He Found Dying Bigfoot in the Forest, Its Last Words About Humanity Will Shock You – Sasquatch Story
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The Encounter: A Hunter’s Revelation
I had hunted in the mountains for over twenty years, familiar with every track and sound. But on that cold morning in 1997, I stumbled upon footprints unlike anything I had ever seen. Instinct compelled me to follow them, and that decision led me to a discovery no hunter could ever expect: a dying Bigfoot.
My name is Mark Walker, and for the past four years, I have lived alone in a cabin outside Cresant Lake, Oregon. Most people in town see me as the reclusive man who occasionally brings in deer and elk to the local butcher. They don’t know about my twelve years in the army or the jungles of Central America. They don’t know about the night I carried my best friend Danny’s broken body through hell, only to watch him die on a medevac helicopter. That Mark Walker died the same night Danny Rodriguez did.
On that fateful morning, I woke at 5:30 a.m. and made coffee in my old Mr. Coffee machine. I checked my gear: my Remington 700 was clean and ready. I maintained my weapons with the same discipline the army instilled in me, even if I couldn’t maintain much else in my life. I planned to scout the northern ridge, where I had spotted elk sign two days prior. November hunting season was approaching, and I needed to be prepared.
The drive up the logging road took about 40 minutes in my 1989 Ford F-150, the truck rattling over ruts and washouts that the timber companies had long since stopped maintaining. The radio picked up only static this far from town, so I drove in silence, watching the mist curl between the Douglas firs like something alive. I parked at the end of the road and shouldered my pack. Besides my rifle, I carried water, a first aid kit, rope, my compass, and a topographic map in a waterproof case. My Motorola pager was clipped to my belt, though it rarely went off.
The hike up to the ridge was steep but familiar. I had walked these mountains as a kid, long before the army and before Danny. My father had taught me to track here, to read the forest, to move quietly. He’d been a logger and a hunter, dead now for 15 years. Sometimes I wondered what he would think of what I had become—a ghost living in the woods, more comfortable with silence than with people.
Two hours into the hike, I found the tracks. At first, I thought they were bare prints, but as I crouched down to examine them, I realized they were massive—at least 17 inches long, with five distinct toes. They were unlike any animal prints I had ever seen. The depth of the impressions suggested something incredibly heavy, and the stride length between prints was easily five and a half feet.
I had heard the stories growing up in Oregon—Bigfoot tales, campfire stories, grainy photographs—but I had always filed them away as entertaining fiction. But these tracks were real, fresh, maybe six hours old, and they led uphill, away from any trail into territory so remote that most hunters never bothered with it.
Against my better judgment, I followed the tracks. The forest was unusually quiet, with no birds or insects. Just the whisper of the wind through branches and my own controlled breathing. After about an hour of tracking, I noticed blood—small drops at first, dark and fresh on the moss, then more, a scattered trail that paralleled the footprints. Whatever I was following was injured.
My heart raced, not from fear, but from instinct kicking in. An injured animal was unpredictable and dangerous. I should have been cautious, but something compelled me forward. The blood drops increased in frequency and size, leading me to a rocky outcrop surrounded by ancient cedar trees. The blood trail ended at a small cave, really more of an overhang created by two massive boulders leaning against each other.
And there, in the shadows, I saw it. At first, my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing. It was too large, too impossibly shaped. Then it moved slightly, and I understood. A Bigfoot, lying on its side, its massive chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Even lying down, I could tell it was enormous—over seven feet tall, covered in dark brown hair, matted now with blood along its left side.
When it opened its eyes, I didn’t see a beast. I saw something ancient, aware, and far too weak to lie. It looked at me with deep brown eyes, filled with intelligence and pain. I froze, my rifle halfway raised, but it didn’t move to attack. Instead, it watched me, and I felt an inexplicable connection.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, my voice rough. The creature made a sound, low and rumbling, not quite a growl, but not human either. It shifted slightly, and I saw the wound more clearly, a massive gash along its ribs, deep and ragged. It needed help, but I had only a small first aid kit.
“I’m a medic,” I said quietly, though I knew it wouldn’t understand. “I’m going to try to help.” I approached cautiously, and the creature watched me, its eyes filled with something like trust. I unslung my pack and pulled out my first aid kit, pouring antiseptic over the wound. The creature tensed but didn’t pull away. I worked quickly, using gauze and tape to cover the wound as best I could.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels, looking at this impossible being. “How old are you?” I asked, feeling foolish. “The creature considered this for a moment. “102 years,” it said, its voice deep and resonant. I nearly fell backward in shock. It could talk. “You can understand me?” I stammered.
“Yes,” it replied. “I have listened to your kind for many years. Learned words.” Each word came slowly, painfully, but it was undeniably aware. “Why are you here?” I asked, my heart racing. “To tell you about your kind,” it said, its voice growing weaker. “You must remember what you learn.”
“Tell me,” I urged. “What do you want us to know?” The creature’s eyes held mine, and I felt the weight of its centuries of observation. “You are young,” it said. “You do not understand the consequences of your actions. You take and take, without regard for what you destroy. You must learn before it is too late.”
I listened, captivated, as it spoke of watching humanity grow and spread, of wars and destruction, of forests cut down and animals lost. “You have greatness in you,” it said softly. “But you are also foolish and afraid. You must choose differently.”
As the creature’s breathing slowed, I felt a profound sadness wash over me. Here was a being that had lived for over a century, watching us destroy the very world it called home. “What can I do?” I asked, tears streaming down my face. “You must plant seeds,” it whispered. “Tell others. Help them see what they are losing.”
And with that, the creature closed its eyes, and I knew it was gone. I sat there for a long time, my heart heavy with grief. I had promised to remember, to carry its words, and now I had to find a way to share its message with the world.
The journey back to my cabin felt different. I was no longer just a solitary hunter; I was a messenger. I began teaching local kids about the environment, about respecting nature, about the importance of sustainability. I shared the story of the Bigfoot, of the ancient being that had given me a mission.
As I spoke to the Boy Scouts, I could see their eyes widen with wonder. They listened, eager to learn, eager to understand. I realized that the seeds were being planted, and that perhaps, just perhaps, we could still change the course of our future.
Months passed, and I continued my work, connecting with others who shared my passion for conservation. I attended town meetings, spoke about the importance of protecting our forests, and rallied support for sustainable practices. The message of the Bigfoot was alive, and it was spreading.
Then one day, I received a call from a local environmental group. They wanted me to speak at a conference about my experiences and the lessons I had learned. I hesitated, but I remembered the creature’s words. I had made a promise. I had to share its message.
When I stood in front of that audience, I felt the weight of the ancient being’s gaze upon me. I spoke of the beauty of the forests, the importance of preserving our natural world, and the responsibility we have to future generations. I told them about the Bigfoot and how it had taught me that everything matters.
As I finished my speech, the room erupted in applause. I felt a sense of hope, a sense of purpose. The seeds were taking root. People were beginning to listen, to understand, to care.
And as I left that conference, I knew that the legacy of the Bigfoot would live on, not just in my heart, but in the hearts of those who had heard its story. We were all connected, part of a larger tapestry of life, and together, we could make a difference.
The journey was far from over, but I was no longer just a solitary figure in the woods. I was part of a movement, part of a fight to protect our planet and all its inhabitants. And I would carry the message of the Bigfoot with me, always reminding others that we are the stewards of this earth, and it is our duty to protect it.
