Speaker 1: For decades, people have disappeared in the woods without a trace.
Speaker 1: Some blame wild animals, others whisper of creatures the world
Speaker 1: refuses to believe in. But those who have survived they
Speaker 1: know the truth. Welcome to Backwoods Bigfoot Stories, where we
Speaker 1: share real encounters with the things lurking in the darkness Bigfoot,
Speaker 1: dog man, UFOs, and creatures that defy explanation. Some make
Speaker 1: it out, others aren't so lucky.
Speaker 2: Are you ready, because.
Speaker 1: Once you hear these stories, you'll never walk in the
Speaker 1: woods alone again. So grab your flashlight, stay close, and
Speaker 1: remember some things in the woods don't want to be found.
Speaker 1: Hit that follow or subscribe button, turn on auto downloads,
Speaker 1: and let's head off into.
Speaker 2: The woods if you dare. I've been working.
Speaker 1: Security at the lumber mill for going on twelve years now,
Speaker 1: and I thought I'd seen everything there was to see
Speaker 1: during those long midnight shifts. The mill sits right up
Speaker 1: against the Cascade foothills, surrounded by dense timber that stretches
Speaker 1: for miles in every direction. Most nights, the only sounds
Speaker 1: you hear are the occasional truck passing on the highway
Speaker 1: about a mile out. Maybe some coyotes yipping in the distance,
Speaker 1: or the settling groans of the old equipment cooling down
Speaker 1: from the day shift. The mill itself is pretty impressive
Speaker 1: if you've never seen one. We've got three massive buildings
Speaker 1: housing the main processing equipment, plus dozens of smaller outbuildings
Speaker 1: for storage, maintenance, and offices. The whole complex covers about
Speaker 1: sixty acres, with another forty acres of lumber storage yards
Speaker 1: where they stack the finished boards in neat rows that
Speaker 1: look like wooden skyscrapers from a distance. My job is
Speaker 1: to make rounds through all of it, checking doors, mono
Speaker 1: entering the camera feeds, and making sure nobody's trying to
Speaker 1: steal equipment or vandalize anything. It was a Tuesday night
Speaker 1: in late October when things got strange. The temperature had
Speaker 1: dropped fast that evening, from about sixty during the day
Speaker 1: down to maybe thirty five by the time I clocked
Speaker 1: in at eleven. There was frost starting to form on
Speaker 1: the windshields in the parking lot, and my breath was
Speaker 1: making little clouds as I walked my rounds. The mill
Speaker 1: was shut down completely that night for some maintenance work
Speaker 1: they were doing on the main conveyor system, so it
Speaker 1: was quieter than usual, just me, the security cameras, and
Speaker 1: about forty acres of stacked lumber and machinery. I'd started
Speaker 1: my shift like any other, checking in with the day
Speaker 1: supervisor before he left, reviewing the daily log and making
Speaker 1: sure all the gates were properly locked. The maintenance crew
Speaker 1: had left around ten, so I knew for certain that
Speaker 1: I was the only person on the property. I settled
Speaker 1: into the security office with a cup of coffee and
Speaker 1: started my first round of camera checks, cycling through the
Speaker 1: twelve monitors that cover different sections of the mill.
Speaker 2: I was making my second.
Speaker 1: Round of the night, probably around one thirty in the morning,
Speaker 1: when I first noticed something was off. My usual route
Speaker 1: takes me past the main lumber storage area where they
Speaker 1: keep the finished board stacked in neat piles about twenty
Speaker 1: feet high. These stacks are arranged in rows with just
Speaker 1: enough space between them for a forklift to maneuver through.
Speaker 1: I've walked this same path thousands of times, so I
Speaker 1: know every shadow, every normal sound, every place where the
Speaker 1: security lights create unusual patterns. But that night, as I
Speaker 1: was walking between two of the larger stacks, I heard
Speaker 1: what sounded like wood shifting, not unusual by itself. Lumber settles,
Speaker 1: especially when the temperature changes like it had that evening.
