“Sasquatch Spoke To Me” – Moonshiner Terrifying Story Finally Leaked
The smell hit me first—a sweet, rotten stench that twisted my stomach and set my instincts ablaze with alarm. I was alone, deep in the Wyoming wilderness, tending to my moonshine still, when I stumbled upon the tracks. They were enormous, 18 inches long, pressed deep into the mud, with five toes that resembled a human foot, only magnified to an almost monstrous size. A chill ran down my spine as the realization dawned on me: my illicit moonshine operation had attracted something that was never meant to be found.
My name is Jake Harland, and for the past eight years, I had been distilling corn liquor in the Wind River Range, a place where the law was as elusive as the fog that rolled in from the mountains. Here, the wilderness was a predator, swallowing people whole—grizzlies, mountain lions, and winters that could drop to 40 below. But nothing in my rugged experience prepared me for what began to visit my camp in the fall of 2019.
I had set up my still in a perfect spot, hidden away from prying eyes, surrounded by dense pine cover and a series of caves that masked the smoke from my operation. The nearest town was 37 miles away, a rough trek through terrain that most would hesitate to navigate without a guide. Everything was fine until September, when I left a batch of mash fermenting while I made a supply run. It takes about five days for a good ferment in these temperatures, and when I returned, something felt wrong.
At first glance, everything seemed untouched, but the air was thick with an unsettling tension. It felt as if someone—or something—had been examining my setup without leaving a trace. Then I saw them: the tracks encircling my fire pit. They were not bear tracks; I had seen plenty of those in my time. These were humanoid, but massive, with an impossible stride length—nearly six feet between steps. Whatever had wandered through my camp had approached my still and then disappeared into the forest.
I should have packed up right then and there, dismantled everything, and fled to safety. But I had 12 gallons of premium shine ready to bottle and buyers who didn’t appreciate delays. So, I stayed, armed my rifle, and tried to convince myself it was just a prank or a figment of my imagination. That night, I heard wood knocks—three deliberate strikes against a tree about 200 yards from my camp. It echoed through the valley like thunder, a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard before.
Around 3:00 AM, I caught a glimpse of eye shine at the edge of my firelight. It was too high to be a wolf and too steady to be an owl. Whatever it was, it stood there, watching me for what felt like hours, before silently melting back into the darkness. The next morning, I found where it had been standing—more tracks and broken branches nine feet up, evidence of something colossal that had been holding onto the trees for support.
That’s when the reality hit me: I was dealing with something that stood nine feet tall and walked on two legs. I faced a choice: pack up and lose everything I had built or stay and risk another encounter. The smart money was on leaving, but I was stubborn. This was my territory, my operation. I had dealt with claim jumpers, federal raids, and every predator the Rockies could throw at me. I wasn’t about to let some overgrown ape run me off.
Instead, I adapted. I began leaving food scraps at the edge of my camp—nothing fancy, just leftovers from my meals: beans, cornbread, dried meat. Each morning, the food was gone, with no mess left behind, just massive tracks leading away into the forest. After two weeks of this routine, something extraordinary happened. One evening, while adjusting the temperature on the condenser, I heard slow, deliberate footsteps behind me. My rifle was leaning against a tree twenty feet away, a lifetime away in that moment.
I turned around slowly, hands visible, trying not to make any sudden movements. And there it was: nine feet of muscle and dark brown hair, standing at the edge of my camp as if it belonged there. Its face was almost human but broader, with deep-set eyes reflecting the firelight. The overwhelming smell was like wet dog mixed with something primal. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only thirty seconds. Then, to my own surprise, I spoke to it. “Easy there, big fellow. I’m not looking for trouble.”
The creature tilted its head, processing my words, nostrils flaring as it took in my scent. Then it did something that changed everything—it sat down on its haunches like a person settling in for a conversation. I kept talking, mostly nonsense, sharing details about the still, the weather, anything that came to mind. My voice seemed to calm it, or perhaps it was just amused by the strange little human making noise. It stayed for an hour, listening intently, occasionally tilting its head when I changed topics.
