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Speaker 1: And these people that claim or carry themselves without actually

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claiming to be an expert, a bigfoot expert. I mean,

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come on, what the hell is a bigfoot expert? There

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is no such thing as an expert when it comes

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to bigfoot.

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Speaker 2: They know in an instant that you were in the woods.

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There is no hiding from them, There is no being

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quiet or sneaking up on them. As soon as you

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walk in the woods. Do you walk in their front

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door thinking that you are going to surprise them? You're

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only kidding yourself.

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Speaker 1: We have got to get it out of our heads

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that anecdotal evidence is not evidence. The best way, in

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my opinion, that we have to learn about these creatures

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right now is by listening to and talking to those

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that have experiperience them, those who have witnessed them and

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experienced them in their own environment.

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Speaker 2: We do what we do to try to bring awareness

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to this topic, to be an open door for somebody

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to walk through, to be able to share their story,

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a listening ear, a support hold for those who have

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had their own encounters with that which is not supposed

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to exist.

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Speaker 1: We've got to open our eyes, people, there is something

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out there. All of these thousands of people that have

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seen something. They're not all aligned, they're not all crazy.

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There are some very reputable, good people out there that

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have seen something.

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Speaker 2: I never really believed in bigfoot. I'm sure you hear

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that all the time. Growing up in western Pennsylvania, we

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heard the stories, shadowy shapes in the woods every house

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at night, footprints where no man should have been walking barefoot.

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But like most people, I figured it was just old

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hunters trying to keep kids from trespassing, or drunks telling

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tales by the fire. That changed in October of twenty eighteen.

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At the time, I was working for a local environmental

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group doing conservation work in some of the reclaimed wilderness areas.

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One such place was dead Man's Hollow, an old industrial

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site turned nature preserved near the river. A lot of

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folks said the place was haunted. Supposedly people died there

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in the still mill days, and hikers reported strange lights

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and whispers. Honestly, I thought it was just urban legend

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wrapped in campfire smoke. That Saturday started normal enough. I

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was alone, hiking deep into the hollow to check on

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some camera traps we had set up along some game trails.

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It was late afternoon. The sky was gray and heavy

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and the wind was sharp, with that dying leaves smell.

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I didn't bring a gun. I didn't think I needed one,

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just my pack, my tools, and my GPS. By the

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time I reached the third camera, things fell off. The

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woods had gone too quiet. No bird song, no squirrels chittering,

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not even the drone of distant highway traffic, just my

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own breath and the crunch of leaves under my boots.

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Then I noticed the smell. It hit like a wet

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sack of road kill. Something rotten, sour and musky all

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at once. I thought maybe I'd stumbled on a dead deer.

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That's when I saw the first footprint. It was in

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the mud next to the stream, bigger than my boot

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by a long shot, maybe seventeen inches long, broad at

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the heel toes, splayed wide, no shoe tread, just skin

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toes and deep impressions like something heavy had come through.

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I told myself it was a bear, a big one.

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I even laughed out loud to break the tension, but

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the hairs on my neck were not buying it. I

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kept moving, got to the camera, swapped the card, turned

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to head back and froze across the stream. Maybe fifty

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yards up the slope, stood something watching me. Tall, broad,

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covered head to toe in dark, matted hair. It wasn't

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a bear. It stood upright, shoulders slumped forward, arms long

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enough that its fingertips brushed its thighs. The head sat

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low between the shoulders, and even from that distance, I

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could see the eyes, deep set, dark, and fixed right

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on me. For what felt like a full minute, neither

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of us moved. My brain couldn't process it fast enough. Fight, flight, freeze,

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all tangled up inside of me. Then it huffed, not

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a growl, not a roar, a short, sharp breath, like

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a grunt of warning. It turned, melted into the undergrowth

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and was gone. I didn't run, not at first. I

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walked fast, but careful, trying not to trip or make

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a noise. Once I hit the old access road, I

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broke into a sprint. Back at my truck. I sat

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there with the doors locked, shaking until the sky went

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fully dark. I still had to drive out of those woods.

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Every shadow looked alive, the kicker When we pulled the

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SD cart from that camera the next week, the last

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photos showed deer raccoons, the usual, then one shot just

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after four point thirty PM of something tall, hairy and

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humanoid stepping through the trees. Blurry, sure, but unmistakable. I

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quit that job a month later. I haven't been back

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to Dead Hollows dead Man's Hell since, and I believe now,

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I believe that something is out there. I grew up

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in rural Washington, just outside of a town called Morton,

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right on the edge of the Gifford Pinched National Forest.

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My family owned a little cabin up near Elk Creek,

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deep enough in the woods that cell service was nonexistent,

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and the closest neighbor was about half mile through dense timber.

