U.S. Soldiers Discover a Wounded Bigfoot in the Wilderness—A Veteran’s Terrifying, Unforgettable Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Forest’s Secret

I’ve kept this to myself for years. Not just from my wife, but from everyone. The truth about what I saw that winter in the Pacific Northwest is something I never dared to speak aloud. Not until now. And even now, I hesitate, wondering if I’m finally ready to face what I witnessed—or if I’m just deluding myself.

It was early 2019, stationed at a remote military outpost near the Canadian border. I can’t tell you exactly where—some things you just don’t talk about. But I can tell you it was deep in the woods, the kind of place where civilization is a faint memory, replaced by endless, untouched forest. The kind of place where the trees are so thick, the sky is only a rumor, and the snow falls so heavily that you’re buried in it for months.

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We called it “the mountain,” but it was more like a forgotten world. Most of the guys hated it. Too isolated. Too cold. Too quiet. But I liked it. Grew up hunting and fishing back home, so being surrounded by wilderness felt natural—like I belonged there. But even I felt something strange about those woods. Something that didn’t quite fit.

The Setup

Our unit was there for a routine winter survival exercise. Six of us, three days in the field, learning how to navigate, survive, and endure the cold. The weather forecast was typical—blizzard warnings, heavy snow, temperatures plunging below zero. We were prepared. Or so we thought.

Our squad leader was a seasoned veteran, a guy who’d been through it all. He knew those mountains like the back of his hand. If he said we were good, we trusted him. But from the beginning, I noticed odd things. Radio communication was spotty, even for the terrain. Wildlife was strangely absent. No tracks, no calls, no birds. Just silence. It was like the forest had been emptied out.

By the second day, we’d traveled maybe fifteen miles from the base, following an old deer trail through the thickest forest I’d ever seen. The snow was lighter here, packed and icy, making every step treacherous. We moved slowly, cautious. I kept glancing at the trees, feeling that prickling sensation that someone—or something—was watching.

That’s when we smelled it.

Not the usual scent of pine or fresh snow. This was musk, thick and heavy, like a wet animal mixed with something else—something rotten, yet oddly human. We all caught it at the same time. And then, we saw the blood.

The Blood and Tracks

Blood patches, dark and glistening, scattered across the snow in patches about fifty yards wide. Drag marks, deep and uneven, leading further into the woods. Heavy enough to suggest something large had been pulled along the ground—something that didn’t belong in those woods.

We all stopped dead. The tracks appeared in the snow—massive, at least twice the size of a man’s boot, maybe bigger. But what caught our attention most was their shape. The toes—five of them—spread wide, almost human, but too large, too thick, and with a strange, unnatural gait.

Our squad leader studied the tracks silently, his face unreadable. Finally, he made the call—follow the trail. No radio. No backup. Just us, and the ominous silence of the forest.

We moved deeper, the blood trail leading us to a small clearing by a frozen creek. Here, the blood was even more abundant. Patches of red snow, broken branches hanging from trees—some snapped clean in half, others hanging like broken limbs. The smell grew stronger, musk and rot, with a metallic tang that made my stomach churn.

And then I saw it.

The Encounter

In the shadows of the trees, just beyond the creek, I saw it. Or rather, I saw what was left of it.

A massive, hairy figure, slumped against a fallen log. It was sitting upright, covered in dark, coarse fur. From my distance, I could see it was at least eight feet tall, broad-shouldered, with long arms that hung almost to the ground. Its head was massive, with a cone-shaped skull that no bear or human would have. The face was a disturbing blend—almost human, but wrong. Heavy brow ridge, deep-set eyes that reflected the faint light, a wide, flat nose, and a mouth filled with sharp, uneven teeth.

It noticed us.

Its eyes—intelligent, dark, and unblinking—locked onto mine. I froze, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. The creature’s breathing was labored, like it was hurt, but it was alive. I could see the slow rise and fall of its chest, the tremor of pain in its limbs.

Then, it moved.

Slowly, painfully, it pushed itself upright. Blood stained the snow beneath it. Its leg was badly wounded—deep, infected, with a metal trap embedded in the flesh. The wound was raw, oozing blood, the metal glinting in the faint light.

I stared, unable to look away. That face—those eyes—held a strange intelligence. Not wild animal fear, but something deeper. Pain, yes. But also recognition.

And then, it did something I’ll never forget.

It looked directly at me.

The Silent Communication

The creature’s eyes—those dark, intelligent pools—met mine. It made a slow, deliberate gesture—lifting a massive hand, palm open, fingers extended, as if in greeting or warning.

I was rooted to the spot. My mind raced—what was it trying to tell me? Was it asking for help? Warning me to stay away? Or simply acknowledging my presence?

I don’t know how long I stood there, trembling, before I realized I couldn’t just stare anymore. I slowly raised my hands, mimicking the gesture. The creature paused, then, surprisingly, lowered its hand and made a low, guttural sound—almost like a sigh.

It was the first time I’d seen what I could only describe as a moment of peace between us.

Then, it turned and slowly disappeared into the woods, leaving me standing there, stunned and shaken.

The Aftermath

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying that moment—those eyes, that gesture, the pain in its face. The next morning, I examined the scene. The blood patches, the broken branches, the tracks—everything pointed to a brutal attack, but also to something else. Something intelligent. Something that knew it was being watched.

We radioed in, but the response was vague. The base dismissed it as a bear or a misidentification. But I knew better. I saw what I saw.

Over the next few days, I kept returning to that spot. The blood trail led deeper into the forest, and I found more tracks—huge, five-toed impressions, too broad and deep for any known animal. The creature’s wound was worsening, but it had survived that trap, that attack.

And I learned something strange.

That creature, whatever it was, was not just an animal. It was something more—something with intelligence, with pain, with a story.

The Revelation

I never saw it again. The forest seemed to swallow it whole, the sounds of its pain and recognition fading into the endless trees. But I knew it was out there—somewhere, watching, surviving.

I’ve told a few people—my wife, my buddies from the unit—but they all think I’m crazy. That I saw a bear, or a hallucination, or a figment of stress and exhaustion. But I know better.

That creature was real.

And it was suffering.

The Lesson

I’ve carried that knowledge with me ever since. I still go into the woods, still hunt and hike, but I pay closer attention now. I listen for the faintest sounds, watch the shadows between the trees. Because I know that in those forests, something more exists—something that doesn’t belong in our world.

And I believe, deep down, that it remembers. That it remembers the day some humans came into its territory, injured and vulnerable, and chose compassion instead of fear.

Maybe it’s out there still, hiding in the shadows, waiting for us to forget. Or maybe, it’s already gone—lost to the wilderness, like so many others.

But I know I was there. I saw it. I saw the pain in its eyes, and I felt the weight of its silent plea. And I will carry that forever.