Speaker 1: Today, I want to tell you about a journey that
Speaker 1: I've been on for most of my life. Ever since
Speaker 1: I was a kid, I've heard tales of bigfoot and
Speaker 1: wild men while spending time with my friends and family.
Speaker 1: As I grew older and read more about the paranormal,
Speaker 1: my interest in encryptids and other things strange only deepened.
Speaker 1: That's why I'm so excited to share with you what
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Speaker 2: Now, what are your reporting? I got a screen going
Speaker 2: on here. Something just kid with my dog, something to
Speaker 2: kill your dog? My dog. We're flying through there, over
Speaker 2: the tree. I don't know how it did it? Okay, Damn,
Speaker 2: I'm really confused. All I saw was my dog coming
Speaker 2: over the fence, and name was dead once you hit
Speaker 2: the grill. I didn't see any cars. All I saw
Speaker 2: was my dog coming over the fence. Sat, what are
Speaker 2: you reporting? We got some wonder or something crawling around
Speaker 2: out here? Did you see what it was? It was
Speaker 2: enough out here. Look, I'm new to one down now
Speaker 2: and I don't need anything. I don't want to go outside.
Speaker 2: Its fight. Hello, hit the boddy out here?
Speaker 3: What quin?
Speaker 2: I'm out there? It's thought of a ventures about text nine.
Speaker 2: I don't know easy an out there? Yeah, I'm walking
Speaker 2: right heady.
Speaker 1: First off, I just want to say how much I
Speaker 1: enjoy your show. It's a place where the mysterious and
Speaker 1: the unbelievable find a home, and that's why I feel
Speaker 1: safe sharing this story. It's one my family has kept
Speaker 1: to ourselves for decades. I grew up on a three
Speaker 1: hundred acre farm in the hills of South Carolina, surrounded
Speaker 1: by dense forests, winding creeks, and a sense of quiet
Speaker 1: that only the countryside can bring. Life was simple then
Speaker 1: hard work, family meals, and the occasional thrill of exploring
Speaker 1: the woods. My parents, salt of the earth people, taught
Speaker 1: me early on that the land didn't belong to us alone.
Speaker 1: It was shared in ways we didn't fully understand. For year,
Speaker 1: we'd heard stories from neighbors about strange happenings, livestock vanishing,
Speaker 1: eerie howls that made the hairs on your neck stand
Speaker 1: on end, and enormous footprints in the mud after a rainstorm.
Speaker 1: Our nearest neighbor, old Man Brown, was convinced that boogers,
Speaker 1: as he called them, were to blame. He'd chewed at
Speaker 1: anything he couldn't explain, claiming they'd taken his chickens, hogs,
Speaker 1: and even a cow or two over the years. My parents, however,
Speaker 1: approached the idea differently. They believed in what we now
Speaker 1: call sasquatch, not as monsters, but as part of the
Speaker 1: wilderness itself. They'd heard the howls too, seen the prints,
Speaker 1: and even spotted fleeting silhouettes at the tree line. But
Speaker 1: nothing could have prepared us for the summer, when those
Speaker 1: beliefs turned into something far more personal. I was ten
Speaker 1: years old, wandering down by the creek one humid afternoon.
Speaker 1: The sun was high, the cicadas were singing, and the
Speaker 1: world felt alive. That's when I saw it, a shape
Speaker 1: lying crumpled on the creek bank. At first, I thought
Speaker 1: it was a bear, but as I crept closer, I
Speaker 1: realized it wasn't a bear at all. It was a
Speaker 1: young sasquatch, maybe five feet tall, its reddish brown hair
Speaker 1: matted with dirt and blood. It was clutching its arm
Speaker 1: where an ugly wound oozed crimson. The creature's breaths were shallow,
Speaker 1: its eyes fluttering open and closed. My first instinct should
Speaker 1: have been fear, but all I felt was an overwhelming
Speaker 1: urge to help. I bolted back to the house, my
Speaker 1: heart pounding. Mama, Daddy, there's a sasquatch down by the creek.
Speaker 1: It's hurt bad, I shouted as I burst through the door.
Speaker 1: At first they stared at me like I'd lost my mind,
Speaker 1: but something in my voice must have convinced them. Without hesitation.
Speaker 1: My mom grabbed a first aid kit while my dad
Speaker 1: grabbed an old blanket. Together we hurried to the creek.
Speaker 1: When my parents saw the creature, they exchanged a look
Speaker 1: I'll never forget, part awe, part worry. My mom knelt
Speaker 1: down and began speaking softly, her voice calm and steady.
Speaker 1: The sasquatch flinched but didn't fight as she cleaned the
Speaker 1: wound and wrapped it with strips of clean cloth. My
Speaker 1: dad helped me gather water from the creek, and together
Speaker 1: we fashioned a makeshift stretcher from the blanket. With great care,
Speaker 1: we lifted the young sasquatch onto it, and that's when
Speaker 1: the woods around us came alive. It started as a low,
Speaker 1: mournful sound, a deep guttural wail that made my chest vibrate.
