Expedition Bigfoot: “We’ve FOUND Unbelievable Bigfoot PROOF In Alaska – Sasquatch Encounter Story

We Went to Alaska to Find Bigfoot. Something Found Us First.

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I need to tell you what happened to me and three friends in Alaska last fall—because it changed everything I thought I knew about the wilderness.

We went there to prove Bigfoot was real.

We came back knowing something far worse.

We weren’t thrill-seekers or clueless kids chasing a myth. All four of us were experienced hunters and survivalists. I’d been in the woods since I was twelve—tracking elk, hunting bear, reading terrain the way most people read street signs. Between us, we had decades of experience, certifications in wilderness medicine, cold-weather survival, navigation. We knew how to survive when things went wrong.

That’s why Alaska felt like the final step.

For years, we’d followed credible Bigfoot reports—footprints too large for bears, vocalizations no known animal could produce, sightings from people who had nothing to gain by lying. Alaska, especially north of Denali, kept coming up. Remote. Vast. Untouched. Indigenous stories going back generations.

If Bigfoot existed anywhere, it was there.

We planned for two years. Saved money. Bought professional-grade trail cameras, audio recording stations, GPS trackers with satellite comms. Twelve cameras alone cost nearly eight thousand dollars. Everything was top-of-the-line. This wasn’t about killing anything—we just wanted proof.

When we reached the last outpost before the wilderness, the locals looked at us like people watching someone step onto thin ice.

A woman at the general store went quiet when we told her where we were heading. She said people went missing up there. Authorities blamed bears. Locals didn’t.

Then an old trapper pulled us aside. His hands shook when he talked.

He said the Bigfoots up there weren’t shy. They were territorial. Intelligent. And they didn’t like being hunted.

“They know the difference,” he said. “Between a man passing through… and a man looking for them.”

We laughed it off.

We shouldn’t have.

The hike in took two brutal days. Dense spruce forests. Steep ridges. Valleys choked with brush that tore at our skin. When we finally set camp, the silence was wrong—no birds, no insects. Just wind through trees, like the forest was holding its breath.

On the third day, we found the footprint.

Eighteen inches long. Five toes. Deep enough to suggest something weighing over five hundred pounds. The stride between prints was more than six feet. We followed the trackway uphill and found broken branches snapped eight feet off the ground—and a pile of rocks stacked deliberately, like a marker.

Something was telling us: You’re here.

That night, we celebrated. We talked about researchers. Media. History.

Then the howling started.

It wasn’t a wolf. It wasn’t a bear. It sounded almost human—but wrong. A long, rising shriek that vibrated in my chest and made my teeth ache.

Then another answered.

Then another.

Then another.

Four distinct voices, surrounding our camp.

They weren’t calling randomly. They were communicating.

And we were the subject.

No one slept.

In the morning, we checked the cameras.

Every single one had been found.

Some were smashed. Some ripped clean off trees. Some wiped completely—memory cards empty, as if erased on purpose.

That’s when it hit us.

They’d been watching us the entire time.

That night, they came closer.

We heard heavy footsteps circling camp. Branches snapping. Then, in the beam of a flashlight, we saw it—eight feet tall, covered in dark hair, eyes glowing red in the light.

It slapped a tree three times.

Wood knocking.

Then it vanished.

At 3 a.m., we heard screaming.

A woman’s scream—close, terrified, begging for help.

Every instinct told us to run toward it.

We didn’t.

Because we knew.

That’s when they charged.

The forest exploded with movement. Rocks flew from the darkness, smashing gear, slamming into tents with terrifying accuracy. One hit my friend hard enough to drop him. Another destroyed our stove.

Then they entered the camp.

One tore a tent apart like paper.

Another destroyed our food—not eating it, ruining it.

And then the biggest one stepped forward.

Ten feet tall. Broad. Calm.

The alpha.

It walked toward us, unafraid of our rifles. Stopped twenty feet away. Looked at each of us.

Then it pointed.

At us.

Then back toward the trail.

Leave.

The roar that followed shook the ground.

They let us go—but only because they chose to.

They escorted us out the next day. We never saw them clearly again, but we heard them constantly—wood knocks, footsteps, howls pacing us through the forest like shepherds driving livestock.

At one point, I saw one standing on a ridge above us, relaxed, watching.

We were never in control.

We made it out alive.

And we never published a thing.

Because some things don’t stay hidden due to lack of evidence.

They stay hidden because they want to.

If you’re thinking about searching for Bigfoot—especially in Alaska—don’t.

Some truths come with a price.

And some predators don’t need to prove they exist.