He Saved a Baby Bigfoot From the River… The Next Day the Father Showed Up – Sasquatch Story

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The River Rescue: A Sasquatch Story

I. The River Rescue

I thought I was saving a baby monkey from drowning that afternoon in June. But when I pulled a small, soaking creature from the rushing water and looked into its dark, impossibly aware eyes, something in my gut told me I’d just encountered something that shouldn’t exist.

My name is Gary Hawkins. I’m 45 years old and for the past twelve years, I’ve lived in a modest house on the edge of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest in Washington State. After my wife Linda passed, I needed somewhere quiet to rebuild my life. The forest offered solitude and healing, and I’ve spent most of my days as a forestry consultant—walking these woods, assessing timber, checking for disease, and generally being left alone.

My property sits on five acres about two miles from the nearest neighbor, with the Cispus River marking the eastern boundary. Most days, it’s peaceful, with the sound of rushing water and wind in the Douglas firs. I have a small workshop for woodworking, a battered Ford F250, and enough quiet to keep the memories at bay.

The house itself is simple: two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen with appliances older than me, and a living room with a wood stove. The TV picks up three channels on a good day, and the radio is usually tuned to country music. It’s the life I need.

That Tuesday afternoon, I was walking along the river, checking cedar trees for bark beetle damage. The Cispus was running high from late spring snowmelt, fast and dangerous. Every year, someone drowns trying to wade or fish from slippery rocks. I was half a mile from my property when I heard it—a high-pitched sound, almost like a child crying, coming from the water.

At first, I thought it was a fawn separated from its mother. But something about the sound made me move faster, pushing through undergrowth toward the riverbank. I saw something small in the water, swept downstream by the current. Dark fur, arms flailing, struggling.

My brain categorized it as a young animal in distress. Instinct took over before thought could slow me down. I kicked off my boots and waded in. The water was shockingly cold, the current stronger than I’d expected. I braced myself against rocks, reached out, and my hand closed around wet fur. I pulled hard, lifting the creature against my chest, fighting my way back to shore. Twice the current tried to take my feet out from under me, but I managed to keep my balance, clutching the animal tight.

When I made it back to the bank, I collapsed on the gravel, breathing hard, the creature pressed against my chest. That’s when I got my first real look at what I’d saved.

It was small, maybe eighteen inches tall, ten or twelve pounds. Covered in dark brown fur slicked down from the water. The body was humanoid—arms and legs proportioned more like a primate than any local wildlife. The hands had five fingers, each tipped with small, dark nails. But it was the face that made me pause. Not quite human, not quite ape. Flat, with a small nose and a pronounced brow ridge. And the eyes—dark brown, almost black—looked at me with an expression that went beyond animal fear. There was awareness there, understanding. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

The creature was shaking. Whether from cold or fear, I couldn’t tell. It made small sounds, not quite crying, not quite chittering, something in between. Its tiny chest heaved with rapid breaths.

“It’s okay,” I said automatically, the way you’d soothe any frightened animal. “You’re safe now.”

I checked for injuries—no visible wounds, no broken limbs. It had just been caught in the current, probably swept away from wherever it had been. Lucky I’d come along when I did.

I sat there on the gravel bank, holding this strange creature, mind racing. A baby monkey, I thought. But there aren’t monkeys native to Washington. Someone’s escaped pet? Out here, miles from any town? The rational part of my brain insisted it had to be some kind of primate, maybe illegally imported and released. People do that sometimes.

But another part of my brain whispered something different, something I wasn’t ready to listen to.

The creature shifted in my arms, making a soft sound. It wasn’t trying to escape, which was odd. Most wild animals would fight to get away. Instead, it seemed to be calming down, like it understood I wasn’t a threat. I looked into those eyes again and felt that unsettling sensation. This wasn’t a monkey. This wasn’t anything I’d ever seen.

“What are you?” I whispered.

The creature tilted its head, and I swear it looked like it was considering the question.

I shook my head, trying to clear the strange thoughts. It was just a baby animal, probably someone’s escaped pet, and I needed to figure out what to do with it. My first instinct was to take it home, warm it up, maybe call Fish and Wildlife in the morning. But something stopped me—some instinct I couldn’t name. Whatever this was, it belonged out here in these woods.

The creature had stopped shaking, breathing calmed, watching me with those intelligent eyes, waiting to see what I’d do next. I stood up slowly, cradling it carefully. It didn’t struggle.

I walked away from the river, back into the forest, until I found a relatively dry area sheltered by a massive old cedar. The ground was covered in moss and fallen needles.

“This is where you need to be,” I said, setting the creature down gently. “Your mother or whoever you belong to—they’ll find you here. Safer than the river.”

The creature sat where I placed it, looking up at me. It made a soft sound, not distressed, but questioning.

“You’ll be okay,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince it or myself. “Your family will come for you.”

I backed away slowly, and the creature watched me go. When I was about twenty feet away, it finally moved, turning to look deeper into the forest, like it was orienting itself. Then it looked back at me one more time. I could have sworn it nodded, just slightly, but deliberately. Then it turned and disappeared into the undergrowth with surprising speed.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where it vanished. My wet clothes were cold against my skin, and I was starting to shiver. I needed to get home, change, and stop thinking about the impossible implications of what I’d just seen.