Speaker 1: Then came the crashing trees, snapped, underbrush rustled violently, and
Speaker 1: heavy footfalls echoed all around us. My mom's hand trembled
Speaker 1: as she tightened the bandage on the sasquatch's arm. My
Speaker 1: dad scanned the woods, his jaw set, his grip tightening
Speaker 1: on the stretcher's edge. They're close, he muttered, and they're
Speaker 1: not happy. What do we do, my mom asked, her
Speaker 1: voice shaking. We move fast, my dad said firmly. If
Speaker 1: they think we're hurting him, we won't stand a chance.
Speaker 1: As we hoisted the stretcher and began the trek back
Speaker 1: to the house, the vocalizations grew louder. They weren't just angry,
Speaker 1: they were desperate, filled with an emotion I didn't fully
Speaker 1: understand at the time. I glanced back and thought I
Speaker 1: saw movement, a flash of dark hair weaving through the trees.
Speaker 1: My mom's face was pale, her eyes wide with fear. Joe,
Speaker 1: she said, her voice sharp, Stay close, don't wander off,
Speaker 1: no matter what. My dad led the way, his steps
Speaker 1: quick and deliberate. They've got to know we're helping him,
Speaker 1: he said, more to himself than to us. They've got
Speaker 1: to see that. We stumbled through the woods, the stretcher
Speaker 1: bouncing unevenly with every step. The young sasquatch moaned softly,
Speaker 1: its head lolling to one side. I could see the
Speaker 1: blood seeping through the bandages, leaving a trail of crimson
Speaker 1: droplets behind us. The thought of the creatures following that
Speaker 1: trail made my stomach twist. The woods around us felt
Speaker 1: alive with tension. Branches cracked in the distance, and the
Speaker 1: howls turned into sharp barks and rhythmic whooping calls. It
Speaker 1: sounded like a warning, a command to stay back, but
Speaker 1: whether the command was meant for us or each other,
Speaker 1: we didn't know. We were nearly to the edge of
Speaker 1: the woods when the crashing stopped for a moment. Everything
Speaker 1: was deathly silent, the kind of quiet that makes your
Speaker 1: ears ring. Then came a deep, resonant sound, like the
Speaker 1: mournful groan of a massive tree bending in the wind.
Speaker 1: It was a voice, rich and heavy, and though I
Speaker 1: couldn't understand the words, I knew it was speaking to us.
Speaker 1: My dad paused, setting the stretcher down gently. He raised
Speaker 1: his hands, palms open, and called out, we're helping him.
Speaker 1: He's hurt. We're trying to save him. The woods remained silent,
Speaker 1: but I felt eyes on us, dozens of them. My
Speaker 1: mom clutched my arm, whispering, they have to know, they
Speaker 1: have to understand. We waited for what felt like an eternity.
Speaker 1: Then another sound, a low, rumbling groan, softer this time.
Speaker 1: It was closer, as if the speaker had drawn nearer
Speaker 1: to us. My dad looked over at my mom, then
Speaker 1: at me, and nodded, let's go, he said quietly. We
Speaker 1: made it back to the barn without incident, but none
Speaker 1: of us felt safe until we had the doors closed
Speaker 1: and barred behind us. My dad knelt by the young sasquatch,
Speaker 1: checking its wound again. If they're watching, he said, we
Speaker 1: have to make sure they see we're doing everything we can.
Speaker 1: That night, as we worked to clean the sasquatches wound
Speaker 1: and make it comfortable, we heard soft knocks on the
Speaker 1: barn walls. Three knocks, then silence. My dad looked up
Speaker 1: and muttered, they're here. They have to know we're helping.
Speaker 1: My mom whispered again, and somehow, deep down, I believe
Speaker 1: they did. Over the next few weeks, our lives revolved
Speaker 1: around the barn and the young sadquatch we'd come to
Speaker 1: call Buddy. The name started as a soft nickname I
Speaker 1: used when sitting by his side, but soon my parents
Speaker 1: adopted it too, as if giving him a name made
Speaker 1: him feel less like a strange, wild creature and more
Speaker 1: like one of us. At first, Buddy was terrified. Any
Speaker 1: movement near him made him flinch, his wide amber eyes
Speaker 1: darting around the stall in fear. He would emit low,
Speaker 1: trembling sounds, like a nervous hump that vibrated in his chest.
Speaker 1: My mom was the first to gain his trust. Her voice,
Speaker 1: calm and steady, seemed to soothe them. She'd sit just
Speaker 1: outside the stall, singing hymns or softly talking about the farm,
Speaker 1: letting Buddy grow used to her presence. Slowly he began
Speaker 1: to relax, though his trust was fragile and hard won.