Speaker 1: But this wasn't the quick crack or pop you usually
Speaker 1: hear when boards expand or contract. It was a slow,
Speaker 1: deliberate sound, like someone was carefully moving pieces around. I
Speaker 1: stopped walking in lit for maybe thirty seconds, but everything
Speaker 1: went quiet again. I continued my rounds, but I couldn't
Speaker 1: shake the feeling that something was watching me. You know
Speaker 1: that sensation when the hair on the back of your
Speaker 1: neck stands up for no reason, you can explain, That's
Speaker 1: what I was dealing with. I kept turning around, expecting
Speaker 1: to see one of the maintenance guys or maybe a
Speaker 1: supervisor who'd come back to check on something, But there
Speaker 1: was never anyone there, just the yellow glow of the
Speaker 1: security lights reflecting off the metal roofing and creating long
Speaker 1: shadows between the equipment. The lumber storage area covers about
Speaker 1: forty acres, with twelve major sections divided by access roads
Speaker 1: wide enough for the big trucks to navigate. Each section
Speaker 1: contains hundreds of stacks organized by lumber type and grade.
Speaker 1: During the day, it's a busy place. With forklifts constantly
Speaker 1: moving materials around, but at night it becomes this maze
Speaker 1: of wooden walls and dark passages where sounds echo in
Speaker 1: strange ways. An hour later, I was sitting in the
Speaker 1: security office reviewing the camera feeds when I saw something
Speaker 1: I couldn't make sense of. The office has monitors for
Speaker 1: twelve different cameras positioned around the property, and I was
Speaker 1: switching between them like I always do, just keeping an
Speaker 1: eye on things. When I clicked over to camera seven,
Speaker 1: which covers the northeast section of the lumberyard, I saw
Speaker 1: a shadow moving between the stacks that was way too
Speaker 1: big to be human. At first, I thought maybe it
Speaker 1: was just a trick of the infrared lighting that the
Speaker 1: cameras use for night vision. Sometimes the wind will move
Speaker 1: a tarp or piece of loose metal, and it can
Speaker 1: create shadows that look like movement. But as I watched
Speaker 1: this shadow emerged from behind one stack and moved toward another,
Speaker 1: it wasn't walking like a person would walk. The movement
Speaker 1: was too fluid, too purposeful, and the proportions were all wrong.
Speaker 1: The shoulders were massive, much broader than any human I'd
Speaker 1: ever seen, and it moved with this weird loping gait
Speaker 1: that covered ground fast despite appearing almost casual. I adjusted
Speaker 1: the camera controls, trying to get a better view, but
Speaker 1: the thing stayed in the shadows between the stacks. It
Speaker 1: moved through the lumberyard with what seemed like familiarity, like
Speaker 1: it knew exactly where it was going and how to
Speaker 1: stay out of direct view of the cameras. The way
Speaker 1: it navigated between the stacks suggested it had been there before,
Speaker 1: knew the layout, understood the lighting patterns. I grabbed my
Speaker 1: flashlight in radio and headed out to investigate. The logical
Speaker 1: part of my brain was telling me it had to
Speaker 1: be someone playing a prank, or maybe a vagrant who'd
Speaker 1: wandered onto the property. But deep down I knew what
Speaker 1: I'd seen wasn't human. The size and movement were unlike
Speaker 1: anything I'd encountered in twelve years of night security work.
Speaker 1: The walk from the security office to the northeast lumberyard
Speaker 1: takes about eight minutes if you're moving at a normal pace.
Speaker 1: That night, I covered the distance in half that time,
Speaker 1: driven by a mixture of adrenaline and professional responsibility. The
Speaker 1: security lights cast everything in harsh yellow and black, creating
Speaker 1: a landscape of deep shadows and bright spots that made
Speaker 1: it difficult to see clearly. When I got to the
Speaker 1: northeast section, everything looked normal at first glance. The lumber
Speaker 1: stacks were exactly as they should be, no signs of disturbance.
Speaker 1: The access roads between sections were empty, no footprints in
Speaker 1: the dust, no overturned equipment. But as I started walking
Speaker 1: between the rows, my flashlight beam dancing across the ground
Speaker 1: in front of me, I noticed something that made my
Speaker 1: stomach drop. There were footprints in the frost, clear unmistakable
Speaker 1: impressions in the thin layer of ice crystals that had
Speaker 1: formed on the packed earth between the lumber stacks. Now,
Speaker 1: I've been around plenty of work boots in my time,
Speaker 1: and I know what human footprints look like in soft
Speaker 1: ground or snow. These weren't human footprints. They were easily
Speaker 1: twice the size of my boots, which are size eleven.
Speaker 1: The prints were deep, like whatever made them was incredibly heavy,
Speaker 1: and they had a strange, elongated shape that was unlike
Speaker 1: any shoe or boot.
Speaker 2: I'd ever seen.