II. The Aftermath

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my workshop, trying to distract myself with a project—a set of bookshelves for the local library. The familiar smell of sawdust and the sound of my tools usually helped clear my mind, but today they weren’t working. I kept thinking about that creature, wondering if it had found its way back to wherever it belonged.

By the time darkness fell, I’d convinced myself I’d done the right thing. It was better off in the forest than in my house, and I was better off not getting involved in whatever situation had led to an exotic animal being loose in the Washington wilderness.

I made dinner—canned soup and toast—and settled in front of the TV to watch the evening news. Reception was terrible, as usual, the picture snowy and the sound cutting in and out. It was background noise, something to fill the silence.

Around ten, I turned off the TV and headed to bed. As I was brushing my teeth, I happened to glance out the bathroom window toward the tree line. For just a moment, I thought I saw movement—something large shifting in the shadows between the trees. But when I looked closer, there was nothing there. Just darkness and the silhouettes of pines against the night sky.

I told myself it was my imagination, fired up by the strange encounter earlier. Maybe a deer or an elk moving through the forest, nothing to worry about. But as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. That by saving that creature from the river, I’d set something in motion I didn’t fully understand.

I had no idea how right I was.

III. The Father Arrives

The next morning, Wednesday, the feeling started before I’d even finished my first cup of coffee. It was subtle at first, just an awareness, like when you know someone’s watching you even though you can’t see them.

I was standing at my kitchen window, looking out at the tree line while the coffee maker gurgled, when the sensation hit me. The woods felt different, wrong somehow.

I tried to shake it off as paranoia left over from yesterday’s strange encounter. But as I went about my morning routine—showering, getting dressed, making breakfast—the feeling persisted. Every time I passed a window, I found myself glancing outside, scanning the forest for what? I didn’t even know.

By nine, I decided I was being ridiculous. I had work to do—a stand of timber about three miles north that needed assessment before a logging company could bid. I loaded my gear into the truck, grabbed my clipboard and measuring tools, and headed out.

The drive up the forest service road was uneventful, and once I was out in the woods doing my job, the unease faded. This was familiar territory. I’d been surveying these forests for over a decade. Out here with my measuring tape and increment borer, I was in control.

I spent six hours marking trees, taking core samples, making notes. By the time I headed back to my truck around three, I’d almost convinced myself that this morning’s weird feeling had been nothing but imagination.

Then I got home and saw the prints.

They were in the soft dirt near my wood pile. Massive footprints, easily eighteen inches long, with five distinct toes, fresh, probably made that morning while I’d been gone. The prints led from the tree line to within about twenty feet of my house, then back into the forest.

I stood there, staring, my heartbeat picking up. These weren’t bear tracks. Bears have claws, and their prints look different. These looked almost human, but far too large. And the stride length between prints suggested something walking upright on two legs.

Something had been on my property. Something big. Something that had come right up close to my house.

I followed the tracks back to the tree line, where they disappeared into the undergrowth. The forest was quiet—too quiet. No bird sounds, no squirrels chattering, just silence and the distant rush of the river.

“Hello?” I called out, feeling foolish even as I did it. “Anyone there?”

No response. Just that oppressive silence.

I went back to the house and locked the door behind me, something I rarely bothered with out here. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on paperwork, but my attention kept drifting to the windows. Every shadow seemed threatening. Every sound made me jump.

Around six, I heard something outside—a thud, like something heavy hitting the ground. I grabbed my flashlight and went to investigate, but found nothing. Just the normal clutter of my yard, the wood pile, the workshop. But when I walked around the side of the house, I found a large branch lying in the middle of the clearing. It was freshly broken, the wood still white where it had snapped. It hadn’t been there that morning.

Had someone thrown it? Why? What was the point?

I tossed it into the woods and went back inside, locking the door again.

That night, I barely slept. Every creak of the house, every gust of wind had me sitting up in bed, listening. Around two in the morning, I heard footsteps outside. Heavy, deliberate footsteps circling the house.

I grabbed the baseball bat I kept by the bed and stood in the dark, listening to something large moving around my property. The footsteps stopped near my bedroom window. I could hear breathing—deep, slow, controlled. Whatever was out there knew I was inside. It was checking, investigating.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, the footsteps moved away, back toward the forest. I heard branches snapping, undergrowth rustling, and then silence.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat in my living room with all the lights on, the bat across my knees, watching the windows until dawn.

IV. Stalked

Thursday morning, I was exhausted and on edge. I made strong coffee and tried to think rationally. The logical explanation was a large animal, probably a bear, investigating my property. Maybe it smelled food, maybe it was just curious. Bears do that sometimes.

But those prints hadn’t looked like bear tracks, and bears don’t usually circle houses at night, stopping to peer in windows.

I called Tom Patterson, the local Fish and Wildlife officer.

