This Boy Has Been Friends With Bigfoot for Two Decades—Now He Finally Shares the Astonishing Truth: Heartwarming Sasquatch Story

The Friend in the Forest

I’m 32 years old now, and I’ve been keeping this secret for over 20 years. I’ve never told anyone about it—not my parents, not my closest friends, not even my wife until recently. But I think it’s time for people to know the truth about what’s been happening in the woods behind my family’s property in rural Oregon.

For two decades, I’ve been friends with a Bigfoot. I know how crazy that sounds. Believe me, I’ve thought about how insane it is every single day since I was 10 years old. But it’s the truth, and this is my story.

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The Beginning

Summer of 2004. I was 10 years old, living on an isolated farm in rural Oregon. Our nearest neighbor was three miles down a dirt road, and behind our house stretched hundreds of acres of dense forest. My parents both worked long hours—my dad operated equipment for a logging company, and my mom worked at the local hospital. I spent most afternoons exploring the woods alone.

Looking back, they probably should have worried more about a 10-year-old wandering into the wilderness by himself. But this was Oregon, and they grew up the same way. As long as I was home before dark and knew how to avoid poison oak and rattlesnakes, I had free rein.

The forest behind our property was ancient—some trees were over 400 years old, Douglas firs so tall you couldn’t see their tops, their trunks wider than our truck. The ground was covered in ferns and moss, with deer trails everywhere. I would follow those trails for hours, pretending I was an explorer or a tracker or whatever my 10-year-old mind was obsessed with that week.

That summer, I built a little fort about half a mile into the woods. Nothing fancy—just branches and logs I dragged to make walls and a roof. It was slow work for a kid my size; some logs were so heavy I had to roll them into place. I spent entire afternoons arranging and rearranging branches, trying to make the walls as solid as possible, weaving smaller sticks through gaps to fill holes. It was my secret hideout, the place I’d go to read comics or just sit and think.

I brought an old tarp to keep rain out, some plastic crates as furniture, and a couple of flashlights for when I stayed until dusk. The fort wasn’t visible from any trail—I deliberately built it in a dense thicket of young alders where no one would stumble upon it by accident. That was part of the appeal. It was completely mine, completely secret—or so I thought.

But I started noticing strange things when I came back. Sticks I’d arranged would be moved. Rocks I’d stacked would be rearranged into different patterns. At first, I thought I was just misremembering where I’d put things—kids forget stuff, after all. But then it kept happening. I’d come back the next day, and logs I’d carefully positioned would be shifted exactly six inches to the left. A pile of pine cones I’d collected would be arranged in a perfect circle. A flat stone I’d used as a table would be flipped over.

At first, I thought maybe other kids were sneaking onto our property, but that didn’t make sense. We were too far from anywhere. No kid was hiking three miles into the woods just to mess with my fort. And the changes weren’t destructive or mean-spirited; nothing was broken or scattered. It was more like someone was curious about what I’d built and was examining it carefully.

I began paying closer attention. I’d arrange things in very specific ways before I left, then check if they’d been moved. They always had been. Something was visiting my fort when I wasn’t there. And it was getting bolder.

The Encounter

One late August afternoon, I was inside the fort arranging some old magazines I’d brought from home—mostly National Geographic and some Spider-Man comics—when I heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Not the light clicking of a deer or the scurry of small animals, but a purposeful, measured thud. They circled my fort slowly, deliberately. Each step seemed to shake the ground slightly.

The branches cracked under the weight, and I knew immediately it wasn’t a deer or even a bear. I’d seen bears before, but this was different. Whatever was out there was massive, walking on two legs. I froze, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. My hands trembled so badly I couldn’t hold onto the magazine I’d been reading.

Through the gaps in the branches, I saw a dark shape moving past. It was tall—at least 8 feet, maybe more—and covered in dark brown fur. Not shaggy dog fur, but thick, coarse hair that seemed to cover every inch of visible skin. The creature moved on two legs like a person, but it was built like nothing I’d ever seen—broad shoulders twice as wide as any human’s, long arms hanging past its knees, and a head that sat atop those shoulders with almost no neck.

The smell hit me then—not a bad smell, exactly, but musky and wild, like wet dog mixed with earth and something I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t unpleasant, just overwhelming in its intensity.

