“Unexpected Revelation: Turkey Hunter Discovers the Surprising Truth Behind the Land Ownership of His Deeded Property!

The Encounter on Turkey Roost Ridge

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You can call me Matt, though that isn’t what’s on my driver’s license. But does it really matter? Anyone who hunts with me back home will know exactly who I am the moment they hear about a big, hairy figure walking up Turkey Roost Ridge.

Let me cut to the chase and start where everything went sideways. I was already set up on the ridge when I saw it—the infamous Bigfoot. The morning was a dull silver-gray, a color that seemed to drain the life from the woods. I was nestled against a white oak, my shotgun resting across my knees, staring down the spine of the ridge where turkeys usually strutted in like they were on parade. But that morning, the woods were eerily quiet.

Suddenly, something stepped out onto the ridgetop, heading straight toward me. My first thought was that it was another hunter, a latecomer walking right through my setup. But as it approached, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. This wasn’t a typical hunter; it moved too smoothly, gliding rather than bobbing like a person would. It was tall—much taller than anyone I had ever known.

The figure stopped on the crown of the ridge, about 50 yards away, right in the lane where I expected the turkeys to come strutting down. All I could see was a heavy silhouette—no orange, no gun, no hat brim—just broad shoulders and long arms that hung down too far, far beyond where a man’s hands should stop.

I opened my mouth to whistle, a friendly gesture to let another hunter know I was there, but the words died in my throat. Something deep inside me whispered, “Keep your mouth shut, boy. That ain’t no hunter.”

Now, let me backtrack a bit. I’m 41 years old, born and raised in the southern Appalachians. I live in a small town where the hardware store still stands proud on the square, and everything shuts down early on Friday nights, especially during high school football season. Here, land is passed down through generations, not money. I’ve been fortunate; Turkey Roost Ridge is what my granddad called that long, skinny hump of ground, and it earned its name honestly.

It’s a narrow ridge running off a larger mountain, with hardwoods on top and thick laurel and rhododendron choking the sides. A logging road snakes along one side, and the very top is just wide enough for two men to walk side by side if they don’t mind bumping shoulders. On calm spring mornings, the gobblers like to roost off one side or the other, then pitch up to the top at fly down, strutting along to show off for the hens below.

My daddy started taking me there when I was old enough to be quiet. By the time I could carry a shotgun legally, I knew every bend and bump on that ridge. My daddy used to tell his buddies, “If you can’t find a bird, just call Matt. He’ll put you onto something.”

But that morning was different. It was April, the second week of turkey season, and the weather was unpredictable—hot one day, then cold the next. I parked my truck at the bottom gate a little after 4:30, the air thick with the damp smell of leaf mold. As I sat there listening—owls, a distant dog, but nothing else—I grabbed my vest and shotgun and made my way up the logging road.

Halfway up, I felt it—a prickling sensation on my arms, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. I brushed it off, convincing myself it was just my imagination playing tricks. But when I reached my spot, settled against the oak tree, everything felt normal until the gobblers started calling. Their deep, chest-thumping gobbles filled the air, putting a grin on my face.

Then, without warning, all the gobbling stopped. It was as if someone had flipped a switch. The woods fell silent, and I could feel the tension in the air. I sat there, my heart racing, trying to rationalize what was happening. Maybe a coyote had slipped through or a hawk had spooked them. But then I heard it—footsteps coming from behind me, slow and deliberate, unlike anything I had ever heard in the woods.

As the steps drew closer, I could feel my anger rising. Etiquette in these parts dictates that you don’t bump another man off his spot. My truck was parked at the gate; anyone climbing this ridge should have known I was already there. But the steps continued, heavy and steady. I shifted my grip on my shotgun, debating whether to call out or stay silent.

Before I could decide, the footsteps turned toward the spine of the ridge, and I finally saw it. Standing there, about 50 yards away, was a creature that defied all logic. It was tall—at least a head taller than my 6’5″ friend. Its shoulders were broad, and its arms hung low, well past where a human’s would. The shape was not blocky like a bear but proportioned like a human, just scaled up, thick and muscular.

As I stared, details began to emerge. The creature’s fur was a deep muddy brown, clumped and waving in the breeze. I could see daylight between its legs—this wasn’t a person in a costume. Panic surged through me as it turned its head slowly, locking its deep-set eyes onto mine. It knew I was there, acknowledging me in a way that sent chills down my spine.

We stared at each other, and I could see its chest rising and falling, breathing steadily. A faint, musky odor wafted down the ridge, reminiscent of wet dog mixed with sweat. My instincts screamed at me to stay still, to not raise my gun. I felt like a child again, terrified and frozen in place.

After what felt like an eternity, the creature broke eye contact, shifting its weight back and turning its body toward the downhill side of the ridge. The movement was smooth, almost lazy. I got a clearer view of its build—thick and solid, with thighs as big as fence posts. As it stepped toward the edge of the ridge, it paused, looking back at me with an expression that seemed more irritated than scared, as if I had intruded on its territory.

Then it descended into the laurel, moving with an ease that belied its size. I heard a heavy crack as a branch broke under its weight, then silence. My heart raced as I sat there, trembling, trying to process what had just happened.

Eventually, I gathered the courage to leave my spot, but I had to walk back toward where it had stood. I waited until the light was strong enough to see clearly, then began my descent, talking to the empty woods as if to reassure myself that I was just passing through.

As I reached the logging road and caught sight of my truck, a wave of relief washed over me. I sat in the cab for a long time, my mind still buzzing with disbelief. I decided to share my experience with only two people—my dad and my hunting buddy, Travis.

My dad listened quietly, then said, “I’ve never seen anything like that, but I’ve had mornings on that ridge when the woods went quiet for no good reason. Maybe it wasn’t coyotes after all.” When I told Travis, he joked about Bigfoot running my turkey spots, but then he grew serious, saying, “If you say there was something up there and it wasn’t a man, I’ll take that to the bank.”

Since that day, I’ve never walked Turkey Roost Ridge in full darkness again. I still hunt there, but I bring someone with me—a family member or a friend. There’s something comforting about having another human voice beside you in the woods.

Some may say I just misjudged what I saw, but I know better. I’ve spent my entire life on that ridge, and I know what a man looks like at 50 yards, even in half darkness. What I saw that morning was something else entirely—something that reminded me I was not at the top of the food chain on that ridge I thought I owned.

So here’s my story, Nance. Tell your listeners about the man down in the southern mountains who thought he knew Turkey Roost Ridge, only to discover that something much larger had been using it long before he ever set foot there.