The Ridge: Bigfoot Attacked a Logging Crew—What Happened Next Will Shock You

Prologue: The Forest’s Warning

In late September 2014, I was running a small logging crew near the Cascades, about forty miles outside Forks, Washington. We were prepping a new section of old-growth timber for Timber Ridge LLC. The work was hard, honest, and paid well. I’d been logging for fifteen years—long enough to know the forest’s rhythms, its moods, and its secrets. But nothing prepared me for what happened that autumn.

Chapter 1: Signs and Shadows

The first week was smooth. We dropped thirty trees, hauled out half, and set up a staging area: a portable trailer, a generator, and our machines parked in a row each night. No fence, no security, except a camera I’d installed after a chainsaw disappeared the month before.

The second week, things started feeling off. Tools moved from where we’d left them. Fuel cans tipped over. One morning, we found a pile of stones stacked near the treeline—like a cairn. Rookie joked it was Blair Witch stuff. We laughed it off.

But the dogs stopped laughing. Guys brought their hunting dogs to work, usually lazy and calm, but now they wouldn’t go near the treeline. They whined, paced, tails tucked. We figured it was a bear or cougar den nearby.

By the third week, unease spread among the crew. Conversations got quieter. Guys packed up early, eager to get home before dark. Raymond, a logger for twenty years, said he’d heard something late one night—a scream, deep and horn-like, from the ridge above the site. Not an elk, he said. Something else.

 

 

Chapter 2: The Attack

Friday, we shut down early for the weekend. I checked the machines, locked the trailer, and drove home, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

Sunday night, Cole, our skitter operator, called, rattled. He’d driven past the turnoff and thought he saw a fire up there—a glow through the trees. I told him it was probably moonlight or a reflection, but he wasn’t convinced.

Monday morning, we caravanned in at 6:30. I was first to the site. As I rounded the bend, my stomach dropped.

The skitter was on its side, tipped over like a toy. The loader’s boom was bent at an unnatural angle. The foreman’s trailer had been shoved ten feet from its spot, gouges in the dirt. I stopped the truck, got out slowly, and stared.

The crew arrived, silent. We walked through the wreckage. Hydraulic lines ripped out, fluid pooling in the dirt. The cab door was gone, later found thirty yards away, hinges sheared clean. Rookie found claw marks on the loader’s frame—four deep grooves, two feet long. Cole checked the fuel tanks. Punctured, fuel spilling into the moss.

Raymond found the prints—barefoot, huge. Sixteen, maybe seventeen inches long, five toes, deep heel strike. The stride was four feet between prints.

Nobody said what we were thinking.

Chapter 3: The Footage

I remembered the camera. Ran to the trailer, yanked open the bent door, grabbed the DVR unit, and plugged it into my laptop. The crew gathered around.

Most footage was darkness, shadows shifting in the wind. Then at 2:47 a.m.—movement.

A massive figure emerged from the treeline, upright, walking on two legs. Broad shoulders, long arms, a head forward on the neck. It walked directly to the skitter, stopped, and stood for a moment. Then it reached out, grabbed the cab door, and pulled. The metal screamed. The door came off.

The figure tossed it aside like nothing. Then it tore out hydraulic lines, fluid spraying. It moved around the skitter, methodical, purposeful, destroying everything it touched. Then it crouched, got under the machine, and lifted. The skitter toppled. The sound was thunder.

The figure turned toward the camera. For a second, we saw its face—flat, broad, eyes glowing white in infrared. Then it walked into the trees, gone.

Nobody spoke. Cole rewound the footage. Rookie whispered, “That’s Bigfoot.” Raymond nodded. I closed the laptop, hands shaking.

Chapter 4: The Decision

I called the company, told the regional manager what happened, left out the footage. “Vandalism,” I said. Maybe eco-activists or a disgruntled ex-employee. He said he’d send an insurance adjuster and security.

He asked if we could keep working. I looked at the crew. Fear in their eyes. I said we’d need a day to assess.