“Tom, it’s Gary Hawkins. I’ve got something weird happening out at my place. Large animal tracks, something big moving around at night. Thought you should know.”

“Bear, maybe. We’ve had reports of a large black bear in the area. Could be he’s checking out properties, looking for easy food sources. Keep your garbage secured.”

“Yeah, it’s all locked up.”

“Good. He’ll probably move on once he realizes there’s nothing for him. Call me if he becomes a problem.”

I thanked him and hung up, feeling slightly better. A bear—that made sense. Except my gut kept insisting this was something else entirely.

I spent Thursday trying to maintain my routine, but I couldn’t concentrate. Every time I looked out the window, I expected to see something watching me from the trees.

Around noon, I heard a sound from my workshop. The door was slightly ajar, which was odd. Inside, my tools had been disturbed. Nothing was taken or broken, but things had been moved, examined. My woodworking projects had been touched, shifted slightly.

Someone—or something—had been inside.

That afternoon, I noticed more signs: a handprint in the dust on my truck, too large to be human, with fingers that seemed too long; scratches on a tree trunk near the house, high up, way higher than I could reach. And that feeling—constant now—of being watched.

Thursday night was worse than Wednesday. The footsteps started around midnight, circling the house again, more confident, coming closer. At one point, something knocked on the side of the house—three deliberate thumps that made the walls shake.

I called out, “Who’s there? What do you want?”

Silence. Then the footsteps moved to the back of the house, to the door leading to my small porch. I heard the doorknob rattle, not violently, but carefully, like someone testing if it was locked.

I stood in my living room with the baseball bat, heart hammering, watching the back door. The knob turned slowly, testing. The door was locked, and after a moment, the attempt stopped.

Then I heard something that made my blood run cold—a vocalization, low and resonant. Not quite a growl, not quite a vocalization. Something between animal and human, expressing what? Frustration, curiosity, warning.

The sound echoed in the night, and then the footsteps retreated again, back into the forest.

V. The Encounter

Friday morning, I was running on caffeine and nerves. I knew I should call someone again, maybe even the sheriff. But what would I say? That I thought something was stalking my property? They’d probably think I was losing it. And maybe I was.

But the evidence was real—the tracks, the moved tools, the branch in my yard, the attempts to open my door. Something was out there, and it was getting bolder.

I spent Friday in a state of hyper-awareness, constantly checking the windows, watching the forest. I brought the baseball bat with me everywhere, even just from the house to my truck. I felt ridiculous, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being hunted, stalked, observed.

Around three in the afternoon, I was sitting at my kitchen table when I heard it—a sound from the forest, different from the birds and wind and river. A vocalization, low and rumbling. The same sound I’d heard the night before. And this time I heard something else in it—not threat, not warning, something else. Something almost like calling, communicating.

I went to the window and looked out. The forest was still, but I could feel the presence there. Something large, something intelligent, watching me from the trees.

“What do you want?” I said aloud, knowing it was crazy to be talking to empty air. “What are you?”

For a moment, nothing. Then I saw movement—a flash of dark brown, something massive shifting behind a stand of pines. Too big to be a bear, too deliberately positioned.

That night, the visits continued—the footsteps, the sounds, the presence circling my house. But this time, the movement seemed less threatening, more curious, cautious, like whatever was out there was trying to assess me, figure out who I was and what I would do.

I found myself standing at my window around midnight, looking out at the dark forest and saying quietly, “I’m not going to hurt you. Whatever you are, I’m not a threat.”

The footsteps stopped. Silence stretched out. Then from the darkness came that low vocalization again, not aggressive, almost acknowledging. Then the footsteps retreated and I was alone again.

VI. Revelation

By Saturday morning, I was beyond exhausted. Four nights of almost no sleep, constant stress, and the growing certainty that something impossible was happening.

I sat at my kitchen table with coffee, staring at nothing, trying to make sense of it all. That’s when I thought about the creature from the river—the small, impossible thing with the intelligent eyes, the way it had seemed to nod. And suddenly, pieces started clicking together—the timing, the location, the behavior of whatever was out there.

Not attacking, not destroying property, just observing, getting closer, testing boundaries.

Oh my God, I whispered. It’s looking for something. For someone. The baby.

Whatever I’d pulled from the river, it had family. And they were looking for it. And somehow, they tracked it to me—the last person who’d been with it.

But why the stalking? Why not just approach me directly? Why this days-long process of getting closer, testing, watching?

Because they didn’t know if I was a threat. They were being cautious, careful, observing me to determine my intentions.

And if I was right about what the baby had been—if that impossible thought was true—then what was out there in my forest was something the world said didn’t exist. Something that was about to reveal itself.

Something, based on those massive tracks and that huge shadow, easily seven feet tall or more.

I set down my coffee cup with shaking hands and looked out at the forest where I could feel those eyes watching me still.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “I understand. You’re the father. You’re looking for your baby, and you want to know if I hurt it.”

From the forest, as if in response, came that low vocalization, closer now than ever, just beyond the tree line.

Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow you’re going to show yourself. Tomorrow I’m going to see what you really are.

And I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.

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