Farmer Records Multiple Bigfoots on His Property – Sasquatch Encounter Story
“The Watchers of the Woods: A Family’s Struggle with the Unknown”
Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End
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I’m writing this because I don’t know how much longer we can hold on. Three generations of my family have worked this land, and now we’re seriously talking about walking away from it all. Not because of money problems or bad crops or anything that makes sense. We’re thinking about abandoning our home, our heritage, everything we’ve built because something in the woods won’t leave us alone. Something that shouldn’t exist.
This isn’t one of those stories where someone sees Bigfoot once and spends the rest of their life wondering if it was real. This is an ongoing nightmare that’s been getting progressively worse for two years straight. Two years of living in constant fear. Two years of watching our dream slowly turn into something we can’t escape from. The worst part? We have kids. Two beautiful young kids who used to love this place.
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They’d spend hours outside playing in the yard, exploring the property, helping with the animals. Now, they’re terrified to step outside the house. They sleep on our bedroom floor most nights because they’re too scared to be in their own rooms. That’s not the childhood we wanted to give them.
I never believed in this stuff before. If someone had told me this story two years ago, I would have laughed them out of the room. I would have thought they were crazy or making it up for attention. But I’m not laughing anymore. I can’t laugh when I’m lying awake at 3 a.m. listening to something walking around outside my house. I can’t laugh when I see the fear in my children’s eyes.
Chapter 2: The Farm
Our farm is in rural Oregon. Tucked into a valley about 40 miles from the nearest town of any size, it’s 200 acres of mostly pasture and crop fields with dense forest surrounding us on three sides. The trees come right up to our property line, thick stands of Douglas fir and western hemlock that stretch for miles in every direction. State forest land wilderness. Beautiful. We always thought a blessing.
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We took over the property from my parents five years ago. They’d gotten too old to manage it, and my wife and I had always dreamed of farm life, raising our kids in the country, away from the noise and stress of the city. Teaching them about animals and nature and hard work. For the first three years, it was everything we’d hoped for. Paradise. The kids thrived. We thrived. The farm was profitable enough. Life was good.
Looking back now, I can pinpoint when things started to change. It was late summer, about two years ago. The signs were subtle at first. So subtle, we didn’t even register them as signs.
Chapter 3: The Disappearances
Our chickens started disappearing. We kept about 30 laying hens in a coop near the barn. Over the course of a few weeks, we lost maybe five or six of them. No feathers, no blood, no signs of a struggle. They just vanished. We blamed coyotes. Coyotes were common in the area, and they were smart enough to snatch a chicken without leaving much evidence.
We reinforced the coop, added better latches, checked for holes in the wire, but the disappearances didn’t stop. If anything, they got more frequent. Then our other animals started acting strange. The horses would get spooked at night, pacing their stalls, whinnying and kicking at the walls. Our goats, normally calm and curious, would huddle together in the corner of their pen. All of them facing the same direction, staring toward the tree line like they could see something we couldn’t.
The dogs would bark at nothing, hackles raised, teeth bared, refusing to go near certain parts of the property. And then there was the smell. Some mornings we’d walk outside and this odor would hit us. It wasn’t like anything we’d encountered on the farm before. Not like manure or a dead animal or even a skunk. This was different. Musky, almost rotten, but with a sharp quality to it that made your nose wrinkle and your eyes water.
The smell would be strongest near the edge of the property where the wood started. And it would hang in the air for hours before slowly fading away. My wife would complain about it when she was hanging laundry or working in the garden. I’d noticed it when I was checking fences or moving irrigation equipment. We had mentioned it to each other in passing, but never really discussed what it might mean. We told ourselves it was a bear passing through or maybe a family of raccoons had died somewhere in the underbrush. We made excuses because the alternative seemed impossible. The truth is, we didn’t want to think too hard about it. We were happy. Life was good. And strange smells and skittish animals weren’t enough to make us question our reality. We rationalized everything, explained it away, told ourselves there had to be a normal explanation.
That’s what people do when faced with something that doesn’t fit their world view. They ignore it until they can’t anymore.
Chapter 4: The First Encounter
Everything changed on a cold morning in early October. I was up early, around 6:00, checking the fence line near the north woods. We’d had some elk come through a few days earlier, and I wanted to make sure they hadn’t damaged anything. The sun was just starting to come up, that gray pre-dawn light where everything looks washed out and colorless.
I was walking along the fence, head down, focused on looking for broken posts or sagging wire. The property was quiet except for the sound of my boots in the wet grass. No birds singing yet. No wind in the trees. Just silence.
That should have been my first clue that something was wrong. The forest is never completely silent unless there’s a reason. I got this feeling. You know that feeling when you suddenly know someone’s watching you? That prickle on the back of your neck. That instinctive awareness that you’re not alone.
I looked up, and there it was, standing between two large trees, maybe 50 yards away, just watching me. My brain tried to process what I was seeing, tried to make it make sense. At first, I thought it was a person, someone trespassing on our property. But as my eyes adjusted and the details came into focus, I realized it couldn’t be a person. It was too tall. Way too tall. Had to be at least 8 ft, maybe taller.
It was hard to judge distance and size in that light, but it towered over everything around it. And it was broad, shoulders like you’d see on a professional football player, but scaled up to match that impossible height. The proportions were all wrong for a human being. The thing was covered in dark brown hair, not fur like a bear has, but hair, long, shaggy hair that hung off its arms and body in matted clumps. The hair was darker in some places, lighter in others, like it had been bleached by the sun in spots. It hung down past where its knees would be, moving slightly in a breeze I couldn’t feel.
