Sasquatch and Dogman Caught in a Brutal Fight to the Death—A Shocking Cryptid Encounter Story

The Shadows of 1962

What I witnessed in those October woods of 1962 defies everything I thought I knew about the world. Even now, as I write these words with trembling hands, I can still hear the bone-chilling howls, the thunderous crashes, the primal fury of two creatures locked in mortal combat.

My name is Cole Dawson, and in October of 1962, I was 23 years old—naïve as a newborn calf, and utterly convinced that the world was about to end. Those were dark days. The Cold War wasn’t just headlines; it was a suffocating dread pressing down on every American’s shoulders. We’d all seen the news, and we knew—somewhere across the ocean, the Soviets had their nuclear arsenals aimed straight at us.

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Then came October 1962—the Cuban missile crisis. Air raid sirens tested in every city, the world holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable flash of atomic fire. I remember sitting in my cramped Chicago apartment, watching grainy images of Soviet ships steaming toward Cuba, feeling that cold knot tighten in my stomach. This was it. The end was coming.

And in that moment, I made a decision that would change my life forever.

If the world was going to burn, if society was about to crumble into radioactive ash, then I needed to be ready. I needed to know how to survive when there were no grocery stores, no hospitals, no electricity, no safety. I needed to live off the land, like our ancestors did, in the wilds where the first targets would be when the bombs started falling.

So I started training.

Every weekend, I drove out into the forests of Wisconsin and Illinois. I learned to build shelters, start fires with flint and steel, identify edible plants, and track game. I read every survival manual I could find, memorized the signs of predators, studied the habits of animals, and learned to read the landscape like a book. For six months, I practiced in the tame woods near the city, honing my skills, preparing for the worst.

But that wasn’t enough.

If I was going to test myself truly, I had to go deeper into the wilderness—places where no human had set foot in years, where the hand of man hadn’t tamed the land. That’s how I found myself planning a solo expedition into the remote forests of northern Minnesota, near the Canadian border. A vast, trackless wilderness, stretching for hundreds of miles, dense with ancient trees, silent and untouched.

It was perfect. No roads, no towns, no signs of civilization—just endless green, wild and free.

The Beginning

I set out on a crisp October morning, my pack loaded with the essentials: a few days of food, a basic tent, my grandfather’s revolver, and a worn copy of the Army Survival Manual. I was determined to see how long I could survive in the wild, to test my skills and my resolve.

The first day was everything I’d hoped for. The forest was majestic—a cathedral of towering pines and ancient oaks. I covered about fifteen miles, setting up camp beside a clear mountain stream. I built a lean-to shelter, started a fire with flint and steel, and caught a few brook trout for dinner. As I sat watching the flames flicker, listening to the night sounds of the woods, I felt a deep sense of peace. This was how humans were meant to live—free, self-reliant, in harmony with nature.

The second day was even better. I woke before dawn, foraged for edible plants, and cooked a hearty stew combining wild onions, blackberries, and mushrooms I knew were safe. That night, I camped in a grove of ancient trees, feeling more alive than I had in months. Just me, the forest, and the stars above.

But then, on the third day, everything changed.

The Shift

I woke with an odd feeling—a sense that something was wrong. The forest was unnaturally quiet. No bird calls, no rustling leaves, no distant animal sounds. The usual chorus of life was muted, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.

I pressed on, but that feeling only grew stronger, gnawing at my nerves. I knew the signs of predators—the absence of smaller animals, the silence—but this was different. It was wrong, primal, unnatural.

By midday, I reached a small pond to refill my water bottle. The water was mirror-smooth, reflecting the fiery autumn leaves. I knelt beside it, scanning the trees, when I saw the tracks.

They were pressed deep into the mud at the water’s edge—enormous, at least twice the size of my boot, with five toes clearly defined, long and ape-like, with claw marks at the tips. The stride was staggering—at least four feet between each step, suggesting a creature of incredible height and leg length.

My heart hammered. I knelt, staring at those impossible prints, feeling my world shatter. I knew instinctively—this wasn’t any known animal. The signs pointed to something else entirely. Something that shouldn’t exist.

