Weeping Female Bigfoot Pleads With Man to Follow Her—Leading to a Stunning and Shocking Discovery: Sasquatch Encounter Story
The Crying Bigfoot: A Hunter’s Secret
Chapter 1: The Skeptic
I never believed in Bigfoot until one followed me home from the woods. What started as a typical September hunting trip in the Cascade Mountains turned into the most terrifying and heartbreaking experience of my life. The crying female Bigfoot that appeared on my trail that afternoon changed everything I thought I knew about what lives in the deep wilderness of the Pacific Northwest. What she showed me still haunts my dreams.
This is a story I have kept secret for years, afraid of ridicule and disbelief. But the weight of this experience has become too heavy to carry alone. What I witnessed in those mountains deserves to be told, even if most people will never believe it happened.
Before I tell you what happened, you need to understand something about me. I am not the type of person who believes in conspiracy theories or supernatural phenomena. I am a practical man. I work in construction management. I pay my taxes on time and spend my weekends maintaining my property and preparing for hunting season. My friends would describe me as skeptical to a fault. I’m the guy who explains away strange noises and looks for logical explanations for unusual events. The idea that Bigfoot could exist in the modern world seemed absurd to me. With all our satellite technology and surveillance cameras and millions of hikers with smartphones, how could a large primate remain completely hidden? It made no sense.
But sometimes reality refuses to conform to what makes sense. Sometimes you encounter something that challenges every assumption you have built your worldview upon.
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Chapter 2: Into the Wilderness
I grew up in Western Washington, and hunting has been part of my life since I was old enough to hold a rifle. Every September for the past fifteen years, I head into the Cascade Wilderness for elk season. The mountains there are some of the most remote terrain in the lower 48 states. Dense forests of Douglas fir and western hemlock stretch for miles without a single road or trail. The undergrowth is so thick that visibility drops to maybe twenty feet in most places. It takes a full day of hiking just to reach the areas where elk frequent during autumn. These are not the kind of mountains where casual hikers venture. The terrain is too rugged, the distance too vast, and the dangers too real.
My father taught me to hunt in these mountains when I was twelve. He was a logger who spent forty years working in the Cascade forests. He knew every ridge and valley like the back of his hand. He taught me how to read the land, how to move quietly through dense brush, how to track animals by the subtlest signs they leave behind. More importantly, he taught me to respect the wilderness. The mountains do not care about your plans or your comfort. You can either learn to work within those rules or the mountains will teach you hard lessons about your own mortality.
I left my truck at the trailhead before sunrise. The morning air had that crisp bite that comes with early fall in the mountains. My breath formed clouds as I shouldered my pack and started up the trail. The first three miles followed an old fire road reclaimed by alder saplings and sword ferns. After that, I would bushwhack through trackless forest to reach the valley. The hiking was tough but familiar. My legs found their rhythm quickly, falling into the steady pace that eats up miles without burning through energy reserves too quickly.
Chapter 3: The Silence
By midmorning, I reached the edge of the valley. Elk had been through recently. Fresh droppings littered the ground beneath a stand of cedars, and I spotted several rubs where bulls had scraped velvet from their antlers against tree trunks. The sign looked good, so I found a spot on a small rise with a clear view of a natural clearing and settled in to wait.
Patience is the most important skill in elk hunting. They move in their own time, following patterns that have nothing to do with human schedules. The hunters who succeed are the ones who can sit motionless for hours, watching and waiting for that perfect moment when an animal steps into range and presents a clean shot.
The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist and warming the air. I ate an energy bar and drank from my water bottle, never taking my eyes off the clearing for more than a few seconds. A pair of ravens flew overhead, their croaking calls echoing off the surrounding ridges. A Douglas squirrel chattered from a nearby branch, apparently offended by my presence in its territory.
Hours passed. I ate a cold lunch and glassed the valley with my binoculars, watching for any movement. The forest was quiet except for the occasional chatter of a squirrel or the distant hammering of a woodpecker.
