Man Films Bigfoot Sneaking Into His Cabin—What Happened Next Was Truly Astonishing: Sasquatch Encounter Story

I used to think Bigfoot was just a story people told each other for fun. A bear standing up in the dark, a shadow at the edge of a flashlight beam, something exaggerated with every retelling. I never mocked anyone for believing, but I didn’t believe myself.

That changed last winter.

I live alone in a small cabin in the mountains. It’s far from town and surrounded by thick forest. Winters here are serious—snow can pile up fast, the wind can turn dangerous, and if something breaks you usually fix it yourself. I built most of the cabin with my own hands. There’s an attached shed for storage, and inside it I keep tools, chicken feed, spare parts, and supplies.

For three years, life was simple. I worked remote computer jobs when the satellite internet allowed it. I chopped wood, kept the stove going, hauled water, and took care of my six chickens. Wildlife came through sometimes—bears, elk, deer, coyotes, foxes. I respected them and they usually stayed away.

But at the start of last winter, the forest felt different. I couldn’t explain it well. I kept getting the feeling I was being watched, even during normal chores. At night I heard strange sounds that didn’t match what I was used to—deep calls that echoed through the valley and sharp knocks like wood striking wood, spaced like a pattern. I tried to tell myself it was the wind, branches, or my imagination. Still, it bothered me.

The first clear sign something was wrong came from my chickens. One morning, after the first big snow, I opened the coop expecting them to rush me like usual. Instead, all six were huddled tight in the corner, tense and frightened. They barely moved. I checked the coop carefully for holes or signs of a predator. I found nothing.

A few days later, eggs started going missing. Not enough to ruin me, but enough to notice. I reinforced the coop, tightened the latches, and filled any gaps. Still, eggs disappeared.

Then I found footprints in the snow behind my cabin.

They were far too big to be human. The shape looked almost like a human foot—five toes, long and narrow—but the size was unbelievable. I put my boot next to one print and it was easily twice as long. The prints were deep, too, as if whatever made them was extremely heavy. I followed them and saw they came from the forest, circled the cabin at a distance, paused near the chicken coop, and then went back into the trees. The stride was long, like something tall moving with ease.

.

.

.

I tried to talk myself out of it. Snow can distort tracks. Melting and refreezing can play tricks. But the more I looked, the more I felt certain: those prints were real.

About a week later, I went to the shed and noticed the exterior door had fresh damage. Deep scratches ran down the wood, and the latch looked bent as if something had tried to force it open. There were marks near the hinges too. What bothered me most was how deliberate it looked, as if something had tested the door rather than simply smashing it.

That night, around ten, I heard loud scratching and heavy banging coming from the shed. It wasn’t a small animal. It sounded big, strong, and close.

I grabbed my hunting rifle and a flashlight and went to the shed door. When I opened it, the shed was quiet for a moment. Then my flashlight caught movement in the back corner behind a shelving unit.

Something huge was there, covered in dark fur.

It stood on two legs. Even hunched, it was too tall for the shed. It wasn’t a bear, and it wasn’t any animal I recognized. The face looked strangely human—more human than ape. The eyes were dark and alert, and the way it looked at me felt intelligent, like it understood what I was and what the rifle meant.

I raised the gun instinctively. The creature didn’t charge or act aggressive. It just watched me.

Then I noticed it was injured. Its shoulder was matted with blood, and fresh blood ran down one leg. The wounds looked deep and painful. Its breathing sounded heavy and tired.

For a few seconds, I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified. But the more I looked at it, the more it seemed exhausted and desperate rather than threatening. I lowered the rifle.

The creature didn’t move. It didn’t attack. It just stayed there, as if waiting to see what choice I would make.

I backed out and shut the door. Then I went back into the cabin, locked everything, and sat at the table trying to process what I had just seen. I told myself it couldn’t be real, but I couldn’t deny it either. I had seen it clearly. I had smelled the mix of musk and blood. I had heard its breathing.

I barely slept that night.

In the morning, I worked up the courage to check the shed through the interior door. The creature was still there, lying on the floor among old tarps and cloths, like it had made itself a bed. In daylight, the wounds looked worse. The shoulder gashes were swollen and looked infected.

I knew I had to make a decision. I could try to scare it off and hope it survived on its own, or I could help it. I also knew that if I tried to force it out, it might defend itself. Even injured, it was large enough to kill me easily.

I decided to try helping.

I brought food first: leftovers, bread, apples, carrots, and a bowl of water. I set them down a few feet away and backed out. Later, when I checked, the food was gone.

The next day I brought stew and more water. This time I stayed in the doorway a little longer. The creature watched me but didn’t act aggressive. I spoke softly, telling it I didn’t want to hurt it and that I was trying to help. It made a low rumbling sound that didn’t feel threatening—more like acknowledgement.

Over the next few days, I kept bringing food and water. I started spending short periods sitting near the entrance while it ate. I watched it closely. It used its hands with surprising control, tearing food into pieces and eating carefully. Its hands were huge but shaped like human hands, with thick nails rather than claws. The creature’s face showed clear expressions—pain, fatigue, alertness. It didn’t behave like a mindless animal.

But the shoulder wound was getting worse, and I knew food alone wouldn’t fix it.