The Howl in the Night

That night, I camped near the water’s edge, but sleep was impossible. Every rustle, every snap of a branch had me reaching for my gun. The forest was dead silent—except for the distant, haunting howl.

It started low, like a rumble deep in the earth, rising in pitch and volume, becoming a primal scream that echoed through the woods. The sound was unlike any wolf or bear I’d ever heard. It carried a tone of intelligence, malice, and pure rage.

Then, silence.

I sat frozen, heart pounding, eyes darting in the darkness. The woods around me seemed alive, watching, waiting. I could feel it—something unseen, intelligent, hunting.

I knew I had to leave. I packed up quickly, moving through the forest with the instinct of a hunted animal. My senses were on overload—every sound, every shadow, could be the creature.

The Pursuit

The next day, I pushed harder, driven by a primal terror that refused to let me stop. The forest grew darker, thicker. The trees twisted into impossible shapes. Every step I took, I felt eyes on me—glowing, intelligent eyes that reflected my flashlight beam with a mirror-like sheen.

I found more tracks—large, human-like footprints, but wrong in subtle ways. Too long, too narrow, with claw marks at the tips. They led me deeper into the woods, where the signs of something ancient and alien became undeniable.

And then I saw them.

In a small clearing, under a canopy of dying leaves, two massive shapes moved through the shadows. One was broad-shouldered, covered in dark fur, with a face that combined ape and human features. The other was leaner—gray, wolf-like, with a snout filled with gleaming teeth and eyes burning with malevolence.

They were communicating—low growls, guttural sounds, complex and deliberate. They were planning, coordinating, as if they were intelligent predators working in tandem.

And they had seen me.

The Battle

The larger of the two, the ape-like creature, let out a guttural roar—deep and thunderous. The wolf-like beast responded with a sharp bark, then lunged.

The fight was savage and primal—claws raking, teeth tearing, bodies colliding with a violence that belonged in the realm of myth. The ape was powerful, delivering blows that could crush bone, but the wolf was fast, relentless, biting and clawing with feral fury.

Blood poured, wounds opened, but neither yielded. Their snarls and roars echoed through the forest, a symphony of chaos, rage, and ancient hatred.

I watched, paralyzed, as they tore into each other. For a moment, I thought I’d see one of them fall—one of these impossible monsters die in the mud and leaves.

But then, something strange.

The ape-like creature, battered and bloodied, managed to seize the wolf by the scruff of its neck and hurl it across the clearing. The wolf crashed into a tree, stunned but alive. It struggled to its feet, snarling, blood dripping from its fangs.

They faced each other again, locked in a deadly standoff. The air was thick with primal fury.

Then, the ape turned and walked away, leaving the wolf wounded but alive. The wolf hesitated, then limped into the shadows, vanishing into the forest.

I was alone again, trembling, overwhelmed.

The Aftermath

I stayed hidden for hours, listening to the forest’s strange, silent aftermath. The signs of their battle were everywhere—broken branches, blood-streaked leaves, deep gouges in the earth. The signs of something ancient, something predatory, something that defied explanation.

When I finally dared to move, I ran. I ran through the woods, not stopping until I burst out into the open, where a ranger station was miles away. I told them I’d been lost, that I’d seen something impossible—something that looked like a giant ape and a wolf, fighting like beasts from legend.

They dismissed me. Said I was probably hallucinating, exhausted, traumatized. But I knew what I’d seen. I knew those signs, those tracks, that fight, were real.

The Truth

I’ve shown the photos I took—blurry, indistinct images of strange footprints, a few fleeting glimpses of shadowy shapes. The authorities call it folklore, a hoax, or the product of an overactive imagination. But I know better.

That night, I saw something that shouldn’t exist—an ancient predator, an intelligent beast, locked in a primal war that has gone on for centuries. And I killed one of them.

Or at least, I think I did.

Because I never saw the other again. And I still wake up haunted by those glowing eyes, that terrible howl, and the whispers of something ancient lurking just beyond the edge of reality.