‘I HAD TO SAVE IT’ – Hunter Saves a Wounded Bigfoot from a Frozen Lake – Sasquatch Encounter Story

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It was late January, one of those brutally cold weeks where the temperature barely nudged above zero. I had ventured out to a remote lake about two hours north of my home, seeking solitude after the chaos of the holidays. The isolation was palpable—no cell service, no other anglers, just endless stretches of frozen white. I set up my ice fishing shelter at dawn, drilled holes, and settled in for what I hoped would be a peaceful day.

By midafternoon, I had caught a decent string of perch and was contemplating an early pack-up when I heard it—a sound that shattered the stillness of the frozen landscape. At first, I thought it was ice cracking, a common occurrence on such lakes. But this was different. It was a violent, desperate thrashing, something fighting for its life.

My instincts kicked in; I grabbed my fishing rod and tackle box, moving toward the noise. Every rational thought screamed for me to turn back, to let nature take its course, but I couldn’t ignore the desperation in those sounds. As I approached the eastern shore, I saw it: a massive creature struggling in a hole in the ice, its long arms thrashing against the frigid water.

The sight was surreal. This thing was too big to be a bear, its shape all wrong. It was covered in dark, matted hair, and when it partially emerged from the water, I saw its face—a grotesque parody of humanity. It had a broad forehead, deep-set eyes, and a flat nose, scaled up in a way that sent chills down my spine. Our eyes met, and I saw a mixture of intelligence and sheer terror reflected back at me.

The creature was exhausted, blood tinging the water around it. I stood frozen, grappling with disbelief. Maybe it was a person in a costume, but no human could survive in such frigid water for long. It was then that I realized I was the only one who could help.

Against all logic, I turned and sprinted back to my truck, my heart pounding. I grabbed everything I could find—nylon rope, a heavy-duty tow strap, bungee cords—anything that might help. The entire time, I questioned my sanity. What was I doing? This creature could easily turn on me.

When I returned, the creature had stopped thrashing, its massive head resting on the ice. It looked weak, its breathing shallow. Hypothermia was setting in. I crawled toward it, inching closer, careful to distribute my weight across the ice. The creature watched me with those dark, intelligent eyes, too weak to be aggressive.

I managed to secure the tow strap around its chest, and with every ounce of strength, I dragged it back toward my truck. The ice cracked ominously beneath us, but I pressed on, praying I wasn’t dragging it under or breaking its ribs. Finally, I pulled it onto solid ground, collapsing beside it as it lay shivering violently.

I scrambled to cover it with every warm item I had—emergency blankets, a sleeping bag, even towels. I could see it was alive, but it needed more than just warmth; it needed active care. I heated snow into water and tended to its wounds, using my basic first aid kit. The creature flinched at the antiseptic, gripping my wrist in a surprisingly gentle but firm hold.

In that moment, I felt a connection. I whispered assurances, and to my astonishment, it seemed to understand. I cleaned its wounds and wrapped them as best I could. As the sun began to set, I knew I had to keep it warm through the night. I built a fire at the mouth of the shelter, gathering wood and stoking the flames.

The creature watched me, its eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and pain. As night fell, I sat beside it, keeping the fire alive, reflecting on the absurdity of my situation. I had saved something extraordinary, something that should not exist.

As the hours passed, the creature began to recover. By dawn, it sat up, examining the bandages with curiosity. It accepted food from me, cautiously sniffing before eating. Our bond deepened as we communicated through gestures. It pointed to its wounds, then to the forest, expressing a desire to return home. I knew it wasn’t ready yet, but I promised it would soon.

After a day of care, I realized I had to return to civilization. I packed supplies for the creature, leaving food and instructions for its care. When I finally turned to leave, it reached out, touched my shoulder, and spoke a single word in its own language that I somehow understood: “Friend.”

I made my way back to my truck, my heart heavy. The creature had survived, but I was torn between the world I knew and the bond I had formed. Days passed, and the weight of my decision haunted me. I loaded my truck with supplies and returned to the lake, desperate to know if it had made it.

When I arrived, the shelter was empty, but signs of the creature’s survival were everywhere. The supplies I left were gone, and two pills from the antibiotic bottle were missing. Tracks led into the forest, deep and confident. I followed them, feeling a surge of pride. It had healed and moved on, just as it should.

Over the next few weeks, I returned several times, each time finding tokens left behind—a stack of stones, a pattern of sticks, signs of communication that confirmed our bond. The creature was alive, thriving, and it had not forgotten me.

On my final visit, as spring approached and the ice melted, I left my supplies one last time. I stood by the boulder, hoping for a glimpse, a sign. And then I heard it—a soft rumbling from the shadows, a sound that filled me with warmth. It was a farewell, a thank you.

I walked back to my truck, feeling watched, not threatened, but accompanied. I never saw the creature again, but I knew it was out there, living its life, a guardian of the forest.

I had saved it that day on the lake, but in doing so, it had saved me too. It changed how I viewed the world, reminding me that some mysteries are worth preserving. I still visit that spot, hoping for a sign, knowing that I made a choice that mattered.

In the quiet of the woods, sometimes I hear that low rumble, and I choose to believe it’s a thank you—a reminder that we are all connected, in ways we may never fully understand.