Around two in the afternoon, I noticed the birds had stopped singing. The forest had fallen into an unnatural silence. Any experienced hunter knows that when the woods go quiet like that, something is moving nearby. Something big.
Chapter 4: The Grief
I scanned the treeline carefully, moving only my eyes. My hands slowly brought the rifle up to a ready position, resting it against the tree trunk for stability. Whatever was approaching could be a black bear, a mountain lion, or hopefully an elk. But this silence felt different than the usual warning signals I had learned to recognize. There was a quality to it that made my skin prickle with primitive awareness.
Then I heard it—a sound unlike anything I had encountered in all my years in the woods. It started as a low growl, almost human, but with a strange quality that made the hair on my neck stand up. The sound came from somewhere to my left, maybe two hundred yards away, hidden in the thick forest. It was not the bugle of an elk or the roar of a bear. It was not the scream of a mountain lion or the howl of a coyote. This sound was entirely outside my experience, and my brain struggled to categorize it.
The moaning sound rose and fell in pitch, creating an eerie melody that seemed to echo off the surrounding ridges. There was an emotional quality to it. It was deeply unsettling. This was not just an animal call or vocalization. This sounded like grief—like something experiencing profound sadness or pain.
Chapter 5: The Encounter
I decided to investigate. If someone was hurt, they would need assistance getting out before dark. I marked my position with a GPS waypoint and started moving toward the sound. The crying or moaning or whatever it was had stopped, but I had a general direction. I moved slowly, watching my footing on the uneven ground.
After about ten minutes of careful movement, I reached a small clearing created by a fallen cedar. The massive trunk had taken down several smaller trees when it toppled, creating an opening in the canopy that let in shafts of afternoon sunlight.
I paused at the edge of the clearing and scanned the area. Nothing seemed out of place—until I noticed the tracks. The forest floor in this clearing was covered with a layer of soft soil that showed impressions clearly. Something had walked across the soft earth near the fallen tree. The tracks were enormous—each footprint at least sixteen inches long and seven wide. They were shaped like human feet, but much larger, with clear toe impressions pressed deep into the soil. The stride length between prints was close to five feet.
Near the edge of the clearing, I found a tuft of dark brown hair caught on a broken branch about seven feet off the ground. The hair was coarse and thick, unlike anything I had seen before. I carefully collected a few strands and placed them in a plastic bag from my pack. Evidence. Proof that something unusual had passed through this clearing recently.
The moaning sound came again—much closer this time. I froze and brought my rifle up to a ready position. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the pulse in my ears.
The Bigfoot stepped out of the shadows and into the dappled sunlight of the clearing. She stood at least eight feet tall, covered head to toe in dark brown fur that seemed to absorb the light. The body structure was unmistakably humanoid, but scaled up to impossible proportions. Massive shoulders, arms that hung past the knees, powerful legs. But what struck me most was the face—flat, almost human, with deep-set eyes reflecting intelligence and awareness. The features were distinctly female, and the Bigfoot was crying.
Chapter 6: The Plea
Tears streaked down through the fur on her cheeks. The moaning sounds I had been hearing were sobs. This Bigfoot was in emotional distress—real, genuine emotional pain that transcended species boundaries.
Time seemed to slow down as we stared at each other. My finger rested on the safety of my rifle, but I could not bring myself to move it to the firing position. She made no threatening gestures, no hostile vocalizations. She just stood there crying, watching me with eyes that held more intelligence than I wanted to acknowledge. Because if this Bigfoot was intelligent, could feel emotions and think and reason, then what did that make it? Not just an animal to be cataloged or studied. Something more.
The Bigfoot saw me and stopped about thirty feet away. We stared at each other across the clearing. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs would not respond. The Bigfoot made no aggressive moves. Instead, she raised one massive hand and gestured toward me, then turned and pointed deeper into the forest. The meaning was clear. She wanted me to follow.
