GIANT SASQUATCH ROADKILL!! | Giant Bigfoot Creature Hit By Truck At 80 MPH
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The Night Devin McCriedy Met the Impossible
Eight years have passed since that fateful night in the Olympic Peninsula, and yet not one of my trucker buddies believes me. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me either if I hadn’t lived through it. But I’m telling this story anyway because what happened out there changed everything I thought I knew about the deep woods of Washington State. My name’s Devin McCriedy, and I’ve been hauling freight for over 15 years.
I’ve driven across every state, seen all kinds of strange things on the road—drunk drivers, police chases, even a meteor shower that lit up the night sky like the Fourth of July. But nothing prepared me for what I encountered on that October night in 2016. It was a Tuesday when my dispatcher, Rick, called me into his office. Rick was a gruff guy, one of those old-school truckers with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and connections that ran deeper than anyone wanted to ask about.
He had a special run for me—off the books. I’d done off-the-books runs before, usually just avoiding way stations or taking routes that bypassed checkpoints where the authorities got a little too curious about manifests. But this job was different. It involved old-growth timber from the Hoe River area in the Olympic Peninsula. Harvesting old-growth timber wasn’t just illegal; it was federal crime territory. The client was paying triple the rate—cash, one night’s work, $40,000 in my pocket. That was more than I made in six months of legitimate hauling.
My truck payments were behind, my ex-wife was threatening to take me back to court for more alimony, and my daughter’s college fund was looking pretty bare. So, I convinced myself it was just one night, one run, and nobody would get hurt. Rick handed me half the payment upfront in cash and detailed directions to the pickup location. The plan was straightforward: leave Seattle at 11 p.m., drive to the pickup location, load the timber, and deliver it to a mill outside Tacoma before sunrise.
The route would take me through some of the most remote areas of the Olympic Peninsula, but my rig—a 2014 Peterbilt 379—had never let me down. I trusted it completely. The drive started normally enough. I-5 south to Olympia, then west on Highway 101 toward the coast. Traffic was light, just a few late-night commuters and the occasional state trooper. I kept my speed exactly at the limit, the CB radio quiet, trying to blend in like just another trucker making an overnight haul.
But as I turned off 101 onto the smaller roads leading deeper into the peninsula, the landscape began to change. The suburbs and small towns gave way to dense forests, ancient Douglas firs and western red cedars towering overhead, their branches forming a canopy so thick that my headlights barely penetrated the darkness. Around midnight, my GPS started acting weird, cutting in and out, trying to route me down roads that didn’t exist. I had to rely on the handwritten directions Rick had given me, following a series of increasingly narrow and winding roads.
By 1:00 a.m., I hadn’t seen another vehicle for over an hour. The road had gone from smooth asphalt to cracked pavement to what was essentially a logging road. My truck bounced and swayed as the suspension worked overtime. The trees here were massive, some easily 200 feet tall, likely older than the United States itself. This was old-growth forest, the kind environmental groups fought to protect. And somewhere up ahead, I was supposed to pick up a load of it that had been illegally harvested.
My conscience was starting to gnaw at me when I felt the first bump. It was 1:47 a.m. when I hit whatever was lying in the road. The impact felt like running over a decent-sized branch or maybe a small rock, but within five minutes, I could feel the steering getting sluggish. The truck was pulling to the right, and I heard that telltale thumping sound every trucker dreads—a flat tire. I pulled over and set the parking brake, grabbing my flashlight to assess the damage.
Sure enough, the front passenger tire was completely shredded. Whatever I’d hit had torn a gash in the sidewall that no amount of fix-a-flat would solve. That’s when I made the rookie mistake that would turn a simple tire change into the worst night of my life. I hadn’t checked my spare tires before leaving Seattle. When I opened the compartment where the spare should have been, I found nothing but old rags and a tool I couldn’t identify.
I stood there in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense forest, with a disabled truck and no way to fix it. My cell phone showed no bars, not even emergency service. The CB radio couldn’t raise anyone either. I was completely stranded. After an hour of trying to come up with alternatives, I noticed something in the forest—a glimpse of what looked like a structure, just the edge of a roof visible through the canopy.
I grabbed my flashlight and made my way through the underbrush. It took me 20 minutes to reach what I’d spotted. There were three buildings arranged in a rough semicircle around a central clearing. They looked like old logging cabins, built back when timber companies established temporary camps deep in the forest. But these hadn’t been temporary; they were substantial structures built to last. What was immediately obvious was that they were completely abandoned.
