The Trail Camera Footage I Wasn’t Supposed to Share
Three days ago, someone sent me trail camera footage that I probably shouldn’t be showing you.
.
.
.
They begged me not to share their name. Not to reveal the location. And after seeing the footage, I understand why.
What you’re about to hear was recorded in a national forest in northern Idaho. The camera was mounted less than ten feet from the subject.
And whatever this thing is… it wanted to be seen.
The footage shows a massive figure standing calmly in front of the camera. Seven to eight feet tall. Completely covered in thick, grayish-brown fur, matted and dirty like something that lives outdoors year-round in brutal conditions.
It isn’t running.
It isn’t hiding.
It isn’t startled.
It’s standing there—facing the camera directly.
And then it raises one hand.
Not in a threatening way.
Not aggressively.
Almost like a wave.
Like it understands exactly what a trail camera is… and decided to say hello.
That detail alone has kept me awake for three nights straight.
Because if this were just an animal, it would have bolted. A bear. An elk. Anything else would’ve fled the moment it noticed the camera.
But this thing didn’t.
It wanted to be photographed.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
The person who sent me this footage owns a small, remote mountain cabin in northern Idaho—nearly twenty miles from the nearest town. The only access is a rough logging road that becomes nearly impassable in winter.
They use the cabin as a retreat. No neighbors. No cell service. Just forest in every direction.
About two years ago, they started noticing strange signs.
The first were footprints near a creek—barefoot, human-shaped, nearly eighteen inches long. Five toes. Deep impressions suggesting extreme weight. Not bear tracks. Not elk. Nothing that made sense.
Then there were trees with bark stripped seven to eight feet off the ground. Long vertical peels, as if done by hands, not claws.
Firewood stacked neatly by the cabin would be found deliberately unstacked and rearranged overnight. Logs placed into patterns. Circles. Balanced piles.
At first, they assumed it was a person trespassing. Maybe a survivalist. Maybe a prank.
But there were no human footprints. Only those massive barefoot tracks.
That’s when they installed trail cameras.
For months, nothing unusual showed up. Just deer. Elk. Bears. Normal forest activity.
But the signs continued.
And then came the first sighting.
One April evening at dusk, while splitting firewood near the treeline, they heard a heavy crack—like a thick branch snapping under enormous weight.
Something was standing in the trees.
At first, they thought it was a bear.
But as their eyes adjusted, they realized the shape was wrong.
It was standing fully upright. Straight-backed. Broad-shouldered. Way too tall and way too wide to be human.
They froze.
The figure stood there silently for about twenty seconds… watching them.
Then it stepped backward into the forest and vanished. No crashing. No panic. Just a calm, deliberate retreat.
They found one clear footprint where it had stood.
Eighteen inches long.
Five toes.
Three months later, they saw it again—this time in full view.
They were fishing at the creek at dusk when they noticed movement upstream. The creature was crouched at the water, drinking.
Not lapping like a bear.
Using its hands.
Cupping water and bringing it to its mouth.
They watched in shock until it suddenly looked up and made eye contact.
Its eyes reflected the fading sunlight.
It stood to its full height—easily eight feet tall—and made a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through their chest. Not a roar. Not a growl.
A warning.
Then it slowly backed away into the trees, never breaking eye contact.
That was the moment they knew this was real.
After that, the activity increased.
Offerings appeared on the woodpile—pine cones arranged in perfect circles. Smooth river stones stacked carefully. A deer antler placed gently on top of the logs.
Once, a rabbit carcass was left intact on a flat rock. Cleanly killed. Carefully placed.
Animals don’t do that.
Something was interacting with them.
During a winter storm, they heard heavy footsteps on the porch at 2 a.m. Slow, deliberate steps. Then breathing outside the bedroom window.
The glass fogged from the outside.
In the morning, massive footprints circled the cabin—every window, every door—before leading back into the forest.
Later that spring, following those tracks, they found a shelter half a mile away. A crude lean-to constructed from woven branches. Inside was a massive nest-like depression lined with pine needles and moss.
Nearby: a food cache. Cleaned deer and elk bones stacked neatly and covered with rocks.
This wasn’t random.
This was planning.
Intelligence.
The most important sighting happened last summer in broad daylight.
From a ridge trail, they watched the creature cross an open meadow below—fully upright, arms swinging naturally, stride long and effortless.
They observed it for nearly five full minutes.
No doubt. No shadows. No excuses.
This thing exists.
And then came the moment that changed everything.
One evening at dusk, they saw it standing at the edge of the clearing near the cabin. Instead of retreating, it stayed.
After a long pause, the person slowly raised one hand in a greeting.
After several seconds…
The creature raised its hand back.
The same gesture.
A wave.
Animals don’t do that.
That was communication.
Since the trail camera footage was captured, activity has intensified. The creature now appears almost nightly near the woodpile. Footprints are everywhere. It no longer hides.
It’s as if being photographed changed something.
As if it decided secrecy was no longer necessary.
The person told me the fear is gone now. What remains feels more like coexistence. Like sharing territory with an intelligent neighbor who has lived there far longer than they have.
They sent me the footage anonymously because they don’t want attention. They don’t want researchers, hunters, or tourists flooding the area.
They believe the creature is safe only as long as most people think it’s just a legend.
Looking at that footage—the raised hand, the relaxed posture—it’s hard to disagree.
Maybe the real question isn’t whether Bigfoot exists.
Maybe the question is whether we’re ready to accept what it means if it does.
Because if something this intelligent has been living in our forests for centuries… watching us… choosing when to be seen—
then we were never alone out there.
And maybe we never have been.