I should have run. Every instinct told me to bolt. But I was too terrified to move. I stayed hidden inside my fort, watching this thing circle around me.

Then, it stopped right in front of the entrance. I could see its massive hand reach out and push aside some branches. We made eye contact. I’ll never forget those eyes. They weren’t animal eyes—animal eyes are usually one color, usually dark, often blank. But these eyes had depth. Deep amber with flecks of gold around the pupils. They looked intelligent, almost human in their expressiveness.

There was curiosity in them, not aggression. The Bigfoot tilted its head slightly, studying me the same way I was studying it. Its face wasn’t exactly ape-like, nor entirely human—something in between. Heavy brow ridges, alert eyes, and a face that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken stories.

We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity—probably only 10 or 15 seconds—me frozen and trembling, it cautious and curious.

Then, it did something I never expected. It reached into the fort. Its hand was enormous—twice the size of my dad’s—and it gently placed a smooth, round river stone, about the size of my palm, on the ground near my feet. The stone looked like it had been shaped by water erosion over decades or centuries. The creature set it down reverently, then slowly backed away, never taking its eyes off me.

It turned and disappeared into the woods, moving with surprising grace for something so large. I sat there shaking for another hour before I finally worked up the courage to leave. I ran all the way home and didn’t tell my parents a word. Who would believe me? I barely believed it myself. But I kept that stone.

The Routine

The next day, I returned to the same spot. Over the next two years, I went almost every day after school. At first, I just sat there, waiting, wondering if the Bigfoot would come back. I’d do my homework or read, but mostly I was listening—waiting for those heavy footsteps, for branches to crack under weight that wasn’t wind.

After a week, I started leaving food—apples from our orchard, beef jerky from the pantry, slices of bread wrapped in plastic. The food was always gone the next morning, but not torn apart or scattered. It was carefully unwrapped and consumed, plastic folded neatly beside the empty wrappers.

Then, one late afternoon, the Bigfoot returned. The sunlight was golden, filtering through the trees at that perfect late-summer angle. I heard the familiar heavy footsteps again, and my heart leapt. I stayed still, gripping the edge of my makeshift seat.

It emerged from the trees, bigger than I remembered, maybe even larger in the sunlight. Its fur was a rich chocolate brown with hints of reddish undertones. It looked at me for a long moment—then at the food I’d left on a flat rock. It approached slowly, each step measured, cautious not to scare me. It picked up an apple, examined it with those amber eyes, then sat down about ten feet away from me. It ate slowly, watching me the entire time.

When it finished, it carefully placed the core on the rock and sat quietly. We sat like that for about twenty minutes—neither of us moving much, just sharing the moment. Then, it stood up and left, walking back into the woods. But it came back the next day, and the next, and the next.

Over months, we fell into a routine. I’d come after school, sometimes with homework, sometimes just with a comic book. The Bigfoot would appear in the late afternoon, and we’d just be there, existing together. It felt strange but natural.

The creature was fascinated by simple things—my backpack, my jacket, my sneakers. It would reach out slowly, gently touch the fabric, then pull back, as if afraid of damaging something precious. It handled my belongings with reverence, like a museum curator examining ancient artifacts.

One day, I took off a sneaker and handed it to the Bigfoot. It held it in both massive hands, turning it over, smelling it, then made a huffing sound—maybe amusement. Carefully, it returned the shoe to me and gestured at my foot, as if understanding I needed it.

The Lessons

By the time I was eleven, the Bigfoot started teaching me things. It pointed at certain plants, shook its head vigorously—no, stay away—and pointed at others, nodding. I learned to recognize edible berries—salmonberry, thimbleberry, huckleberry—and roots I could dig up safely. It showed me which mushrooms to eat and which to avoid, making sharp clicking sounds with its tongue when danger was near.

It also showed me how to find clean water—by watching where it bubbled up from underground springs. It cupped its hands and drank, then gestured for me to do the same. The water was icy cold but pure and refreshing.

It taught me how to read animal tracks, how to move silently, and how to survive in the forest. It communicated with gestures, demonstrations, patience—like teaching a child. It was treating me like a young one it wanted to protect.

Growing Up with a Friend

Those years in the woods were the best of my childhood. I had a secret friend—a creature that no one else believed in, but I knew was real. It was my guardian, my teacher, my confidant. I’d finish school, hop on my bike, and rush into the forest, knowing it would be waiting.