Speaker 1: But what really got to me was how perfectly clear
Speaker 1: they were. The frost had formed after whoever or whatever
Speaker 1: made these prints had walked through, preserving them like photographs
Speaker 1: in the ice. The detail was incredible. I could see
Speaker 1: what looked like tow impressions at the front of each print,
Speaker 1: and the depth varied, as if the creature had been
Speaker 1: walking carefully, deliberately placing each step. I followed the trail
Speaker 1: for about fifty yards before it led to the fence
Speaker 1: line that borders the forest. The chain link fence is
Speaker 1: eight feet high with barbed wire on top, designed to
Speaker 1: keep both people and animals out of the mill property.
Speaker 1: But the prints just ended right at the base of it.
Speaker 1: There was no sign that anything had climbed over or
Speaker 1: gone under. No disturbed earth near the fence, no bent
Speaker 1: chain link, no hair caught on the barbed wire. It
Speaker 1: was like whatever made these tracks had simply vanished into
Speaker 1: thin air. I spent another twenty minute searching the area
Speaker 1: with my flashlight, looking for any other evidence of what
Speaker 1: had been there. I found a few more partial prints,
Speaker 1: but they were less clear, just depressions in areas where
Speaker 1: the frost hadn't formed as thickly. I also noticed that
Speaker 1: some of the lumber stacks showed signs of having been touched,
Speaker 1: not moved exactly, but there were areas where the frost
Speaker 1: had been disturbed, like something large had brushed against the wood.
Speaker 1: The radio on my belt crackled to life. It scared
Speaker 1: me so bad I nearly dropped my flashlight. It was
Speaker 1: the automated signal that reminded me to check in with
Speaker 1: the monitoring service, something I was supposed to do every
Speaker 1: two hours. I realized I'd been out investigating for almost
Speaker 1: forty five minutes, Completely absorbed and trying to understand what
Speaker 1: I'd discovered. I made my way back to the security office,
Speaker 1: my mind racing with questions and doubts. Part of me
Speaker 1: wanted to believe there was a rational explanation, a large
Speaker 1: person in oversized boots maybe, or some kind of elaborate prank,
Speaker 1: but the size and depth of those prints, combined with
Speaker 1: what I'd seen on the camera, didn't fit any normal explanation.
Speaker 1: I spent the rest of my shift in the security office,
Speaker 1: watching the monitors and jumping at every sound. I documented
Speaker 1: the time and location of the incident in the security log,
Speaker 1: but I kept the description vague, just noting that I'd
Speaker 1: investigated possible unauthorized activity in the Northeast lumber yard and
Speaker 1: found no signs of intrusion or damage. When the day
Speaker 1: shift supervisor arrived at six am, I told him about
Speaker 1: the footprints. Rick had been working at the mill for
Speaker 1: almost twenty years, and I figured if anyone would know
Speaker 1: what to make of strange tracks on the property, it
Speaker 1: would be him. He came out to look at them,
Speaker 1: and I could see the confusion and unease in his
Speaker 1: face as he examined them. The morning sun had started
Speaker 1: to melt the frost, but the prints were still clearly visible.
Speaker 1: Rick took some pictures with his phone and measured one
Speaker 1: of the clearer prints with a tape measure he'd brought
Speaker 1: from his truck. The print was just over eight teen
Speaker 1: inches long and about seven inches wide at the widest point.