The gesture was so obviously intentional, so clearly meant to communicate, that it shattered any remaining doubt I had about her intelligence. This was not an animal operating on instinct. This was a thinking being making a conscious choice to communicate with me.
Chapter 7: The Child
The Bigfoot took a few steps away from me, then stopped and looked back over her shoulder. The eyes were pleading, desperate. She needed help, and somehow I decided that I was the one to provide it.
Against all better judgment, I lowered my rifle and nodded. The decision felt both terrifying and inevitable. If this had been a lost hiker crying for help, I would have responded without hesitation. Did it really matter that this crying being had fur instead of clothing?
She seemed to understand my gesture of agreement. Her massive shoulders relaxed slightly, and the crying subsided to occasional hiccuping sobs. She turned and began walking into the forest. I followed, keeping about twenty yards back.
We climbed up the side of a steep ridge, scrambling over fallen logs and pushing through patches of Devil’s Club that tore at my clothes. She seemed unbothered by the terrain. Her thick fur protected her from the thorns that were shredding my jacket and drawing blood from my hands. I tried to follow in her footsteps, using the path she cleared through the worst of the undergrowth.
After about thirty minutes of hard hiking, we reached a shelf of land partway up the ridge. She paused and looked back at me, making sure I was still following. I waved to indicate I was okay. She studied me for a moment, then seemed to accept that I was managing.
She led me to a small clearing, hidden among massive old growth trees. The clearing was partially sheltered by an overhanging rock face that created a shallow cave. As we approached, I heard high-pitched whimpering and crying. My stomach dropped. I knew what I was about to see before I saw it.
Inside the shallow cave, partially hidden by branches that had been arranged into a crude shelter, lay a young Bigfoot. The child could not have been more than a few years old, maybe four feet tall. The young Bigfoot was lying on a bed of moss and ferns, and even from a distance, I could see that something was terribly wrong. The left leg was bent at an unnatural angle, broken badly, probably from a fall. The fur was matted with dried blood around the injury site, and the child’s breathing came in shallow, pained gasps.
Chapter 8: The Decision
The mother Bigfoot’s behavior suddenly made perfect sense. This was not about defending territory or warning me away from a food source. This was about desperation—the kind of desperation that only a parent with an injured child can understand. She had brought me here because her child was injured and she did not know what else to do. She had sought help from the only other intelligent creature in these mountains—a human.
I slowly approached the injured child, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. The mother watched me closely, but did not interfere. I knelt down next to the young Bigfoot and examined the broken leg as best I could. The fracture was severe. The bone had broken completely and the lower leg bent at nearly ninety degrees from where it should be. Without proper treatment, the child would likely die from infection or complications.
I looked up at the mother and shook my head slowly. Her eyes filled with fresh tears. She understood. The injury was beyond my ability to treat here in the wilderness. But then an idea formed in my mind. What if I could get the young Bigfoot to a veterinarian? Someone with the skills and equipment to properly treat a broken leg and fight off the infection.
It was absurd on multiple levels, but it was the only chance this child had.
Chapter 9: The Trust
I tried to communicate my plan through gestures. I pointed to the young Bigfoot and to myself, then made a carrying motion. I pointed down the mountain toward where my truck was parked. I held up my hands to indicate medicine or treatment, miming shots and wrapping bandages. She watched my pantomime with clear understanding.
When I finished, she reached out one massive hand and gently touched my shoulder. The touch was surprisingly gentle for such a powerful creature. She was giving me permission to take her child. She was trusting me with the most precious thing in her world.
I cannot adequately express how heavy that trust felt.
I carefully slid my arms under the young Bigfoot’s body, supporting the broken leg as much as possible. The child whimpered, but did not struggle. The young Bigfoot weighed close to eighty pounds, heavy but manageable. I could feel the heart racing against my chest, pounding with fear and pain.
