In 1985, a Pilot Filmed a Bigfoot Mother in the Wilderness—Then Something Completely Unexpected Happened: The Untold Sasquatch Story

Above the Canopy: The Pilot, the Photographs, and the Bigfoot

Chapter 1: The Routine Flight

In 1985, I was twelve years into my career as a bush pilot, flying supply runs across the endless forests of northern British Columbia. My De Havilland Beaver float plane was my workhorse, ferrying everything from diesel fuel and mechanical parts to mail and the occasional passenger to logging camps, ranger stations, and isolated indigenous villages scattered across the wildest parts of the province.

Most flights followed predictable routes. I knew the terrain below like the lines on my own hands—rivers winding through valleys, lakes shining like mirrors, jagged snowcapped peaks that never lost their crowns, even in July. The sky was my second home, and the wilderness below my familiar, if untamed, neighbor.

On a clear morning in late spring, I took off from the coast with a full load bound for three logging camps buried deep in the interior. The sky was cloudless, visibility perfect, and a gentle west wind made for smooth flying. I climbed steadily, turning northeast toward the mountains, the engine’s rhythmic drone a comfort as I watched the world unfold beneath me.

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Chapter 2: The Detour

About ninety minutes into the flight, just as I reached my first checkpoint—a distinctive, shark-toothed peak—I noticed a line of dark clouds gathering to the north. Weather in these parts can turn on a dime, and I’d learned the hard way not to trust a blue sky for long. Rather than risk getting caught in a squall, I decided to shave fifteen minutes off the trip by cutting straight across a section of wilderness I rarely flew over.

The new route took me over an unbroken sea of green—old-growth forest as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by the occasional clearing where windstorms or lightning had felled ancient trees. No roads, no trails, no sign of human life for miles.

I was cruising at about 3,000 feet, the engine humming, when something in a clearing below caught my eye. At first, I thought it was a bear, common enough in these parts, lumbering through the grass. But the movement was odd—too upright, too deliberate.

Curious, I banked the plane and circled back, dropping altitude for a better look.

Chapter 3: The Clearing

The clearing was a perfect circle, maybe seventy feet across, formed by the collapse of a giant centuries-old tree. Sunlight poured in, making the grass and wildflowers blaze against the dark wall of trees. In the center, a massive figure moved—tall, broad, bipedal, covered in dark brown fur matted by the spring rains.

But that wasn’t what made my breath catch. Clinging to the creature’s hip was a much smaller figure, an infant with lighter, reddish fur.

My mind raced through possibilities. Grizzly? Too rare here, and the gait was wrong. Moose? No antlers, wrong shape, and anyway, moose don’t carry their young. A bear with a cub? No bear walks like that, upright, with arms swinging at its sides.

I realized, with a jolt of both fear and awe, that I was looking at a Bigfoot—a female, cradling her baby.

Chapter 4: The Photographs

My camera—a sturdy 35mm with a telephoto lens—was stowed in the co-pilot seat, usually reserved for documenting maintenance issues or interesting weather. Hands shaking, I grabbed it, set the controls by instinct, and began snapping photographs through the side window as I circled the clearing.

Flying a tight circle while working a camera was no easy feat. I kept one knee on the yoke, making minor adjustments with my free hand, the other gripping the camera and firing off shot after shot.

The adult Bigfoot moved with a surprising grace, foraging among the berry bushes, pausing to dig at the earth, always aware of her surroundings. The infant clung tightly, its small head turning to scan the sky, the clearing, its mother’s movements, curiosity written in every gesture.

For several minutes, I watched and photographed, heart pounding. The Bigfoot seemed unbothered by the plane, glancing up now and then with a casual interest that was almost dismissive.

Then, suddenly, everything changed.

Chapter 5: The Gaze

The mother Bigfoot froze, going still as stone. Her head snapped upward, eyes locking onto my plane with a focus that sent chills down my spine. Even from hundreds of feet above, I felt the intensity of her gaze—a look not of fear, but of calculation.

She gathered her infant tightly to her chest, paused for a single heartbeat, then sprinted for the treeline. I watched, stunned, as she covered the clearing in a handful of strides, the baby pressed close, vanishing into the shadows beneath the ancient trees.

I circled a few more times, but the clearing was empty. The only evidence of what I’d seen was the roll of film in my camera and the pounding of my heart.

Chapter 6: The Weight of Proof

The rest of the day passed in a daze. I made my deliveries, exchanged jokes with loggers, logged my fuel and flight times, all on autopilot. My mind replayed the sighting again and again, searching for doubt, for any way to explain it away. But the camera in my flight bag was a reassuring weight—proof that I hadn’t dreamed it.

Two days later, I picked up the developed prints from a trusted photographer in town. Some were blurred, others missed the subjects entirely, but five images were clear: a massive, upright creature with a baby gripping its fur, both faces visible, both unmistakably real.

I sent copies to wildlife officials, universities, and anthropology departments. The responses were, at best, polite skepticism. Most dismissed the photos as a bear on its hind legs, despite the obvious differences. A few hinted that I might be perpetrating a hoax.

