He’s Met Bigfoot Since the 70s. What It Told Him About Humans Will Shock You!
In the heart of the Cascade Mountains, where the trees tower like ancient sentinels and the air is thick with the scent of pine, I discovered a truth that would haunt me for decades. I am Earl Whitaker, and for over fifty years, I have carried a secret that defies belief—a secret that has taught me more about humanity than I ever wished to know.
It all began in 1973, a year that marked the end of my life as I knew it. I was 45 years old, recently widowed, and drowning in grief. Martha, my beloved wife, had succumbed to breast cancer that spring, leaving behind a void that seemed insurmountable. Our home in Bellingham, once filled with laughter and love, now felt like a prison of memories. Every corner of the house whispered her name, every shadow reminded me of her absence. So, I did what any broken man might do—I ran away.
With a small inheritance and some savings from my years at the lumber mill, I bought a piece of land about forty miles east of Concrete, Washington. It was a rugged expanse of 60 acres, dense with forest and crisscrossed by a clear creek. A modest cabin from the 1950s stood on the property—nothing fancy, just a one-bedroom retreat with a wood stove, an outhouse, and a hand pump for water. It was exactly what I needed.
I moved in during July of 1973, driving my old Ford F-100 packed with essentials: canned goods, a kerosene lamp, tools, a hunting rifle, and a transistor radio to catch the news and baseball games. The solitude was both a balm and a burden, offering me respite from my grief while also amplifying the silence that enveloped me. The nearest neighbor was eight miles away, and for the first two months, I embraced the quiet, chopping wood and repairing the cabin’s roof.
But everything changed on September 17, 1973. I woke up to a sound I had never heard before—a low, guttural moaning emanating from the creek, perhaps two hundred yards from my cabin. Curiosity piqued, I grabbed my rifle and ventured out into the morning fog that rolled through the trees like a ghostly shroud. What I found would alter the course of my life forever.
At first, I thought it was a bear, lying on its side near the creek bank, partially hidden by ferns. But as I approached, I realized this was no bear. The creature was massive, easily seven feet tall, covered in dark reddish-brown hair. One of its legs was twisted at an unnatural angle, and when it saw me, it tried to rise but collapsed, emitting a sound that was almost human—a groan of pain and frustration.
In that moment, I was frozen, staring into the creature’s eyes—deep-set, dark, and filled with an intelligence that sent chills down my spine. My rifle was raised, my finger hovering over the trigger, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was the loneliness that had haunted me since Martha’s death. I lowered my weapon and returned to the cabin, grabbing my first aid kit and some old towels.
When I returned, the creature watched me approach, its breath coming in short, painful gasps. I had no medical training, but I knew enough to recognize a bad break. I cleaned the wound and fashioned a crude splint from branches and rope, all while the creature lay still, allowing me to touch it. Its hair was coarse, more like thick wire than fur, and beneath it, the skin was dark gray.
After an hour of tending to its injury, I backed away slowly. The creature sat up, its movements labored, and looked down at its leg, then back at me. It made a sound that I can only describe as acknowledgment—not quite a grunt, but a recognition of my efforts. Then, with great effort, it stood and hobbled into the forest, using trees for support.
I didn’t expect to see it again, but three days later, I found a freshly killed rabbit on my porch. No note, no explanation—just a gift, cleanly killed and still warm. That was how it began. Over the next two years, I left food scraps at the edge of the clearing—apple cores, bread crusts, leftover beans—and they would vanish by morning. In return, I received fish from the creek, wild mushrooms, and even a whole deer haunch that kept me fed for weeks.
I never saw the creature clearly during those first years, just glimpses of a massive silhouette moving between trees at dusk. But I felt its presence, watching and learning about me, just as I was trying to understand it. By the spring of 1975, I finally caught a glimpse of it in full daylight, standing at the edge of the clearing. It was taller than I had realized, perhaps seven and a half feet tall, and its injured leg had healed, though it still favored the other one slightly.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, and then I did something I never thought I would—I waved. To my astonishment, the creature tilted its head and mimicked the gesture. That moment marked the beginning of something profound between us.
By 1976, we had established a routine, a careful mutual understanding. The creature, which I began to call August in my mind, would appear every few weeks, always at dawn or dusk, always keeping a respectful distance. I bought a Polaroid camera, sensing that I might need proof of what I was witnessing, but fear and respect kept me from using it. Instead, I started keeping a journal, documenting our encounters and my observations.
