare. And last night? His best horse, Duke, again, gone.

He said he’d called animal control, but they’d come out two weeks ago, looked around, and said it was probably a black bear. Set some traps, some professional leg-hold traps that could catch a 600-pound animal. But the next morning, those traps were torn apart—ripped to pieces, scattered across his property.

He offered good money—$500 a day, plus another $2,000 if we dealt with whatever was doing this. For three hunters who usually worked construction in the off-season, that was enough to make us consider it. My two friends and I had been hunting together for fifteen years—deer, elk, mountain lions. We knew the mountains, knew the terrain. We’d seen bears, wolves, even a mountain lion once. But what he described? It didn’t fit any of those.

I asked why he hadn’t called wildlife services. He hesitated, heavy breaths on the line. Then he said he already had. They came out, looked around, said it was probably a bear, and set traps. But the traps? Torn apart. The dead animals? The damage? It wasn’t normal.

I told him I’d talk to my buddies and call him back. I did—immediately. We’d been hunting together so long, we didn’t even need to say much. We knew the risks, knew the terrain, knew how to handle ourselves in the woods. We agreed to leave that Thursday evening—set out at first light.

The Journey Into the Unknown

The drive from Montana to Idaho takes about six hours, but it felt longer that day. The weather was clear, cold, the kind of crisp mountain air that makes your lungs ache in the best way. We took turns driving, stopping only once for gas and coffee. The further we went, the worse the roads got. Paved highway turned into gravel, then dirt, then rutted, rocky tracks barely wide enough for my truck.

When we finally arrived, the land looked untouched—wild and majestic. The old farmhouse sat on a hill, sagging but still standing. The mountains loomed behind it, thick pine forests stretching as far as the eye could see. The farmer met us at the door, a weathered man with deep-set eyes that looked haunted.

He didn’t shake our hands. He just pointed toward the north, toward the ridge in the old forest. Said the attacks always came from that direction. His voice was quiet, almost trembling. He handed us a wooden crate with supplies—water jugs, extra rope, batteries, a well-used first aid kit. When I asked him more, he just shook his head. Said he’d seen shadows moving at night, heard strange sounds. His dogs wouldn’t go near the woods. His voice was low, scared, like he knew something terrible but didn’t want to say it.

Then he turned, his back to us. His hands trembled visibly. He warned us—be careful up there. That was all. Then he shut the door and locked it with three heavy locks.

We looked at each other, uneasy. My older buddy said, “Maybe he’s just paranoid, living alone out here.” My younger friend shrugged. “Or maybe he’s seen something he can’t explain.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

That night, we pitched our tents near the fence line. The air grew colder as the sun set, and the forest grew eerily silent. No insects, no birds, no rustling leaves—nothing. Just silence. That oppressive, unnatural silence that makes your skin crawl.

Around midnight, I was on watch when I heard it. A deep, guttural sound from the darkness, low and growling, then rising into something else—something primal, terrifying. It echoed through the mountains, and I felt it in my bones. The kind of sound that makes you want to run, even if you don’t know what’s chasing you.

My older buddy tried to dismiss it as a elk or mountain lion. My younger friend joked about Bigfoot, but I knew better. That wasn’t an animal. It was something else—something ancient and dangerous.

The Night of the Hunt

The next few nights were worse. The forest went dead silent. No sounds of insects, no calls of owls, no rustling of animals. Just an overwhelming silence, like the woods were holding their breath. I’d sit outside, rifle in hand, heart pounding, eyes scanning the darkness.

Then, I heard it again—closer this time. A deep, resonant growl, then a series of sharp barks and howls from different directions. It was as if the woods were alive with whispers, commands, warnings. I knew we weren’t alone.

One night, I stayed on watch until dawn. I kept hearing footsteps—heavy, deliberate—moving around the perimeter of our camp. I shined my flashlight into the trees, but saw only shadows. I felt eyes watching me from the darkness, and every nerve in my body screamed to run. But I stayed, waiting for whatever it was to make its move.

And then, it did.

At around 2 a.m., I saw it. A massive figure, moving with slow, deliberate steps through the trees. It was tall—at least eight feet—and covered in dark fur. Its shoulders were broad, impossibly wide. It moved with a quiet confidence, as if it owned the mountain.

Our eyes met—those glowing amber eyes reflecting the flashlight beam. It stared at me, assessing, evaluating. I froze, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. Then, it turned and slowly disappeared into the shadows, leaving me trembling in the cold.

Confrontation in the Darkness

The next night, I decided to confront it. I took my rifle, the brightest spotlight I had, and headed toward the woods. I called out, voice steady but respectful, telling it I meant no harm. I wanted peace.