When it finally stood to leave, it paused at the pile of scraps I had left out. Instead of grabbing them immediately, it looked back at me, then at the food, as if asking for permission. I nodded, and it gathered the scraps with surprisingly delicate movements before disappearing into the darkness. That became our routine. Every few nights, it would appear at the edge of camp. I would talk, it would listen, and then it would take the food and leave. I started calling it Moses—don’t ask me why, but the name felt right, like something out of a biblical mystery.
As time passed, Moses grew bolder. He would come closer to the fire, sometimes sitting just ten feet away, allowing me to see the details of his form. The hair wasn’t uniform like a bear’s; it was longer on his arms and shoulders, shorter on his face and chest. His hands were massive but perfectly proportioned, with opposable thumbs and fingernails, not claws. The feet were wide and flat, suggesting a bipedal evolution.
What struck me most was the intelligence in his eyes. This wasn’t just an animal operating on instinct; Moses was thinking, evaluating, learning. He started recognizing patterns in my routine. On bottling days, he would show up just as I finished, knowing I’d be tired and stationary. On mash days, he’d keep his distance, understanding I required full attention.
Then came the night that proved just how smart Moses really was. I was dead asleep when something woke me—not a sound, but a presence. I opened my eyes to find Moses standing over me, one massive hand held up in a stopping gesture. Before I could react, he pointed toward the trail leading down from the ridge. That’s when I heard them—voices in the distance, getting closer. Federal agents had to be; nobody else would be hiking these trails at 2:00 AM.
Moses looked at me, then at the still, then back at me. The meaning was clear. He understood what would happen if they found my operation. I jumped up and started breaking down critical parts of the still, the condenser, the copper coil—anything that would identify it as moonshine equipment. Moses watched for a moment, then did something that still gives me chills: he started helping.
He picked up two fifty-pound bags of corn mash like they were pillows and carried them into the cave. Then he came back for the fermenting barrels, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for something his size. We worked in silence, him following my lead, anticipating what needed to be moved next. In just fifteen minutes, we had hidden every trace of the operation. Moses then walked to the trail where the agents would be coming from and started breaking branches, creating false paths that led away from my camp. He was laying down decoy trails, understanding not just that I needed to hide, but how human trackers work.
I grabbed my camping gear and made the site look like a regular backpacker’s camp. Moses vanished into the forest, but I could feel him watching. Twenty minutes later, three ATF agents walked into my camp, flashlights blazing, hands on their weapons. “We’re investigating reports of illegal distillery operations in this area,” one announced, as if I couldn’t see the giant letters on his jacket.
I played the confused hiker, rubbing my eyes and asking what this was about. They searched the camp, finding nothing but standard camping equipment and some beef jerky. One of them noticed the tracks Moses had left earlier, and his demeanor changed. “You seen any bears around here?” he asked, though his voice suggested he knew those weren’t bear tracks. “No, sir,” I replied. “But something big came through yesterday. Didn’t get a good look at it.” They exchanged glances, and I saw something unexpected in their faces: fear. These weren’t local boys; they didn’t know these mountains but recognized those tracks belonged to something they didn’t want to meet in the dark.
They left within the hour, making excuses about covering more ground before dawn. As their voices faded down the trail, Moses emerged from the forest. He walked straight to the cave and started bringing my equipment back out, placing everything exactly where it had been before. He had memorized the entire layout of my operation.
That’s when I realized this wasn’t just some primitive creature living in the woods. Moses had complex reasoning abilities. He understood law enforcement, concealment, misdirection. He had protected my operation not because he cared about moonshine, but because he recognized the mutual benefit of our arrangement. I provided food; he provided security.
