The Ancient Message: He’s Been Communicating with Them Since 1970—And Their Warning for Humanity Is Terrifying

My name is Earl Whitaker. I am 97 years old, and for more than half a century, I have carried a secret that defies every law of modern science and every skeptic’s logic. Between 1973 and 1998, deep in the shadows of the Cascade Mountains, I didn’t just see a Bigfoot—I lived alongside one. I called him August, and in the twenty-five years we shared, he taught me more about the failures and the potential of humanity than any book ever written. This is the truth I’ve held in until my final breaths, a testament to a connection that was never supposed to exist.

I. The Broken Man and the Beast

In 1973, I was 45 and hollowed out by grief. My wife, Martha, had passed away from cancer, and the silence of our home in Bellingham was a physical pain. I ran to the woods, buying sixty acres of dense forest east of Concrete, Washington. I moved into a primitive cabin with no electricity and no neighbors for eight miles. I wanted to disappear.

On September 17, 1973, the silence was broken. I followed a guttural moan to the creek and found what I first thought was a wounded bear. It was a creature easily seven feet tall, covered in dark reddish-brown hair. One of its legs was twisted at an impossible angle—a compound fracture.

I stood there with my rifle raised, but the creature’s eyes stopped me. They weren’t the eyes of an animal; they were deep-set, dark, and calculating. It wasn’t looking at me as a predator or prey, but as an equal. I lowered the gun. Over the next hour, I did something insane: I cleaned the wound and used branches to create a crude splint. The creature lay perfectly still, its wire-like hair coarse beneath my fingers, its dark gray skin radiating heat. When I finished, it hobbled into the brush. Three days later, I found a freshly killed rabbit on my porch. The debt had been acknowledged.

II. The Lessons of the Forest

Over the next few years, a careful mutual understanding solidified. August, as I named him, began to appear in the clearing in full daylight. By 1976, we had established a routine. I began keeping a green canvas journal—the first of twelve—to document his behaviors.

August was a mirror for our species. He began to teach me without words, showing me the lessons that modern humanity had long since forgotten.

Lesson 1: Patience. I once struggled for hours to fix a chainsaw, cursing and throwing tools in frustration. August watched, then approached. He picked up my screwdriver and turned the screw slowly, deliberately, without force. He was showing me that we rush because we are afraid of time; he lived within it.

Lesson 2: Forgiveness. In 1979, I foolishly mentioned “strange tracks” at a local tavern. Within a week, hunters swarmed my land. I was terrified I had gotten August killed. He disappeared for months. When he returned, he didn’t attack; he sat on my porch and handed me a warm, smooth river stone. He chose to trust again despite my betrayal.

III. The Art of Connection

By the 1980s, August began bringing me arrangements of stones and patterns of pine cones. I realized he was creating art. We began a “dialogue” by rearranging stones on a flat rock—spirals, circles, and radiating lines. We were two lonely beings communicating through symbols that required no shared language, only shared presence.

In 1985, August brought another creature to the clearing—a female, smaller and darker. He drew a shape in the dirt: two tall figures with a smaller one between them. He was showing me his family. It was a profound act of trust, proving that he didn’t just see me as a human, but as a safe harbor.

Family games

IV. The Mirror of Humanity

The 1990s brought the most painful lessons. In 1994, a logging company began clear-cutting land south of my cabin. The sound of chainsaws was a constant scream. August looked at me with a new expression: Judgment.

He led me to the boundary of the clear-cut. He touched a 300-year-old Douglas fir that was still standing, then touched the stump of its twin that had been hauled away for lumber. He put his head in his hands and grieved. He was showing me that humans measure value only by what we can consume. We destroy the ancient to build the temporary, and we call it progress.

In 1990, August did something he had never done before: he entered my cabin. He ducked under the frame and stood in my small kitchen. He found a photograph of my wife, Martha. He touched her face in the photo with one gentle finger, then touched my face. He knew my grief was his grief. He looked at my photos of mill workers and pointed to the empty chairs in my room. He was mourning the fact that we choose to be alone, even though we are dying for connection.

V. The Final Benediction

By 1997, we were both failing. I had survived two heart attacks; August’s fur was patchy and his breathing was a labored wheeze. Our walks became shorter, our silences longer. In September, he gave me a final gift: a tuft of his own reddish-brown fur, twisted into a bundle. It was a keepsake for a man he knew was nearing the end.

The last time I saw him was March 15, 1998—exactly twenty-five years after our first meeting. He sat on my porch at dawn, emaciated and dying. He took my hand in both of his massive palms and held it until the sun cleared the peaks of the Cascades. Then, he stood, walked to the treeline, and raised his hand in a silent benediction. He never returned.

I left the cabin in 2003. It has since been reclaimed by the moss and the ferns, a sanctuary for a legend that the world refuses to acknowledge.

VI. Why the Secret Matters

People ask me why I’ve told this story now. It’s because the biggest mystery isn’t whether Sasquatch exists—it’s why we, with all our technology and supposed superiority, are so determined to destroy the only home we have.

August didn’t hate us. He just wished we were kinder. He wished we would slow down long enough to see the spider’s web in the dew or the value of a tree that cannot be turned into a board. He saw that we are capable of profound wisdom, but we choose convenience.

I still have that tuft of fur in my bedside table. When the nursing home is quiet, I hold it and remember the heat of his palm and the amber depth of his eyes. I am at peace because I know that somewhere, deep in the unmapped heart of the Cascades, the “Older Brothers” are still watching. They are waiting for us to stop taking and start being.