I Caught Footage of Bigfoot Sneaking into My Farm, He Was Trying to Warn Me

The Night Bigfoot Came to My Farm Wasn’t an Attack — It Was a Warning

People always imagine Bigfoot encounters as violent.
A scream in the woods. A shadow charging through trees. A monster.

That’s not what happened to us.

What came onto my farm didn’t come to hunt.
It came to save us.

And if I hadn’t listened, my wife and I would have died there.

In the fall of 2016, my wife Claire and I were living the quiet life we’d worked years to build. A small farm tucked against the edge of the Cascades in Washington. Goats, chickens, a weathered barn, and a house we rebuilt plank by plank with our own hands.

We weren’t survivalists. We weren’t paranormal hunters. We were just people who wanted peace.

After a run of missing chickens the year before, I installed a few basic night cameras. Nothing fancy—cheap motion sensors, black-and-white infrared. Mostly they caught raccoons, owls, the occasional black bear sniffing around.

Then one night, something else appeared.

I saw the footage on a Tuesday evening while Claire washed dishes behind me. Outside, the sky was hazy from wildfire smoke drifting in from somewhere far off. The news said everything was under control.

The animals didn’t believe that.

For days, the goats had refused to spread out. The chickens stayed packed inside their coop even during daylight. That should’ve told me something was wrong.

Camera one: nothing.
Camera two: deer.
Camera three—near the treeline on the north side—made my hands go cold.

Something tall moved into view.

Not fast. Not sneaking.

Deliberate.

It stood upright, shoulders massive, body thick with dark fur. It stopped directly in front of the camera and turned its head as if it knew exactly where the lens was.

Claire leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “What… is that?”

Then it raised one long arm.

And pointed.

Not at the camera.
Not at the house.

It pointed away from us—toward the mountains.

The gesture was sharp. Urgent. Almost angry.

It held that pose for several seconds, then lowered its arm and walked back into the trees.

I replayed the clip three times without speaking.

I didn’t need to say the word.

We both knew.

I didn’t sleep that night.

At around three in the morning, I stepped onto the porch. The smell of smoke was heavier than before, scratching the back of my throat. On the horizon, I could see a faint orange glow—but it wasn’t where the maps said the fires were.

The thing on the camera had pointed north.

All the reported fires were east.

That bothered me more than seeing Bigfoot itself.

The next morning, I walked the north fence line.

I found footprints almost immediately.

They were enormous—pressed deep into the damp soil near the creek. Five toes. Clear edges. No distortion.

Then I noticed something else.

Rocks.

Three of them stacked carefully beside a fence post. Not something wind or animals could do. I walked further and found another stack. Then another.

Seven stacks in total.

All aligned.

All pointing north.

My stomach dropped.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t curiosity.

This was communication.

I followed the direction they indicated, hiking deeper into the forest than I normally would. The woods were wrong—no birds, no insects, no movement. Just silence.

After about forty minutes, I smelled it.

Burning.

But not the kind you see. The kind that creeps.

I found a dead deer in a clearing. No wounds. Foam at its mouth. Smoke inhalation.

Further on, a raccoon. A fox.

Then I saw it.

A thin column of smoke rising from the forest floor, miles north of our property. A fire smoldering underground—hidden, slow, deadly.

The kind that explodes without warning.

That thing on my camera had found it days ago.

And it had come to warn us.

I called emergency services the moment I got back.

They were skeptical. The official maps showed nothing. Still, they agreed to send someone “to verify.”

That night, the creature returned.

I watched it live on the monitor as it paced the fence line, restless. It struck a wooden post three times—hard enough for the microphone to catch it. Then it stepped back and swept its arm toward our entire property.

Get out.

That’s what it meant.

At dawn, the call came.

The fire was real. Bigger than expected. Winds were shifting south—straight toward us.

Evacuation orders were coming.

We had hours.

We packed fast. Loaded animals. Neighbors helped without asking questions. Smoke was already visible over the ridge.

As we were pulling away, I looked back.

At the edge of the trees, partially hidden by haze, it stood watching us.

This time, it didn’t point.

It raised its open palm.

Go.

I lifted my hand in return.

It vanished into the forest.

The fire exploded that night.

Twelve thousand acres burned. Six homes destroyed.

Ours survived by less than a mile.

If we’d stayed even half a day longer, we would’ve been trapped.

When we returned weeks later, the land was scarred black. The barn was gone. The fence melted in places.

But near the north boundary, where the fire had thinned, I found something waiting.

Three stones stacked on fresh ash.

A message.

We made it.

So did you.

We never shared the footage.

Because the moment we did, that creature would lose its safety. Scientists. Hunters. Drones.

It revealed itself only because our lives were in danger.

Exposing it afterward would be betrayal.

Instead, we left apples at the fence line. Found woven grass in return. A language without words.

Sometimes, at night, we still hear three slow knocks from the trees.

And we knock back.

Not because we believe in monsters.

But because we believe in neighbors.

And because sometimes, the thing watching you in the dark isn’t there to hurt you.

Sometimes…
It’s trying to save your life.