Speaker 1: He walked around the area for a while, looking at
Speaker 1: the fence line and checking for any other signs of disturbance,
Speaker 1: but he was as puzzled as I was. He told
Speaker 1: me he'd report it to management and suggested that we
Speaker 1: might want to review the camera footage more carefully to
Speaker 1: see if we could spot anything else. But he also
Speaker 1: asked me not to mention it to anyone else until
Speaker 1: they figured out what to do about it. He seemed
Speaker 1: genuinely concerned not just about security, but about something else
Speaker 1: that he didn't want to put into words. That was
Speaker 1: three months ago, and management never said another word about
Speaker 1: those prints. Rick mentioned once that he'd submitted the photos
Speaker 1: and his report, but apparently the response was just to
Speaker 1: increase the frequency of security rounds and make sure all
Speaker 1: the cameras were functioning properly. No investigation, no follow up,
Speaker 1: no explanation. But I'll never forget them, and I'll never
Speaker 1: forget what I saw on that monitor. The image of
Speaker 1: that massive shadow moving between the lumber stacks with such
Speaker 1: purpose and intelligence is burned into my memory. Since that night,
Speaker 1: I've noticed subtle changes in my routine. I find myself
Speaker 1: avoiding the northeast section during my rounds, especially during the
Speaker 1: darker hours before dawn. When I do have to patrol
Speaker 1: that area, I move quickly and keep my radio close
Speaker 1: at hand. I've also started paying closer attention to the
Speaker 1: other security cameras, looking for movement or shadows that don't belong. Sometimes,
Speaker 1: in the early morning hours, when fatigue starts to set in,
Speaker 1: I think I see something at the edge of the
Speaker 1: camera feeds, a shape that's there one moment and gone
Speaker 1: the next. But whenever I look more carefully switching to
Speaker 1: that camera and adjusting the focus, there's nothing there. The
Speaker 1: strangest part is how it's affected my perception of the
Speaker 1: forest that surrounds the mill. I used to think of
Speaker 1: it as just trees and wildlife, nothing more threatening than
Speaker 1: the occasional black bear or coyote that might wander onto
Speaker 1: the property. When I look at those dark spaces between
Speaker 1: the trees, especially on moonless nights, when the shadows seem
Speaker 1: deeper and more impenetrable, I wonder what else might be
Speaker 1: out there. Sometimes, on particularly quiet nights, I still hear
Speaker 1: the sound of wood shifting in the distance. It's always
Speaker 1: slow and deliberate, like something massive is moving carefully through
Speaker 1: the lumber stacks. I've gotten into the habit of checking
Speaker 1: camera seven more than I used to, but I've never
Speaker 1: seen anything definitive again, just shadows that might be movement,
Speaker 1: or might be my imagination playing tricks on me. The
Speaker 1: mill is scheduled to expand next year, pushing further into
Speaker 1: the forest to accommodate new equipment and additional lumber storage.
Speaker 1: I find myself wondering what we might disturb when the
Speaker 1: construction crews start clearing trees and breaking ground. Some things
Speaker 1: are better left undisturbed, and I have a feeling that
Speaker 1: whatever left those prints in the frost that October night
Speaker 1: would prefer to remain in the darkness between the trees,
Speaker 1: watching and waiting, but staying out of our world as
Speaker 1: long as we stay out of its.
Speaker 2: Now.
Speaker 1: Let's turn to another encounter, this one from someone who
Speaker 1: ventured much deeper into those same forests, armed only with
Speaker 1: a camera. I've been a nature photographer for the better
Speaker 1: part of twenty years, and my work has taken me
Speaker 1: to some pretty remote places throughout the Pacific Northwest. I
Speaker 1: specialize in wildlife photography, particularly in areas affected by natural
Speaker 1: disasters and recovery, and I'm used to spending days alone
Speaker 1: in the wilderness with nothing but my camera gear and
Speaker 1: basic camping supplies. Over the years, I photographed everything from
Speaker 1: mountain goats on impossible cliff faces to wolves in their
Speaker 1: winter hunting grounds, and I've always felt completely comfortable in
Speaker 1: the wilderness. My equipment is professional grade and represents a
Speaker 1: significant investment. Multiple camera bodies, an array of lenses from
Speaker 1: wide angle to super telephoto, tripods, lighting equipment, and all
Speaker 1: the associated accessories that come with seers nature photography. I
Speaker 1: typically carry about forty pounds of gear when I'm doing
Speaker 1: this kind of work, organized in a specialized backpack system
Speaker 1: that allows me to access everything quickly while protecting.
Speaker 2: It from the elements.
Speaker 1: Last summer, I was working on a series documenting the
Speaker 1: ecosystem recovery in areas affected by forest fires. The project
Speaker 1: was commissioned by an environmental magazine that wanted to show
Speaker 1: how nature rebounds after major disturbances, and I'd gotten permission
Speaker 1: to access several sections of National Forest that had been
Speaker 1: closed to the public for years following major fires. These
Speaker 1: areas were just starting to show signs of real recovery,
Speaker 1: with new growth emerging between the charred remains of the
Speaker 1: old forest, and I thought it would make for some
Speaker 1: compelling and hopeful images. I'd planned a five day solo
Speaker 1: trip to a valley about eight miles from the nearest
Speaker 1: forest service road. The area had been devastated by a
Speaker 1: fire three years earlier, but recent aerial surveys suggested it
Speaker 1: was beginning to recover dramatically. I'd been there once before,
Speaker 1: about two years earlier, and remembered it as an ideal
Speaker 1: location for the kind of documentary work I was doing.
