Bigfoot Killed 6 Hikers — Alleged REAL Bigfoot Footage Caught on Camera

They tell you the forest is dangerous because of weather, cliffs, or animals. They don’t tell you about the things that don’t fit into a report. The things you can’t write down without sounding insane. I carried those things for years. Six people never came home, and I know why. Or at least, I know what took them.

I was a Forest Service ranger in my mid‑thirties when it began. No kids. Too many patrol shifts. I knew every gravel road, every locked gate, every unofficial spur trail in that district. When hikers went missing, my phone rang. That was the job. I thought I knew those woods.

The first call came on a gray Sunday night in early spring. Two hikers overdue at Micah Creek. Weekend hikers. Responsible. Late twenties. The kind of call that usually ends with tired smiles and sore ankles. I didn’t feel dread. I didn’t feel anything special at all.

At the trailhead, their car sat quietly under dripping trees. No note. No damage. Their names were in the register. Planned route. Loop trail. In and out by Saturday. Except they weren’t out.

As we scanned the register, another name caught my eye. A solo hiker reported missing weeks earlier in a neighboring drainage. Different jurisdiction. Same forest. I pushed the thought aside. Coincidences happen. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The first real sign came a mile in. A teal hiking jacket torn cleanly along the seam, snagged on a branch just off the trail. Not weather damage. Not rot. Something had pulled hard. Nearby, a trekking pole snapped like a dry bone. Then the prints.

They weren’t clear. Not the cartoon footprints people expect. Just partial impressions in soft soil. Wide. Bare‑looking. Too long. No claws. The stride felt wrong. Too deliberate.

We pulled the teams at dark. Rain came in hard overnight. I sat in my truck staring at the map, red circles marking where we’d been. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow we’d find them.

The video didn’t come from the hikers.

It came from us.

Months earlier, I’d strapped a small weatherproof camera to a tree near an abandoned spur road. It wasn’t for wildlife. It was to catch people sneaking past a locked gate. I’d forgotten about it.

The next morning, someone at the district office remembered. I went to retrieve it, expecting raccoons and wind‑shaken branches. Sitting alone in my truck, I scrolled through the files.

Empty trail. Empty trail. Night eyes. Then one clip opened and my stomach dropped.

Leaves filled the frame, pressed against the lens, then swung aside. Something stepped into view. Tall. Dark. Broad through the shoulders. It moved with a steady, heavy gait. And it was carrying someone.

A human body hung limp in its arms. The head lolled back. A braid, half unraveled, swung against its forearm. I recognized it immediately. The same braid her friend had shown us in a photo at the trailhead.

The thing never looked at the camera. It walked past like it owned the trail.

I told myself it was a man in a suit. I had to. Anything else was unthinkable. But no suit explains how natural it moved, how unconcerned it was, how its arms wrapped entirely around a grown adult like she weighed nothing.

We logged the footage. We locked it down. We called it “unknown subject.” We didn’t say the word everyone was thinking.

A week later, another car appeared at the same trailhead. Three people this time. One of them was my cousin.

He’d called me days earlier, excited about documenting the search for his channel. I warned him. I begged him. He laughed it off. “We’ll be careful,” he said.

Their camp was still standing when we found it. Shoes neatly lined up. Sleeping bags laid out. A pot half full of water by the fire ring, like someone had simply turned away mid‑motion and never come back.

Near the creek, the mud was disturbed. A handprint pressed deep into it.

Not a paw. A hand.

Five fingers. Blunt ends. Big enough that my own hand fit inside it with room to spare. Nobody spoke. We didn’t need to.

Two days later, we found my cousin’s phone lying openly on the trail. The last video on it was eight seconds long.

The camera lay sideways. Leaves. Dirt. His face in frame, eyes unfocused. Then a hand closed around his ankle.

It wasn’t human. Fingers too long. Too thick. Dark hair covering the skin. He was dragged off the trail, boots scraping, fingers clawing at the ground. Then the sound.

Not a roar. Not a scream. Something deeper. Like air forced through a chest too big for language.

We told the families it was likely a bear.

We closed the area. Signs went up. “Hazard.” No explanation. Just no.

The reports didn’t stop. Knocking sounds at night. Rocks thrown from the tree line. A smell like wet animal and rot that rolled in and vanished. Dogs refusing to move forward, shaking at the edge of steep slopes locals called the Black Steps.

Then I went back alone.

I wanted to see if the place in the video was real. If it existed beyond a screen. It did.

I recognized the bend in the trail. The double‑trunk cedar. The rotten stump. This was where it had walked with her in its arms.

That’s when I heard it breathe.

Slow. Heavy. Too close.

Through the trees, I saw hair. Not shadow. Not bark. A shoulder like a door frame turned sideways. An arm hanging almost to the knee. A face mostly in shadow, eyes set deep, watching.

It stepped toward me.

I ran.

I don’t apologize for that. I ran because survival isn’t brave. It’s instinct.

It hit my truck hard enough to rock it. A hand slapped against the window, fingers spread, covering most of the glass. Thick nails scuffed the surface. Then it screamed.

I felt it in my teeth.

Rocks struck the truck as I fled. One nearly took out my windshield. Somehow, I made it back.

That was the end.

Officially.

The cases closed as “presumed deceased.” Terrain. Weather. Possible wildlife involvement. Bones were found later. Not enough for answers. Just enough for paperwork.

The footage still exists. Locked away in an evidence room under fluorescent lights. Sometimes I dream someone will play it by mistake.

I’m not telling you this to convince you of anything. Call it a hoax. Call it a bear. Call me a liar.

All I know is this: six people walked into a specific stretch of forest and did not walk out. A camera filmed something carrying one of them like prey. A phone recorded a hand too big to belong to any man dragging another into the trees.

When the truth became too dangerous, too expensive, too impossible to explain, the gate was closed.

And whatever lives beyond it is still there.