The Encounter in the Cascade Mountains
I never believed in Bigfoot until the summer of 1980 when I had an encounter that changed my life forever. My name is Vincent Holloway, and at 27 years old, I was a freelance nature photographer based out of Portland, Oregon. The summer was hot, and the Pacific Northwest was buzzing with excitement following the eruption of Mount St. Helens that May. I was riding the wave of a recovering economy, and my photography was thriving as I sold images to outdoor magazines like Field and Stream and National Geographic.
Growing up in Salem, Oregon, I was the son of a lumber mill worker and an elementary school teacher. My childhood was spent exploring the forests around the Willamette Valley, developing a deep love for the wilderness that eventually turned into a career. After high school, I attended Oregon State University for two years, studying forestry before dropping out to pursue photography full-time. My parents weren’t thrilled, but by 1980, I was proving them wrong with a solid portfolio and regular clients.
On July 18, 1980, I set out for a remote area near Mount Hood, where I had heard reports of black bears frequenting a particular valley during the salmon spawning season. My assignment was for Outdoor Life magazine, and I was eager to capture stunning photographs of wildlife. I loaded up my 1978 Ford Bronco with camera equipment, including two Nikon F2 bodies and a new Sony TCM 600 cassette recorder that I had bought just two weeks earlier to document ambient forest sounds.
The drive to the trailhead took nearly three hours, winding through small towns like Sandy and Government Camp. By 7:00 a.m., I parked my Bronco on a forest service access road, hidden behind a stand of Douglas firs. The trail I planned to follow wasn’t on any official map; I had learned about it from an old-timer named Walt, who had shared his knowledge over beers in a bar. He drew me a rough map on a cocktail napkin, showing landmarks that would guide me to the valley where the bears gathered.
As I hiked through the thick forest, I felt a sense of freedom wash over me. The morning was already warm, and I could hear the calls of Stellar’s jays and the distant drumming of a pileated woodpecker. I arrived at the creek Walt had described around 9:00 a.m. It was beautiful—about 20 feet wide, crystal clear, with several deep pools where I could see salmon resting. The banks were lined with berry bushes, and fresh bear tracks marked the mud near the water’s edge.
I set up my equipment on a small rise that gave me a good vantage point of the creek. I mounted my Nikon with a 400 mm lens on the tripod and settled in to wait. Bare photography requires patience, and I had learned that sometimes you wait hours or even days for the right shot. I also set up my Sony recorder, placing it on a flat rock nearby to capture the ambient sounds of the forest.
For the next several hours, I waited and watched. I ate my lunch—a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, a Snickers bar, and water from my canteen. The temperature climbed into the 80s, and I shed my flannel shirt, working in just my T-shirt. Around 2:00 p.m., I finally saw what I had come for. A large black bear emerged from the forest on the opposite bank of the creek. It was a magnificent creature, probably 400 pounds, with glossy black fur.
I began photographing immediately, capturing the bear as it waded into the water, watching for salmon. I was so focused on the bear through my viewfinder that I didn’t notice the other presence until I heard a voice behind me say in perfect unaccented English, “That’s a nice camera you have there.”
I froze. The voice was deep and resonant, unmistakably masculine, but with a quality I couldn’t quite place, like hearing someone speak from the bottom of a well. I turned slowly, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest, and found myself looking up at something that shouldn’t exist. It stood about 15 feet behind me, partially concealed by the shadows of a large cedar tree.
Even in the shade, I could see it clearly—a massive figure, easily seven and a half feet tall, covered in dark brown hair that hung in long, shaggy strands. The shoulders were incredibly broad, and the arms were long and muscular, ending in hands that looked almost human but much larger. The face was what shocked me most. It wasn’t entirely ape-like, nor was it human. It was something in between—a broad, flat nose, a heavy brow ridge, high cheekbones, and a jaw that seemed almost too large for the skull. But the eyes, the eyes were unmistakably intelligent, dark brown and alert, watching me with what I could only describe as curiosity.
For several seconds, neither of us moved. My mind was racing, trying to process what I was seeing, trying to reconcile this creature’s existence with everything I knew about the world. And then the most impossible part happened again. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the creature said, its voice calm and measured. “Most people scream and run when they see me. You’re just staring. That’s actually refreshing.”
“You… you can speak?” I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Obviously,” the creature replied, though I rarely get the opportunity. You’re the first human I’ve spoken to in, oh, must be three years now. Maybe four. I lose track of time out here.”
The creature took a step forward, emerging more fully from the shadows, and I could see it better. The hair covering its body was thick and coarse, matted in places with bits of bark and pine needles. It wore no clothing, but its body was so completely covered in hair that it seemed natural, not obscene. The creature moved with a grace that seemed at odds with its massive size, carefully avoiding a patch of devil’s club that would have caught on its legs.
