Army Veteran Reveals Chilling Mission: “We Were Sent to Kill Bigfoot” — A Terrifying Secret Sasquatch Encounter Exposed

The Night the Mountain Watched Back

I’m going to tell you about something that happened to me back in 2019 — something I’ve never spoken about publicly. I signed papers saying I wouldn’t. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to remember it. But things have changed. And I believe people deserve to know what’s really out there in those mountains.

I’m a veteran. Served two tours overseas. Came home, tried to settle into a normal life. Bought a small house, got a part-time job at a hardware store, living off my military pension. It was quiet—boring even. But after everything I’d seen, boring felt good. I wasn’t looking for adventure anymore.

Until one Tuesday afternoon in October.

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The Call

My phone rang. Number I didn’t recognize. I almost ignored it. But something told me to answer. I answered, and a familiar voice came through—a voice I hadn’t heard in six years. It was a guy I’d served with, a former squadmate. We caught up briefly, exchanging pleasantries. But I could tell he was working up to something.

Finally, he asked: “You need money?”

That caught me off guard. I told him I was doing okay, mostly true. My pension covered the bills, but the roof needed work, and I’d been putting off some dental stuff because of the cost.

He paused, then said he had an opportunity. Private contract work. Maybe five days. $15,000 in cash. No questions asked.

I should have hung up right then. But $15,000 would fix my roof, pay off some debts, and breathe new life into my quiet existence. I hesitated.

He told me to drive to a small airfield in northern Washington. Gave me an address. Said to pack for cold weather, bring my rifle if I still had it, and be there in two days. I kept the rifle—haven’t fired it in years, but I maintain it out of habit.

The Drive

The next two days were a whirlwind of doubt. Part of me knew this was sketchy. You don’t get offered $15,000 for a week of “security” work unless something’s wrong. But the other part—tired of barely scraping by—kept thinking about that money. About fixing the roof, about not stressing over bills.

I packed my truck with cold-weather gear, my rifle, ammunition, survival supplies. I told my neighbor I’d be gone for a week doing some “security work.” The six-hour drive north took me through increasingly remote country. The farther I went, the more I second-guessed myself.

The airfield was exactly as I feared—no tower, just a single runway, surrounded by dense forest. A handful of trucks and SUVs were already parked there when I arrived. My old squadmate was waiting by one of the hangars. He looked older—more gray in his hair—but still carried that confident posture I remembered.

We shook hands, and he introduced me to the others—seven men, all veterans. They looked like they’d seen combat, too. Ages ranged from mid-40s to early 60s. Nobody used last names. There was tension beneath the surface—everyone wondering the same thing: what the hell were we really doing here?

The Briefing

At 4 p.m., we entered a hangar. Inside, a large civilian helicopter sat ready, its rotor blades still spinning. A man in his 50s, dressed in expensive outdoor gear, stepped forward. He introduced himself as a former military intelligence officer now working private security and consulting.

He explained he represented clients who preferred to stay anonymous—people with problems that couldn’t be solved through official channels. Then he asked a question I’ll never forget:

“How many of you believe Bigfoot is real?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I looked at my squadmate, expecting him to smile, but his face was dead serious. The others looked just as grim.

He didn’t seem offended. Just waited patiently.

He said, “They’re real. Not folklore. Not misidentified bears. Highly intelligent, incredibly strong, perfectly adapted to deep wilderness. They avoid us, which is why verified sightings are so rare. And the government? They’re actively suppressing evidence.”

He pulled up blurry photos of large figures moving through forests—trail camera shots, park ranger images. Then he showed us something that made my stomach turn: crime scene photos. Three hikers torn apart in the Cascades over the past eight months. Massive wounds. Signs of incredible strength. The official reports blamed bears, but he said the rangers knew better. The wounds didn’t match any known animal.

Two weeks earlier, a ranger had gotten close enough to see one of these creatures—eight to nine feet tall, covered in dark reddish-brown fur, walking upright. It watched him with humanlike eyes before vanishing into the woods. The park service was terrified but couldn’t close the area. They called in veterans like us to handle what they couldn’t.

The Job

Our mission was simple: track the creature to its den, believed to be somewhere in a specific mountain valley, and eliminate the threat before more people died. This was completely off the books—no records, no official involvement. Each of us would be paid $15,000 in cash, with a bonus if we succeeded.