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That cabin was my dad's pride, hand built by him

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and his brother in the late seventies, back when they

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logged these woods. When he passed away, the place sat

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empty for years until I decided to clean it up

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and use it as a weekend getaway spot. This happened

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in September of twenty twenty, just after Labor Day. I'd

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gone up alone to do some repairs. The first couple

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of days were uneventful. Morning spent patching the roof, afternoons

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fishing Elk Creek. At night, I'd sit on the porch,

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drink a beer, listen to the frogs and owls, and

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feel a kind of peace I hadn't known for years.

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But on the third night something changed. Around two am,

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I woke up to the sound of footsteps, heavy ones,

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circling the cabin, not a deer, not without weight. Every

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few seconds the steps would stop, then I'd hear this low,

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rasping breath through the cracks in the log walls. It

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just sounded wrong, too big to be human, but too

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deliberate to be an animal. I grabbed my flashlight and

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crept to the window. I didn't want to shine the light.

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At first, part of me thought maybe it was a

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bear blinding It would just make things worse. But when

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the steps circled around to the front porch, I lost

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my nerve. I flipped on the light. Nothing just empty

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porch boards, swaying trees beyond. I stayed up till dawn

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with my shotgrun across my lap. The steps didn't come back.

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The next day I found the footprints in the dirt

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by the woodpile, long, bare feet wide as dinner plates,

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toesplay deep into the mud. Whatever made them had stood there,

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watching me through the window for god knows how long.

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I should have packed up right then, but stubbornness kept

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me there. I told myself it was just a bear,

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or maybe some hiker pulling a prank. That night, it returned,

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same time, just past two am, same steps, circling slow,

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but this time it didn't stop at the porch. It

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came up to the steps. Boards groaned under its weight.

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Something leaned against the door, not pounding, just pressing, testing it.

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I sat there in the dark, shotgun aimed at the knob,

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heart hammering. Then came a sound I'll never forget. A hand,

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five fingers slowly dragging across the woodgrain of the door,

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nail scratching, testing, almost curious. I didn't move, I didn't speak.

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I just waited, barely breathing. After what felt like forever,

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it gave this low guttural, almost like a laugh, and

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step back down. The next morning I found handprints on

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the door, huge smudged in dirt, fingers as thick as sausages,

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nails like black claws. I packed up and I have

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not been back since. About six months later, I told

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this story to an old logger at a diner in Morton.

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He didn't laugh, just said that thing's been up there

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longer than we have, and you were lucky and just

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wanted to look.

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Speaker 1: Stay tuned for more, but the big flop report, We'll

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be right back.

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Speaker 2: Back. In the summer of two thousand and four, three

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friends of mine, Paul, Randy, and Mike, decided to take

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a week long backcountry trip into the mountains of Arkans.

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They were all seasoned outdoorsmen ex military hunters, no nonsense types.

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They weren't out there for ghost stories or thrills. They

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wanted to fish, hike, and camp far away from anyone.

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They hiked in about twelve miles to a ridge known

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as Lonesome Rich, a remote place with no cell service,

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no traffic, noise, no people from miles. It's a stretch

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of wilderness known for black bear and the occasional cougar.

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What it's not known for is bigfoot, or at least

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that's what they thought. The first couple of nights went fine, campfire, whiskey,

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good laughs, But on the third night things went sideways.

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They'd settled into their tents, fire burned down to coals.

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Around three am, Randy woke up to something moving through

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their camp, not a raccoon, not a deer, something big,

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heavy and slow. He said he could hear it breathing.

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He sat up and unzumped the tent quietly and shone

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his light toward the noise. Just at the edge of

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the light stood a figure massive, maybe eight to nine

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feet tall, covered in thick dark hair. Shoulders were broader

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than any man, and its face wasn't human. Deep set eyes,

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flat nose, wide mouthed. It stood there staring back at

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him like it had no fear at all. Randy yelled.

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The others woke up fast. Paul grabbed his rifle and

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stepped out. The creature didn't flinch. It huffed a deep,

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chesty sound, then turned and walked off into the tree line.

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They didn't sleep for the rest of the night. At first,

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they found tracks circling the tent by the firepit, even

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near where their food had hung, and they were huge

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and barefoot. They decided to cut the trip short packed

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up fast, and that's when they realized they weren't alone.

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As they hiked out, something paralleled them just off the trail,

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hidden in the dense woods. They could hear it breaking branches, breathing,

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moving when they moved. Sometimes they caught glimpses between the trunks,

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a tall, dark shape, always staying just out of full sight.

