Helicopter Pilot Films GIANT SASQUATCH with a Hiker

I Saw Bigfoot Carry A Dead Hiker Into The Mountains

I’m still not sure what to make of what I filmed last November. Even now, months later, every time I replay that footage, the same cold chill runs through my spine. It always hits hardest at one specific moment—the moment when it raises its hand. Not in fear. Not in anger. But in a gesture so calm, so unmistakably deliberate, that it feels almost human. Like a greeting. Or an acknowledgment. As if it was saying: I see you.

Before that day, I believed the Cascade Mountains were wild but understandable. I’d flown over them for six years as a helicopter pilot for the Washington State Department of Natural Resources, patrolling protected forests for illegal logging. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it mattered. Those old-growth trees weren’t just timber—they were history, ecosystems older than any of us, and my job was to protect them.

That November morning began like hundreds before it. Clear skies. Fresh snow. Perfect flying conditions. Snow makes everything visible from the air—tracks, disturbances, scars on the land. I was assigned to investigate reports of unauthorized tree cutting in a protected zone about sixty miles northeast. Standard procedure. Fly the grid. Document damage. Record GPS coordinates. File the report.

I brought a friend along that day, an old buddy from high school who’d always wanted to ride in a helicopter. Regulations are strict, but this flight was routine and approved. He showed up grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, fascinated by every gauge and control. I remember thinking how nice it was to see my job through fresh eyes again.

We lifted off around 9:30 a.m., the rotors echoing through the valleys. From a few hundred feet up, the forest looked endless—ridge after ridge of dark green, dusted white with snow, untouched and ancient. Elk moved through clearings. Deer lay still near the edges of meadows. Everything felt peaceful. Normal.

About ninety minutes into the flight, I spotted what we’d been looking for: a fresh illegal clearing on a protected slope. Dark patches of exposed earth cut sharply through the snow. Massive trees—at least a century old—felled and dragged away. Truck tracks still crisp. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

I circled the site, documenting everything carefully. My friend watched quietly, clearly disturbed by the scale of the destruction. That was when he noticed something else.

“Hey,” he said slowly, pointing. “What’s that person doing way out here?”

Half a mile from the logging site, on an old, barely visible trail, a lone hiker moved steadily through the snow. Gray jacket. Large backpack. Miles from any maintained trailhead. Unusual, but not impossible.

Then I saw the second figure.

It was about a hundred yards behind the hiker, walking the same trail. At first, my brain tried to reject what my eyes were seeing. I zoomed in with the camera, my breath catching in my throat.

It was enormous. Seven or eight feet tall at least. Broad shoulders. Long arms swinging naturally. Its body was covered in dark, shaggy fur. And it was walking fully upright—fluid, balanced, unmistakably bipedal.

This was no bear. Bears don’t move like that.

Neither of us spoke. We just watched in stunned silence as the creature followed the hiker at a steady distance. Not stalking. Not charging. Just… accompanying. Calm. Unhurried.

I adjusted our position, descending slightly, hands trembling on the controls. Through the zoom lens, I could see details I’ll never forget: the massive frame, the intelligence in its movements, the way its stride differed from a human’s but was just as natural. This wasn’t awkward imitation. This was its normal way of moving.

My friend whispered, over and over, “That’s not possible.”

But it was.

After several minutes, the creature stopped. Completely still. Then it looked up—directly at us. Its eyes were dark and alert, filled with awareness. Not animal instinct. Conscious thought.

Slowly, deliberately, it raised one massive arm and lifted its hand high.

It waved.

Not aggressively. Not defensively. Just a calm, unmistakable acknowledgment. It held the gesture for several seconds—long enough that there was no doubt about its intent.

Then it turned, stepped off the trail, and vanished into the dense forest. No crashing. No panic. Just gone.

We hovered in silence, staring at the empty trees below. The hiker continued on, seemingly unaware. I checked the camera. We had nearly two minutes of clear footage—including the wave.

Back at headquarters, I filed my official report on the illegal logging. I didn’t mention the creature. I couldn’t. My friend and I agreed to keep what we’d seen to ourselves.

A week later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I went back—on foot. I hiked six brutal miles into that same remote area, following GPS coordinates burned into my memory. When I reached the ridge, I found them.

Footprints.

Massive. Eighteen to twenty inches long. Five distinct toes. Pressed deep into frozen soil. Real. Physical proof.

As I rested, I felt watched—not threatened, just aware. Before leaving, I placed some food at the base of an old cedar and whispered, “Thank you for letting us see you.”

On the hike out, I met another man on the trail. Gray jacket. Same backpack.

He smiled. “Did you see anything unusual up there?”

When I admitted the truth, he nodded calmly. “Then you saw him.”

He’d been hiking these mountains for forty years. He knew them. The creatures. More than one. He explained that the one I’d seen wasn’t following him—it was simply sharing the trail. Watching. Protecting.

“He’s never harmed me,” the man said. “He just wants to be left alone.”

When I told him about the wave, his smile softened. “That’s his way of saying everything’s fine. You were acknowledged. That’s rare.”

Before we parted, he looked me straight in the eye. “Please don’t tell the world. They’ve earned their privacy.”

I’ve kept that promise. I still have the footage. I still protect those forests from destruction. And every time I think about that wave, I realize something.

That wasn’t fear.

It was trust.

And some mysteries deserve to be protected—not exposed.