We had two hours to decide. I stepped outside, my mind racing. This couldn’t be real. But those photos? That creature? It was out there. It had already killed, and it was still dangerous.

My squadmate, a guy I’d served with in combat, looked at me and said, “We’ve been through worse. Trust me, this thing is real, and it’s deadly.”

I thought about walking away. Getting in my truck and pretending this conversation never happened. But something told me otherwise. My instincts, honed from years of combat, were screaming that this was real. That the creature was still out there. I made my choice.

Into the Wilderness

We geared up—rifles, ammo, tactical vests, cold-weather gear, first aid. The helicopter pilot, a former Marine, checked his equipment. Nine men total, including the pilot. The contractor stayed behind, waiting for our return.

At sunset, we lifted off. The landscape below was endless—dense forest stretching in every direction, mountains looming in the distance. The pilot announced we were approaching the coordinates. No roads, no trails—just virgin wilderness.

We landed in a small clearing, about half a mile from the suspected den. From there, we moved on foot, following the trail of the last ranger’s report. The terrain was rugged—rocky outcroppings, steep slopes, thick trees. The silence was deafening, broken only by the wind and the distant call of a lone bird.

The First Encounter

About 20 minutes in, Richards, my squadmate, froze. He pointed his rifle toward the trees. I followed his gaze and saw movement—a massive shape shifting behind the foliage.

Then it stepped into view.

It was enormous—probably nine feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur. Its shoulders were broad, muscular, and its face was disturbingly humanlike: heavy brow, flat nose, wide mouth, and piercing dark eyes. The eyes—so intelligent, so aware—stared directly at us.

My blood ran cold. My training told me to shoot. My mind, however, was frozen.

The creature looked at us, then let out a deep, guttural roar—something primal but with a strange intelligence behind it. It was angry, warning, perhaps threatening.

The Fight

Richards fired first. The crack of his rifle echoed across the forest. The creature flinched but didn’t fall. Instead, it roared again, louder, angrier. I fired, aiming for its chest. The impact made it stumble, blood spraying from its shoulder.

It roared in pain, but it didn’t retreat. Instead, it charged.

The creature moved with terrifying speed—faster than I’d ever seen a creature of that size move. It closed the distance in seconds, swinging massive fists that looked capable of crushing a tree.

The helicopter pilot, watching from above, yelled, “Get in! Get in now!”

But it was too late. The creature was already upon us.

The Struggle

It leaped—covering twenty yards in a single bound—and grabbed the helicopter’s landing skid with one huge hand. The helicopter rocked violently. The pilot fought to lift off, but the creature’s weight dragged it down. It was trying to pull us back.

Richards and I fired again, hitting it multiple times. It flinched but refused to let go. Its eyes—those dark, intelligent eyes—seemed to evaluate us, calculating, almost… calculating.

The creature swung its other arm, grabbing the helicopter’s side frame. It was trying to rip us out of the sky.

Then, the pilot, desperate, swung the emergency axe and struck the creature’s hand. It roared in pain, releasing its grip on the helicopter. The pilot yanked the controls, and the helicopter lurched upward, climbing away.

The creature fell back into the trees, watching us leave, blood streaming from its wounds.

The Aftermath

We barely made it back to the airfield. The team was waiting—wounded, shaken, but alive. The entire operation was a failure—an ambush, a fight with something no one was prepared for.

The creature had fought with tactical precision. It had coordinated, used the terrain, and then retreated. It was intelligent—more than any animal I’d ever seen.

The official reports would never show this. The government would deny it. But I knew what I’d seen.

The Hidden Truth

Back home, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing those eyes—so intelligent, so calculating. The creature could have killed us all that day. It chose not to. Instead, it fought to defend its territory, to warn us away.

I’ve never spoken publicly about that night. I signed nondisclosure agreements. The government, the military, and the contractors all made it clear: this stays buried.

But I know the truth.

There are things in those mountains—things that are smarter, stronger, and more organized than we ever imagined. They’ve learned to hide, to avoid us, to survive in ways we can’t comprehend.

And I believe they’re watching us.

The Lesson

If you’re ever in the woods and you get that prickling feeling—like someone’s watching—trust it. Turn around. Leave. Some boundaries are better left unbroken. Some secrets are better left hidden.

Because those mountains are still out there. And whatever lives in them is watching, waiting, and perhaps, just perhaps, deciding whether to let us see them again.