This Bigfoot Ambushed a Logging Crew. What Followed Will Shock You – Sasquatch Story

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The Encounter in the Green Gullet

My name is Jack Ali, but for 40 years, the only name written on my hard hat was Red. At 65 years old, I walk with a limp that tells you the barometric pressure faster than the weatherman can. I’ve spent my entire adult life in the timber industry, working the high lead shows on the steep, rain-soaked slopes of Vancouver Island in the Pacific Northwest. We are known as timber beasts or stump jumpers—the men who go where the machines can’t.

On a rainy Tuesday in November 1999, I experienced something that would change my life forever. It was in a remote cut block we called the Green Gullet. The job was a heli show deep in Nutka Sound, where the terrain was too steep for roads and too gnarly for skidders. We were felling ancient western red cedar, trees that had grown for centuries, the kind that would end up as veneer in mansions or beams in lodges.

I was the bullbucker, the foreman of the felling crew. My team consisted of two veterans, Miller and Stumpy, and two greenhorns who looked like they’d never held a chainsaw before. The weather that week was typical for the coast—driving rain that turned the ground into a slurry of mud. We hiked in two miles to the face, where the target tree, a massive monarch cedar, awaited us.

This tree was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was easily 15 feet across at the base, its bark gray and stringy. I approached it, wiping the rain from my eyes, feeling a pang of guilt. Felling a tree like this felt like shooting an elephant. But the company wanted the wood, and the mortgage doesn’t pay itself.

After hours of work, we were ready for the back cut. I marked the face cut with my axe and prepared for the moment of truth. “Clear the area!” I yelled. As I made the back cut, the tree suddenly popped. I realized too late that the holding wood was rotten. The tree twisted, barber chairing violently, and a massive slab of wood kicked out backward, narrowly missing me.

Then, the tree fell sideways, crashing through the canopy and hitting the ground with a force that shook the mountain. Silence fell, and the saw idled in the mud. But before I could catch my breath, I heard it—a terrifying scream echoing from the dense brush above us. It wasn’t the growl of a bear or the cry of a mountain lion; it was a sound that froze my blood.

Suddenly, rocks the size of basketballs began to rain down on us, thrown from the shadows. The creatures emerged—three massive figures covered in dark fur, screaming and hurling debris. They were unlike anything I had ever seen, and instinct kicked in. “Run!” I shouted, but the crew was already scattering, panic taking over. I was left standing there, alone.

Then, one of the creatures, a towering figure with large, intelligent eyes, stepped forward. It wasn’t attacking; it was trying to communicate. It pointed at the fallen log, then at the sky, mimicking a lifting motion. It was asking for help. I realized that this creature had been watching us, protecting its territory, and now it was pleading for us to assist its trapped young.

With adrenaline surging, I grabbed the radio on my belt and called for help. “Mayday, mayday! This is felling crew 7. We are under attack by large predators!” I shouted, my heart racing. The response from the helicopter pilot was immediate, but I knew I had to act quickly.

The creature, which I later called Little Bit, stood beside me, its presence both terrifying and oddly comforting. I explained the situation to my crew over the radio, urging them to stand down and not engage. I needed to protect both my men and the creatures. As I stood there, I made a decision that would change everything.

I instructed the helicopter to come in hot, knowing that the extraction of the trapped juvenile was paramount. When the helicopter arrived, I rigged the fallen log for lift, and with the help of Little Bit, we managed to get the log off the trapped young one. The helicopter lifted the log, and the bull stood guard, raising its arms in victory.

After that day, everything changed. I couldn’t return to logging. I realized that I couldn’t destroy the forests that harbored these incredible beings. I quit my job the next day, knowing that I had witnessed something extraordinary.

Years passed, and I tried to forget about that day. I married, had kids, and built a life in Montana. But the memory of Little Bit and its family lingered in the back of my mind. Then, on a cold November evening, 20 years after that fateful encounter, I heard a heavy knock on my door.

I opened it to find a massive silhouette backlit by the porch light. Standing before me was Little Bit, now towering over me at nearly 7 and a half feet tall. “Patrick, friend,” it said, its deep voice filled with emotion. I stood frozen, disbelief washing over me.

Little Bit explained that it had come to thank me for saving its life and to ask for my help once more. Its family was struggling to survive, and they needed shelter for the winter. I knew then that my life was about to take another unexpected turn.

With trepidation, I agreed to help Little Bit and its family, knowing that this decision could change everything again. Little Bit had watched over my family for years, protecting them from dangers in the wilderness. Now it was my turn to return the favor.

As I prepared to welcome Little Bit, Morning, and Reed into my home, I felt the weight of the past and the promise of the future collide. I had once saved a creature that wasn’t supposed to exist, and now I was about to embark on a new journey of compassion and understanding, bridging the gap between our worlds.

In the days that followed, I learned to embrace the extraordinary. Little Bit and its family became part of my life, hidden away in the shed, yet always close by. Their presence reminded me of the bond we shared, a connection forged in kindness and respect for the wild.

As winter settled in, I reflected on the lessons learned from my encounters with these incredible beings. They were not just myths; they were family, and I was honored to help them survive in a world that often forgot their existence. The mountains held their secrets, but now they also held our story—a story of connection, resilience, and the enduring power of kindness.