The Secret of the Cascades

Prologue

It’s been years since I first saw him. The footage? I still have it, but I’ll never show it to anyone. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. Even now, as I sit here, I can hear the crickets outside in the yard, but tonight, it’s quieter than usual. Even the wind seems to be holding its breath. I shouldn’t be telling this, but it’s been eating at me for years.

The Beginning

It all started in September 1987, just after a heavy rain. I was walking through the woods behind my old house, the same path I always took to the creek. That’s when I saw him. The clothes he wore looked so familiar, like they didn’t belong to him—Tom Foster’s red sweatshirt and his Levis. I shouldn’t have gone closer, but I did. What I saw next was something I wasn’t ready for.

Late September 1987 was the tail end of a wet season near the Cascades. The leaves were turning, casting deep amber and rust hues across the landscape. The damp smell of wet earth clung to everything. It was just a normal evening, sitting on the porch with my brother Danny, the old rocking chairs creaking with our movements. The distant sound of the Skykomish River was constant and reassuring, the scent of rain still fresh in the air.

We talked about the usual things—work at the mill where Danny spent his days, the Mariners losing another disappointing season, and whether winter would come early this year, as old Jim Pollson had predicted. The trees seemed too still that evening, like everything in the forest was holding its breath, waiting for something we couldn’t name.

Then it came: a faint knock, like I might have imagined it. Then again, three knocks, slow but deliberate—tap, tap, tap. It sounded like someone wrapping their knuckles on wood, but heavier. The sound made my skin prickle. Danny looked at me, eyebrows raised, his beer can frozen halfway to his mouth. “You hear that?” I nodded. We listened hard, but nothing followed. Just the wind moving through the pines.

“Probably a branch,” Danny said, but he didn’t sound convinced. Neither was I. The knock had come from the tree line, maybe 50 yards out, where our property ended and the national forest began. It was too deliberate to be a branch falling, too rhythmic, too purposeful.

The First Signs

We went inside, neither of us saying much. I locked the door behind us, something I rarely did. My wife, Sarah, noticed. “Everything okay?” she asked. I told her it was fine. That was the first lie I told about what happened that September.

The next day, Sarah was talking to our neighbor, Jenny Morrison. She mentioned hearing something strange in the woods the night before—heavy footsteps and branches snapping late at night when nothing should have been moving out there except maybe raccoons. “Could be a bear,” she said, trying to brush it off, but she sounded unsure.

That evening, we went over to visit Jenny and Mark for dinner. During the meal, I overheard Mark talking about a man who had gone missing a few months before—Tom Foster. The name hung in the air like smoke. He was from North Bend, about 20 miles south of us. He had gone hiking alone one Tuesday morning in early June and had never returned. His truck was found at a trailhead three days later, keys still in the ignition, wallet on the dashboard with $43 inside, and his daypack still in the cab. No sign of struggle, just gone—like the forest had swallowed him whole.

I tried to ignore the conversation, focusing on my dinner. People talk about Bigfoot around here, especially after a few beers. It’s part of the mythology of the place—campfire stories, tourist nonsense. But that night felt different. The air was heavy with something unnameable.

Walking home with Sarah that night, I heard them again—three knocks, the same rhythm, echoing through the trees. Sarah grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in tight. “What is that?” she whispered. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know what to tell her. The forest around us had gone completely silent.

Strange Occurrences

Over the next few days, Tom Foster’s name kept coming up. The whole town seemed to be talking about him. I started noticing strange things in the woods around our property. I told myself it was just my imagination running wild. I’d catch movement in the periphery of my vision—shadows and shapes where there shouldn’t be anything but trees. And then there was the smell, almost like wet fur, heavy and earthy.

One afternoon, while walking the creek trail, I saw something tall moving through the trees on two legs. I froze, my hand instinctively going to the hunting knife on my belt. Whatever it was, it was bigger than me, bigger than any man I’d ever seen. It moved behind a thick stand of trees and disappeared.

The next morning, I found deep footprints near the creek bank—huge impressions in the soft mud. They were not human, not bear, not elk or deer. I measured them later; they were at least 16 inches long. Whatever made these tracks was tall and powerful. The same wet fur smell lingered in the air around the prints.