On the fourth day, I brought my first aid supplies. Antiseptic, clean water, gauze, bandages, tape. I moved slowly and let it see everything I was doing. I pointed to its shoulder and to my supplies, trying to communicate without words.

It watched me, then shifted its body to give me access to the wound.

My hands shook when I touched it. The fur was thick and coarse, and the skin beneath felt warm—warmer than a human. I cleaned the wound as thoroughly as I could, flushed it, applied antiseptic, and wrapped it with gauze. The creature tensed from pain but didn’t pull away or try to hurt me. It stayed still and endured it.

I treated the leg too, though it wasn’t as bad.

From then on, I cleaned and rewrapped the wound each day. After a few days the swelling started to reduce. The heat around the infection eased. It was healing.

At some point during those days, the creature reached out and touched my arm briefly after I finished changing the bandages. It was gentle, deliberate, and it felt like a sign of trust.

We settled into a routine. I brought food twice a day. I brought blankets because the shed wasn’t insulated and the weather was getting colder. What surprised me was how it used the blankets. It didn’t just pile them up—it arranged them carefully, building a padded sleeping area like someone making a bed. It moved with planning and purpose.

It also seemed to understand more than I expected. It watched me when I used tools, and it looked like it was studying what I was doing.

I started talking to it sometimes. Not because I expected it to understand English, but because after years alone, talking felt natural. It would watch me while I spoke, sometimes making soft sounds back. It felt like conversation in a strange way.

By the ninth day, I heard a weather warning on my radio. A major storm was coming—heavy snow and strong winds, possibly the worst of the season. I began preparing immediately: hauling extra firewood, securing equipment, filling water containers, checking everything that could fail.

The creature became restless too, pacing and looking toward the forest. It seemed to sense the storm coming.

By morning, the blizzard hit hard. Wind shook the cabin. Snow fell so thick I could barely see outside. The cold was dangerous.

Around midday, I heard a loud crack from the direction of the shed. I knew what it meant: the structure was failing under the weight of the snow.

I forced my way through the blizzard and opened the shed door. Inside, I saw the roof beam sagging badly. The creature was standing under it, shoulders pressed up, holding it in place to keep it from collapsing.

I ran back to the cabin for rope and lumber and tools, then returned and started adding supports. What happened next is difficult to explain without making it sound unbelievable, but it’s the truth: we worked together.

The creature understood what I was doing. It shifted position as I placed support posts. It held boards steady while I nailed them. It lifted heavy beams easily and positioned them where I needed them. It even seemed to know where the weak points were, pointing them out by touching certain areas and making specific sounds.

For hours, we braced the shed. My hands went numb from cold. My back burned with fatigue. But slowly the structure stabilized. The roof still sagged, but it stopped worsening.

When we finally finished, I was exhausted and shaking. The creature settled down nearby, breathing hard, steam rising from its body in the cold air. We had saved the shed.

It was too dangerous to go back to the cabin in the storm, so I stayed in the shed with extra blankets and waited it out. It was strange, sitting in the dark beside a creature I’d once believed was only myth, sharing shelter because the weather didn’t care what either of us was.

After two days, the wind finally began to ease. The storm cleared on the third morning, leaving around three feet of snow. The world outside looked transformed.

We dug out the shed entrance together. I used a shovel, and it used its hands, clearing huge amounts of snow quickly.

By then its wounds had mostly healed. The shoulder still looked scarred, but the infection was gone. It moved better and didn’t seem to be in constant pain anymore.

That day, it stepped outside and stood in the snow facing the forest for a long time. I watched from the cabin window and felt a quiet sadness because I understood what it meant: it was ready to leave.

Over the next few days it spent more time near the edge of my clearing, standing at the tree line and looking into the woods. It came back to the shed each time, but it seemed increasingly restless.

On the fifteenth day it stood outside at dawn, looking toward the forest and then back toward the cabin. The message was clear even without words.

On the sixteenth day, it waited at the edge of the tree line as if it wanted a proper goodbye.

I made one last meal—roasted chicken, bread, apples, dried fruit—and set it down between us. It ate slowly. When it finished, it stood to its full height. It made that low rumbling sound again.

I spoke anyway, telling it I was glad it was healing and thanking it for helping with the shed. Then it reached out its hand slowly.

I hesitated, but I placed my hand in its palm.

The hand was warm, rough, and real. Its fingers closed gently around my hand for a few seconds, not squeezing, just holding.

Then it released me, turned, and walked into the forest. Its footprints were deep and clear in the snow. At the tree line it looked back once, then disappeared between the trees.

I stood there for a long time after it was gone.

In the days that followed, I repaired the shed properly. While I worked, I found tufts of dark fur caught on wood and nails where it had brushed past. I kept a few pieces in a small box—not to convince anyone, but because I needed proof for myself.

I never saw it again.

Sometimes at night I still hear deep calls from far out in the forest. Maybe it’s an owl. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know.

But winter doesn’t feel the same anymore. The silence is still there, the loneliness is still there, but it feels different knowing something intelligent might be moving through the same woods—something I once would have called a monster, until it showed up bleeding in my shed and let me choose compassion.

That’s all I can say.

I know what I lived through.