Chapter 7: The Visitor

Six weeks later, a man I’d never met appeared at my office. He was in his fifties, dressed in expensive outdoor gear, carrying a leather briefcase. He introduced himself as a representative of a private research organization interested in “unexplained phenomena.”

He was polite, but his questions were sharp—about my background, my reputation, the exact location and conditions of the sighting. He spent half an hour examining the photos with a magnifying glass, measuring, taking notes, his face unreadable.

Then he made an offer: a generous sum for all rights to the photographs, in exchange for my silence. The contract was thick with legalese, full of non-disclosure clauses and penalties, even provisions for monitoring my communications.

When I hesitated, he grew colder. He warned that publicity could bring danger to both me and the creatures I’d photographed. I refused. He left, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Chapter 8: The Shadows

After that, odd things began to happen. A car with tinted windows parked across from my house. Hang-up calls at all hours. My mail looked tampered with. The photographer who developed my film said someone had come asking questions, claiming to be a friend.

Then my office was broken into. The file cabinet where I’d kept the originals was open, but I’d moved them to a safe deposit box days before. Only copies were missing.

I was being watched. Someone wanted the evidence. Someone wanted the Bigfoot to remain a secret.

Chapter 9: Into the Wild

I couldn’t stop thinking about the Bigfoot mother and her baby. I read every account I could find—indigenous legends, pilot stories, scientific papers. Patterns emerged: sightings clustered in remote, old-growth forests near water, far from human activity.

Three months after my sighting, I planned a return expedition. I told no one, leaving only a sealed envelope with my flight plan and destination with a trusted friend. I landed my float plane on a remote lake, shouldered a sixty-pound pack, and began the grueling hike through devil’s club, deadfall, and steep, slippery slopes.

Six hours later, exhausted but determined, I reached the clearing.

Chapter 10: The Evidence

I set up camp at the edge of the clearing, tension and excitement warring in my chest. The next day, I searched for evidence—footprints, feeding sites, anything to prove what I’d seen.

I found tracks: eighteen inches long, seven wide, five clear toes, an arch, and a stride length that no bear could match. I made plaster casts, photographed the prints, and noted the details.

I found a feeding site: bark stripped from trees in neat, uniform strips, rocks overturned to expose grubs, a flat stone stained and worn as if used for pounding roots. The signs were methodical, intelligent, purposeful.

That night, I was woken by heavy footsteps. Something circled my tent—breathing deep and regular, pausing so close I could have touched it through the canvas. I stayed silent, heart hammering, until the sounds faded.

Chapter 11: The Second Encounter

The next afternoon, they returned. The mother Bigfoot emerged from the trees, the infant on her back, both alert and healthy. I watched from a concealed spot, camera ready, as she foraged, dug roots, and gently set her baby down to explore.

The infant was curious, investigating sticks and flowers, trying to climb the fallen log, calling for help when it couldn’t. The mother lifted it gently, setting it atop the log to explore. The tenderness, the teaching, the constant vigilance—it was all profoundly human.

Suddenly, the mother froze, head turning sharply toward my hiding place. She had sensed me. I stood slowly, hands visible, trying to show I meant no harm.

She stared at me, then sat down, holding her infant. I mirrored her, sitting quietly. For several minutes, we watched each other—two mothers, two species, sharing a moment of uneasy peace.

I raised my camera, slowly. She tensed, but didn’t flee. I took several photographs, the clearest yet.

Finally, she stood, gathered her baby, and walked to the treeline. She paused, looked back, and I raised a hand in greeting. Then she was gone.

Chapter 12: The Decision

On the flight home, I wrestled with what to do. I had proof—photos, casts, hair samples. I could go public, demand recognition, maybe even protection for these creatures.

But I remembered the mother’s gaze, the trust she’d shown by not fleeing, by allowing me to witness her world. I remembered the threats, the surveillance, the break-in. If I went public, the clearing would become a circus—scientists, tourists, hunters.

I developed the new photos, stored the evidence in my safe deposit box, and told no one.

Chapter 13: The Years After

Decades passed. I retired, sold the Beaver, settled by the coast. The photographs faded a little, but the memories never did. Sometimes, I’d meet another old pilot or logger who’d seen something strange—giant footprints, shadowy figures, haunting cries in the night. I listened, but never shared my own story.

I left instructions for my wife: after my death, the evidence would go to a trusted research institution, one I knew would protect rather than exploit. Until then, the secret would remain safe.

Chapter 14: The Lesson

What happened after I photographed the Bigfoot mother in 1985 was not what I expected. I thought I’d be famous, that my evidence would change science forever. Instead, I learned to be silent, to protect rather than expose, to honor the trust of a creature who allowed me to share her world.

The unexpected thing was the connection—a moment when two intelligent beings, across the gulf of species, acknowledged each other’s right to exist. That recognition changed me. The Bigfoot are not monsters or resources. They are fellow travelers on this planet, deserving of respect and peace.

If proof ever emerges, I hope it leads to protection, not exploitation. Some mysteries are better left unsolved. Some secrets are sacred.

Somewhere out there, in the deep forests of British Columbia, a Bigfoot family lives on, hidden but not forgotten. I was privileged to witness their world, and I will honor that privilege to my last day.