“How do you speak English?” I asked, still unable to fully believe this was happening.
“I learned it the same way anyone learns a language,” it said, “by listening, observing, practicing. I’ve lived in these mountains for 47 years. And for much of that time, I’ve been near human settlements, close enough to hear conversations, to listen to radios and ranger stations, to watch humans interact. Language acquisition isn’t difficult when you’re motivated and have time.”
“Forty-seven years?” I said, doing the math in my head. That would mean since 1933.
“Yes, I was young then, barely past adolescence by our standards. My family and I migrated south from British Columbia, following food sources, avoiding human expansion. Eventually, I separated from them—a natural process for us—and I’ve been in Oregon ever since.”
I realized I was still sitting on the ground, my camera forgotten, staring up at this creature that was speaking to me in English. Part of my brain was screaming that this couldn’t be real, that I must be suffering from heat stroke or had eaten bad food. But the creature was too detailed, too real, too present to be a hallucination.
“What are you?” I asked. “I mean, I know people call you Bigfoot or Sasquatch, but what do you call yourselves?”
The creature made a sound—a low, rumbling vocalization that seemed to come from deep in its chest. It took me a moment to realize it was laughing. “We don’t have a word for ourselves in a way that would translate to your language. We’re simply the people of the deep forest, the ones who walk between the trees. Your names—Bigfoot, Sasquatch—they’re as good as any, I suppose.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Fewer than there used to be. When I was young, there were perhaps 200 of us in the Pacific Northwest. Now, maybe 60, 70 at most. Your species expands. Ours contracts. It’s the natural order of things.”
I felt a pang of sadness at the thought. “Do you resent us? For taking over?”
Walker was quiet for a moment, considering the question. “Resent? No. That would be like resenting the tide for coming in. Your species is successful because it adapts. Because it modifies environments to suit its needs. From an evolutionary perspective, that’s admirable. But it does make survival difficult for those of us who prefer to remain unmodified by civilization.”
We met five more times that summer of 1980. Each time, our conversations deepened. Walker told me about Sasquatch social structure, how they were primarily solitary but maintained loose family connections, how they communicated across distances using vocalizations that humans often mistook for owls or coyotes. How they had territories that could span 50 square miles.
I told Walker about my life, my dreams of becoming a renowned nature photographer, my complicated relationship with my parents, and my struggles to find meaning in a world that often felt too fast, too loud, too focused on material success. “You’re caught between two worlds,” Walker observed during our fourth meeting. “Not fully comfortable in human society, but unable to fully embrace the wilderness. You’re liminal, Vincent, existing in the spaces between.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. Liminal beings often see truths that others miss. You see the value in both civilization and wilderness. That perspective is rare and valuable.”
As summer turned to fall, our meetings became less frequent. Walker explained that as winter approached, it needed to focus on building food reserves, on preparing for the cold months when foraging became difficult. “Will you be okay?” I asked during what turned out to be our last meeting of 1980 in late September. “Do you have enough food stored?”
“I’ve survived 64 winters,” Walker said with what I’d learned to recognize as amusement. “I’ll survive this one, too. But I appreciate your concern.”
“Will I see you next year?” I asked.
“Perhaps. If I’m still in this area, if you return to this valley, if circumstances allow. But Vincent, you should know. My people don’t stay in one place forever. We migrate, following food sources and avoiding human encroachment. There may come a time when I move on.”
“When will you leave?”
“Soon, within the month. I wanted to say goodbye properly, to thank you for these years of conversation. You’ve been a good friend, Vincent—better than I expected any human could be.”
I felt tears in my eyes and didn’t try to hide them. “You’ve been a good friend to me, too. The best friend I’ve had. Honestly, I’m going to miss our talks.”
“As will I, but this is necessary. My survival depends on remaining hidden, and that’s becoming impossible here.”
We sat together for a long time that day, not talking much, just sharing space. When the sun began to set and I had to leave, Walker stood and placed one massive hand on my shoulder. “Live well, Vincent Holloway. Remember what we talked about—the value of wild places, the importance of leaving some things undocumented and unknown. Carry those lessons forward.”
“I will. I promise.”
That was the last time I saw Walker. I returned to that valley several times over the following months, hoping for one more meeting, but the creature never appeared. Eventually, I accepted that Walker was truly gone, had migrated north to safer territory, and I was left with only memories of our impossible friendship.
Life moved forward, as it always does. I continued working as a nature photographer through the 1980s and into the 1990s, building a solid reputation and eventually publishing three books of wilderness photography. I never married, never had children, preferring instead to spend my time in the forests and mountains that had always felt more like home than any building could.