Raymond pulled me aside. He wasn’t coming back until we knew what we were dealing with. Cole agreed. By noon, the crew packed up and headed home.

I stayed behind, walked the site alone. The footprints led back into the forest toward the ridge. I followed them for a hundred yards, then stopped. The trees were thicker, the canopy almost black. I heard a low rumble—a growl. I turned and got back in my truck.

Chapter 5: The Encounter

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the footage, the way the figure moved, the strength it showed. I started researching online—Bigfoot Washington sightings. Hundreds of reports, footprints, vocalizations, structures made of broken branches. Most were nonsense, but some matched exactly: stacked stones, dogs refusing certain areas, deep vocalizations.

I found a forum, posted a vague description. Replies flooded in—territorial behavior, machinery targeted as a warning, advice to leave immediately.

The next morning, I drove back alone. Parked at the staging area, hiked toward the ridge, following the prints. The forest was silent. No birds, no squirrels, just my boots on wet moss.

I found it—a shelter built into the hollow of a massive cedar, the opening low but deep. Inside, bent branches arranged like bedding, fresh prints—smaller, maybe ten inches long. Cubs.

I backed away slowly. Then I smelled it—wet fur, earthy and thick. I turned and saw it, thirty feet away, partially hidden behind a tree, watching me.

We stared at each other. Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

I ran, didn’t look back, just ran.

Chapter 6: The Crew’s Choice

I called an emergency meeting at a diner. Told the crew what I’d found—the shelter, the small prints, the encounter. Raymond believed me. Cole looked skeptical, but didn’t argue. Rookie asked if we were seriously talking about Bigfoot.

I pulled out the laptop, showed them the footage, pointed out the intelligence in its actions. Nobody had an answer.

The question was—what now? If we showed the footage, it would go public. News crews, hunters, researchers—the forest would be swarmed. The mother and her cubs would be killed or driven out.

I made a decision. I’d delete the footage, tell the company it was a bear or equipment malfunction, and recommend we halt operations in that section. Raymond nodded. Cole asked what we’d tell people. “Unstable ground, risk of landslides.” Plausible enough.

Rookie said he’d back whatever I decided. We were choosing to protect something most people didn’t believe existed. They all agreed.

That afternoon, I met with the insurance adjuster, showed him the wreckage, stuck to the story. He seemed to buy it. Said the company would likely move us to a different section.

A week later, I got the call. We were reassigned fifteen miles south, lower elevation, partially cleared. The company was writing off the damaged equipment, selling the timber rights to a smaller outfit.

I felt relief. It bought time—maybe enough for the cubs to grow and move deeper into the wilderness.

I deleted the footage, smashed the drive, threw the pieces away. The only copy left was in my mind.

Chapter 7: Messages and Memories

The new site was easier—smaller trees, forgiving ground. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the old site, the mother and her cubs.

One morning, I found a bundle of branches on my truck hood, woven in a rough circle. Deliberate, carefully made. I hung it in my garage—a message, a thank you, maybe, or a reminder.

Winter hit hard. We shut down from mid-December to February. I drove up to the old site one weekend. The road was barely passable. The staging area was buried under two feet of snow. The machines rusted under white drifts.

I hiked up to the cedar shelter. The entrance was sealed with branches and snow, but I saw signs of use—a faint trail leading farther up the ridge.

I left a bag of apples at the base of the tree. An offering. I wanted them to know I hadn’t forgotten.

On the way back, I heard a vocalization—low, long, echoing through the trees. Not aggressive. Acknowledging.

I wrote everything down in a notebook—not for proof, just for me. The crew, the wreckage, the shelter, the choice I’d made.

Chapter 8: Moving On

February, we went back to work. Another month or two, and we’d move on. I made sure none of the new sites were near the old one.

By March, the schedule was set—farther south, away from the ridge. I felt a weight lift.

In April, I visited the old site one last time. The snow had melted, the forest waking up. The staging area was overgrown, machines reclaimed by moss and vines.

