Man Records Bigfoot Trying to Break Into His Cabin, Then The Worst Happened
I never believed in Bigfoot. Not even a little bit. I had heard the stories, seen the grainy photos, and watched those documentary shows late at night when sleep eluded me. To me, it was all garbage—people mistaking bears for something more, concocting tales for attention, or simply letting their imaginations run wild. But I’m telling you right now, I was wrong. Dead wrong. And I have the video to prove it.
But before I show you that video, you need to understand how I ended up in that cabin alone, with something trying to break through the wall. If I just showed you the footage without context, you’d probably think it was fake. Hell, even with context, you might still think that. So let me take you back and explain how I found myself in this nightmare.
I’m a single dad, and I’ve been one for about four years now. I have two kids, a boy and a girl, ages 9 and 11. They’re great kids, but their mother hasn’t been in the picture for a while. That’s all I’ll say about that. The point is, it’s just me and them most of the time. Last July, both kids got into a two-week camp program up north—outdoor activities, canoeing, hiking, all that good stuff. They were so excited about it, talking about it for months.
The camp ran during the last two weeks of July, which meant that for the first time in years, I had actual time to myself—two whole weeks. Now, I work construction, mostly framing. It’s hard work, long hours, but it pays the bills. Between work and taking care of my kids, I rarely get downtime. So when I dropped them off at camp on a Monday morning and drove away, watching them wave in my rearview mirror, I felt a strange mix of relief and loneliness hit me all at once.
That day, I returned home to a house that was too quiet, and the silence made me uneasy. I called my foreman and told him I was taking a few days off. He wasn’t happy about it, but since we had just finished a big job and the next one wouldn’t start until the following week, he reluctantly agreed. I had from Thursday through Sunday—four glorious days.
Right then, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in forever. I wanted to go somewhere alone, away from everything, and just breathe. No kids asking for snacks every ten minutes, no job site drama, no bills piling up on the kitchen counter—just me and some peace and quiet. I spent Monday and Tuesday getting ready. I went online and found a cabin rental way up in the mountains, about three hours north of where I lived.
The listing said it was remote, with no neighbors nearby and no cell service. Perfect. I could fish, maybe do some hiking, drink a few beers on the porch, and watch the sunset—exactly what I needed. The cabin was cheap, too—only 50 bucks a night—which should have been my first clue that it wasn’t exactly a luxury resort, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t looking for luxury; I was looking for quiet.
The photo showed a simple wooden structure surrounded by forest. One room, a small kitchen, a separate bedroom—basic but functional. I packed light, threw some clothes in a duffel bag, grabbed my fishing gear, and my old tackle box that used to belong to my dad. On Wednesday evening, I stopped at the grocery store for supplies—basic food, nothing fancy. I grabbed some steaks for grilling and picked up a case of beer, the good stuff, the kind I don’t usually buy because it costs too much. I figured I deserved it.
I left Thursday morning around 9. The drive took about three hours. The first hour was normal highway driving, nothing special. The second hour, I got off onto smaller roads winding through rural areas, and I started seeing more trees and fewer buildings. By the third hour, I was on dirt roads winding up into the mountains. The pavement ended, and my truck kicked up dust behind me. The road got narrower and rougher, the trees pressing in closer on both sides. The higher I got, the more remote everything felt.
I passed one other cabin about two miles before mine and saw a beat-up old Jeep parked outside, but no people. Other than that, nothing—just trees and more trees, mostly pine, thick forests that looked like they went on forever. That last stretch of road was rough—deep potholes, loose gravel, sharp turns with steep drops and no guard rails. I had to take it slow, maybe 15 or 20 mph at most.
Finally, around 1:00 in the afternoon, I came around a bend and saw the cabin. It sat in a small clearing surrounded by dense forest on three sides. The front had a little open space, maybe 30 feet of clear ground before the trees started again. That’s where I parked the truck. The cabin itself looked like it had been built 40 or 50 years ago—wood siding, slightly weathered but solid, with a small covered porch out front and two old chairs. The roof was metal, and there was a stone chimney on one side.
I grabbed my bags and headed to the door. The key was supposed to be under the mat, but when I got there, the door was already unlocked, actually standing open a crack. I pushed it open slowly and called out “hello” in case someone was inside. No answer. I figured the last renter probably just forgot to lock up and didn’t think much of it at the time.
Inside was exactly what I expected—one large main room with a small kitchen area against the back wall, a sink, a mini fridge, a two-burner stove, and some cabinets. The rest of the room had a worn couch, a table with two chairs, and a fireplace. Off to the side were two doors—one led to a small bedroom with a double bed, and the other door led to a bathroom, basic but functional.