But it was the way it stood that really got to me. It wasn’t hunched over like a bear. It was standing upright, perfectly balanced on two legs with a posture that was almost human. Its arms hung at its sides, long and thick with muscle. Its head was large and conical, set on a thick neck. And even from that distance, I could see it was looking directly at me.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only 10 seconds. I couldn’t move. My whole body had locked up with some primal fear I’d never experienced before. It wasn’t the fear of seeing a predator like a bear or a mountain lion. This was deeper, more fundamental, like some ancient part of my brain was screaming at me that I was in the presence of something I shouldn’t be seeing, something that challenged everything I thought I knew about the world.
Its eyes caught the early morning light. They reflected back at me with an amber glow, and there was intelligence in that gaze. Not animal intelligence, something more. It was watching me with the same curiosity and assessment that I was watching it, sizing me up, deciding something.
Then I blinked and it was gone. Didn’t run, didn’t make a sound, didn’t crash through the underbrush like a startled animal would. It just vanished into the forest like it had never been there at all. One second it was there, solid and real and impossible to ignore. The next second, the space between those trees was empty.
I stood there for another few minutes, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, trying to convince myself I’d imagined it. Maybe it was a shadow. Maybe the light was playing tricks on me. Maybe I was more tired than I thought, and my brain had conjured something that wasn’t there. But even as I tried to rationalize it, I knew what I’d seen. I knew it was real.
Chapter 5: The Evidence Mounts
I didn’t tell my wife right away. I was afraid of how crazy it would sound. Afraid she’d think I was losing my mind. Afraid that saying it out loud would make it too real. So, I kept it to myself for a few days, trying to process it, trying to figure out what to do with this information that didn’t fit anywhere in my understanding of reality.
Over the next few weeks, I started finding more evidence that what I’d seen wasn’t an isolated incident. I’d be out working on the property and I’d notice things. Footprints near the creek that runs through the back 40 acres. These weren’t bear prints. I’ve seen plenty of bear prints in my life. These were different. They looked almost human with five distinct toes and an arch that suggested a heel-toe gait, but they were massive—18 inches long, easy, maybe more. The depth of the impressions in the mud suggested something incredibly heavy. The stride length between prints was huge, way longer than any human could manage. I measured one set and it was over 6 feet between steps.
I found these prints in different locations around the property, always near the woods, never in the open fields, near the chicken coop, by the barn, along the tree line behind our house. It was like something was making regular patrols around the edge of our land, checking on us, making sure we knew it was there.
Then one morning, I found one of our goats dead in the pasture. We had a small herd of about 10 dairy goats, and this one was lying on its side in the grass, perfectly still. When I got close enough to examine it, I saw its neck was broken, cleanly broken, like someone had grabbed its head and twisted. No blood, no bite marks, no claw marks, no signs of a struggle at all.
I’ve seen what predators do to livestock. Bears maul. They tear and rip and leave a bloody mess. Mountain lions leave puncture wounds from their teeth and claw marks from their paws. Coyotes work in packs and leave multiple wounds. This was none of that. This was surgical, precise, like something had killed it with its bare hands and then just left it there.
Chapter 6: The Tapping
My wife started hearing things at night. She’d wake me up at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, shaking my shoulder, whispering that she heard something outside. I’d lie there in the darkness, listening. At first, I couldn’t hear anything unusual, just the normal sounds of the farm at night. Wind in the trees, the occasional call of an owl, the house settling. But then I’d hear it, too. A deep grunt coming from somewhere in the distance. Low and resonant, like nothing I’d ever heard before. Not a bear, not an elk, something else.
And then there was the knocking. That’s the only word I have for it. Knocking like someone was hitting two pieces of wood together out in the forest. Slow, methodical knocks that would echo across the property. Three knocks, pause, three more knocks over and over.
We’d lie in bed listening to these sounds, and I could feel my wife shaking next to me. She’d grip my hands so tight it hurt, and I’d try to comfort her, try to tell her it was probably just trees rubbing together in the wind. But I didn’t believe it any more than she did. We both knew what we were hearing wasn’t natural.
Chapter 7: The Final Break
After that day, everything changed. It was like once we both acknowledged what was out there, it felt free to show itself more often. Or maybe we were just paying attention now, seeing things we’d been unconsciously ignoring before. Either way, the sightings became more frequent.
We’d see it at dusk, that gray time between day and night when the light plays tricks, but you can still make out shapes. A massive shadow moving past the barn. A dark figure standing at the edge of the woods, there one moment and gone the next. Sometimes it was just a glimpse, a split-second sighting that left us wondering if we’d really seen anything at all. Other times it was more prolonged, a clear view of this impossible creature watching us from the forest.
Chapter 8: The Decision
The worst part, the thing that keeps me up at night even more than the sounds outside, is knowing that whoever buys this place will have no idea what they’re getting into. Do we tell them? If we disclose what’s been happening, the property becomes worthless. No one will buy it. We’ll lose everything.
But if we don’t tell them, if we let another family move in blind, what happens to them? Do they go through everything we’ve gone through? Do their kids get traumatized like ours?
These are the impossible choices we’re facing. There’s no good answer. Every option leads to loss and pain and guilt.
Chapter 9: The Escape
We’ve started packing, made offers on a house in town, told the kids we’re moving somewhere safer, somewhere they can play outside again. They’re excited, relieved, already starting to act more like themselves. My wife has stopped crying every day. There’s hope again. Fragile, but real.
We’re getting out. We’re escaping. But I know I’ll never really leave this place behind. The fear will follow me. The memories will haunt me. The knowledge that these creatures exist, that they’re territorial and intelligent and dangerous, will color everything I do for the rest of my life.
End of Story.