The partnership evolved. Moses started bringing me things—first, it was firewood, perfectly dried and cut to length. I would wake up to find a neat stack beside my fire pit, those massive tracks the only sign of his visit. Then he began bringing pine cones and kindling, somehow understanding that I needed different materials for different types of fires. I increased the food offerings in return, cooking extra portions specifically for him. I discovered he loved cornbread with honey; he would practically purr when eating it—a deep, rumbling sound from his chest that was unlike any vocalization I’d heard from known animals.
As winter approached, I worried about Moses. The snows in Wyoming can be brutal, and I didn’t know if he had adequate shelter. One evening, I tried to communicate this to him, pointing at the sky and making shivering gestures. He seemed to understand but shook his head. Then he stood and gestured for me to follow him.
I grabbed my rifle and flashlight, though Moses moved through the darkness like he had built-in night vision. We hiked for about a mile up steep terrain I would have struggled with in daylight. Moses paused occasionally, looking back to make sure I was keeping up, sometimes reaching out to steady me on particularly treacherous sections. He led me to a cave system I had never seen before.
The entrance was hidden behind a fall of rocks that looked natural but had clearly been arranged. Inside, the cave was warm—not just warmer than outside, but genuinely warm. Moses had found a geothermal vent and built his shelter around it. The cave was organized, with areas for sleeping, eating, and what looked like tool storage—stones shaped for specific purposes, sticks fashioned into digging implements.
Moses wasn’t just intelligent; he was a tool user, a creator, a being with culture and practical knowledge. He showed me around like a proud homeowner, demonstrating how he diverted water from an underground stream into a natural basin and arranged rocks to maximize the heat from the thermal vent. There were bones in one corner, picked clean and sorted by size—some clearly from deer and elk, but others from bears. Moses was an apex predator who could take down a grizzly.
What struck me most were the walls, covered in markings—not quite writing, but intentional patterns scraped into the rock. Some seemed representational, showing trees, mountains, animals. Others were more abstract, possibly counting systems or calendars. Moses had been documenting his world. He led me to one section and pointed at a marking, then at me, then back at the marking again. It was a crude but recognizable representation of my still. He had drawn my operation into his history. I was part of his story now, just as he had become part of mine.
The walk back to my camp was quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. We had crossed an invisible line from tolerance to trust. Moses didn’t just accept my presence in his territory; he welcomed me into his world, and I had done the same without even realizing it.
As winter set in, our routine adjusted. Moses visited less frequently, probably conserving energy during the cold months, but when he did come, he would stay longer, sometimes sitting by my fire for hours. I talked about anything and everything—my ex-wife, my kids who didn’t speak to me anymore, how I ended up running shine in the mountains. Moses listened with intense focus, occasionally making soft vocalizations that seemed like responses—sympathy when I talked about loss, amusement when I told funny stories, concern when I mentioned dangers. He understood tone, context, emotional subtext.
This wasn’t just an animal responding to sound patterns; this was genuine comprehension. One particularly cold night in January, the temperature dropped to minus thirty. My little camp stove couldn’t keep up, and I was burning through firewood faster than usual. I was genuinely worried about freezing to death. Then Moses appeared with an armload of wood that would have required three trips for me. But it wasn’t just any wood; he had brought fatwood, pine saturated with resin that burns hot and long.
He stacked the wood and then did something unprecedented: he sat down right next to me, his massive bulk blocking the wind. The heat radiating from his body was like sitting next to a furnace. We sat like that all night, him sheltering me from the killing cold, me feeding the fire that seemed to comfort us both. In the morning, when the temperature had risen to merely brutal instead of lethal, Moses stood to leave, but before he did, he placed his hand on my shoulder. The weight of it was staggering, but the touch was gentle—an acknowledgment, perhaps gratitude, or just connection. Then he was gone, leaving only tracks and the memory of warmth.