Speaker 1: The wound on his arm was nasty. The bullet had
Speaker 1: torn through muscle, leaving a jagged hole that was already
Speaker 1: swollen and infected when we found him. My mom, who
Speaker 1: knew her way around herber remedies, boiled water with yarrow
Speaker 1: and comfrey, using the mixture to clean the wound. Every
Speaker 1: morning and evening. Buddy would WinCE and rumble in pain,
Speaker 1: but he never lashed out. Sometimes his large hand would
Speaker 1: grip the wooden beam of the stall so tightly that
Speaker 1: the wood groaned under the pressure. My dad, a practical man,
Speaker 1: spent his time reinforcing the barn. If his family decides
Speaker 1: to come looking, we need to make sure this place holds,
Speaker 1: he said. He worked long hours, hammering extra planks onto
Speaker 1: the walls, double bolting the doors, and setting up lanterns
Speaker 1: around the perimeter. Light keeps most things at bay, he said,
Speaker 1: though we weren't entirely sure what we were trying to
Speaker 1: keep out. Despite his caution, my dad was the one
Speaker 1: who brought Buddy fresh straw every day, carefully arranging it
Speaker 1: so the young Sasquatch had a comfortable place to rest.
Speaker 1: I spent hours sitting with Buddy, often in complete silence.
Speaker 1: As a kid, I wasn't great at saying the right thing,
Speaker 1: so I talked to him about whatever came to mind,
Speaker 1: the names of our animals, the chores I had to do,
Speaker 1: the way the creek looked in the afternoon light. At first,
Speaker 1: I wasn't sure he understood me, but his eyes would
Speaker 1: follow me as I spoke, and sometimes he'd make soft,
Speaker 1: rumbling noises, as if responding in his own way. One evening,
Speaker 1: after a particularly long day of cleaning and dressing his wound,
Speaker 1: but he did something that made my heart stop. He
Speaker 1: reached out his massive hand, trembling and placed it gently
Speaker 1: on my arm. His touch was warm and surprisingly soft,
Speaker 1: the rough pads of his fingers brushing against my skin.
Speaker 1: It wasn't a gesture of fear or desperation. It felt
Speaker 1: like trust. That night, my mom made a decision. We
Speaker 1: need to feed him more than just scraps, she said,
Speaker 1: as we sat around the kitchen table. He's growing weaker
Speaker 1: and he needs real nourishment. What are you thinking, my
Speaker 1: dad asked, I'll make a stew, she replied, as if
Speaker 1: it were the most obvious thing in the world. Meat, vegetables, broth,
Speaker 1: something hard. He needs it. The next day, she brought
Speaker 1: a steaming pot to the barn, the smell of beef
Speaker 1: and onions filling the air, but he sniffed at the
Speaker 1: bowl suspiciously when we offered it. But once he tasted it,
Speaker 1: there was no turning back. He ate with a hunger
Speaker 1: that made me wonder how long it had been since
Speaker 1: he'd had a proper meal. From that point on, feeding
Speaker 1: Buddy became part of our daily routine. My mom cooked
Speaker 1: extra portions of whatever we were having, always leaving a
Speaker 1: pot of stew or a plate of roasted vegetables in
Speaker 1: his stall. As the days turned into weeks, Buddy's strength
Speaker 1: began to return, his hair regained its luster, his eyes
Speaker 1: grew brighter, and he started moving around the stall more freely.
Speaker 1: We even caught him watching us from the barn window
Speaker 1: one evening, his curious face peering out at the fields.
Speaker 1: The first time he stood on his own was a
Speaker 1: moment of quiet celebration. My mom and I were sitting
Speaker 1: nearby when he slowly rose, using the stall wall for support.
Speaker 1: His knees wobbled, but he managed to stand for a
Speaker 1: few moments before sinking back down onto the straw. He's
Speaker 1: getting stronger, my mom whispered. As he grew stronger, Buddy's
Speaker 1: behavior became more interactive. One morning, I brought him a
Speaker 1: basket of apples from our orchard. Instead of simply eating them,
Speaker 1: he picked one up, studied it carefully, and handed it
Speaker 1: back to me, as if asking for reassurance. I laughed
Speaker 1: and took a bite, showing him it was safe. After that,
Speaker 1: he devoured the rest of the apples with gusto. Another time,
Speaker 1: I brought him one of my dad's old blankets, thinking
Speaker 1: he might like the extra comfort. To my surprise, he
Speaker 1: examined it, then began tearing strips from the edges, twisting
Speaker 1: them into a strange knotted pattern. When he was done,
Speaker 1: he handed it back to me a clumsy but intricate
Speaker 1: design that looked almost like a braid. I didn't know
Speaker 1: what it meant, but I kept it. Despite Buddy's progress,
Speaker 1: the woods around our farm remained tense. Every few nights
Speaker 1: we'd hear tree knocks echoing in the distance, followed by low,
Speaker 1: mournful howls. My dad would sit on the porch his
Speaker 1: rifle across his lap, not out of malice, but as
Speaker 1: a precaution. They're watching, he said. They won him back.
