He’s Met Bigfoot Since the 70s. What It Told Him About Humans Will Shock You! – Sasquatch Story

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My name is Earl Whitaker, and I’m 97 years old. For over 50 years, I’ve carried a secret that sounds unbelievable, even to me. Between 1973 and 1998, I encountered the same Bigfoot in the Cascade Mountains, a creature that changed my understanding of humanity forever. This is the truth I have kept hidden for so long, and now I can no longer hold it in.

In 1973, I was a freshly widowed man at 45, struggling with the loss of my beloved wife, Martha, who had succumbed to breast cancer. The memories of our life together haunted me in our home in Bellingham. I could not bear the sight of the kitchen where she baked bread or the porch where we shared quiet mornings. So, I did what many broken men do—I ran away.

With a small inheritance and some savings from my years at the lumber mill, I purchased 60 acres of dense forest about 40 miles east of Concrete, Washington. It was a simple piece of land with a modest cabin built in the 1950s. No electricity, no phone line—just solitude, which was exactly what I needed. I moved in during July 1973, bringing only the essentials: canned goods, a kerosene lamp, my hunting rifle, and a transistor radio to catch the news.

For the first two months, life was quiet. I spent my days chopping wood and repairing the cabin, trying to adapt to the silence that enveloped me. But everything changed on September 17, 1973. I woke up to a sound I had never heard before—a low, guttural moan coming from near the creek, about 200 yards from my cabin. Curiosity piqued, I grabbed my rifle and ventured out into the morning fog.

What I found near the creek was beyond comprehension. Lying on its side was a massive creature, easily 7 feet tall, covered in dark reddish-brown hair. Initially, I thought it was a bear, but as I approached, I realized it was something far more extraordinary. The creature’s leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, and it struggled to rise, emitting a sound that was part human, part animal—a groan of pain.

As I locked eyes with this being, I felt frozen in place. Its deep-set, dark eyes held an intelligence that pierced through my fear. I raised my rifle instinctively, but something in those eyes stopped me. Instead of pulling the trigger, I lowered my weapon and returned to the cabin for my first aid kit. I approached the creature slowly, aware that I was crossing a threshold into the unknown.

For the next hour, I cleaned its wound and fashioned a splint from branches and rope. The creature watched me intently, allowing me to touch it, its breath coming in painful gasps. When I finished, it sat up, examined its leg, and acknowledged my efforts with a sound that felt like gratitude. Then, it hobbled away into the forest.

Three days later, I found a freshly killed rabbit on my porch, a gift from the creature I would come to know as August. Over the next two years, our relationship developed. I would leave food scraps at the edge of my clearing—apple cores, leftover beans—and they would vanish by morning. In return, August left me fish, mushrooms, and once, a whole deer haunch.

In the spring of 1975, I finally saw August clearly in daylight. It stood at the edge of the clearing, its injured leg healed but still favoring the other. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, and then I did something unexpected—I waved. August tilted its head, mimicking my gesture. At that moment, I realized our connection was something profound.

By 1976, August and I had established a routine. It would appear every few weeks, always at dawn or dusk, maintaining a respectful distance. I began documenting our encounters in a green canvas notebook, noting the dates and behaviors. I still have those journals, twelve of them stacked under my bed.

One day, while working on my cabin, I turned to find August holding my hammer, examining it with childlike curiosity. I held out my hand, and it returned the tool to me, our first real exchange of trust. I understood then that August was not just a creature of the forest; it was a being capable of understanding and communication.

As the years passed, August taught me invaluable lessons about patience, connection, and the importance of presence. I shared my thoughts and feelings with it, often about Martha and my loneliness. August would respond with soft sounds, as if trying to comfort me. It was during these moments that I learned my first lesson: patience.

In November 1979, after a night of drinking in town, I carelessly mentioned to some locals that I’d seen strange tracks on my property. Word spread quickly, and within days, hunters invaded my land, rifles ready, seeking fame. I ran them off, but the damage was done. August disappeared for two months, leaving me in despair.

Then, on a February morning in 1980, I woke to find August sitting on my porch. We sat together in silence, and I understood my second lesson: forgiveness is a choice. August had returned despite my foolishness, choosing to trust again.

By the late 1980s, our bond deepened. August began bringing me gifts—arrangements of stones and sticks, which I soon realized were forms of art. It was communicating with me in a way that transcended words. I learned that we were both artists in our own right, creating meaning from our surroundings.

Yet, with the changing times came new challenges. The forest became increasingly popular with hikers and tourists, and I watched as my sanctuary was invaded. August grew agitated, distressed by the destruction and thoughtlessness of humans. It taught me that cruelty is a choice, not a sign of youth or ignorance.

In 1994, a logging company began clearcutting nearby, and the sound of chainsaws echoed through the mountains. August came to me, looking defeated and worn. It sat beside me, and we both understood that we were witnessing the slow death of our world.

The last time I saw August was on March 15, 1998, exactly 25 years after our first encounter. It appeared on my porch, emaciated and breathing shallowly. We watched the sunrise together one last time, a moment of profound connection. As August stood to leave, it raised one hand in a silent farewell, a benediction of our shared journey.

I searched for August for months, but it was gone. I kept a tuft of its fur in a small wooden box, a tangible reminder of our extraordinary bond. Now, as I sit in assisted living, I reflect on the lessons August taught me. We have become disconnected from nature, rushing through life without truly seeing the world around us.

August showed me that we are capable of profound connection, yet we often choose isolation. We judge each other harshly, forgetting that we’re all just trying to survive, carrying wounds we don’t show. The greatest gift we can offer one another is our presence, simply being there to witness each other’s existence.

If you take anything from my story, let it be this: Slow down. Look around. Connect with someone different from you. Remember that value isn’t about what you can extract or consume. August taught me that the biggest mystery isn’t whether Bigfoot exists; it’s why we, despite our intelligence, are so determined to destroy the only home we’ve ever known. As I approach the end of my life, I still don’t have an answer to that question, but I hold onto the hope that we can choose differently.