I called the ranger station that afternoon. Ranger Tom Hendris laughed it off, saying it was probably a prank. I knew what I saw. I started carrying my camcorder with me whenever I went outside, determined to get proof if something was out there.

The Encounter

That night, after dinner, I stood out on the porch while Sarah cleaned up inside. I felt a compulsion to watch, to wait. That’s when I saw it—movement across the tree line. Something tall, at least seven feet, moving with purpose on two legs. I couldn’t make out details, just the massive silhouette against the forest backdrop.

Then I heard them again—three knocks, deliberate and clear. My hand started shaking, and I nearly dropped the camcorder. I raised it, fumbled with the power switch, and pointed it toward the tree line. When I looked through the viewfinder, the figure was gone.

The next day, I went deeper into the woods, past familiar trails. After a long walk, I came to a small clearing. And that’s when I saw him—Bigfoot, standing on the far side, maybe 20 feet away. He was massive, covered in dark brown fur, with broad shoulders and long arms. And he was wearing clothes—Tom Foster’s clothes.

I recognized them immediately—the red sweatshirt, the faded Levis. They didn’t fit him, obviously, but there was no doubt. My brain shut down. This couldn’t be real. But it was. He was standing right there, looking at me with dark, intelligent eyes.

I raised the camcorder, the red recording light came on, and I was filming Bigfoot. He watched me, calm and deliberate, then slowly turned and walked away, disappearing into the underbrush like he belonged there. I sat down on a log, my head between my knees, trying not to throw up. I had proof—Bigfoot wearing Tom Foster’s clothes—but I had no idea what to do with it.

The Dilemma

I stumbled back home, shaking. When I showed Sarah the video, she gasped. “That’s impossible,” she whispered. We watched it three times without speaking. “We have to call someone,” she insisted. But I hesitated. What would we say? That Bigfoot killed Tom Foster and was wearing his clothes? We didn’t know that for sure.

“I can’t turn him in,” I said slowly. “They’ll hunt him, kill him, stuff him, and put him in a museum.” I felt the weight of my decision. I couldn’t risk what would happen to Bigfoot.

Days turned into weeks. The secret ate at me, creating distance between Sarah and me. I kept the video hidden, but it haunted me. Then, one night, I heard the knocks again. He was there, standing at the tree line, still wearing Tom’s sweatshirt. He raised a massive hand, and I raised mine back. We acknowledged each other across the divide.

A Truce

I made my decision. The video would stay hidden. I started leaving small offerings at the edge of our property—apples, smoked fish, bread. The offerings were always gone by morning. We created a truce, an unspoken agreement. He stayed in his world; I stayed in mine.

One night in late July, I heard the knocks again. There he was, standing in the moonlight, still wearing the red sweatshirt. I raised my hand in greeting. The video stayed in its box; I never showed it to anyone. Not the news, not the researchers, not anyone.

By late summer, Sarah and I decided to move. Not because of fear, but because the secret had created a distance between us. We sold the house that October. The new owners were a young couple from Seattle. I never told them about the knocks or what lived in those woods.

Life After the Secret

Even in Everett, I couldn’t shake what I’d seen. I’d hear sounds at night, and my mind would go back to those knocks. Sarah noticed the change in me. “You’ve been different since we left,” she said. I told her I was fine—another lie.

Danny visited sometimes. “You ever think about it?” he’d ask. “About Bigfoot?” I nodded. “Of course I do. Every single day.” I’d like to think he and his family are still out there, living in those mountains, still leaving baskets of berries for whoever lives in our old house now.

The video box moved with us. Sometimes I go up to the attic late at night, holding the box, thinking about what it would mean to show it to the world. But I never do. I chose to protect Bigfoot. He trusted me, and in return, I chose his safety over the truth.

Epilogue

A few months ago, I heard something that brought it all back—three knocks. I went downstairs, looked through the window, but there was nothing. I stepped out into the cold air, and for a moment, I smelled the forest. Then it was gone.

I don’t know if anyone will believe this. Most won’t. That’s okay. I’m just telling you what happened. Tom Foster’s family deserves to know the truth about what happened to him, but I can’t give them that truth without destroying Bigfoot. So this is my confession, my testimony. I know what I saw, and I hope Bigfoot is still out there, still wearing Tom Foster’s red sweatshirt.