Hunter Tracks 2,000lb Bear, BUT He Finds a BIGFOOT NEST – Sasquatch Encounter

.
.

I never imagined I would find myself in a situation that would shatter my understanding of the natural world. When I received the call from wildlife services that fateful morning, I thought it was just another routine job—track down an aggressive bear, relocate it, or if necessary, put it down. I had done it countless times before, but what I encountered in those woods on Kodiak Island changed everything.

The call came in around 7 AM, just as I was finishing my first cup of coffee. The dispatcher’s voice was tense, indicating something serious was at hand. A farmer on the eastern side of Kodiak Island reported an attack on his cattle. One of his steers had been killed and dragged into the forest. He insisted it was a bear—a massive Kodiak, likely close to 2,000 pounds, based on its size and strength. The farmer claimed he had shot at it, certain he hit it at least once or twice.

By law, any incident involving a bear attacking livestock must be reported to wildlife services. But this farmer wanted more than a report; he wanted someone to track this creature down. He explained that the bear had been stalking his property for weeks, circling his land at night, leaving massive tracks everywhere. His voice shook with fear, which was unusual for someone who had lived on the edge of the wilderness his whole life. If he was scared, I knew this situation was different.

I had worked with wildlife services for 15 years, starting right out of college with a degree in wildlife biology. I always dreamed of being out in the field, dealing with animals in their natural habitats. Over the years, I had tracked everything Alaska had to offer—black bears, brown bears, wolves, moose—each species with its own patterns and logic. Kodiak bears, the largest of the brown bears, are usually not aggressive toward humans unless startled or protecting cubs.

But this call struck me as unusual. An adult Kodiak actively stalking a farm, killing livestock, and not running away when shot at? That behavior was not typical. I packed my gear—tranquilizer, rifle, tracking kit, GPS, and emergency supplies—and headed out, determined to get to the bottom of this.

The drive took about an hour and a half through the dense wilderness of Kodiak Island. When I arrived at the farm, I could see why the farmer was shaken. The isolation was palpable, surrounded by thick forest and looming mountains. The farmer, in his 50s, greeted me with a shaky handshake, his eyes darting toward the treeline as if expecting something to emerge at any moment.

He led me to the attack site, and the scene was brutal. The ground was torn up, grass ripped out in clumps, and drag marks led straight into the forest. The steer lay at the edge of the trees, its carcass mostly intact but with chunks missing, blood splattered everywhere. As I examined the remains, I noticed something unsettling—the bite marks were wrong. They were chaotic, not the clean, methodical wounds of a bear.

The farmer recounted how he first heard the commotion around dusk the previous evening. He ran outside to find something dragging his steer into the forest. He fired twice, seeing the creature stumble but it didn’t drop the animal. Instead, it continued dragging the steer as if it weighed nothing. The farmer didn’t follow; he sensed something was off and went back inside, locking his doors.

As I listened to his account, I felt a growing unease. The stalking behavior, the strange sounds, the unusual tracks—all of it was unsettling. I radioed wildlife services to inform them I was beginning the track and started following the blood trail into the forest.

The trail was obvious, thick splatters of blood marking the path. But as I walked, the blood trail continued far longer than I expected. An animal that had been shot twice shouldn’t be able to travel this far. Hours passed, and the blood never lessened. The silence in the forest was unnerving; no birds, no rustling of small animals—just an oppressive quiet that felt wrong.

After several hours of tracking, I discovered deep gouges on the trees, higher than any bear could reach. The marks were chaotic, as if something had clawed at the bark in frustration. Then I stumbled upon massive footprints in the mud—18 inches long and 7 or 8 inches wide. They were not bear tracks; they were something else entirely, resembling human-like prints but scaled up to an impossible size.

I radioed in my second check-in, keeping my voice steady despite the growing fear in my gut. I reported the blood loss and my expectations of locating the animal soon, but I didn’t mention the prints or the claw marks. I didn’t want to sound insane.

As the sun began to set, I found a crude structure made of bent saplings and branches, large enough for something massive to fit inside. The smell was overpowering—musk and rot mixed with something else I couldn’t identify. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered in the wilderness. My instincts screamed at me that something was very wrong.

Despite my better judgment, I pressed on, driven by the need to find answers. As darkness enveloped the forest, I finally reached a clearing and saw a massive body lying on the ground. It was covered in dark matted hair, shaped like a bipedal creature. My heart raced as I realized this was no bear; it was a creature that shouldn’t exist.

Before I could process what I was seeing, I heard a low rumbling grunt. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. From a nearby cave, several massive figures emerged, all similar in size to the one I had found. They were alive and moving toward their fallen companion, displaying emotions I had never expected to witness in a creature of this nature.

I was paralyzed with fear, watching as they mourned their dead. They were intelligent beings, capable of complex emotions and social structures. This was not just a myth; it was a reality that shattered everything I thought I knew.

Suddenly, one of the creatures turned and locked eyes with me. It was a moment of pure terror. I turned and ran, adrenaline fueling my escape as I crashed through the forest, branches whipping at my face. The sounds of pursuit echoed behind me, their heavy footsteps pounding the ground like thunder.

I navigated through the dense underbrush, desperately trying to outmaneuver them. My heart raced as I reached the edge of the forest and saw the farmhouse in the distance. I burst into the yard, gasping for breath, and the farmer rushed out, confusion etched on his face.

Without explanation, I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward his truck. We needed to leave—now. As we sped away, I glanced back at the forest, where the creatures stood watching us, their dark forms silhouetted against the fading light. I had survived, but the knowledge of what I had encountered weighed heavily on me.

Back at the wildlife services office, I reported everything that had happened. The skepticism in their eyes was palpable, but I knew what I had seen. I had stumbled into a reality that defied explanation, a world where the impossible existed just beyond our understanding.

I left Kodiak Island that day, haunted by the memories of what I had witnessed. The creatures were real, and they were out there, hidden in the shadows of the wilderness. I had seen them, and I would never be the same again. Some truths are better left undiscovered, but now I carried the burden of knowledge that would forever alter my perception of the natural world.