February brought new challenges. A rival moonshiner named Curtis Hobbs had been sniffing around, trying to locate my still. He was undercutting my prices in town, claiming he had a superior product and that my operation was about to be shut down. I knew he was looking for my site, planning either to steal my equipment or rat me out to the feds. I told Moses about Hobbs during one of his visits, describing what he looked like and the danger he represented. Moses listened with unusual intensity, his eyes narrowing when I explained how Hobbs had threatened other moonshiners in the past, sometimes violently.
Three days later, Hobbs showed up at my camp while I was in the middle of a run. I couldn’t shut down the still without ruining the batch, and I couldn’t defend myself without abandoning expensive equipment. Hobbs had timed it perfectly, probably watching me for days. “Well, well,” he said, stepping into the clearing with a shotgun cradled in his arms. “The famous Jake Harland. Nice setup you got here.”
I kept working, trying to stay calm. “This is private property, Curtis. You’re trespassing.” He laughed, an ugly sound echoing off the rocks. “Ain’t nobody’s property out here, friend. Just wilderness and opportunity. I’m thinking you’re going to have an accident. Stills blow up all the time. Real tragedy when it happens.”
He was moving closer, the shotgun now pointed vaguely in my direction. That’s when we heard it—a roar that shook snow from the trees. It was unlike anything a bear or mountain lion would make, deeper and more primal, with an undertone of rage that made every hair on my body stand up. Hobbs spun around, shotgun raised, just as Moses emerged from the forest. But this wasn’t the gentle giant who shared my fire; this was a territorial predator defending its domain.
Moses stood at full height, arms spread wide, displaying his massive frame. The roar came again, and I saw Hobbs’s hands shaking. “What the hell is that?” he whispered, taking a step back. Moses advanced slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on the intruder. Hobbs raised the shotgun, and I thought for sure he was going to fire. But Moses was smart. He grabbed a pine tree as thick as my thigh and twisted it. The crack of wood breaking was like a gunshot. The tree, thirty feet tall, came down between him and Hobbs, who dove backward to avoid being crushed.
When Hobbs scrambled to his feet, Moses was standing on the fallen tree, now eye level with the terrified moonshiner, despite being twenty feet away. The message was clear: leave or become part of the forest floor. Hobbs ran, dropping his shotgun, fleeing like the devil was chasing him. We heard his truck engine start ten minutes later, tires spinning in the snow as he fled. He never came back.
Word spread that my operation was protected by something unnatural, and other shiners gave me a wide berth after that. Moses stayed visible until we were sure Hobbs was gone, then approached me slowly, his posture shifting from aggressive to concerned. He examined me carefully, checking for injuries, sniffing for the scent of fear or harm. When he was satisfied I was okay, he did something that broke my heart a little—he hugged me.
It wasn’t a human hug exactly, more like an enveloping where he wrapped his long arms around me and pulled me against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat, faster than expected, probably from the adrenaline of confrontation. We stood like that for maybe ten seconds before he released me and stepped back. I tried to thank him, but how do you thank someone for saving your life without using words they can’t understand? I just nodded and placed my hand on his arm. The hair was coarser than I expected, but the skin underneath was warm and surprisingly soft. He placed his massive hand over mine, engulfing it completely, and we stood there in silent understanding.
Spring came late that year, but when it did, Moses changed his behavior again. He started bringing me things from the forest—not just firewood, but gifts. Interesting rocks, antler sheds, and once, a perfect eagle feather that must have taken him hours to find. He presented each item formally, waiting for my reaction before placing it carefully near my tent.
I reciprocated with food, of course, but also started leaving other things for him—a steel knife to replace his stone tools, a tarp for his cave, and a pair of work gloves that were comically small for his hands but which he seemed to treasure. He examined each gift thoroughly, turning it over in his hands, testing its properties, learning its purpose. The gloves fascinated him particularly; he understood their function immediately but was intrigued by the stitching, running his fingers along the seams repeatedly.
Within a week, I found a piece of deer hide near my camp that he had attempted to sew with plant fibers, creating a crude but functional pouch. Moses wasn’t just using tools; he was reverse engineering them, learning manufacturing techniques from observation.
