Mountain Man Rescues Baby Bigfoot and Receives an Astonishing Reward—An Unforgettable Sasquatch Tale of Kindness, Mystery, and Unexpected Friendship
The Mountain Bond
Chapter 1: Life Above the Timberline
Back in 1987, I was a mountain man living alone in the Cascade Range of Washington State. My cabin was perched near the timberline at around 7,000 feet elevation, a small but sturdy structure I’d built with my own hands over two long summers. Most folks would call it isolation; I called it freedom. I’d been living this way for nearly fifteen years, ever since I’d left behind the noise and crowds and relentless rush of modern life.
My days were spent trapping game, hunting elk, and living off the land. The nearest town was thirty miles away by rough mountain roads, and I only ventured there three or four times a year to sell furs and buy the few things I couldn’t make or hunt myself. I knew these mountains better than most people know their own neighborhoods—every ridge, every valley, every good hunting spot and dangerous crossing. I’d seen bears, mountain lions, wolves; tracked elk through deep snow and survived storms that would have killed lesser men. I thought I knew all there was to know about wilderness survival.
But that winter, everything changed. The forests taught me that they hold secrets deeper than I ever imagined, and that kindness can create bonds that last for decades, crossing barriers of species and language.
Chapter 2: The Screams in the Snow
It was early February, and the snow was deep—four feet on the level ground, deeper in the drifts. I was checking my trap line about two miles from my cabin, following a route I walked every few days. The silence of the forest was broken by a high-pitched wailing, echoing through the trees—a sound like nothing I’d ever heard before. It was almost human, like a child crying, but there was something wrong about it. Something that told me this was not human at all.
The screaming came from higher up the mountain, through heavy timber. Every few seconds, another cry rang out, full of pain and terror. My first thought was that maybe I’d caught something I shouldn’t have, like a protected species or someone’s dog. I grabbed my rifle and started climbing toward the sound, the terrain steep and the snow making every step a challenge, but the screaming kept pulling me forward.
As I got closer, the desperation in those cries grew clearer. Whatever was making that sound was in serious trouble. I moved faster, worried that whatever I found might be dying or seriously injured. The screaming got louder and more frantic, echoing off the surrounding peaks. When I finally pushed through a thick stand of hemlock trees into a small clearing, I found something that made me freeze in my tracks.
There was a Bigfoot caught in a bear trap.
Chapter 3: The Young Bigfoot
The trap was an old-fashioned leg-hold kind, heavy iron jaws designed to catch large predators. Someone had set it illegally—probably poachers looking for bears. But this wasn’t a full-grown adult Bigfoot. This was a juvenile, maybe four feet tall when standing upright. It had reddish-brown fur, soft and thick, covering its body except for the face, palms, and soles of its feet. Its face was flatter than an ape’s, but not quite human either, with a prominent brow ridge and a wide nose.
The trap had caught its left ankle, the jaws clamped shut with terrible force. Blood stained the snow, and the foot was swollen and discolored. It had clearly been there for hours, maybe since the previous night, struggling against the trap until exhaustion set in.
When it saw me approach, it went absolutely silent and still. The sudden quiet was almost more unsettling than the screaming. It stared at me with huge, dark brown eyes that looked disturbingly human. There was intelligence there, real comprehension—not the blank stare of an animal. I saw fear, but also calculation, as if it was trying to figure out what I would do.
Chapter 4: A Decision of Compassion
I am not a cruel man. I have trapped for food and fur my whole life, but I’ve never left anything to suffer needlessly. Even predators that competed with me for game, I killed quick and clean when I had to. This young Bigfoot was in agony, and judging by the trampled snow and blood trail, it had probably been there since the previous evening—hours of terror and pain.
I made a decision that would change my life forever. Though I had no way of knowing that at the time, I was just acting on instinct and compassion, doing what felt right. Even though every logical part of my brain was screaming that this couldn’t be happening, that Bigfoots didn’t exist.
I set my rifle against a nearby tree, making sure it was in plain view so the Bigfoot could see I was disarming myself. Then I approached slowly, keeping my hands visible and speaking in a calm, soothing voice. I didn’t know if it could understand human speech, but tone is universal among mammals. I kept my voice low and gentle, the same way I’d talk to a frightened horse or dog.
It watched every movement with intense focus, tensing up as I got closer, muscles bunching under the thick fur, ready to fight if I came with hostile intent. When I was about ten feet away, it let out a warning grunt that vibrated deep in my chest—a sound of raw power, a reminder that even young and injured, this creature could hurt me badly.
