A hunter discovered an isolated woman living with a Bigfoot! What she revealed will leave you in shock.

I Followed Bigfoot Tracks — and Found a Woman Who Chose to Disappear Forever

I had hunted these forests in Oregon for thirty years, but I had never followed Bigfoot tracks.

That morning, I thought I was tracking a bear.

I was wrong.

My name is Roger Holmes. I’m fifty-two years old, a hunting guide out of Timber Falls, Oregon — population barely eight hundred on a good day. I’ve spent most of my life with a rifle in my hands and dirt under my boots. After my wife Sara died of cancer three years ago, the forest became the only place that still made sense.

The woods don’t lie. People do.

It was early October of 2003, the kind of Pacific Northwest autumn that feels sacred — cool air, golden leaves, silence broken only by birds and wind. I had a few days to myself after guiding a group of dentists from California who left empty-handed but happy with their digital photos. My mortgage was covered. My freezer was running low. I went out looking for deer.

Instead, I found something that shattered everything I thought I knew.

About three miles in, near a small creek, I noticed impressions in the mud.

They were massive.

At first glance, I thought black bear. But when I knelt down, my stomach tightened. The print was nearly seventeen inches long, eight inches wide — and wrong. It was elongated. Human-like. With toes.

Seven of them.

I put my bare hand beside the print. It looked like a child’s next to it. The depth told me something heavy had made it — three hundred pounds at least — and the edges were fresh. Whatever left it had passed within the last hour.

I stood up, suddenly aware of how alone I was. No signal. No other hunters. No one who knew exactly where I’d gone.

Still, I followed.

Thirty years in the military and the mountains taught me one thing: rare trails don’t wait for permission.

The footprints moved with purpose, left to right, left to right — a stride too long for any man. After nearly an hour, the forest changed. The trees grew older, wider. The light dimmed. The air felt heavier.

Then I heard it.

A sound unlike anything I had ever heard — low at first, then rising into something between a howl and a call. It vibrated in my chest. When it ended, the forest went dead silent.

No birds. No wind.

That’s when I knew this wasn’t imagination.

I should have turned back.

Instead, I kept going.

The tracks led into a hidden valley — untouched, protected by ridges. And there, beside a stream, stood a cabin.

Not abandoned.

Maintained.

Smoke rose from the chimney.

I called out, rifle lowered. “Hello! I’m not looking for trouble. Just a hunter who followed some strange tracks.”

The door opened.

A woman stood there.

She looked late thirties, maybe early forties. Her hair was long, wild, sun-darkened. Her clothes were a strange mix — old flannel, a vest, pants made from deer hide. Her eyes locked onto mine with something fierce and protective.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Before I could answer, I heard a deep rumble behind her.

The cabin darkened as something enormous stood up.

It stepped forward.

Seven and a half feet tall. Broad shoulders barely fitting through the doorway. Dark brown hair covered its body. Its face was almost human — but not quite. Heavy brow. Flat nose. Intelligent eyes.

Bigfoot.

Standing five feet from me.

My body locked up. My hands clenched the rifle, but I didn’t raise it. Something ancient in my brain knew that would be the last mistake I ever made.

“You need to leave,” the woman said, stepping slightly in front of it. “Now. And forget you ever saw this place.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

“You’re… real,” I whispered.

The creature tilted its head — a disturbingly human gesture.

“My name is Ellen,” the woman said quietly. “And yes. He’s real. But if you tell anyone about us, they’ll destroy everything.”

I asked how long she’d been there.

“Twelve years,” she said.

The story came out slowly.

She had been an environmental researcher in 1991. Lost during a field expedition. Injured. Dehydrated. Alone.

He found her.

At first, she thought she was hallucinating. Then she realized he was bringing her food. Water. Protecting her.

“He didn’t understand words,” she said. “But he understood pain.”

Weeks turned into months. By the time she was strong enough to leave, she realized she didn’t want to.

“I knew they’d come for him,” she said. “Scientists. Soldiers. Cameras. Cages.”

So she made the hardest choice of her life.

She let the world believe she was dead.

She named him Moss, because the first time she saw him, his hair was covered in it.

They built the cabin together. Learned each other’s rhythms. Created a life without lies, deadlines, or noise.

What shocked me wasn’t that Bigfoot existed.

It was that love existed there too.

When I told her I wouldn’t say a word, she stared at me like she didn’t dare believe it.

“I’ll keep your secret,” I said. “Both of yours.”

Tears filled her eyes.

I returned two weeks later with supplies — medicine, food, tools. Moss watched me carefully, then extended his massive hand. When I shook it, his grip was gentle.

Trust.

I’ve gone back many times since.

The world thinks Ellen Wade died in 1991.

They’re wrong.

She’s alive.

She just chose a life that didn’t belong to us.

And now, as I carry this secret alone, I understand something terrifying and beautiful:

The greatest discoveries aren’t meant to be shared.

They’re meant to be protected.