In May, I had to make an extended supply run to town. Usually, I was gone for two days maximum, but this time I needed to meet with distributors in Denver, meaning I’d be away for at least a week. I tried to explain this to Moses using a combination of gestures and props—seven rocks for seven days, pointing at the trail, then at myself, then walking my fingers away and back. He seemed agitated by this news, pacing back and forth, making low, grumbling sounds. I think he was worried either for my safety or about the disruption to our routine.
I left extra food, enough for two weeks, and tried to reassure him I’d return. The trip took nine days. My truck broke down outside Laramie, and I had to wait for parts. The whole time, I worried about Moses. Had he thought I’d abandoned him? Would he still trust me when I returned? When I finally made it back to camp, the place was immaculate. The still had been cleaned, the copper polished to a shine. Firewood was stacked military neat, and the ground around my tent had been cleared of debris. Moses had been taking care of my space in my absence.
He appeared that first night back, but his approach was different—hesitant, almost shy. He sat farther away than usual, watching me with what I can only describe as hurt feelings. I talked more that night than I had in months, explaining about the truck, the delay, and showing him the new supplies I’d brought. Gradually, he moved closer until by midnight we were back to our usual positions by the fire.
I’d brought him something special from town—a chocolate bar, the good stuff with almonds. When I handed it to him, his eyes went wide. He sniffed it carefully, then took the smallest possible bite. The expression on his face was pure joy. He savored that chocolate bar for an hour, closing his eyes with each piece like he was memorizing the experience. That’s when I realized how lonely his existence must be. Moses was the only one of his kind I had ever seen signs of—no tracks but his, no other vocalizations in response to his calls. He was alone in these mountains, maybe alone in the world. Our friendship wasn’t just convenience or mutual benefit; it was companionship for both of us—two outsiders who had found understanding in the most unlikely place.
Summer brought its own challenges—more hikers in the wilderness, increased federal patrols, and the constant worry of forest fires. Moses adapted to all of it with remarkable intelligence. He started ranging farther during his patrols, often bringing me news of approaching humans long before they could stumble upon my operation. His warning system was sophisticated, different knocks for different threats. Two knocks meant hikers in the area but not approaching; three meant law enforcement; one long scraping sound meant immediate danger.
One afternoon in July, I heard the scraping sound followed by rapid knocks. I barely had time to cover the still before a Forest Service helicopter flew directly overhead. They were doing aerial surveillance, looking for illegal operations exactly like mine. Without Moses’s warning, they would have caught me red-handed. The helicopter circled twice but saw nothing suspicious—just a camper with a tarp over his gear, completely normal for backcountry Wyoming. When it finally flew away, Moses emerged from the trees.
He had been watching the helicopter with intense focus, processing this new information. Threats could come from above now, not just from the ground. Within days, he adjusted our security accordingly, checking the sky regularly and learning the sound of distant helicopters. He even figured out their patrol patterns, understanding that the flights came at regular intervals and adjusting his visits to avoid them.
But the most impressive display of his intelligence came during the Bennett fire that August. A lightning strike started a blaze about ten miles north of my position, and the wind was pushing it south straight toward my camp. I was preparing to evacuate, trying to figure out how to move or hide the still when Moses appeared in full daylight, something he never did. He was agitated, gesturing frantically toward the east—not south, where the fire was coming from, but east into terrain I had never explored.
I tried to explain that I needed to go west, toward the road, toward civilization. But Moses was insistent, actually grabbing my arm and pulling me eastward. I had to make a choice: trust my instincts and flee toward town or follow Moses into unknown wilderness with a forest fire bearing down on us. The desperation in his eyes made the decision for me. I grabbed my essential gear and followed him.
He led me through a maze of canyons and ridges I never knew existed. The route was treacherous but specific; Moses knew exactly where he was going. After two hours of hard hiking, I understood why. He led me to a massive granite formation with a deep overhang, surrounded by a natural firebreak of bare rock. We sheltered there as the fire passed, the smoke thick but the flames unable to reach our position.