Speaker 1: One night, we found a pile of leaves and branches
Speaker 1: carefully arranged outside the barn door, almost like a nest.
Speaker 1: It was as if his family was trying to create
Speaker 1: a space for him to return. My mom, always sensitive
Speaker 1: to these gestures, placed a bowl of stew near the pile,
Speaker 1: along with a small blanket. The next morning, the stew
Speaker 1: was gone and the blanket had been folded into a strange,
Speaker 1: tight bundle. The moment that marked the true turning point
Speaker 1: came about three weeks after we found Buddy. He was
Speaker 1: stronger now, his wound healing nicely and his posture more upright.
Speaker 1: One evening, as we sat in the barn, I heard
Speaker 1: a sound that sent chills down my spine, a deep,
Speaker 1: resonant call from the woods. It was followed by another
Speaker 1: closer this time, but Hey perked up a meat mediately,
Speaker 1: his head snapping toward the sound. He made a soft
Speaker 1: cooing noise and response, his whole body vibrating with excitement.
Speaker 1: They're here, my mom whispered, her voice a mix of
Speaker 1: relief and fear. And stay tuned for more sasquatchy ott
Speaker 1: to see, we'll be right back. After these messages, we
Speaker 1: all exchanged a look, knowing what had to come next.
Speaker 1: It was time for Buddy to go home. About a
Speaker 1: month after we first found Buddy, the signs of his
Speaker 1: family became impossible to ignore. We'd hear their calls every evening,
Speaker 1: deep and resonant, echoing through the hills like a chorus
Speaker 1: of ancient voices. The tree knocks became more frequent, and
Speaker 1: on several occasions we'd wait to find enormous footprints circling
Speaker 1: the barn, sometimes so close to the walls that it
Speaker 1: made my dad nervous. They're coming closer, my mom said
Speaker 1: one evening, as we stood on the porch watching the
Speaker 1: tree line. It won't be long now. Sure enough, they
Speaker 1: arrived two nights later, It was just after sundown, the
Speaker 1: last of the day's light fading from the sky. Buddy,
Speaker 1: who had been growing more restless with each passing day,
Speaker 1: was pacing the barn. He'd been making soft, almost melodic noises,
Speaker 1: as if trying to communicate with something or someone far away. Then,
Speaker 1: without warning, he stopped. His head tilted and he let
Speaker 1: out a low moan. From the woods. Came a response.
Speaker 1: It was louder, more powerful, and filled with a mix
Speaker 1: of urgency and relief. My dad, who had been fixing
Speaker 1: a lantern outside the barn, froze. They're here, he said quietly.
Speaker 1: We gathered in the barn, my mom clutching my arm
Speaker 1: as we listened to the sounds growing closer. The first
Speaker 1: to appear was a massive figure, easily eight feet tall,
Speaker 1: stepping out of the shadows at the edge of the woods.
Speaker 1: Its hair was a dark, glossy brown, and its eyes
Speaker 1: glowed faintly in the lantern light. Behind it, another figure emerged,
Speaker 1: slightly smaller, but no less imposing. Their movements were slow
Speaker 1: and deliberate, their heads swiveling as they scanned the area.
Speaker 1: I realized, with a mix of awe and fear, that
Speaker 1: they were Buddy's parents. Buddy, who had been lying on
Speaker 1: the straw, shot to his feet. He made a series
Speaker 1: of urgent, excited noises, his arms outstretched toward the figures.
Speaker 1: His mother, or at least we assumed it was his mother,
Speaker 1: let out a high pitched trill, almost like a whistle
Speaker 1: as she rushed forward. Buddy limped toward her, and the
Speaker 1: two collided in a moment of pure, unfiltered emotion. She
Speaker 1: wrapped her long arms around him, pulling him close as
Speaker 1: she inspected his wound with careful, gentle hands. The larger figure,
Speaker 1: Buddy's father, stood back, watching us with an expression I
Speaker 1: could only describe as wary. His deep set eyes locked
Speaker 1: onto my dad, who had stepped forward with his hands raised,
Speaker 1: palms open. We mean no harm, my dad said softly,
Speaker 1: We only wanted to help him. For a moment, the
Speaker 1: massive creature didn't move. Then he let out a sound,
Speaker 1: low and guttural, almost like a growl. My dad stood
Speaker 1: his ground, his voice steady. Look at him. He's alive
Speaker 1: because we took care of him. Buddy's father tilted his
Speaker 1: head slightly, as if considering my dad's words. Then he
Speaker 1: stepped forward. Each movement deliberate, his massive frame, dwarfing my
Speaker 1: dad's six foot height. My mom let out a small gasp,
Speaker 1: gripping my arm tighter, but my dad didn't flinch. The
Speaker 1: giant stopped a few feet away and lowered his head slightly,
Speaker 1: a gesture that felt almost respectful. My dad nodded in return,
Speaker 1: and for a brief moment, the tension in the air
Speaker 1: seemed to lift. Buddy's mother, still holding her son close,
Speaker 1: turned toward us and made a sound, a soft, almost
Speaker 1: questioning hum. She looked at my mom, her gaze intense
Speaker 1: but not threatening. My mom, ever brave, took a cautious
Speaker 1: step forward. In her hands, she held a bundle of
Speaker 1: herbs and cloth supplies we'd use to treat Buddy's wound. Slowly,
Speaker 1: she knelt down and placed the bundle on the ground,
Speaker 1: then backed away. The mother approached it cautiously, sniffing the air.