I started walking out of the clearing, moving as carefully as I could to avoid jostling the broken leg. The child buried its face against my jacket and made soft whimpering sounds. Behind me, the mother followed at a distance of about ten feet, close enough to act but far enough to give me space to navigate the terrain.
The hike down the mountain was the longest and most difficult of my life. The child was heavy, and the terrain was treacherous. My arms were burning, my legs shaking from exhaustion. My shoulders screamed in protest every time I adjusted my grip. Sweat poured down my face despite the cool temperature. I had to stop frequently to rest.
During one of these rest stops, I set the child down as gently as I could and rolled my shoulders. The mother seemed satisfied that I was being careful.
Chapter 10: The Race Against Time
We still had six miles to go to reach my truck. I knew I could not carry the child that entire distance. I needed to come up with another plan. I gently set the child down on a patch of soft moss and examined my options. The sun was getting low in the sky. I had maybe three hours of daylight left. If I left the child here and ran to my truck, I could drive as close as possible on the old logging roads and then carry the child the rest of the way. It would save hours of carrying time and reduce the risk of causing further injury.
I tried to communicate this plan to the mother through gestures. I pointed to myself and jogged in place, then pointed toward the trailhead. Then I pointed to the child and made a staying motion. She nodded once, then sat down next to her child.
I took off running down the old fire road at a pace I knew I could not sustain for long. My pack bounced against my back, and my rifle felt like it weighed fifty pounds. After about a mile, I stopped and stripped off the pack and rifle, hiding them behind a fallen log. I could retrieve them later. Right now, speed was everything.
Without the weight of my gear, I pushed myself harder. My lungs burned and my legs screamed in protest, but I kept moving. The old fire road seemed to stretch on forever. After what felt like hours, but was probably only forty-five minutes, I burst out of the forest and saw my truck.
I had cell service here. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and called the veterinarian. The call went to voicemail. I left a garbled message explaining that I had a critical emergency and needed immediate help. I asked the vet to meet me at the clinic as soon as possible.
Chapter 11: The Gamble
I drove as far as I could on the old logging road, then grabbed a sleeping bag from the back of my truck and started running again. The sun was touching the western ridges now. I had maybe an hour of good light left.
I found them right where I had left them. The child looked worse. Fever was setting in. I spread the sleeping bag on the ground and carefully positioned the child on top of it. Then I rolled the sleeping bag around the child, immobilizing the broken leg and creating a way to carry the child more easily. The mother watched this process with obvious concern but did not interfere.
When I picked up the wrapped bundle, the mother stood and began following me again. The hike back to my truck took another hour. The sleeping bag made carrying the child easier, but I was exhausted. My arms trembled with fatigue, and I had to stop every few hundred yards to rest. The mother stayed close, occasionally reaching out to touch her child through the sleeping bag.
When we finally reached my truck, I faced a new problem. The mother could not come with us. There was no way to hide an eight-foot-tall Bigfoot in my vehicle, and I could not risk her being seen by other people. I laid the wrapped child in the back seat and turned to the mother. I tried to communicate that I would take care of the child and bring the child back. She stared at me for a long moment, then reached out and touched my face with one enormous hand. The gesture felt like a blessing and a warning.
Chapter 12: The Surgery
I drove to the veterinary clinic, white-knuckled and tense. The child whimpered occasionally from the back seat. My phone rang when I got closer to town. It was the veterinarian returning my call. I explained as briefly as I could that I was bringing in a critically injured animal and needed immediate help. The vet agreed to meet me at the clinic.
When I pulled into the parking lot, the vet was already there. I opened the back door and unwrapped the sleeping bag enough to reveal the child’s face. The vet froze midstep and stared. Then the vet looked at me and said, “That’s a Bigfoot. You brought me a Bigfoot.”
I nodded and explained the situation as quickly as I could. The mother crying in the forest. The injured child. The desperate plea for help. The vet listened without interrupting, then looked at the child again. After a long moment, the vet said, “Okay, bring the animal inside. We need to work fast.”