Moses had known about this safe zone, had calculated wind direction and fire speed, understanding that west led to roads that would be clogged with evacuees and emergency vehicles. He had saved my life with planning and foresight that most humans couldn’t have managed. We stayed in that shelter for two days while the fire burned itself out. Moses foraged for both of us, bringing water from a spring he knew about, finding edible plants I would never have recognized.
When it was finally safe to return, my camp was untouched. The fire had passed just a quarter-mile to the north, stopped by a creek and a shift in wind direction that Moses had somehow anticipated. The trust between us after that was absolute. Moses had risked exposure to save me, had shared survival knowledge that was clearly sacred to his existence, and I had followed him without question into what looked like certain death. We were bonded now in a way that transcended species.
Fall arrived with its usual glory in the Rockies—golden aspens, crisp air, and the constant bugle of elk in rut. Moses’s behavior shifted with the season; he became more active, ranging farther and staying out longer. I wondered if this was mating season for his kind, if somewhere out there another of his species was responding to ancient biological imperatives. But he always returned, usually with gifts from his travels. Once, he brought me an obsidian arrowhead, perfectly crafted and obviously ancient. Another time, it was a chunk of turquoise the size of my fist. He was sharing his discoveries, the treasures he found in his wanderings, trusting me with artifacts that might be sacred to his kind.
I started teaching him things in return—simple stuff at first: how to tie knots, how to sharpen the knife I had given him, how to read basic weather signs. Moses absorbed information like a sponge. Within days of showing him a boline knot, he was creating complex hitches and lashings I had never seen before. The knife became his prized possession; he fashioned a sheath from elk hide and wore it on a cord around his neck. He learned to maintain the edge, even figured out how to use my whetstone properly after watching me just once. The transformation in his tool use was remarkable; his crafts became more refined, more precise. He was entering his own stone age revolution, jumping technological steps that took humans millennia.
October brought the first serious snow and something else: government scientists conducting some kind of environmental study. They set up a base camp about three miles from my position with equipment I couldn’t identify and purposes I could only guess at. Moses spotted them first, of course, and his agitation was unlike anything I had seen before. These weren’t just threats to my operation; they were threats to him. The scientists had trail cameras, motion sensors, equipment that could detect and document his existence. Moses understood this instinctively, recognizing technology that could end his secretive life.
We developed a plan together. I would create distractions, lead the scientists away from areas where Moses traveled. In return, he would help protect the still with even greater vigilance. It was risky for both of us but necessary. The first part worked perfectly. I showed up at their camp occasionally, playing the friendly local, offering moonshine and conversation. They were geology graduates, mostly, happy for the company and completely unaware of my real purpose.
I learned their survey patterns, their equipment limitations, and where they had placed their sensors. Moses, meanwhile, became a ghost. He learned the positions of every camera, the range of every sensor. He moved through their grid like smoke, never triggering a single device. When he absolutely had to pass through monitored areas, he used deer and elk as cover, moving in their shadows, letting their heat signatures mask his own.
But technology wasn’t our only problem. One of the scientists, a woman named Dr. Sarah Chen, was sharper than the others. She had found tracks, analyzed hair samples, and noticed patterns in the wildlife behavior that suggested an apex predator the databases couldn’t identify. She started asking questions, pushing boundaries, getting closer to the truth.
One evening, she followed me back toward my camp—not obviously, but I had learned to spot surveillance from Moses. She was good, professional even, but Moses was better. He led her on a wild chase without her ever knowing she was being redirected. Every time she got close to something significant, a convenient noise or movement would draw her attention elsewhere. After three hours of this, Dr. Chen gave up, but not before making a comment that chilled me: “There’s something out here. Something intelligent. Something that doesn’t want to be found.”