Speaker 1: She picked up the bundle and examined it closely, making
Speaker 1: a series of soft clicking sounds. Then she did something
Speaker 1: that took my breath away. She turned and handed it
Speaker 1: to Buddy. He looked at it for a moment, then
Speaker 1: back at us, before letting out a low, rumbling purr
Speaker 1: that sounded almost like gratitude. Buddy's father stepped forward again,
Speaker 1: his towering form casting a long shadow in the lantern light.
Speaker 1: He reached down and picked up a small branch from
Speaker 1: the ground, breaking it in two with a sharp crack.
Speaker 1: Then he handed one half to my dad. My dad hesitated,
Speaker 1: then took it, nodding slowly. It felt like a symbolic gesture,
Speaker 1: though none of us could fully understand its meaning. The
Speaker 1: reunion was bitter wheat. As much as we wanted Buddy
Speaker 1: to stay, we knew his place was with his family.
Speaker 1: His mother wrapped one arm around his shoulders, steadying him
Speaker 1: as he leaned against her. He looked back at us
Speaker 1: as they began to retreat toward the woods, his eyes
Speaker 1: filled with something I couldn't quite name. But then, just
Speaker 1: as they reached the tree line, but he stopped. He
Speaker 1: turned and hobbled back toward me, his movement slow but determined.
Speaker 1: In his hand he held something, a piece of the
Speaker 1: blanket I'd given him weeks ago, now twisted into a
Speaker 1: braided ring. He held it out to me, his amber
Speaker 1: eyes locking onto mine. I took it, my hands trembling,
Speaker 1: and he let out a soft rumble before turning back
Speaker 1: to his family. The three of them disappeared into the woods,
Speaker 1: their massive forms melting into the shadows. The sounds of
Speaker 1: their footsteps faded, replaced by the familiar chirps of crickets
Speaker 1: and the rustle of leaves in the wind. The next morning,
Speaker 1: we found something waiting for us at the edge of
Speaker 1: the wood, a small pile of gifts. There were polished stones,
Speaker 1: colorful feathers, and a beautifully woven wreath of twigs and vines.
Speaker 1: It felt like a thank you, a gesture of acknowledgment
Speaker 1: for what we had done. Over the years, the gifts continued.
Speaker 1: Occasionally we'd find firewood stacked neatly by the barn, or
Speaker 1: baskets of wild berries left on our porch, and sometimes
Speaker 1: in the quiet moments of dawn or dusk, we'd catch
Speaker 1: glimpses of them at the edge of the woods, watching,
Speaker 1: always watching. While our relationship with the Sasquatch family grew,
Speaker 1: it wasn't always without challenges. Old Man Brown, who had
Speaker 1: always been quick to pull the trigger, saw one of
Speaker 1: them near his property and fired a warning shot. That night,
Speaker 1: his chicken coop was smashed, and his prize rooster was gone.
Speaker 1: He didn't shoot at them again. Another time, a group
Speaker 1: of hikers wandered onto our land and stumbled across what
Speaker 1: looked like a sasquatch nest. They left, terrified, spreading rumors
Speaker 1: of monsters in the woods. My dad spent weeks patrolling
Speaker 1: the property, worried someone might come back looking for trouble.
Speaker 1: But through it all, the connection remained. Buddy's family and
Speaker 1: perhaps others like them, seemed to understand that we were different,
Speaker 1: that we had cared for one of their own, and
Speaker 1: in return, they watched over us in ways we couldn't
Speaker 1: always see, but deeply felt. In the years following Buddy's
Speaker 1: reunion with his family, life on the farm changed in
Speaker 1: ways we never could have imagined. The sasquatch once figures
Speaker 1: of mystery and fear, became an unspoken but ever present
Speaker 1: part of our lives. It wasn't a relationship defined by
Speaker 1: words or direct communication, at least not in the way
Speaker 1: humans communicate, but through actions, gestures, and a shared understanding.
