Where Are All Bigfoot Bodies? Here’s Why We Can’t Find Any Footage of It
Why We Never Find Bigfoot Bodies
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Has anyone ever found a Bigfoot corpse?
It sounds like a simple question. Obvious, even. If Bigfoot exists—if thousands of people have seen it, if footprints keep appearing, if recordings and videos surface year after year—then where are the bodies?
That question haunted me for fifteen years.
We have no confirmed skeleton.
No skull.
No tooth.
Not a single bone that science will acknowledge as real.
And after everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve researched, I no longer believe that’s an accident.
I used to be a skeptic.
I laughed at blurry videos. I rolled my eyes at eyewitness accounts. I assumed people were lying, exaggerating, or misidentifying bears in bad lighting. For a long time, that explanation felt sufficient.
Then, twelve years ago, I had my own encounter.
I won’t describe it in detail here. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was subtle—quiet, unmistakable, and deeply unsettling. Enough to shatter my certainty. Enough to make me ask a new question:
If these creatures are real… why do they never leave bodies behind?
The deeper I dug, the stranger the pattern became.
Every few years, a video resurfaces online. A supposed Bigfoot corpse lying in a forest clearing. The body sprawled out, fur matted, sometimes partially decomposed. In a few cases, bone structure appears visible beneath the flesh.
I sent several of these clips to forensic specialists.
Some noted that the rate of decomposition looked wrong—too fast for a creature of that size in those environmental conditions. Others pointed out skeletal proportions that didn’t match any known bear or primate.
And then, almost like clockwork, the footage would be dismissed.
Someone would claim it was a hoax. Latex and foam. A costume. CGI. The creator would appear briefly, accept blame, and vanish.
I’ve watched over a hundred alleged Bigfoot body videos.
Most are obvious fakes. Zippers. Bad proportions. Fur that doesn’t move naturally. CGI shadows that don’t match the light source. And in recent years, AI-generated images with anatomical errors—too many finger joints, fur blending unnaturally into the background.
But buried among the fakes are a few that refuse to be explained away.
There’s footage—rare, fragmentary—of something massive covered in dark hair lying on what looks like an examination table inside a facility. People move around it. The camera never lingers. The clip always cuts too soon.
That’s the pattern that troubles me most.
The interruptions.
Again and again, the footage ends at the exact moment when confirmation should appear. Batteries die. Cameras malfunction. Lenses get blocked. Recording stops abruptly.
Skeptics say that proves fraud.
But I started to wonder if something else was happening.
During my own field research, I experienced equipment failures that felt… targeted. Cameras that worked flawlessly for hours suddenly refused to power on. GPS units lost signal in ways that didn’t align with satellite coverage maps. Audio recorders captured nothing but static during moments when I clearly heard unusual sounds nearby.
Coincidence? Possibly.
Environmental conditions? Certainly plausible.
But there’s another hypothesis.
Some researchers believe Bigfoot may emit electromagnetic disturbances or infrasound. Animals already do this. Elephants and whales communicate with infrasound over vast distances. Tigers produce infrasonic roars that induce fear and disorientation in prey.
If Bigfoot evolved similar abilities—whether for communication or defense—it could explain why clear documentation is so rare.
Not because people are faking it.
But because the subject itself disrupts our tools.
Still, none of that explains the absence of bodies.
So I asked myself: what would a real Bigfoot body look like?
Based on consistent eyewitness accounts and physical traces—hair samples, dermal ridges in footprint casts, bite marks on trees—I built a mental model.
Seven to nine feet tall.
Massive skeletal structure.
A pronounced brow ridge, possibly sagittal.
Arms longer than human proportions.
Thick hands.
A body covered in dark or reddish-brown hair, with exposed skin on the face, palms, and soles.
And yet… we have none of this.
No remains.
That’s when the obvious explanation presents itself: government cover-up.
Federal agents confiscating bodies. Silencing witnesses. Black SUVs. Unmarked helicopters.
I’ve spoken to people who swear they saw it happen.
A retired forest ranger in Washington told me about finding what he believed was a Bigfoot skeleton in a remote canyon. He radioed it in. Hours later, a helicopter landed. A team he didn’t recognize collected the bones and left. When he followed up, his call had no record.
He told me this in a whisper.
But here’s the problem with the cover-up theory.
It requires perfection.
Across decades. Across multiple states. Across thousands of square miles. Every single Bigfoot death intercepted. Every witness silenced. No leaked evidence. No confirmed whistleblower.
Governments can barely keep budgets secret.
Running a flawless operation to hide a large primate species strains credibility.
So I looked elsewhere.
What if Bigfoot bodies disappear because the creatures themselves make sure of it?
Indigenous traditions across North America describe Sasquatch not as animals, but as people of the forest—intelligent, social, deeply aware of death.
Many tribes tell the same story: when death approaches, these beings retreat deep into the wilderness. Some say they bury their dead. Others say they carry them to sacred places no human is meant to see.
I spent a summer speaking with elders.
A Hoopa woman told me Bigfoot know when they are dying and separate from their group to find sacred burial grounds in places humans rarely reach. When I asked where those places were, she smiled and said, “Some knowledge isn’t meant for outsiders.”
A Euro elder told me a story passed down for generations—of a silent procession, Bigfoot carrying one of their dead into the mountains, wrapped in grass and bark. The humans who witnessed it hid, knowing instinctively they were watching something sacred.
These stories aren’t isolated.
The Yeti of the Himalayas.
The Yowie of Australia.
The Almas of Central Asia.
Different cultures. Same detail.
They never leave bodies behind.
That idea followed me to the Olympic National Forest three years ago.
A retired wildlife biologist contacted me, claiming he knew of a burial site. He agreed to show me—on one condition: I could never reveal its location.
We hiked deep into terrain untouched by human traffic. Into a valley I couldn’t find on any map. There, hidden within volcanic rock, was a cave.
Inside, I saw bones.
Dozens of them.
Arranged, not scattered. Grouped as if representing individuals. Older remains deeper in the cave. Newer ones closer to the entrance.
And not a single tooth.
Teeth don’t disappear naturally. Their absence felt deliberate.
The biologist told me he’d once taken a bone fragment for analysis. A week later, his home was broken into. Nothing stolen except the sample and his notes. Anonymous messages followed, telling him to forget what he’d seen.
He was dying. That’s why he showed me.
I photographed everything.
When I returned, every file corrupted.
The biologist died two months later.
I never found the cave again.
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it. If my need for answers filled in the gaps.
But the pattern holds.
Bigfoot bodies aren’t missing because they don’t exist.
They’re missing because everything—biology, behavior, culture, terrain, intelligence—works against discovery.
Small population.
Long lifespans.
Remote habitats.
Deliberate burial practices.
Possible rapid decomposition.
And perhaps, occasional human intervention.
Together, they form a perfect shield.
Maybe Bigfoot allows just enough evidence—footprints, howls, fleeting sightings—to let us know they exist.
But the one thing that would end the mystery?
A body.
That line is never crossed.
Maybe that’s intentional.
Maybe the absence isn’t a failure of science.
Maybe it’s a boundary.
And maybe some mysteries survive not because we can’t solve them—but because we were never meant to.