The team packed up two weeks later, their study complete or abandoned. I never found out which, but they left behind equipment, cameras still functional, solar panels still charging batteries. Moses and I spent a day carefully removing every device, destroying the memory cards, ensuring no evidence remained.
That night, Moses did something new. He vocalized in what seemed like language—not human language, but structured sounds with repetition and rhythm that suggested meaning. He was trying to actually talk to me, to communicate complex ideas that gestures couldn’t convey. I responded as best I could, mimicking his sounds, trying to find patterns. We spent hours in this crude conversation, and while I never fully understood what he was trying to say, the effort itself was profound. Moses was attempting to bridge the gap between species with language, creating a pigeon that might, given time, become true communication.
November was harsh that year—early blizzards and temperatures that plummeted without warning. I was running low on supplies but couldn’t risk a town run with the weather so unpredictable. Moses noticed my rationing, saw me eating less, conserving fuel. He started hunting for me—not just bringing scraps or foraged plants, but actual fresh meat. A rabbit one day, a turkey the next—always cleaned and prepared, ready to cook. He had watched me enough to know what parts I ate and what I discarded. His provisioning was thoughtful, calculated to my needs and preferences.
But the most touching moment came during a whiteout that trapped me in my tent for three days. The wind was so fierce it threatened to tear the shelter apart. I was genuinely scared, running out of water, nearly out of food, the cold seeping through every layer I had. On the second night, I heard digging outside. Moses was building a snow wall around my tent, creating a windbreak. He worked for hours in conditions that would have killed me in minutes.
When the wall was complete, the difference was immediate. The wind still howled, but my tent was stable and protected. He didn’t leave. For three days, Moses stayed close, maintaining the wall, bringing me snow to melt for water, even sharing his own body heat during the coldest hours. We weathered that storm together, and when it finally broke, when the sun came out and the world was transformed into crystalline beauty, we emerged as something more than friends. We were family.
December brought new challenges and revelations. A documentary crew had heard rumors about unusual wildlife in the Wind River Range. They arrived with high-tech equipment, thermal drones, and a determination to find evidence of cryptids. This wasn’t like the scientists who stumbled close to the truth; these people were actively hunting for Moses. The stress was visible in his behavior. He paced constantly, made agitated vocalizations, and even struck trees in frustration.
The safe territory he had known for who knows how long was being invaded by people specifically looking for him. Every instinct must have screamed at him to flee, to find new territory far from human intrusion. But he stayed. He stayed because I was there—because leaving meant abandoning our connection. That loyalty humbled me. Here was a being who could vanish into the wilderness and never be found, choosing to remain in danger because of our friendship.
We developed more sophisticated countermeasures. I monitored the documentary crew’s radio chatter with a scanner I had brought from town. Moses learned to recognize the sound of drones and could spot them against the sky long before they could detect him. We created false trails and fake evidence that led nowhere—a disinformation campaign that would have made intelligence agencies proud.
The breakthrough came when Moses found their base camp while they were out filming. He didn’t disturb anything, didn’t leave obvious signs of intrusion, but memorized their equipment, their routines, their weaknesses. That night, he drew patterns in the dirt, showing me their positions, their blind spots where they’d be vulnerable to misdirection. Together, we orchestrated a series of false sightings that led them progressively farther from both my still and Moses’s actual territory. I left subtle signs—broken branches and disturbed ground—that suggested movement in specific directions. Moses would create authentic-looking tracks that aged just right, appearing fresh enough to be exciting but old enough to suggest the creature had moved on.
The crew spent two weeks chasing ghosts, getting increasingly frustrated as each promising lead dead-ended in empty wilderness. They finally gave up on Christmas Eve, packing their equipment and heading back to civilization with nothing but blurry footage of elk and bears. That Christmas, I cooked a real feast, using up most of my remaining supplies to make cornbread stuffing, venison stew, and even a crude approximation of apple pie using dried fruit and honey. Moses arrived just as I was plating everything, drawn by smells that must have traveled for miles. We ate together in companionable silence, him trying each dish with careful consideration, me enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with a friend.
