This Bigfoot Ambushed a Logging Crew. What Followed Will Shock You

In the heart of the Pacific Northwest, where ancient trees towered like sentinels over the misty landscapes, a story unfolded that would shake the very foundation of belief. My name is Jack Ali, but for 40 years, I was known simply as Red. At 65 years old, I carry the weight of my years in the form of a limp, a reminder of countless encounters with nature’s fury. I’ve spent my life in the timber industry, navigating treacherous slopes where machines dare not tread. We are the timber beasts, the stump jumpers, the men who face the wrath of the forest head-on.

But nothing could prepare me for the events of that fateful day in November 1999, a day that began like any other but would end with my understanding of the world forever altered. On that rainy Tuesday, as the relentless downpour turned the ground into a slippery quagmire, my crew and I set out to fell a tree we called the Monarch—a colossal cedar, ancient and majestic, a living monument to time itself. Little did we know, the woods were not just a backdrop to our work; they were alive, and they were watching.

As we hiked two miles into the dense forest, the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and crushed cedar. The forest was a living entity, its whispers carried by the wind, warning us of the danger that lay ahead. The Monarch stood there, a giant among giants, its bark gray and peeling, its trunk solid but hiding secrets within. I felt a chill run down my spine as I placed my hand on its cold, hard surface. Something wasn’t right.

“Boss, how do you want to drop it?” Miller, one of my seasoned veterans, asked, revving up his chainsaw.

“Lay it along the contour,” I instructed, my instincts screaming at me. “If we drop it downhill, it’ll shatter. We need to bed it in the brush.”

Three hours later, we were ready for the back cut, the moment of truth. I shouted for everyone to clear the area, my voice barely rising above the roar of the chainsaw. But as I pulled the trigger, the tree didn’t groan as expected. Instead, it popped, a sound like a cannon shot, and before I could react, it twisted violently, barber chairing and hurling a massive slab of wood toward me. I dove for cover just in time, heart racing, adrenaline surging through my veins.

The tree crashed to the ground with a force that shook the very earth beneath me. We had done it; the Monarch was down. But as we stood there, catching our breath, a sound shattered the silence—a scream, primal and human-like, reverberating through the trees. It froze us in our tracks.

“What the hell was that?” one of the greenhorns whimpered, eyes wide with fear.

Before I could respond, a rock the size of a basketball came hurtling out of the mist, smashing into the engine block of our crew truck. Panic erupted as more rocks followed, each one a warning shot from the shadows. I peered over the fallen cedar, my heart pounding, and saw them—three colossal figures charging towards us, covered in dark, matted hair.

“Bear!” Stumpy yelled, grabbing his axe, but I knew better. “That ain’t no bear!” I shouted, sliding down the trunk for cover. We were under attack, not by a creature of the forest but by something far more intelligent, far more terrifying.

The creatures moved with a speed that defied their size, tearing through the underbrush, hurling stones and branches like missiles. They were pinning us down, and in that moment, I realized we were not the hunters; we were the hunted. My crew scattered in fear, leaving me alone behind the massive trunk, clutching my chainsaw and radio, desperately trying to call for help.

“Mayday, mayday! This is felling crew 7. We are under attack. Large predators. Send the bird!” I shouted into the radio, but static was my only reply. The silence that followed was suffocating, filled with the weight of impending doom.

Then, I heard it—the heavy footsteps approaching. My heart raced as I gripped my axe, ready to face whatever horror was about to emerge. And then he appeared, the alpha male, towering over me like a living nightmare. His eyes were filled with a mix of rage and desperation, and I could smell the musk of his fur, a pungent reminder of the wild.

He pointed at the log, then at the sky, mimicking a lifting motion. Confusion washed over me. What did he want? It was then I realized—the attack wasn’t an ambush; it was a desperate plea for help. Underneath the fallen tree, I saw it—a small, hairy hand twitching in the mud. The juvenile was trapped.

I looked at the alpha, his eyes pleading, stripped of aggression. He wanted me to lift the tree, but it was impossible. I glanced at the radio on my belt, knowing that only the heavy lift helicopter could save the child. The bargain was struck in silence; I had to call for help.

“Sky Crane, this is Ali. We have a man down, pinned by a log. Critical condition. We need immediate extraction!” I shouted, my voice cracking with urgency. The pilot responded, assuring me they were on their way, but time was running out.