We carried the child into the clinic and laid the child on an examination table. The vet worked with focused efficiency, examining the broken leg and taking vital signs. The child’s temperature was dangerously high. The vet started an IV to deliver fluids and antibiotics, then carefully cut away the fur around the fracture site to assess the damage. The break was clean, but severe. The bone would need to be reset and stabilized.
The vet prepared anesthesia and explained what was about to happen. The child would be sedated and then the vet would manipulate the broken bones back into alignment and apply a cast. The procedure was risky, given that the vet had no baseline for Bigfoot physiology, but it was the child’s only chance.
I held the child’s hand as the anesthetic took effect. The child’s eyes found mine and held them until the eyelids grew heavy and closed. That moment of connection—when this young creature looked to me for reassurance, even though I was a complete stranger from another species—has stayed with me ever since.
Chapter 13: The Return
The surgery took almost three hours. The vet worked with incredible skill, realigning the bones and securing them with pins before applying a cast from ankle to hip. When it was finished, the vet stepped back and examined the work. The cast looked absurdly large, but the vet assured me it would do the job if the child avoided putting weight on it while it healed.
The child was moved to a recovery kennel in the back room. The vet gave me a supply of antibiotics and pain medication, along with detailed instructions for care. Then the vet looked at me seriously and said, “You know, I can’t tell anyone about this. They would think I’m crazy. They would take away my license. This never happened.” I understood completely.
The next morning, the child was alert enough to drink water. I carefully carried the child back to my truck, still wrapped in the sleeping bag for warmth and security. Then I faced the question I had been avoiding. How was I going to return the child to the mother? I had promised through gestures that I would bring the child back. The mother was waiting somewhere in those mountains, trusting that I would keep my word.
I drove back to the trailhead and started the long hike into the mountains. The child was heavier now with the cast, and the journey was even more difficult than before. I had to stop frequently to rest and give the child water and medication. The child seemed to understand that I was trying to help. The child did not struggle or try to escape. The child just watched me with those impossibly human eyes. Sometimes the child would reach out and touch my face with one small hand, as if trying to understand what kind of creature I was.
It took me most of the day to reach the area where I had last seen the mother. I had no idea if she would still be there. But as I approached the clearing, I heard a familiar sound—the moaning cry that had started this entire journey. She had been waiting. She had never left.
Chapter 14: The Reunion
She emerged from the trees and rushed toward me. I gently set the child down on the ground and stepped back. The mother knelt beside her child and examined the cast with obvious confusion. She looked up at me with questions in her eyes. I knelt down and tried to explain through gestures that the child’s leg was fixed, but needed time to heal. I showed her the medication bottles and pantomimed how to administer them. I pointed to the cast and made breaking motions, then shook my head—no, the cast needed to stay on. I held up my fingers to indicate weeks of time passing.
She seemed to understand at least the basic concept. She gently lifted her child and cradled the child against her chest. The child made happy sounds and wrapped its arms around her neck. The reunion was deeply moving to witness.
She looked at me one last time and made a sound that almost sounded like words. Then she turned and carried her child into the forest.
I stood there watching them go, wondering if I would ever see them again, wondering if the child would fully recover, wondering what stories she would tell about the strange human who helped when all seemed lost.
Chapter 15: The Gifts
I went back to those mountains several times over the following weeks. I hiked to the clearing where I had last seen the mother and child, hoping to catch some sign that they were doing well. I never saw them again, but I did find evidence that they had been there. Small gifts left in places where I had rested during the journey—a perfect eagle feather, a handful of ripe berries carefully arranged on a flat rock. These tokens felt like messages of thanks, simple offerings that showed someone was watching, someone remembered, someone was grateful for what had been done.
Six weeks after the surgery, I returned to the clearing one final time. I found something that made my heart soar. Tracks. Two sets of Bigfoot tracks crossing the clearing side by side. One set was large, belonging to an adult. The other was smaller, belonging to a child. Both sets of tracks showed a normal walking gait. The child was walking on its own two feet again. The cast had done its job. The child had healed.