I unpacked, put my groceries away, made myself a sandwich, cracked open a beer, and sat out on that little porch. The view was nice—trees everywhere, mountain peaks in the distance, birds chirping. The air smelled clean, like pine and earth, exactly what I’d hoped for. That first evening was perfect. I made a simple dinner, pasta with jarred sauce, and sat outside eating it. As the sun started going down, the sky turned orange, then pink, then purple. Stars began to appear, more stars than I’d seen in years.
I cracked open another beer and sat there until it was fully dark. The normal sounds of the forest surrounded me—the wind in the trees, branches creaking, maybe an owl hooting somewhere far off. Everything felt peaceful, exactly what I needed. I went inside around 9:30, locked the door out of habit, read my book for a while in bed—a thriller about a guy tracking a serial killer. My eyes got heavy around 10:30, so I turned off the light and went to sleep, sleeping better than I had in months.
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. It took me a moment to remember where I was, but when it hit me, I smiled. Four days of peace lay ahead. I checked my phone—7:15, no signal, just as expected. The listing had been clear about that: no cell service, no Wi-Fi, just you and nature. That was the whole point.
After breakfast, I grabbed my fishing gear and headed out. The cabin owner had mentioned a stream about 15 minutes into the woods, said it had good trout fishing. I found what looked like a trail leading into the trees and followed it. The trail was narrow, probably made by deer, winding through the forest over roots and rocks. I walked slowly, enjoying the sounds of birds calling back and forth, and spotted a deer about 50 yards off.
About 15 minutes later, I reached the stream, clear water flowing over rocks, perfect for trout. I spent most of the morning there, casting and reeling in, just enjoying the quiet. I caught a few trout—nothing huge, but decent-sized, around 8 to 9 inches—and threw most of them back, keeping two for dinner. Around noon, my stomach growled, so I packed up my gear and headed back to the cabin.
After a simple lunch of a sandwich and chips, I cleaned the fish on the porch, wrapped them in foil, and put them in the fridge for later. I lay down on the couch to rest my eyes for a minute and ended up taking a nap, waking up around 2. When I got up, I decided to explore a bit around the cabin, just walking around and seeing what was out there.
The forest was thick, with lots of pine trees and some birch mixed in. I didn’t go far—maybe a few hundred feet in each direction. One thing I noticed was how quiet it was. There were sounds—the wind in the trees, branches creaking, the occasional bird—but it felt quieter than it should have, like something was missing. It felt like the forest was holding its breath. I even said aloud, “This place is really quiet.” Then I shrugged it off. Of course, it was quiet; that’s why I came here.
That evening, I cooked the two trout I’d caught, frying them in a pan with butter and salt. They were delicious—way better than anything I could have bought at the store. I enjoyed another beer on the porch as the sun went down, reading more of my book. The serial killer was getting closer to being caught—good stuff. I read until my eyes grew tired around 10:00, feeling relaxed.
But Saturday morning started the same as Friday—coffee on the porch, a simple breakfast, everything normal. The weather was perfect, not a cloud in the sky. I decided to take a longer hike that day, really get out into the forest and see more of the area. I packed some water and snacks in a small backpack, put on my good hiking boots, and headed out around 10:00.
The path wound deeper into the forest, away from the cabin, heading up a gradual slope. The hike was nice, good exercise, and the scenery was beautiful—towering pines, patches of wildflowers in clearings, birds everywhere. I kept track of landmarks so I wouldn’t get lost—a distinctive dead tree, a pile of boulders, a stream crossing. The kind of things you remember on the way back.
After about an hour of walking and enjoying the quiet, I stopped to take a drink of water. As I stood there, I looked up and saw something through the trees about 150 yards away. There was a figure standing completely still, perfectly motionless. At first, I thought it was another hiker. But something felt off immediately. The figure was too still. People don’t stand that still, especially when they’re out hiking.
I called out, “Hello!” waving my hand over my head. Nothing. The figure didn’t move. I called out again, louder this time. Still nothing. Then it moved, but not like a person who just heard someone call out to them. It moved backward, quickly and smoothly. One second it was there, the next it was gone—disappeared deeper into the forest faster than seemed possible.
“What the hell was that?” I called out again, but there was only silence. I stood there, staring at the spot where the figure had been, trying to make sense of what I had seen. Finally, I decided to keep going with my hike, but unease had settled in my chest. I turned around and started retracing my steps back to the cabin.
When I arrived back around 1:00 PM, the clearing felt safer than the deep forest. I made lunch inside, but my appetite was gone. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I tried to read my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. The afternoon dragged on, and I kept looking out the window at the tree line, but nothing seemed amiss.
As evening came, I cooked one of the steaks I brought, which turned out pretty good. I sat on the porch, watching the sunset behind the mountains. The forest felt even quieter that evening. The birds had stopped singing, and I felt a sense of foreboding creeping in. I decided I would leave in the morning, at first light.