No lights in the windows, no smoke from chimneys, no signs of recent habitation. The buildings had a weathered, forgotten look that suggested they’d been empty for years. I called out, explaining that I had truck trouble and could use some help. No answer—just the sound of wind in the trees and the distant hoot of an owl. I approached the largest cabin, the door standing ajar, creaking slightly in the breeze.
Inside, the cabin was sparse but functional—a stone fireplace, rough-hewn furniture, shelves that had once been lined with supplies. I called out again, stepping inside and apologizing for the intrusion while explaining my situation. Still no response. My flashlight beam revealed signs of relatively recent occupation—canned goods on the shelves, tools scattered about, and furniture that wasn’t completely covered in dust.
As I searched for anything that might help, I stumbled upon an impressive collection of hand tools and several items that made me increasingly uncomfortable. There were heavy chains with locks, animal traps of various sizes, and mounted on the walls were photographs showing the forest from various angles, with dates written on the back going back several years. The most recent photos made my blood run cold. They showed massive footprints pressed deep into the mud near a stream, dated just three days ago.
That’s when I heard the first sound—a low rumble, almost below the range of human hearing. I felt it more than heard it, a vibration that seemed to come up through the floorboards. At first, I thought it was a truck passing on the distant road, but it was too rhythmic, too organic. Then came the crack of breaking branches outside, moving closer. I turned off my flashlight and moved to the window, peering into the darkness.
The clearing that had seemed empty now felt threatening, full of shadows that might be hiding anything. The rumbling sound came again, closer this time, and I realized what it was—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps, but not human. Whatever was making them was big, bigger than any animal I knew of. I backed away from the window, my heart pounding. This was probably just a bear, I told myself. But bears don’t sound like that when they walk.
The footsteps circled the cabin, slow and methodical. Through the thin walls, I could hear whatever it was breathing—deep, measured breaths that sounded disturbingly humanlike. It paused directly outside the window where I’d been looking, and I heard a new sound—sniffing, like a bloodhound tracking a scent. I held my breath, trying to make myself as small and quiet as possible.
After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps moved away, heading toward the other buildings in the clearing. That’s when I should have run. But curiosity and disbelief kept me frozen in place. I crept back to the window and peered out. What I saw there will haunt me for the rest of my life. It stood nearly nine feet tall, covered in dark hair that seemed to absorb the moonlight. The body was massively built, not fat, but powerfully muscled, like a heavyweight boxer scaled up to impossible proportions.
But it was the face that nearly made me pass out from shock. It wasn’t quite human and wasn’t quite ape. The features were heavy and primitive, with a pronounced brow ridge and a jaw that projected forward like a muzzle. But the eyes—God, the eyes—were intelligent and alert. They swept the clearing methodically, taking in every detail. This was a Sasquatch, a real living, breathing Bigfoot standing not fifty feet from where I was hiding.
It moved with purpose, heading toward the second cabin. I watched as it examined the building, running those massive hands along the walls. When it reached the door, it tilted its head, listening, then looked directly at the cabin where I was hiding. Our eyes met through the window, and I felt something primal and terrifying pass between us—recognition. It knew I was there.
The creature began walking toward my cabin with purposeful strides, and I knew I had seconds before it reached the door. The back of the cabin opened onto the forest, and I made a split-second decision that probably saved my life. I ran. I crashed through the back door and into the darkness, my flashlight beam swinging wildly as I stumbled over fallen logs and crashed through underbrush.
Behind me, I could hear the front door of the cabin being torn apart, not opened, but torn apart with a splintering crash. Then came the roar—part human scream, part animal bellow, and completely terrifying. The chase was on. Running through dense forest at night while being pursued by a creature that knows the terrain better than you do is not something I’d recommend.
Every step was a gamble. A root could trip me, a low branch could knock me unconscious, a ravine could break my neck. But the alternative was letting that thing catch me. My flashlight died after about ten minutes, leaving me stumbling through darkness, guided only by moonlight filtering through the canopy. I could hear it gaining ground, its footsteps shaking the earth.
At one point, I thought I’d lost it. I stopped to catch my breath behind a massive fallen cedar, my lungs burning. That’s when I heard the sniffing again, much closer than I expected. The creature had been tracking me by scent. I forced myself to start moving again, but my energy was running low. I was making more noise than I wanted to as I stumbled through the darkness.
The creature seemed to sense my weakness. Its pursuit became more aggressive, the crashing sounds getting closer. I found myself at the edge of a steep ravine with no way across. I could hear the creature approaching, maybe thirty seconds away. That’s when I saw the lights—far below me, at the bottom of the ravine, I could see the faint glow of headlights on asphalt. A road, not the logging road where I’d left my truck, but some other route that cut through the forest.