Speaker 1: The gifts started small polished stones, intricately woven wreaths, and
Speaker 1: bundles of wild herbs left at the edge of the
Speaker 1: woods or beside the barn. My mom, ever gracious, began
Speaker 1: leaving her own offerings in return, baskets of fruit, jars
Speaker 1: of honey, and fresh baked bread wrapped in cloth. The
Speaker 1: exchanges felt almost ceremonial, a quiet acknowledgment of mutual respect.
Speaker 1: One summer morning, we found something truly remarkable, a wooden
Speaker 1: carving of a deer. It's details so intricate that it
Speaker 1: looked almost alive. My dad held it in his hands,
Speaker 1: marveling at the craftsmanship. This isn't just a gift, he said,
Speaker 1: This is a message they're telling us, they're watching, that
Speaker 1: they know us. Over time, we began to notice their
Speaker 1: presence in more tangible ways. During storms, when the wind
Speaker 1: howled and the trees bent dangerously low, we'd wake to
Speaker 1: find our livestock herded into safer areas of the pasture,
Speaker 1: despite no one in our family having moved them. Once,
Speaker 1: after a flash flood swept through the lower fields, we
Speaker 1: discovered a makeshift dam of branches and rocks built along
Speaker 1: the creek to redirect the water. My dad swore it
Speaker 1: hadn't been there the day before. There were nights when
Speaker 1: I'd lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and
Speaker 1: hear them moving through the woods, soft footfalls, tree knocks,
Speaker 1: and low resonant calls. It was comforting in a way
Speaker 1: I couldn't fully explain, like knowing there was someone watching
Speaker 1: over us from the shadows. One of the most profound
Speaker 1: moments of their silent guardianship came during a brutal winter.
Speaker 1: A freak snowstorm blanketed the farm in thick drifts, cutting
Speaker 1: us off from town. Our firewood supply was running dangerously low,
Speaker 1: and my dad was worried about how we'd keep the
Speaker 1: house warm. The next morning, we woke to find an
Speaker 1: enormous stack of firewood piled neatly by the back porch.
Speaker 1: The logs were split and dry, ready for burning. My Dad,
Speaker 1: standing in the doorway, shook his head in disbelief. They knew,
Speaker 1: he said softly. They saw what we needed and gave
Speaker 1: it to us. That winter, we also discovered something else.
Speaker 1: The Sasquatch were not immune to hardship. While checking the
Speaker 1: livestock one evening, I found tracks in the snow leading
Speaker 1: toward the barn. At the end of the trail was
Speaker 1: a young sasquatch, not buddy, but another juvenile shivering and
Speaker 1: clearly malnourished. Its family must have been struggling to find
Speaker 1: food in the harsh conditions. Without hesitation, my mom brought
Speaker 1: out a large pot of stew, setting it down at
Speaker 1: a safe distance. The young sasquatch sniffed the air before
Speaker 1: cautiously approaching the bowl. Its movements hesitant, it ate quickly
Speaker 1: glancing back at me between bites. Over the next week,
Speaker 1: we continued leaving food for it, and soon the tracks disappeared,
Speaker 1: a sign it had reunited with its family. As the
Speaker 1: years went on, the sasquatch grew bolder in their interactions
Speaker 1: with us. They never crossed into the house or the
Speaker 1: immediate yard, but the barn and surrounding fields became a
Speaker 1: sort of neutral zone. My dad, ever practical, decided to
Speaker 1: leave a corner of the barn open for them. If
Speaker 1: they're going to visit, he said, they might as well
Speaker 1: have a place to rest. We'd occasionally find signs of
Speaker 1: their presence, straw disturbed in the barn, or tools moved
Speaker 1: to odd locations. Once my dad found a hammer he'd
Speaker 1: been missing for weeks lying on the barn floor beside
Speaker 1: a pile of stones arranged in a perfect circle. He laughed,
Speaker 1: shaking his head. I guess they've been doing some building
Speaker 1: of their own. The woods behind the farm became my
Speaker 1: favorite place to explore. Though I never saw them directly
Speaker 1: during my walks, I often felt their presence. Sometimes I'd
Speaker 1: find fresh tree structures, arches, woven branches, and intricate patterns
Speaker 1: of sticks balanced in impossible ways. Once I stumbled upon
Speaker 1: a clearing where a massive tree had been uprooted and
Speaker 1: placed upside down, its roots spread like fingers toward the sky.
Speaker 1: It felt sacred, like I'd stumbled upon something I wasn't
Speaker 1: meant to see. Not everything was peaceful. There were moments
Speaker 1: of tension, times when the boundaries between our world and
Speaker 1: theirs were tested. One summer, a group of out of
Speaker 1: town hunters wandered onto our property, chasing rumors of bigfoot sightings.