I knelt down in the snow, six feet from the trap, and kept talking softly. I explained what I was going to do, even though I knew it couldn’t understand the words. Maybe it understood my tone, or maybe it was just too exhausted to fight anymore, but it stopped making threatening noises and just watched me.
Chapter 5: The Rescue
I slowly pulled out my tools—a pry bar, some wedges, and heavy gloves. The trap was old and rusted, which worked in my favor. The rust had weakened the spring mechanism, and I figured if I could get enough leverage, I might pry the jaws apart.
I inched forward on my knees until I was close enough to touch the trap. The Bigfoot flinched but didn’t attack. Up close, I saw how badly injured the ankle was—fur matted with blood, flesh torn and swollen, possibly broken bones.
I worked the pry bar into the gap, applying pressure slowly and steadily. The Bigfoot whimpered, a surprisingly high-pitched sound for such a large creature. I kept talking, kept reassuring, kept working as gently as I could. The trap groaned and resisted, but gradually the jaws began to spread apart. It took about twenty minutes of careful work, alternating between the pry bar and wedges to keep the jaws from snapping shut again.
Finally, I got the jaws open wide enough for the Bigfoot to pull its leg free. It yanked the injured leg back the instant there was enough room, moving with desperate speed despite the pain. It backed away from me and the trap, limping badly. Fresh blood dripped into the snow. It moved about fifteen feet away, then stopped, turning back to look at me.
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. I was kneeling in the snow, exhausted and shaking from adrenaline. The Bigfoot balanced awkwardly on its good leg, those dark eyes fixed on my face. There was no more fear now—or at least the fear was mixed with curiosity, gratitude. I felt like something important had just passed between us.
Then it did something that nearly made my heart stop. It reached down and touched its injured ankle gently, wincing at the contact. Then it looked back at me and made a soft sound, almost like a sigh or a grunt of acknowledgement. It was communication—primitive, maybe, but real.
After that moment of connection, it turned and hobbled toward the forest, using the trees for support, and disappeared into the timber. I heard crashing branches for another minute as it moved away, then even those sounds faded.
Chapter 6: Gifts and Signs
I sat in the snow for ten minutes, trying to process what had happened. My logical brain insisted I had imagined it, but the trap was real, still lying open in the trampled, bloody snow. The tracks were real—large, five-toed prints no bear could have made. The blood was real, and so were the broken branches showing where it had gone.
I gathered up the trap and carried it back to my cabin, determined to get that evil thing off the mountain. That night, I melted it down in my small forge, hammered it flat, and cut it into pieces so small they could never be reassembled.
For the next week, I was jumpy and distracted. Every sound in the forest made me think about Bigfoots. I wondered how many there were, how they had remained hidden for so long, whether they had families and communities.
About a week after freeing the young Bigfoot, I started finding gifts. The first was a freshly killed rabbit, cleaned and left on my doorstep. The work was too precise for a scavenger, too fresh to have been there long. A few days later, a pile of wild mushrooms appeared, arranged neatly on a flat rock near my woodpile. No animal arranges mushrooms that way.
I realized the young Bigfoot was leaving me gifts, thanking me for freeing it. The gifts continued for about two months—elk antlers, food, interesting stones, bird feathers, pinecones, even an old rusted knife. Tracks in the snow showed the same smaller Bigfoot, recovered enough to be walking again, with a slight limp in the left foot.
I never saw it during those months, but I felt watched. Sometimes, while working outside, I’d get the feeling something was observing me from the treeline. I started leaving out food in return—dried meat, fruit, biscuits. The food was always gone by morning, taken carefully.
Chapter 7: The Years Pass
Eventually, the gifts stopped coming. Spring arrived, the snow melted, and the forest came alive. I figured the young Bigfoot had moved on, probably rejoined its family. I felt a strange sense of loss, but life went back to normal.
Years passed. I moved to different areas of the Cascades, always remote, always living alone, always keeping my encounter with the Bigfoot as a private memory. Sometimes, late at night by my fire, I wondered what happened to that young Bigfoot. Did its ankle heal? Did it grow up strong and healthy? Did it ever tell others about the human who freed it?
I had no way of knowing that those questions would eventually be answered in the most traumatic way possible, or that the act of kindness I’d performed would end up saving my own life three decades later.