As I climbed the ridge to get a better signal, the alpha followed closely, a silent guardian. The rain poured down, soaking us both, but I could feel the weight of his presence beside me—a strange alliance formed in the face of danger. When I finally reached the ridge, I called for the helicopter, lying about the situation, knowing the truth would only lead to chaos.

“Ten minutes,” I told the alpha, holding up my fingers. He nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. But as the minutes dragged on, the weather worsened, and my heart sank. The juvenile was fading, and I could see the mother shivering, her body a shield against the elements.

I rushed back to the log, grabbing hydraulic jacks from the abandoned crew truck, my hands trembling. I needed to stabilize the load, to buy time. As I worked, the mother watched me, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. I could feel her breath on my neck, the weight of her desperation heavy in the air.

“Just tools!” I whispered, trying to reassure her. I set the jacks in place and pumped them, feeling the resistance of the massive tree. It wasn’t enough to lift it, but it would hold it steady. Suddenly, the radio crackled to life—Miller and the crew were returning, armed and ready for a fight.

“No! Stay back!” I shouted into the radio, panic rising in my chest. But it was too late. The sound of the truck engine grew louder, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked darkness. The alpha sensed the danger, standing tall, teeth bared, ready to protect his family.

I had to make a choice. I couldn’t let my men walk into a massacre. Gripping my axe, I stepped into the middle of the logging road, planting my feet firmly in the mud. “Stop!” I bellowed as Miller’s truck skidded to a halt.

“Get in! Where are they?” Stumpy yelled, rifle ready.

“Put the gun down!” I shouted, stepping forward. “There is no attack. Look at me. Am I bleeding? Am I dead?”

“But the rocks, the screaming…” Stumpy stammered.

“They were scared!” I insisted, my voice steadying. “We dropped a tree on their kid. They were trying to get us to stop. They are grieving parents!”

Miller laughed, a hysterical sound that echoed in the rain. “They’re monsters, Red.”

“No! They’re people!” I shouted, the truth ringing in my ears. “And right now, they need our help. If you fire that gun, the helicopter will leave, and that kid dies.”

The bull stepped out of the shadows, illuminated by the headlights, a living embodiment of power and intelligence. The truck fell silent as my men realized the truth. They saw the creature for what it was—a king defending his family.

“What do you want us to do?” Miller whispered, fear etched on his face.

“Go back to the landing. Wait for the sheriff. Tell him it was a logging accident. Do not mention Bigfoot. If you do, we’ll never work in these woods again,” I ordered, watching as they slowly backed down the road, confusion and fear still lingering in their eyes.

As they disappeared into the night, I turned back to the bull, who stood still, a silent guardian. The rain continued to fall, and the temperature dropped. Time was slipping away. I knelt beside the juvenile, the mother huddled protectively over him, shivering violently.

Then I heard it—the thump of the helicopter’s blades cutting through the storm. Relief washed over me as I grabbed the radio, signaling for the pilot to pop flares. The helicopter descended, a mechanical dragon emerging from the clouds, and I felt a surge of hope.

“Clear the area!” I shouted, running out onto the log to hook the chokers to the long line. The bull watched, a fierce protector, ready to defend his family at any cost. As the helicopter lifted the log, disaster struck—the tree shifted, threatening to crush the juvenile.

“Stop! Down! Down!” I screamed, panic rising as I watched the log roll. But the bull didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the log, jumping onto the trunk, adding his weight to the counterbalance.

“Lift it!” I yelled to the pilot. “He’s the counterweight!”

With a roar that echoed through the trees, the bull stood firm, defying the machine above. The helicopter lifted, the log rising into the air, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. The juvenile was free, dragged away by the mother, and the bull leaped off just in time, raising his arms in victory.

As the helicopter flew off, I collapsed onto the wet ground, the weight of the world lifting from my shoulders. The bull approached me, and in a gesture that would haunt me forever, he reached into his matted fur and pulled out a fossilized pine cone, placing it gently in my hand—a trade, a life for a stone.

In that moment, I knew I could never return to logging. These trees were not just lumber; they were living beings, guardians of a world I had disrespected for too long. I quit the next day, leaving behind the life I once knew, forever changed by the encounter with the timber beasts of the forest.

As I walked away, the echoes of that day lingered in my mind—a reminder of the fragile connection between man and nature, a bond forged in desperation and understanding. And I knew, deep in my heart, that the truth of Sasquatch was not just a myth; it was a reality that demanded respect and reverence.