Speaker 1: Armed with rifles and brimming with bravado, they ignored my
Speaker 1: dad's warnings and ventured deep into the woods. That night,
Speaker 1: we heard the most terrifying sounds I'd ever experienced, guttural
Speaker 1: roars that shook the walls of the house, followed by
Speaker 1: frantic shouting and the crack of gunfire. The hunters came
Speaker 1: sprinting out of the woods at dawn, pale and shaking.
Speaker 1: They refused to talk about what they'd seen, but they
Speaker 1: left in a hurry and never came back. Another time,
Speaker 1: old Man Brown's bull went missing. He was convinced the
Speaker 1: sasquatch had taken it, and he made a point of
Speaker 1: marching to our house to accuse us of harboring those monsters.
Speaker 1: My dad, calm but firm, told him to leave. That night,
Speaker 1: Brown's fence was torn down and his barn door left
Speaker 1: wide open. Nothing was taken, but the message was clear,
Speaker 1: leave them alone. For all the challenges, there were far
Speaker 1: more moments of quiet, understanding and cooperation. The Sasquatch seemed
Speaker 1: to understand the rhythms of farm life, and sometimes it
Speaker 1: felt like they even tried to help. Once, during calving season,
Speaker 1: we woke to find one of our cows standing in
Speaker 1: the field with their newborn calf, clean and healthy, despite
Speaker 1: being hours from our usual rounds. Nearby, enormous footprints in
Speaker 1: the mud told us who had likely assisted with the birth.
Speaker 1: Over time, my dad began talking about them as though
Speaker 1: they were neighbors. The big guy's been around, he'd say,
Speaker 1: gesturing toward the woods. Saw his tracks by the south
Speaker 1: pasture this morning. My mom, who had always been sensitive
Speaker 1: to the unseen world, believed they were a gift. They
Speaker 1: remind us that we're not the only ones who called
Speaker 1: this land home, she said, and that's a lesson worth
Speaker 1: holding on to. As I grew older, the sasquatch became
Speaker 1: a constant, almost ordinary part of life. I'd catch glimpses
Speaker 1: of them at the edge of the woods, their massive
Speaker 1: forms blending into the shadows. Sometimes I'd hear their call
Speaker 1: at night, deep and haunting, like ancient songs carried on
Speaker 1: the wind. Though I eventually left the farm to build
Speaker 1: a life of my own, the bond my family formed
Speaker 1: with the sasquatch remains one of the most profound experiences
Speaker 1: of my life. My parents, now older, still live on
Speaker 1: that land, tending to it with the same care and
Speaker 1: respect they always have, and the sasquatch they're still there, watching,
Speaker 1: helping and reminding us that even in a world as
Speaker 1: wild and unpredictable as ours, coexistence is possible. As the
Speaker 1: years passed, the sasquatch became an enduring part of our
Speaker 1: family's story, something we rarely spoke about to outsiders, but
Speaker 1: held close in our hearts. The connection wasn't just about
Speaker 1: Buddy or the gifts exchanged at the edge of the woods.
Speaker 1: It was about the lessons they taught us, not through words,
Speaker 1: but through actions and presence. And stay tuned for more
Speaker 1: sasquatch ott to see. We'll be right back after these messages,
Speaker 1: my parents often said the Sasquatch reminded us of the
Speaker 1: old ways, a time when humans lived in harmony with
Speaker 1: nature instead of trying to dominate it. My dad, a
Speaker 1: practical man who rarely waxed philosophical, admitted, once they've got
Speaker 1: their own wisdom, they see the land differently than we do,
Speaker 1: and maybe better. They take only what they need and
Speaker 1: give back when it counts. That perspective shaped how we
Speaker 1: farmed and lived. My parents stopped using pesticides and began
Speaker 1: planting extra crops in the far fields, knowing the Sasquatch
Speaker 1: might take what they needed. My mom started a small
Speaker 1: herb garden by the barn, adding plants like yarrow and comfrey,
Speaker 1: reminders of the salves she used to heal Buddy. Those
Speaker 1: changes didn't just benefit the sasquatch. They made the farm healthier,
Speaker 1: more vibrant, and more abundant than ever, for me, growing
Speaker 1: up alongside giants left an indelible mark. As I got
Speaker 1: older and started reading about the world, I came to
Speaker 1: understand how extraordinary our experience had been. People spend their
Speaker 1: lives searching for proof of sasquatch, chasing blurry photos and
Speaker 1: dubious footprints. But we didn't need proof. We had lived it,
Speaker 1: and that knowledge that bond felt sacred. Even after I
Speaker 1: left for college and later started my own family, the
Speaker 1: sasquatch never left my mind. I'd visit my parents' farm
Speaker 1: every chance I got, walking the familiar trails and looking
Speaker 1: for signs broken branches, tree structures, or the occasional footprint
Speaker 1: in the mud. They were always there, though their presence
Speaker 1: was subtle, like a whisper on the wind. The last
Speaker 1: time I saw them was a moment I'll never forget.