Chapter 8: The Attack
Fast forward to August 2023. I’m seventy-two now, living in the mountains for over fifty years. Age has slowed me down, but I’m still mobile, still living as I always have. It was late August, that perfect window of mountain weather. I decided to hike up to a high ridge I hadn’t visited in years—a place with spectacular views.
The forest was quiet, unusually so. In hindsight, that should have been a warning. When prey animals go silent, it usually means a predator is nearby. I was lost in thought, not paying as much attention as I should have been.
I was about four miles from my cabin, following an old game trail through dense forest, when I heard something move in the brush to my right. Before I could turn, a mountain lion launched itself at me, coming from uphill. I caught a glimpse of tawny fur and bared teeth before it slammed into me, knocking me off my feet.
I landed on my back with the mountain lion on top of me. The impact drove the air from my lungs, and I heard something crack. The mountain lion went for my throat, but I managed to get my arm up, and its jaws clamped down on my forearm instead. The pain was indescribable—teeth grinding against bone, blood soaking my sleeve.
It shook its head, trying to tear my arm apart. My rifle was six feet away, useless. I tried to reach for my knife, but the mountain lion’s weight pinned me down. I was losing strength fast.
I thought I was dead. My vision was darkening. I could feel consciousness slipping away.
Chapter 9: The Bigfoot Family
Then something massive crashed through the trees behind us.
The mountain lion looked up, still gripping my arm. What I saw next is burned into my memory forever—three Bigfoots emerged from the forest. Not small ones, but full-grown adults, each at least eight feet tall, built like wrestlers. The largest was in front, nine feet tall, with dark brown fur and shoulders as wide as a door.
The lead Bigfoot let out a roar that shook the trees, deeper than a grizzly bear, vibrating in my bones. The mountain lion released my arm and backed away, ears flat. The second Bigfoot, with reddish-brown fur, moved to my side protectively. The third circled to cut off any escape route.
They worked together like a coordinated team. The mountain lion hissed, then bolted into the underbrush. The largest Bigfoot made sure it kept running, then turned back to me.
I was bleeding heavily, probably in shock. The three Bigfoots gathered around me, making sounds to each other—vocalizations ranging from low grunts to high-pitched hoots. These were not random noises. They were conversations, communication as complex as human language.
Chapter 10: Recognition and Rescue
The reddish-brown Bigfoot knelt beside me carefully, moving slowly. Its hand reached out toward my injured arm; I flinched, but it touched me gently, examining the wound with concern.
Then it lifted its left leg and showed me an old scar around the ankle—a circular mark, healed over but still visible. The mark left by that bear trap thirty years ago.
This was the young Bigfoot I’d saved. It had grown up, fully mature now, traveling with family. It had never forgotten what I did. It had tracked my movements, kept watch over me, and now, when I needed help, had come back with reinforcements.
I started crying, overwhelmed by gratitude and wonder. The Bigfoot patted my shoulder, a gesture of comfort. Then it made sounds to the other two, presumably explaining who I was and why they needed to help me.
The largest Bigfoot bent down and carefully picked me up, cradling me against its chest. Despite my injuries and the strangeness, I felt safe for the first time since the attack. Its fur was thick and soft, and I could hear its heartbeat, strong and steady.
They moved through the forest quickly, the one carrying me taking long strides, careful not to jostle me. The others stayed close, keeping watch. I drifted in and out of consciousness, amazed at how quietly they moved.
The journey took maybe thirty minutes. When my cabin came into view, they slowed and approached carefully. The Bigfoot I’d saved knelt down in front of me one more time, looked into my eyes, and touched my shoulder gently. Then the three Bigfoots stood watching me. I raised my good hand and waved; the Bigfoot I’d saved raised a hand back. Then they turned and melted back into the forest.
Chapter 11: Aftermath and Signs
I managed to get inside and wrap up my arm. I called for help on my satellite phone, and a Forest Service helicopter picked me up two hours later. At the hospital, doctors asked how I got back after being attacked. I told them I must have been in shock and somehow made it back. They didn’t believe me, but I stuck to my story.
My arm required surgery, and I spent three weeks recovering. During that time, I thought a lot about what had happened—how the Bigfoot I’d saved remembered me, brought family to rescue me. Some might say I imagined it, but I know what I saw.
When I returned to my cabin, I found a bundle of medicinal plants waiting on my porch, carefully arranged and tied with bark. The Bigfoots had left me medicine. I dried the plants and used them on my wounds. My arm healed faster than predicted.