Three figures emerged from the darkness—massive, intimidating, but calm. They surrounded me, watching. The biggest one, a male with a sloped forehead and broad shoulders, stepped forward. He looked at me with intelligence, not hostility.

I held my hands up, making slow gestures I’d learned from observing them. I spoke softly, trying to communicate that I was no threat. The giant paused, then slowly, deliberately, reached out and touched my hand.

His rough, coarse fur was surprisingly gentle. He examined my palm, as if trying to understand me, to see if I was safe. That moment—when our hands touched—changed everything. It was a silent acknowledgment—a fragile peace.

From that moment, I knew I had earned their trust.

The Hidden Society

Over the following weeks, I returned daily, always cautious, always respectful. I learned their routines, their language of gestures, their social structure. I watched as they built and maintained their homes—primitive, yet surprisingly sophisticated. They gathered food, cared for their young, honored their elders.

One day, I followed the largest male into a hidden valley—an ancient, secluded place nestled between cliffs. There, I saw a village—more than a dozen structures built from woven branches, mud, and stone. It was an organized community—families, juveniles playing, elders watching. They had fire pits, tool-making stations, and even what looked like a spiritual space—symbols carved into rocks, ritualistic patterns painted on walls.

This was no mere animal den. It was a society—a civilization hidden from the world.

The Secrets of the Mountain

I discovered their history—bones buried with reverence, artifacts, symbols of a culture that stretched back centuries. I found evidence of their suffering—skull fractures, arrow wounds, signs of violence inflicted by humans. They had survived against impossible odds, living in secret, avoiding us because they knew what we were capable of.

And I learned their greatest fear: us. They knew we hunted them, feared them, considered them monsters. They had every reason to hide.

I saw the signs of ongoing threats—new logging roads, surveillance cameras, and the constant encroachment of human development. Their sanctuary was shrinking. The mountains that once sheltered them were becoming a battleground.

The Night of the Attack

One evening, as I watched from my hideout, I saw a troop of soldiers approaching the village—armed, determined. The elders reacted with alarm, grabbing crude weapons, forming a defensive perimeter. They didn’t run—they prepared to fight. I knew then that the peace we’d built was fragile.

I ran down the mountain, trying to intervene. I positioned myself between them and the soldiers, making every submissive gesture I’d learned. I begged them to stand down, to understand. The big male, towering and fierce, hesitated, then backed away, recognizing my intent. The others, reluctantly, obeyed.

That night, I understood something profound: these beings could read us. They understood body language, gestures, intent. They weren’t just animals—they were intelligent, aware, capable of complex communication.

The Rituals and Culture

Over the next months, I was granted access to their community. I saw their routines—gathering, building, caring for their young, honoring their dead. They had traditions, rituals, symbols carved into stone and painted on walls. They had a language of gestures, a social hierarchy, a culture that had persisted for centuries.

They celebrated the seasons with ceremonies—gestures, symbols, dances. They buried their dead with reverence, marking graves with stones and symbols. They had stories—of ancestors, of survival, of a world beyond our understanding.

And I was privileged to witness it all—an outsider, accepted into their sacred space.

The Final Days

But I knew the end was near. Age, illness, the relentless march of human encroachment—they all threatened their survival. I watched as the old male, the patriarch, slowed, his fur graying, his strength waning. I worried about what would happen when he was gone.

I left them gifts—fruits, nuts, carved stones—tokens of respect. I documented everything, knowing I might never return. I hid bones, drew maps, preserved their stories. I arranged for the land to be protected after I was gone, so their sanctuary would remain.

And I made a promise—to myself, to them, and to my granddaughter.

The Last Secret

When my time comes, I will leave instructions—hidden in a safe place—that their graves remain undisturbed. That their bones, artifacts, and stories are preserved. I will scatter my ashes in the mountains, near their homes, so perhaps one day, someone will find them and understand.

Because this isn’t just a story about monsters or legends. It’s about a culture, a people—beings who have survived in secret, in shadows, for centuries. And it’s about the terrible cost of human greed and fear that has driven them toward extinction.

A Message for the Future

To my granddaughter, I say this: Seek truth, question what you’re told, and believe in the wonder that still exists in this world. There are mysteries out there—places most will never see, beings most will never believe. But they’re real. And they’re waiting, hidden in the mountains, in the forests, in the shadows.

Respect what is different. Honor what is ancient. And never forget—the greatest stories are the ones we keep in our hearts, silent and unseen.

The carved wooden token sits on my desk now, a silent reminder of the friends I’ve lost and the truths I’ve kept. Somewhere in those mountains, they’re still alive—or maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re gone, lost forever to those who fear what they don’t understand.

But I believe, with all my soul, that some of them are still out there, watching, waiting, surviving. And I hope someday, someone will listen.