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Then it got bold. Rocks started flying, big ones, not

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rolling down the hill. These were being thrown, crashing through

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the trees, landing near their feet, forcing them to pick

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up their pace. Mike nearly got his head split open

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by one the size of a softball. The creature, or creatures,

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because now they were starting to think there was more

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than just one, shadowed them for four miles, never revealing

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themselves fully, never getting closer than a few dozen yards,

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but never letting them leave its woods in peace. The

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final straw came at a narrow crossing where the trail

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skirted a steep ravine. As they hesitated figuring out the

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safest route, a log, a full sized, rotted log, came

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crashing down from the slope above, not rolled, thrown. That's

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when Paul raised his rifle and fired two warning shots

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into the trees. Whatever was up there gave this horrific

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guttural scream. This was not a bear, this was not

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a man. But it finally retreated into the deeper woods.

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They made it back to their trucks, shaking and silent.

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None of them have been back since. Paul told me

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this story years later, and I asked him flat out,

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do you really believe it was Bigfoot. He didn't blink

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at me, he didn't smile at me. He just said,

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what else could it have been? This story was told

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to me by Quinault elder when I worked briefly on

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a forestry project in Washington State. The tribe has lived

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in those forests for untold generations, and they don't call

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it Bigfoot. They call it the watchers or the hidden people.

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He told me this story quietly, not like a tale

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for tourists, but like something serious, something true. Noah's grandfather,

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back in the nineteen forties, was a young man living

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near Lake Quinaut. Like all the men then, he hunted, fished,

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and respected the land. One autumn, he took his canoe

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far up river, higher than usual, into thick cedar forest

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where even their people rarely went. He was following elk tracks,

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planning to camp for a few nights alone. On his

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second night, just before dark, he noticed something strange. No birds,

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no insects, not even frogs, just a heavy silence pressing

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on the forest. That's when he smelt it wet. Fur earth,

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and something sour. He didn't light a fire, instinct told

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him not to. As he lay in his blanket under

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a lean to, he heard something walking around, slow, deliberate,

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and heavy. He stayed still. He said a prayer sometime

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past midnight. It spoke, not words, not human speech, a

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kind of deep throated rumbling chatter, like two rocks grinding together.

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It circled three times, then moved off into the darkness.

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At dawn, he found footprints around his camp, huge and barefoot,

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like a man's, but wrong, somehow, white with large toes.

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He backed up. He didn't hunt, and he paddled home fast.

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When he told the old people what had happened, they nodded.

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They knew. They said, you went too high. That was

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the watchers. You went too far. That is their place,

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not ours. They explained something he'd never known. The watchers

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aren't animals. They're not bears, they're not apes. They're just

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the watchers of the mountains, the keepers of balance. They

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don't bother you unless you forget to share respect, unless

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you take too much, stay too long, or think that

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the forest belongs to you. He wasn't afraid. After that,

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he understood. He taught his children and his grandchildren how

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to behave in the deep woods. Leave offerings, never mock

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the unseen, never whistle after dark, and if you smell

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wet fur and silence falls around you leave quietly and respectfully.

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They were here before us, he'd say, they'll be here

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after we're gone.

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Speaker 1: Hey, everybody, thank you so much for checking out this

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episode of the Bigfoot Report. We appreciate everything that you

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guys do. All of the continued support means the world

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to us. If you don't mind, if you would take

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just a second go rate and review the show wherever

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00:20:45,559 --> 00:20:48,960
it is you get your podcasts, we would greatly appreciate

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it and it would help us out so very much. Also,

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I'd like to invite everyone to check out the website

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Paranormalworldproductions dot com. Check out all of the shows under

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the studio's umbrella. Also want to remind everyone about our

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YouTube channel. Tiffany and I do a live show every

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Tuesday at seven pm Eastern, as well as Saturday, we

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do an after our show at ten pm Eastern where

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we have people come on and share their experiences. We

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would love to have you check that out if you

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have not done so. While you're there, Please hit that

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subscribe button. It would mean so much to us again.

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Thank you guys for everything that you do. We love you,

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We thank you. We'll talk again soon.

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Speaker 3: Through the woods, the pine trees, sway, shadows long at

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end of day, Bigfoots call on the whispering breeze, Secrets

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kept by a shoot, trees, dog man house beingeth, the

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moon echoes in the silent too. Tracks weave fine, but

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answers none. A hunt for truth that's just begun. We're

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searching past the fire light. Four creatures hidden out of

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sight in the forest hardware, Shadows lay seeking see krets

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in the twilight. Through the fall a shape did gly

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skin walker eyes so wide, legends of Oh, we chase

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to night in the dark. Our lanterns bright by the creek,

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quil water spill, whispers wry, the winds chill fullest, deep

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man tails.

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Speaker 2: On toll.

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Speaker 3: In this land, the myths of over. We're searching past

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the fire light, full creatures hidden out of sight in

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the forest, heart where shadows lay seeking seacrets in the twilight.

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Speaker 1: Bred in