The conversations with Walker changed me in fundamental ways. I became an advocate for wilderness preservation, donating portions of my photography income to conservation organizations. I wrote articles arguing for leaving certain areas undeveloped, for respecting the wild places that still existed. I never mentioned Walker, never hinted at the real reason for my passion. But those who knew me recognized that something had shifted in my perspective after 1980.
My parents passed away in the early 1990s—my father in 1991 from a heart attack, my mother in 1993 from cancer. At their funerals, relatives asked me about my life, why I’d never settled down, why I was still wandering around in the woods at 40 years old. I tried to explain that I had settled down, just not in the way they understood. The wilderness was my home. The forests were my family.
In 1995, when I was 42, I made a decision that surprised everyone who knew me. I sold my apartment in Portland and bought a small cabin on five acres of forested land in the Cascade Foothills, about 90 miles east of the city. The property was remote, accessible only by a rough dirt road with no neighbors within two miles. It was perfect.
I spent the next 30 years living there, supporting myself through photography sales, book royalties, and eventually some teaching. I gave workshops on nature photography that attracted students from around the country. But mostly, I lived quietly, watching the seasons change, observing the wildlife that passed through my property, and remembering the conversations I’d had with a creature that most people believed was a myth.
I never told anyone about Walker—not my parents before they died, not my few close friends, not the students who came to my workshops asking about my most memorable wildlife encounters. The secret stayed locked inside me, a private treasure that I’d promised to protect. But I thought about Walker often, especially on quiet evenings when I’d sit on my cabin porch with a cup of coffee, listening to the forest sounds.
I wondered if Walker had made it to Canada or Alaska, if the creature had found safer territory, if there were still wild places remote enough for beings like Walker to survive. I wondered if Walker ever thought about me, about our conversations by that creek in 1980.
The world changed dramatically during those decades. The internet arrived, transforming how information spread. Cell phones became ubiquitous, giving everyone the ability to document and share instantly. Trail cameras proliferated in forests, automatically photographing anything that moved. Drones began flying over wilderness areas equipped with high-resolution cameras. The world became smaller, more documented, more connected, and I worried constantly about Walker and others like it, about how they could possibly survive in an era when privacy and anonymity were disappearing.
I’m 72 years old now, living in the same cabin I bought in 1995. My hair is white, my joints ache on cold mornings, and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. I still photograph the natural world, though I use digital cameras now instead of film. The technology has changed, but the essential act of witnessing and documenting nature remains the same.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that day in 1980 when I erased the recording of Walker’s voice, about the choice I made and whether it was the right one. In the 45 years since then, Bigfoot has remained a mystery, a legend, something people argue about but never prove. There have been hoaxes, blurry photographs, dubious videos, but never the kind of concrete evidence that would force science to acknowledge their existence. And I could have changed that.
I had 90 minutes of a Sasquatch speaking perfect English on tape, and I erased it. Some people might say I made the wrong choice, that I deprived humanity of crucial knowledge, that I put one creature’s privacy above the advancement of science and understanding. They might argue that proving Bigfoot exists could have led to habitat protection, to conservation efforts, to legal protections for the species.
But I know Walker was right. A tape like that wouldn’t have led to protection. It would have led to a manhunt, or rather a Sasquatch hunt. Every forest in the Pacific Northwest would have been flooded with researchers, hunters, curiosity seekers—all desperate to be the first to capture one. The military might have gotten involved, treating them as potential security threats or biological specimens to study. Walker’s worst fears would have come true.
I made the right choice. I’m certain of that now more than ever. Last week, something remarkable happened. I was sitting on my porch in the early evening, watching the sunset paint the sky orange and purple, when I heard a sound from the forest behind my cabin—a low, resonant vocalization that I hadn’t heard in 45 years but recognized immediately.
I stood up slowly, my heart pounding, and walked to the edge of my clearing. And there, standing in the shadows between the trees, was a figure I’d thought I’d never see again. Walker looked older, the hair more gray than brown now, the face more lined, the movement slightly stiffer, but the eyes were the same—intelligent and aware, watching me with recognition and something that might have been affection.
“Hello, Vincent,” Walker said, the voice deeper than I remembered but unmistakably the same. “It’s been a long time.”
I found myself crying, tears running down my weathered face, unable to speak for a moment. Then I managed to say, “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I almost didn’t come back,” Walker replied. “It’s not safe even here. But I’m old now, and I wanted to see you one more time before…” Walker paused. “Before my time ends. We don’t live forever, Vincent. Even my kind has limits.”