As the sun set, I realized I should bring in some firewood from the pile outside. I walked toward the wood pile, trying to act normal, but I noticed deep scratches on several trees nearby. I stopped, log in hand, and stared. The scratches were high up, 7 to 8 feet off the ground—way higher than I could reach. They were deep, gouged into the bark like something had clawed down the trunks.
My heart began to race as I realized these marks hadn’t been there when I arrived. They were new, made within the last day or two. I grabbed an armful of firewood and hurried back to the cabin, locking the door behind me. The feeling of being watched intensified, and I couldn’t shake it.
As night fell, I made dinner and sat close to the fire, but every sound made me tense. The cabin settling, wood creaking, wind rustling outside—it all felt threatening. I tried to sleep but kept waking up at every little noise. Finally, around midnight, I fell into a fitful sleep.
Sunday morning, I woke up late, feeling exhausted. I had a strange dream about the figure I saw in the woods. I got up, made coffee, and headed outside. That’s when I saw the footprints in the dirt just off the porch steps. They were huge—much bigger than mine. I knelt down to examine them, realizing they were unlike anything I’d ever seen before.
These prints were at least 18 inches long, with five distinct toes. I felt my stomach drop. They were fresh, made within the last few minutes, and they led from the tree line, crossed the clearing toward the cabin, and circled around the building. I was being watched, and whatever it was had been circling my cabin while I slept.
With my heart racing, I followed the prints around to the bedroom window. Several overlapping impressions showed that something had stood there for a long time, watching me sleep. I felt cold despite the warm morning air, realizing whatever made those prints was tall enough to look in easily.
I rushed back inside, locked the door, and checked all the windows. I felt the need to stay close to the cabin, avoiding the woods. I spent the rest of the day in a state of anxiety, unable to shake the feeling of dread.
As evening approached, I decided to make dinner early. I cooked one of the steaks, but it tasted like cardboard. The forest seemed even quieter that night. I locked the door and turned on all the lights, wanting to eliminate any dark corners. I tried to sleep, but every sound made my pulse spike.
Around 2:00 AM, I woke up to heavy footsteps circling my camp. My heart raced as I lay there, paralyzed with fear. The footsteps stopped, and I heard deep, powerful breathing outside my tent. I was unarmed, my rifle was outside, and I felt utterly vulnerable.
Then came a loud bang against the door, shaking the cabin. My heart raced as I realized something was trying to break in. I stood frozen, every muscle locked tight, as the creature moved around the cabin, testing the windows and pushing against the walls.
I grabbed my phone and started recording, documenting the terror unfolding before me. The sound of wood splintering echoed through the cabin as the creature attacked the wall. I could see a gap forming, darkness spilling in as it tore through the wooden planks.
Finally, I saw it—a massive face pushing through the hole. It wasn’t human, nor was it quite like an ape. The features were heavy and wrong, the eyes reflecting the light from my phone. It knew I was watching. It knew I was afraid.
In a moment of sheer survival instinct, I decided to escape. I dashed to the bedroom window, climbed out, and hit the ground running. I had to get to my truck. I stayed low, moving as fast as I could, heart pounding in my ears.
As I reached my truck, I fumbled with the keys, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I could hear the creature behind me, its heavy footsteps thundering closer. I jumped inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it just in time.
The engine roared to life, and I floored the gas pedal, my heart racing as I sped down the rough mountain road. The creature was right behind me, its massive fist slamming into the truck, metal crumpling under the impact. I pushed the truck harder, desperate to put distance between us.
Finally, I hit the paved road, and I didn’t stop until I was far away from those mountains. I drove straight through the night, my mind racing, the images of the creature burned into my memory.
When I returned to Lewon, I thought I could finally breathe again, but the experience haunted me. I had proof of what I had encountered, but I knew the world wasn’t ready to accept it. I kept the video private, locked away on my phone and computer, a secret I carried alone.
As time passed, the memories lingered, and the nightmares began. I could still hear the breathing outside my tent, feel the weight of the creature watching me. I never went back into the wilderness again, avoiding camping or hiking altogether.
Even when my kids asked to go camping, I found excuses to say no. I couldn’t bear the thought of them encountering what I had seen. The scars on my shoulder served as a constant reminder of that night, deep and angry, proof that I had faced something real and terrifying.
Three months after my return, on a cold January evening, I heard that vocalization again, vibrating through my home. I stood at the kitchen window, staring into the darkness, knowing that whatever had haunted me was still out there, still watching.
Bradley Foster’s story is a chilling reminder that some truths are too dangerous to share. I chose silence, not out of fear of disbelief, but because I understood the cost of that knowledge. I learned that the wilderness holds secrets we can’t begin to understand, and sometimes, it’s better to let those secrets remain hidden.
The forest keeps its secrets, and in the deep wilderness of Idaho, something still walks on two legs, carrying its prey, marking its territory, existing in the gaps of human knowledge. I may have escaped, but I know the truth: Bigfoot is real, and it’s out there. And I’m never going back.