By 13, seeing the Bigfoot had become as normal as walking the dog. I’d come home from school, drop my backpack, and head straight into the woods. My parents thought I was just a typical kid, playing outside. They never knew I was sitting with an 8-foot cryptid, sharing quiet moments.

The Turning Point

One evening when I was 17, I was camping alone in the woods. I woke up to a strange sound—a mix between a scream and a growl. I unzipped my tent and saw a mountain lion crouched about 40 yards away, watching me. Before I could react, the Bigfoot appeared from the shadows. It didn’t attack the lion; it just roared—a deep, powerful sound that shook my chest. The mountain lion saw the threat and vanished into the darkness.

The Bigfoot turned to me, checked if I was okay with those intelligent eyes, then settled about twenty feet away. I didn’t sleep much that night, but I felt completely safe. It had protected me again.

The Revelation

One day, in late summer, it led me deeper into the forest than ever before. We found a hidden cave entrance, partially concealed by blackberry vines. Inside, I saw evidence of a family—multiple sleeping areas, tools, and markings on the walls—symbols or pictures I couldn’t understand. It was a home, a community.

I realized then that my friend wasn’t alone. There were others, probably family or a social group. They had a complex society, a culture I could barely grasp.

Saying Goodbye

As I grew older, I knew I wouldn’t stay forever. I was about to leave for college, and I dreaded saying goodbye. I went to our usual spot by the stream one last time. The Bigfoot was there, sitting quietly, as if sensing that something was changing.

I tried to explain, through gestures, that I had to go. I pointed toward town, then mimed walking, then held up fingers to show months or years. When I stood to leave, it followed me to the edge of the yard. In the fading evening light, it made a long, mournful rumble—like a cry of grief.

I took off my favorite jacket, an old denim one I’d worn for years, and hung it on a low branch where it could see. I pointed to it, then to myself, then back to the Bigfoot—a promise to return. It gently touched the jacket, then looked at me one last time before vanishing into the woods.

I cried all the way home. I came back every chance I got—Thanksgiving, Christmas, summer break—and every time, the Bigfoot was waiting. I kept my promise, and my jacket remained hanging on that branch, weathered but still there.

Growing Up and Moving On

By my early twenties, life pulled me away. I got a good job in another state, got married, and settled into a new routine. I never told my wife about the Bigfoot. It sounded crazy. She’d think I was delusional or worse, that I was unstable. So, I kept it secret.

But I never forgot. I kept a journal, recording every visit, every gift, every lesson. I knew the Bigfoot wouldn’t live forever. Creatures age, they die. And I feared that someday, I would go into the woods and find that it was gone.

The Return

Recently, I moved back closer to home to help my aging parents. One night, I heard that familiar low rumbling call from the woods. I grabbed my flashlight and ran outside. The Bigfoot was waiting, older now, grayer around the face, moving slower but still watching.

It approached me gently, touched my face with a massive hand, and I started crying. We sat by the stream all night, just being there together. When dawn broke, it picked up a smooth, round stone—like the first gift it ever gave me—and placed it in my hand.

We were still friends, after all these years. I knew I’d have to say goodbye someday, but not yet. Not now.

The Future

Now, I meet with the Bigfoot several times a week. It’s weaker, tired, but still there. I bring food—fish, fruit, sometimes cooked meat. I give it medicine when it’s sick, though I don’t know if it helps. We sit by the stream, and I tell it about my life. It may not understand the words, but I believe it listens.

My wife finally found out about us. She followed me into the woods one evening and saw us together. I was terrified she’d think I was crazy, but instead, she believed me immediately. She said she was grateful I had this impossible friendship.

I keep a journal now, not for anyone else, just for myself. I know it won’t last forever. Creatures like this age, they die, and someday, my friend won’t be there anymore. I think about that more than I should. I wonder if I should tell people, if I should reveal the truth. But I know it’s better to keep it secret.

The Last Promise

Every week, I visit, sit with my old friend, and cherish every moment. It’s the most important relationship I’ve ever had. And I’ll keep coming back as long as it’s there, waiting by the stream, bringing me stones, making that rumbling purr when I arrive.

Because that’s what friends do. They wait, they forgive, and they never give up.