We talked for hours that evening, catching up on 45 years. Walker had made it to British Columbia, had lived in remote areas of the Coast Mountains, had survived, and even found others of its kind. “There are more of us than I thought,” Walker told me. “Perhaps 150 in Canada and Alaska, living in the most remote areas. We’ve become very good at staying hidden.”
I told Walker about my life, about the cabin, about my continued photography work, about how I’d never forgotten our conversations or broken my promise to keep Walker’s existence secret. “I knew you wouldn’t,” Walker said. “That’s why I trusted you. That’s why I’m here now.”
As the moon rose and the stars appeared, Walker stood to leave. “This is goodbye, Vincent. Truly goodbye this time. I won’t be back. I’m too old for travel now. And this journey from Canada took everything I had. But I wanted you to know that what we shared in 1980—those conversations—they mattered to me. They gave me hope that your species isn’t completely lost. That some humans still understand the value of mystery and wildness.”
“They mattered to me too,” I said, more than I can express. “You changed my life, Walker. You taught me what really matters.”
Walker nodded slowly. “Then my risk in approaching you all those years ago was worthwhile. Live well, Vincent Holloway. Whatever time you have left, spend it wisely. Protect the wild places. Tell the stories that need telling, and keep our secret.”
“I will. I promise.”
Walker reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder, just as it had done in 1984. The touch was warm and real and full of unspoken meaning. Then Walker turned and walked back into the forest, disappearing into the darkness between the trees.
I stood there for a long time after Walker left, looking up at the stars, listening to the night sounds of the forest—owls hooting, small animals rustling in the underbrush, wind moving through pine branches. The same sounds I’d heard 45 years ago by that creek when I’d made a choice that defined the rest of my life.
Now sitting here in my cabin writing this account, I face another choice. What do I do with this story? I’m 72 years old. I won’t live forever. At some point, probably soon, this secret will die with me unless I share it. But sharing it would violate the promise I made. It would expose Walker and others like it to exactly the kind of attention they’ve spent centuries avoiding.
Even without physical proof—no photographs, no recordings, no evidence beyond my word—this story could trigger new searches, new interest, new threats to their survival. So, I’ve decided to write this account and seal it in an envelope to be opened only after my death. Maybe decades from now when I’m gone and Walker is gone and the world has changed even more than it already has. Someone will read this and understand what I experienced. Or maybe they’ll dismiss it as the ramblings of an old photographer who spent too much time alone in the woods.
Either way, I’ll have kept my promise. The secret will stay protected during my lifetime, and Walker will have had the privacy and safety it deserved.
To whoever eventually reads this, I’m Vincent Holloway, and I’m telling you the truth. Bigfoot is real. They’re intelligent, articulate, and trying desperately to survive in a world that keeps shrinking around them. They speak English. At least some of them do. They understand human society better than we understand theirs, and they’ve chosen to remain hidden—not out of inability to communicate, but because they know what would happen if they revealed themselves.
Respect that choice. If you go into the wilderness, go quietly and humbly. Leave no trace. Take no more than memories. And if you’re extraordinarily lucky, if you’re in the right place at the right time with the right attitude, you might glimpse something extraordinary. But if you do, I’m asking you, begging you to do what I did. Keep it to yourself. Let them remain mysterious. Protect their right to exist on their own terms, undocumented and free. Some things are more important than proof. Some beings deserve to live without human interference. And some friendships, even the impossible ones, are sacred enough to protect at any cost.
I made the right choice in 1980 when I erased that tape. I’m making the right choice now by sealing this account and letting it remain hidden until I’m gone. And I hope—I pray—that whoever eventually reads this will make the right choice too. The wild places are disappearing. The mysteries are being solved and documented and explained away. But please let this one remain. Let the Sasquatch stay in the realm of legend and shadow. They’ve earned that right through centuries of patience and adaptation. They’re out there in the deep forests, in the remote mountains, in the places where humans rarely go. They’re watching, listening, surviving, and they deserve to keep doing so without our interference.
That’s my story. That’s what happened when a Bigfoot spoke to me in perfect English on a summer day in 1980. I’m not asking you to believe it. I’m just asking you to respect it, to understand why I kept it secret, and to carry forward the same respect for wild things that Walker taught me all those years ago. The sun is setting now. I can see it through my cabin window, painting the forest in shades of gold and amber, the same way it did 45 years ago by that creek. I’m going to seal this account now, place it in my safety deposit box with instructions that it not be opened until after my death. And then I’m going to sit on my porch with a cup of coffee and watch the stars come out, just like I’ve done almost every evening for the past 30 years. I’ll listen to the forest sounds and think about Walker, about our conversations, about the choice I made, and I’ll never regret it.