As the years passed, August’s intelligence became more apparent. One day, while replacing rotted boards on my cabin, I turned to find August holding my hammer, examining it with childlike curiosity. When I held out my hand, it walked closer and placed the hammer in my palm. It was a gesture of trust, and in that moment, I realized August was not just a creature of the forest; it was a being capable of understanding and connection.
In the late 1970s, amidst the chaos of the outside world—political turmoil, rising gas prices, and societal shifts—August and I existed in a bubble, building our own language and understanding. I shared my thoughts with August, speaking about Martha and my loneliness, and while I knew it didn’t understand the words, it seemed to grasp the meaning behind them. Sometimes it would make soft sounds in response, almost like it was trying to comfort me.
Through these interactions, I began to learn valuable lessons about patience, kindness, and the importance of connection. One afternoon, after a frustrating attempt to fix my chainsaw, August demonstrated patience by carefully removing the air filter cover, teaching me that sometimes, taking a step back is the best way to solve a problem.
But the world outside was changing, and in 1979, I made a mistake that nearly cost me everything. After a few too many drinks at the local tavern, I foolishly mentioned seeing something unusual on my property. Word spread quickly, and soon hunters were descending upon my land, rifles at the ready, eager to become famous. I ran them off, but the damage was done; August vanished for two months, and I feared I had lost my friend forever.
Then, one February morning in 1980, I woke to find August sitting on my porch. It looked thinner, but its presence brought a rush of relief. It reached into its thick fur and pulled out a smooth river stone, offering it to me—a gift of acceptance. We sat together in silence, watching the sunrise, and I understood that forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling.
As the years rolled on, our bond deepened. August began bringing me gifts—arrangements of stones and carefully constructed piles of sticks. I realized it was creating art, a form of communication that transcended words. We exchanged creations, finding joy in our shared expressions.
However, the increasing presence of humans in the forest began to take its toll. In 1992, a group of college kids camped nearby, leaving trash and carving their initials into trees. August was visibly distressed, and it led me to the site, gesturing at the destruction. I tried to explain their youth and ignorance, but August’s reaction was clear: cruelty and thoughtlessness are choices, not signs of youth.
The most devastating moment came in 1994 when a logging company began clearcutting five miles south of my cabin. The sounds of chainsaws echoed through the mountains, and the forest I had come to love was being destroyed. August appeared, looking defeated and old, and I realized for the first time that it was judging humanity as a whole, not just me.
For eight months, I didn’t see August. The silence was unbearable. I questioned everything—our connection, my sanity, the reality of what I had experienced. Then, in March 1995, August returned, thinner and wearier than before. We sat together, two old souls grieving for the world around us.
As our meetings continued, they shifted from lessons to companionship. We both knew our time was limited, and we clung to the moments we had left. In June of 1996, after a health scare landed me in the hospital, August lay beside me on the porch, offering its warmth and presence—reminding me that sometimes, simply being there for someone is the greatest gift of all.
By 1997, we were both frail and aging. August’s visits became less frequent, and when it did come, we shared quiet moments, reminiscing about the life we had built together. In September, August brought me a tuft of its fur—a keepsake, a memory of our time together.
The last time I saw August was on March 15, 1998, exactly twenty-five years after our first encounter. It sat on my porch, looking terrible, emaciated, and breathing shallowly. We watched the sunrise together, and as the light broke over the mountains, August took my hand in its massive palms. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, it turned and walked into the forest, raising a hand in a final farewell.
I never saw August again. I searched for months, but all I found were memories and the tuft of fur I kept in a small wooden box. I am now 97 years old, living in assisted living, far from the cabin that still stands, reclaimed by the forest. People often ask why I waited so long to tell my story. The truth is, I wasn’t waiting; I was processing the lessons August taught me.
What I learned is profound: We’ve forgotten how to be present. We rush through life, consuming without appreciating what truly matters. We judge each other harshly while carrying wounds we refuse to show. We’ve separated ourselves from nature, believing we are above it, while in reality, we are part of it.
August didn’t hate humans; it wished for us to be better, kinder, and more connected. I wish that too. The tuft of fur remains in my bedside table, a reminder of the impossible friendship I forged with a creature that transcended understanding.
If you take anything from my story, let it be this: Slow down. Look around. Appreciate the world before it’s gone. Connect with someone different from you. Learn that true value lies not in what we can extract or consume, but in the connections we forge and the love we share. And if you ever find yourself in the Cascade Mountains, be quiet, be respectful, and be open—because something might be watching, something that knows what we are and what we could be.