Speaker 1: It was late autumn, years after Buddy had healed and
Speaker 1: gone back to his family. My parents had invited me
Speaker 1: and my young daughter, Lily to visit the farm for
Speaker 1: the weekend. Lily, who had grown up hearing my stories
Speaker 1: about the sasquatch, was eager to see the woods I'd
Speaker 1: always spoken about with such reverence. One crisp morning, We
Speaker 1: walked to the edge of the forest, where the golden
Speaker 1: leaves carpeted the ground and the air smelled of earth
Speaker 1: and decay. I showed Lily the old paths, pointing out
Speaker 1: where I'd found Buddy all those years ago. She listened intently,
Speaker 1: her wide eyes taking in every word. As we turned
Speaker 1: to head back, Lily stopped, suddenly, tugging on my sleeve. Daddy,
Speaker 1: she whispered, pointing toward the tree line.
Speaker 3: Who's that.
Speaker 1: I followed her gaze and felt my breath catch. Standing
Speaker 1: just beyond the shadows was a figure, tall, broad and unmistakable.
Speaker 1: It wasn't Buddy. The sasquatch was larger, its hair darker,
Speaker 1: with streaks of gray along its shoulders. It stood still,
Speaker 1: watching us with an expression I can only describe as curious.
Speaker 1: I knelt down beside Lily, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Speaker 1: It's okay, I said, softly. They're friends. The sasquatch tilted
Speaker 1: its head, then raised a hand slowly, deliberately, and what
Speaker 1: felt like a gesture of agnoiteledgement. Lily, to my surprise,
Speaker 1: raised her hand in return, a shy smile spreading across
Speaker 1: her face for a moment, the world seemed to hold
Speaker 1: its breath. Then, just as silently as it had appeared,
Speaker 1: the sasquatch turned and disappeared into the forest, its massive
Speaker 1: form melting into the shadows. Lily turned to me, her
Speaker 1: eyes wide with wonder. Was that real?
Speaker 2: She asked.
Speaker 1: I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. It was real.
Speaker 1: When we returned to the house, my dad was waiting
Speaker 1: on the porch, his hands tucked into the pockets of
Speaker 1: his overalls. You saw them, didn't you, he asked, a
Speaker 1: knowing smile on his face. I nodded again, unable to
Speaker 1: find the words. My dad chuckled softly. They don't forget,
Speaker 1: he said, and neither should we. That moment stayed with me,
Speaker 1: a reminder of everything the sasquatch had taught us about trust, respect,
Speaker 1: and the quiet bonds that connect us to the nat world.
Speaker 1: I realized then that the legacy of those creatures wasn't
Speaker 1: just about what they had done for us, or what
Speaker 1: we had done for them. It was about the lessons
Speaker 1: they left behind, lessons I now passed on to Lily.
Speaker 1: As I write this, I'm sitting on the porch of
Speaker 1: my childhood home, the same porch where my dad once
Speaker 1: sat with his rifle, guarding the barn where Buddy lay recovering.
Speaker 1: My parents are older now, they're steps slower, but their
Speaker 1: spirits undimmed. The farm is quieter these days, but the
Speaker 1: connection to the Sasquatch remains. There are still gifts left
Speaker 1: at the edge of the woods, and sometimes on cold
Speaker 1: mornings we find footprints in the frost. My dad swears
Speaker 1: he hears their calls at night, low and resonant, echoing
Speaker 1: through the hills, like a song meant just for us.
Speaker 1: People often ask me if I believe in Sasquatch. I
Speaker 1: usually just smile and say belief isn't the right word
Speaker 1: for me. They're as real as the ground beneath my
Speaker 1: feet or the trees that sway in the wind. They're
Speaker 1: not myths or monsters. They're part of this land as
Speaker 1: much as we are caretakers, neighbors, and in a way friends.
Speaker 1: So to you and your listeners. I leave the story
Speaker 1: not as proof or evidence, but as a reminder. The
Speaker 1: world is bigger and more mysterious than we often give
Speaker 1: it credit for, and sometimes, if we're lucky, we're given
Speaker 1: the chance to share it with something extraordinary Thank you
Speaker 1: for giving me the chance to share this. I hope
Speaker 1: it resonates with you as deeply as it has shaped
Speaker 1: my life.
Speaker 3: Joe, they say you don't gotta go home, but you
Speaker 3: can't stay. I don't want to be open us.
Speaker 4: Nest.
Speaker 5: Joy this chart, that chart, everything calling right back, right back,
Speaker 5: joy from me, Enjoy staying right.
Speaker 3: You come it right away.
Speaker 6: Still stepsts.
Speaker 4: Do do do dosssstssts, things muss