I didn’t have time to look for a safe way down. I could hear branches breaking as the creature closed in. So, I half jumped, half fell down the steep slope, grabbing at trees and rocks to slow my descent. I hit the road hard, rolling and skinning my knees on the asphalt. But I was alive, and more importantly, I was on a surface where a human could outrun something that weighed 800 pounds.
I picked myself up and started running down the center line, hoping against hope that a car would come by. Behind me, I could hear the creature crashing down the slope. It was having more trouble than I had. I’d been running for maybe ten minutes when I saw headlights approaching. A single car moving fast through the curves.
I stepped into the middle of the road and started waving my arms. The car was moving faster than the driver realized. When the headlights illuminated me, I heard the screech of brakes and the squeal of tires as the driver swerved hard to avoid hitting me. That’s when everything went wrong in a way I never could have anticipated. The car—a late-model Honda Civic—swerved to miss me and went off the road, clipping a tree and spinning back toward the center of the asphalt.
The impact was tremendous. The tree was easily six feet in diameter, and the car hit it at probably forty miles per hour. The front end crumpled like an accordion, and steam started pouring from under the hood. I ran toward the wreck, ready to help the driver when I heard something that made me freeze in place. The creature’s roar, much closer than I expected, had reached the road and was charging toward us.
In the glow of the car’s headlights, I could see it clearly for the first time—all nine feet of it, covered in dark brown hair, moving with impossible speed. It approached the wreck at full speed, and what happened next was like something out of a horror movie. The Honda had come to rest against the tree, and the creature apparently didn’t see the obstacle.
It hit the car at full speed, its momentum carrying it forward into the tree with a sickening crunch. The impact was so violent it shook leaves from the branches overhead. The creature’s massive body was pinned between the car and the tree, and after a moment of thrashing, it went completely still.
I stood there in the middle of the road, hardly able to believe what I just witnessed. The creature that had been chasing me for hours was apparently dead, killed by its own momentum. But my relief was short-lived. I could hear moaning from inside the car. The driver was alive but hurt. I ran to the car and peered through the spiderwebbed windshield. The driver was a young woman, maybe in her twenties, slumped over the steering wheel with blood trickling from a cut on her forehead.
She was unconscious but breathing, and while she probably had a concussion, she didn’t seem to be in immediate danger. The creature, on the other hand, was clearly dead. Its massive body was wedged between the car and the tree, its neck bent at an angle that left no doubt about its condition. In death, it looked even more imposing than it had in life.
I should have stayed with the injured driver, but panic was setting in. I needed help—medical assistance for the woman, and frankly, I had no idea how to explain what had just happened. I started running down the road again, leaving the accident scene behind. After about an hour of walking and jogging, I saw lights ahead. Not headlights, but the steady glow of a small town—Clearwater.
I burst into the sheriff’s office at 4:30 a.m., probably looking like I’d been mauled by a bear, which wasn’t far from the truth. I explained to the deputy on duty that there had been an accident about ten miles north on Forest Road 47. A woman was hurt, and there was something else he needed to see. The deputy took down the basic information and called for an ambulance.
Within fifteen minutes, we had a small convoy heading back toward the crash site—an ambulance, a fire truck, and the deputy’s patrol car with me riding shotgun. But we never made it to the accident. About five miles from town, we encountered a roadblock that hadn’t been there when I’d passed through earlier. Two black SUVs were parked across the road, and several men in dark suits were directing traffic away from the area.
The lead agent informed Deputy Morrison that there was a federal investigation in progress and the road was closed until further notice. When Morrison protested that he had an injured motorist up there and needed to get medical assistance through, the man replied that the situation was being handled and ordered us to turn around. Morrison looked like he wanted to argue, but something about these guys suggested they weren’t local Forest Service or even FBI.
They had an authority that went deeper than badges, and the equipment they were using looked military-grade. When I asked what kind of federal investigation was happening, the man looked at me for the first time, and I had the distinct impression that he already knew who I was and why I was there. He simply stated that it was classified and repeated his order for us to turn around.
We had no choice but to return to town. The ambulance and fire truck were turned back as well, and Morrison spent the next hour on the radio trying to find out who had authority over whatever was happening on Forest Road 47. He never got a straight answer. By sunrise, I was sitting in the diner in Clearwater, drinking coffee that tasted like motor oil and trying to process what had happened.