Since that day, I’ve noticed things—firewood stacked, water buckets filled, a dead rattlesnake with its head smashed in. At night, I hear sounds in the forest—wood knocks, strange calls. I know the Bigfoots are out there, keeping watch.
Chapter 12: Coexistence and Communication
I haven’t seen them face to face since, and I don’t expect to. Bigfoots are private creatures, preferring distance from humans. But I know they remember what I did.
Sometimes, I sit on my porch, talking out loud, sharing stories. I like to think the Bigfoots are listening. People ask if I’m afraid, living alone at my age after being attacked. The truth is, I feel safer now than ever, knowing there are Bigfoots watching over me.
I’ve stopped using traps altogether. After seeing the pain I caused, even accidentally, I couldn’t bring myself to set another. I hunt with my rifle when I need meat, but I do so respectfully.
I have become protective of Bigfoot secrets. There are people who would hunt these creatures, disrupt their lives. I will take the exact location of my encounters to my grave.
What I will share is this: Bigfoots are real. They are intelligent, have long memories, understand kindness, and return it. They are not monsters or missing links. They are people in their own way, with families and languages and the capacity to feel gratitude.
Chapter 13: Signs and Warnings
I started noticing markers—branches arranged in triangles, X patterns, stacks of rocks. I believe these are communication markers, some for territory, some for me. I began making my own markers in response, simple arrangements of stones or sticks.
One time, I spelled out “thank you” with stones near a food offering. The next morning, the food was gone, and the stones had been rearranged into a pattern that looked almost like a smile.
Other times, the Bigfoots intervened to keep me safe—wood knocks warning of a dangerous tree, branches blocking a trail that led to a washout.
Chapter 14: Lessons from the Forest
Living alongside Bigfoots has changed how I see the world. I’ve learned patience, humility, and the power of kindness. When I freed that trapped Bigfoot, I had no expectation of reward. I did it because it was right. That single act of kindness saved my life three decades later.
The Bigfoot I helped remembered me, valued what I did, and made sure I was protected. We are all connected, all part of the same ecosystem, all deserving of compassion and respect.
Chapter 15: The Rhythm of Connection
Bigfoot activity follows seasonal patterns—more help in winter, more space in summer, more social calls in autumn. I time my food offerings to match these patterns. There is a rhythm to our relationship, an understanding that has developed over time.
I am seventy-two now, and I don’t know how many more winters I have. But I know that when my time comes, I will die knowing I experienced something extraordinary. I shared my mountain home with another species, learned that intelligence and compassion are not uniquely human traits.
Chapter 16: Legacy
I hope my story reaches people who are on the fence about Bigfoots. I am not crazy. I am a practical mountain man. Bigfoots are real, intelligent, emotional, capable of relationships. They are neighbors, sharing our world while maintaining privacy.
If you ever find yourself in the woods and encounter something that shouldn’t exist, remember my story. Show kindness and respect. You never know when that kindness might be returned.
To the Bigfoot I saved all those years ago: thank you for remembering. Thank you for bringing your family to save me. Thank you for watching over me in my old age. I hope you live a long and happy life, surrounded by family who love you.
If you don’t believe my story, that’s okay. I am simply sharing what happened in the hope that it might change how some people think about the forests, the mountains, and what might be living there just beyond our sight.
The wilderness is not empty. It is full of life and mystery. Sometimes that mystery reaches out, offering connection if we are wise and kind enough to accept it.
Tonight, I’ll sit on my porch and listen to the forest. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll hear that low, rising call—my Bigfoot guardian checking in. And I’ll whistle back, a simple acknowledgement of a debt repaid and a friendship that transcends everything we think we know about the world.
That is my story. That is how a small Bigfoot I saved in 1987 grew up to save my life in 2023, and how a family of Bigfoots continues to watch over me to this day. Believe it or don’t. Either way, it happened. The mountains are full of secrets, some with faces and hands and hearts bigger than most humans will ever understand.
I am honored to have been trusted with this knowledge and grateful every day for the protection and companionship of my Bigfoot guardians.
When I am gone, I hope the Bigfoots know I never forgot them. I hope they leave a gift on my grave—a feather, a stone, a branch arranged just so. A final acknowledgement that we knew each other, helped each other, and made both our lives richer for the connection.
That is all any of us can hope for, really: to be remembered with gratitude, to know our kindness mattered, to understand we are part of something larger than ourselves.
The Bigfoots taught me that—a lesson I never expected to learn from creatures that supposedly do not exist.
For that gift of knowledge and protection, I will be grateful until my last breath.