The cedar shelter was empty. They’d moved on. Relief and sadness mixed.

At the base of the cedar, I found a stone—smooth, black, placed on a piece of bark. Next to it, a tuft of dark fur. I picked up the stone, warm in my hand.

I looked toward the ridge. Didn’t see anything, but felt the presence. I put the stone in my pocket, nodded toward the trees, and walked back down.

That night, I told my wife everything. Showed her the stone, the notebook, described the footage. She listened, then asked if I regretted deleting it. I said no. She asked if I believed what I saw. I said yes. She nodded. That was all I needed.

Chapter 9: The Unspoken Pact

A week later, Raymond texted—he’d found a structure near Mount Rainier, branches stacked teepee-style. He sent a photo. I recognized the pattern. Told him to leave it alone, not to go back. He agreed.

That was the last time we talked about Bigfoot. The word stopped feeling strange. It was just a fact now—something we’d encountered and chosen to protect.

The crew finished the job and moved south. I stayed on as foreman. The work was good. The company trusted me. I kept the stone in my desk drawer, pulled it out when I needed to remember.

Over the next year, other crews reported strange sounds, equipment moved overnight, tools gone missing. I listened, nodded, suggested they work different areas.

Sometimes, I drove out after hours, left small offerings near the treeline—food, supplies, nothing that would draw attention. I didn’t know if it helped, but it felt right.

 

 

Chapter 10: Fame and Silence

In the fall of 2015, a documentary filmmaker called, asking about Bigfoot encounters. I told him I had nothing to share. He offered money. I hung up. He called back twice. I blocked the number.

A month later, I saw his documentary online—dozens of people claiming encounters, most with no evidence, a few with grainy photos. None had footage like what I’d destroyed. I watched the whole thing, feeling guilt and relief.

Cole left the crew that winter, took a job in construction. Raymond retired the following spring. Rookie never came back. The new crew didn’t know. The secret was lighter.

I stopped going to the old site. The company sold the rights, the new outfit started clearing the lower sections. I heard they hadn’t had any problems. Maybe the family had moved deeper into the mountains.

Chapter 11: A Legacy Protected

One night, I dreamed I was at the ridge, looking down at the cedar. The mother was there, the cubs beside her, taller now, almost adolescent. She looked at me, raised a hand, and walked into the trees. The cubs followed.

When I woke, I felt closure—something had ended quietly.

I kept logging, but listened to the forest more. If I saw stacked stones, I moved the crew. If the dogs acted strange, I called it a day early. The company didn’t question it. The crews stayed safe.

I never saw Bigfoot again. But the memory, the footage I’d destroyed, the choice I’d made, shaped everything. I wouldn’t change it.

Chapter 12: Passing the Secret

I’m retired now. Haven’t run a saw in five years. My back gave out. I spend my time fishing, fixing things, hiking with my grandson.

He’s seven, curious about everything. One day, he asked if I believed in Bigfoot. I said yes. He asked if I’d ever seen one. I said yes. He wanted details. I told him I’d tell him when he was older.

Last month, I drove up to the old site. The road was worse, washed out. The staging area was gone, reclaimed by the forest. I hiked up to the ridge, slower, knees aching. The cedar was still standing, ancient and unmoved. The shelter was gone.

I sat at the base, rested against the trunk, closed my eyes. The wind moved through the branches. I felt the presence, the watching.

I opened my eyes, looked toward the deeper forest. Nothing there, just trees and shadows. But I knew they were still here—maybe not the same ones, maybe the cubs had grown and had cubs of their own.

The forest held them, protected them, because I’d chosen to let it.

Epilogue: The Right Thing

I stood, brushed the moss off my jeans, and walked back down. I don’t need to go back again. The memory is enough.

Bigfoot is real, and that’s all I need to know.

Some secrets are meant to be kept—not for fame, not for proof, but for compassion. The forest keeps its own truths, and sometimes, the right thing is to let them stay hidden.