Morrison sat across from me, his incident report half-finished, asking me to clarify my story. I’d been trying to figure out how to answer his questions for hours. The truth sounded insane, but I couldn’t think of a lie that would explain everything that had happened. I told him I thought it was a bear—a really big bear that got aggressive when I disturbed its territory. Morrison nodded like that made sense, which it sort of did if you ignored the details.
When he asked about the bear being hit by a car that crashed into a tree, I confirmed that was roughly what happened. Morrison finished writing his report, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely satisfied. There were too many gaps, too many details that didn’t quite add up. He mentioned that the federal agents would probably want to talk to me since whatever they were investigating might be related to my accident, but the federal agents never came to talk to me.
In fact, as the morning wore on, it became clear that they had no interest in my story at all. A tow truck was allowed through the roadblock to retrieve my disabled truck. Apparently, my flat tire had been repaired and the truck moved to a service station in Forks. By noon, I was back on the road heading toward Tacoma with no cargo and a story I couldn’t tell anyone.
When I called Rick to explain what had happened, he was surprisingly unconcerned about the loss of the cargo. He simply said that sometimes jobs go sideways and there was nothing I could have done about it. But when I pressed him for details about who had arranged the shipment and where the timber had come from, he became evasive, advising me not to ask too many questions about that particular job.
I started to suspect that the whole timber operation had been a setup, that someone had wanted me in those woods at that particular time for reasons I couldn’t understand. But why and who? I tried to research the area where everything had happened, looking for information about the abandoned cabins and the logging operations that might have operated there. What I found was frustrating. The land had been owned by a series of shell companies and government entities, with ownership changing hands frequently.
The cabins didn’t appear on any official maps or property records. As far as the government was concerned, they didn’t exist. The incident with the injured driver also disappeared from official records. When I called the state patrol to check on her condition, they had no record of any accident on Forest Road 47 that night. According to them, nothing had happened. But I knew what I’d seen. The woman had been real. The crash had been real. And the creature—God help me—had been real too.
Eight years later, I’m still driving truck, still hauling legitimate cargo on routes that keep me far away from the Olympic Peninsula. I’ve told this story to a few people—close friends, family members, other truckers who’ve shared their own strange experiences from the road. Nobody believes me. They listen politely, nod in the right places, and then change the subject. A few have suggested I might have hallucinated the whole thing—too much stress, too little sleep, maybe some kind of gas leak in the cab that affected my perception.
But I know what I experienced that night. I know what chased me through those woods, and I know what died in that crash. I also know that some very powerful people went to a lot of trouble to make sure the incident never became public knowledge. The question that keeps me awake at night isn’t whether Sasquatch exists; I know it does. The question is why the government is so determined to keep it secret and how many other people have had encounters that have been covered up or discredited.
I still drive the highways and back roads of America, hauling cargo from coast to coast. But I’m more careful now about which jobs I take and which routes I travel. I avoid the deep forest whenever possible, especially at night. And I never take off-the-books jobs from clients I don’t know. Sometimes when I’m driving through remote areas, I’ll catch a glimpse of something moving in the tree line—just a shadow, just a suggestion of something large and bipedal.
But I don’t stop to investigate, and I don’t slow down. I keep my spare tires properly maintained, my cell phone charged, and my CB radio tuned to the emergency channel. When other truckers share stories about strange encounters on remote highways, I listen without judgment because I know the truth that most people aren’t ready to accept. We’re not alone out here.
There are things living in the wild places of America that science hasn’t cataloged and the government doesn’t want us to know about. I saw one of them die that night on Forest Road 47, pinned between a Honda Civic and a Douglas fir tree. But I also know there are others out there, moving through the forests and mountains, staying just out of sight of the human world that has encroached on their territory.
And sometimes late at night, when I’m driving through areas so remote that my headlights are the only illumination for miles, I wonder if one of them is watching me pass, remembering the human who witnessed their secret and lived to tell about it. The road goes on, and so do the mysteries it holds. But I’ll keep driving, keep hauling, and keep watching for signs of things that officially don’t exist.
Because eight years ago, I learned that the world is bigger and stranger than most people imagine. And once you’ve seen the impossible, you can never quite look at the empty spaces on the map the same way again. That’s my story. Believe it or don’t; I’ve learned not to care what people think. But if you’re ever driving through the deep woods of the Pacific Northwest and you see something that shouldn’t exist, remember what I’ve told you. And whatever you do, don’t stop to investigate. Just keep driving and hope it doesn’t decide to follow you home.