When we finished, I gave him his Christmas present—a military surplus blanket, thick wool that would last decades. He examined it with wonder, running his hands over the tight weave, testing its warmth. Then he left, returning an hour later with his gift for me. It was a stone, but not just any stone—a geode cracked open to reveal purple crystals that sparkled in the firelight. He had carried it who knows how far, saved it for who knows how long, waiting for the right moment to share its beauty.
January 2020 started with a federal raid that nearly ended everything. Someone had tipped them off—probably Hobbs making one last attempt at revenge. They came in force this time—ATF, Forest Service, even a DEA unit. Helicopters, dogs, the works. Moses’s warning gave me maybe ten minutes—not enough time to hide everything, barely enough time to destroy the most incriminating evidence. I was pouring high-proof alcohol over everything, preparing to burn it all, when Moses did something unprecedented—he revealed himself to humans, not directly but strategically.
He showed himself to the dog unit first, just a glimpse through the trees, enough to send the dogs into a panic. German Shepherds trained to face armed criminals ran yelping back to their handlers, tails between their legs, refusing to track despite commands and encouragement. Then he started breaking trees, big ones. The crack of trunks snapping echoed through the valley like artillery. The agents could hear something massive moving through the forest, getting closer, circling their position. They tried to maintain protocol, but you could see the fear in their movements, hands moving to weapons, voices getting higher.
The raid commander made the call to withdraw after one of his men claimed to see something bipedal and enormous moving between the trees. They retreated to their staging area, requested backup, and started talking about possible bear attacks or unstable individuals in ghillie suits. By the time they returned with reinforcements, Moses and I had erased every trace of the still. We had worked through the night, him carrying equipment I could never have moved alone, me directing the concealment with desperate efficiency.
When the sun rose, my camp looked like nothing more than a wilderness shelter for an eccentric hermit. They searched for two days, found nothing actionable, and left with warnings about federal land use and vague threats about surveillance. But I could see it in their eyes—they had felt something in those woods, something that made them want to be anywhere else. Moses had weaponized their primal fears without ever directly confronting them.
February brought a different kind of challenge. I got sick—really sick. Some kind of respiratory infection left me weak and feverish. In civilization, it would have meant antibiotics and bed rest. Out here, it might mean death. Moses knew something was wrong before I did. He started hovering, checking on me multiple times a day instead of his usual sporadic visits. When the fever really hit, when I could barely crawl out of my tent, he took over completely.
He brought me water constantly, somehow understanding that hydration was crucial. He maintained my fire without being asked, even figured out how to use my camp stove when the wood ran low. Most remarkably, he foraged for medicinal plants, bringing me pine needle tea and willow bark that actually helped with the fever. For three days, I drifted in and out of consciousness. And every time I woke, Moses was there, watching, waiting, ready with water or food or just his presence.
He made soft rumbling sounds, almost like a cat’s purr, but deeper and more resonant. The sound was oddly comforting and gave me something to focus on besides the misery. On the fourth day, the fever broke. I woke clear-headed but weak as a kitten to find Moses asleep, sitting up, leaning against a boulder near my tent. He had been keeping vigil for days, exhausting himself with constant care. When he woke and saw me sitting up, actually alert, the relief on his face was unmistakably human.
He brought me soup he had somehow made using my pot and ingredients he had gathered. It was actually good, seasoned with wild herbs rich with nutrients. We sat together while I ate, him watching every spoonful like a worried mother, and I tried not to cry at the tenderness of this supposedly mythical creature.
In that moment, I understood the depth of our bond—two souls intertwined in a world that seemed to conspire against us. Moses was no longer just a guardian; he was my friend, my family, and together we had forged a connection that transcended the boundaries of our species. As I looked into his intelligent eyes, I realized that I was not just a moonshiner in the mountains; I was part of a story that was far larger than myself, one that would echo through the wilderness long after we were gone.