Epilogue: The Secret
I have never told this story to anyone except the veterinarian who helped me save the young Bigfoot’s life. People would think I was crazy or lying, but I know what I experienced. I know what I saw. Bigfoot is real. And somewhere in the Cascade Mountains, there is a young Bigfoot walking on a healed leg. There is a mother who learned that sometimes, when you need help desperately enough, you can find kindness in the most unexpected places.
The experience changed how I view the wilderness. These mountains are home to more than just deer and elk and bears. They harbor ancient mysteries and intelligent creatures that want nothing more than to be left alone to live their lives in peace. The crying female Bigfoot who begged me to follow her taught me that compassion crosses all boundaries. That parenthood creates bonds that transcend species. That trust is the most precious gift any being can give.
I still hunt in those mountains every fall. But now I walk more carefully and pay closer attention to the sounds of the forest. And sometimes, when the wind is right, I hear a distant call that might be a Bigfoot talking to another Bigfoot somewhere deep in the wilderness. When I hear those sounds, I smile—because I know that out there, beyond the reach of roads and towns and all the noise of human civilization, there are families living their lives. Mothers caring for their children. Communities looking after their own. Just trying to survive in a world that gets smaller every year.
The skeptics can say what they want. They can dismiss my story as fantasy or delusion. But I was there. I held that young Bigfoot in my arms. I looked into the mother’s eyes and saw the same desperation and hope that any mother would show when her child was in danger. I bridged a gap between worlds that was never supposed to be crossed. And I was trusted with something precious beyond measure.
The mountains keep their secrets well. The forest that day saw something extraordinary happen, but the trees will never tell. The rocks and streams witnessed the mother’s desperate plea and a stranger’s response, but they remain silent. Only three beings know the full truth of what happened in those woods—myself, the veterinarian, and the mother Bigfoot who trusted me with everything.
I carry the memory of that crying female Bigfoot with me always. When life gets difficult and I feel overwhelmed by problems, I think about her courage. She faced an impossible situation with no good options. She could have given up and accepted that her child would die. Instead, she took a risk that must have terrified her. She approached a human, a member of the species that Bigfoot have learned to fear and avoid. She begged for help. And somehow, against all odds, it worked.
That kind of courage in the face of impossible circumstances inspires me. It reminds me that sometimes the only way forward is to take a leap of faith, to trust in the possibility of kindness even when everything suggests you should not.
I hope I lived up to that trust. I hope that when she looks at her child running through the forest on a healthy leg, she feels that the risk was worth it. I hope she has shared the story with others. And maybe, just maybe, there is a little less fear of humans in some corner of the wilderness because of what happened that day.
The crying female Bigfoot revealed something I had never expected to discover: that the boundaries between species are not as absolute as we think. That intelligence and emotion and love exist in forms we do not recognize. That mothers everywhere, regardless of what they look like or where they live, share the same desperate need to protect their children. The mother Bigfoot and I could not speak the same language, but we communicated perfectly in the universal language of parenthood and compassion.
My shocking discovery that day was not just that Bigfoot exists. It was that Bigfoot has feelings and families and all the complicated emotions that come with caring for others.
That is the story I needed to share. Not because I want fame or attention, but because I think people should know that there are incredible things still hidden in this world. That mystery still exists in our modern age of satellites and smartphones and instant communication. That the wilderness still holds secrets worth protecting. And that sometimes, when you least expect it, you might find yourself face to face with something impossible and be given the chance to do something that matters.
The mother Bigfoot trusted me with the most important thing in her life. I did everything I could to honor that trust. And now, years later, I still think about them—somewhere in the Cascade Mountains, living their lives far from human eyes. I hope they are well. I hope they are safe. And I hope that somewhere in the Bigfoot equivalent of oral tradition, there is a story about the time a human helped them in their darkest hour.