Speaker 1: The terrain was challenging but manageable, and there was a
Speaker 1: small creek running through the valley that provided fresh water
Speaker 1: and supported much of the returning wildlife. The hike d
Speaker 1: took most of the day, following an old fire road
Speaker 1: that had been partially reclaimed by new vegetation. The contrast
Speaker 1: between the burned areas and the recovering sections was striking.
Speaker 1: In some places the forest floor was still carpeted with
Speaker 1: ash and fallen logs, while in others, vibrant green shoots
Speaker 1: were pushing up.
Speaker 2: Through the debris.
Speaker 1: It was exactly the kind of dramatic recovery story that
Speaker 1: the magazine wanted to document. I set up my base
Speaker 1: camp in a small clearing about a quarter mile from
Speaker 1: the creek, surrounded by a mix of burned snags and
Speaker 1: new saplings. The site offered good protection from wind and weather,
Speaker 1: with easy access to water and several promising photography locations
Speaker 1: within hiking disytince.
Speaker 2: I used a.
Speaker 1: Lightweight but sturdy tent designed for extended backcountry use, and
Speaker 1: I organized my camera equipment in weather resistant cases that
Speaker 1: could be quickly accessed when wildlife presented itself. The first
Speaker 1: three days went exactly as planned. I got some incredible
Speaker 1: shots of the new growth pushing up through the burned soil,
Speaker 1: and I managed to photograph a family of deer that
Speaker 1: had returned to the area, along with various bird species
Speaker 1: that were taking advantage of the changing habitat The weather
Speaker 1: was perfect, clear skies during the day and cool but
Speaker 1: comfortable at night. I fell into a comfortable routine of
Speaker 1: early morning and late evening photography sessions when the light
Speaker 1: was best and wildlife most active. I spent the middle
Speaker 1: parts of each day exploring different areas of the valley,
Speaker 1: scouting locations for future shoots, and documenting the various stages
Speaker 1: of recovery. I found some areas were completely barren, nothing
Speaker 1: but ash and charred stumps, while others showed remarkable regeneration.
Speaker 1: The contrast made for powerful images, and I was excited
Speaker 1: about how the project was developing. On the fourth day,
Speaker 1: things started to feel different. I woke up that morning
Speaker 1: with an uneasy feeling that I couldn't quite explain. The
Speaker 1: forest seemed quieter than it had been.
Speaker 2: The previous days. Usually i'd wake up.
Speaker 1: To a symphony of bird songs and the sounds of
Speaker 1: small animals moving through the underbrush. But that morning everything
Speaker 1: was silent, not just quiet, completely silent, like the entire
Speaker 1: valley was still asleep.
Speaker 2: I've spent enough.
Speaker 1: Time in the wilderness to know that sudden silence usually
Speaker 1: means one of two things. Either a predator is nearby,
Speaker 1: or there's some other disturbance that has spooked the local wildlife.
Speaker 1: I lay in my tent for several minutes, listening carefully
Speaker 1: for any sound that might explain the unusual quiet.
Speaker 2: But there was nothing.
Speaker 1: No wind, no birds, no insects, just an oppressive silence
Speaker 1: that seemed to press in from all sides. When I
Speaker 1: finally emerged from my tent, the morning light revealed a
Speaker 1: valley that looked normal in every visible way. The burn
Speaker 1: trees stood like sentinels against the brightening sky. The new
Speaker 1: growth sparkled with morning dew, and the creek continued its
Speaker 1: quiet murmur in the distance. But the absence of wildlife
Speaker 1: activity was unmistakable. No birds flew overhead, no squirrels chattered
Speaker 1: in the surviving trees, no insects buzzed around the flowering
Speaker 1: plants that had begun to recolonize the area. I spent
Speaker 1: the day working as usual, hiking to different locations within
Speaker 1: the valley and setting up shots. But throughout the day
Speaker 1: I kept getting the feeling that I was being watched.
Speaker 1: It started as just a vague unease, the kind of
Speaker 1: feeling you might get when walking alone through an unfamiliar
Speaker 1: neighborhood at night, but as the hours passed, the sensation
Speaker 1: became more pronounced and specific. During one afternoon photography session,
Speaker 1: I was setting up a macro shot of new ferns
Speaker 1: growing through charred soil when the of being observed became
Speaker 1: so strong that I had to stop working. Stay tuned
Speaker 1: for more Backwoods big Foot stories.
Speaker 2: We'll be back.
Speaker 1: After these messages, I slowly turned around, scanning the tree
Speaker 1: line and the rocky outcroppings that surrounded the valley floor.
Speaker 2: The area was a.
Speaker 1: Mixture of burned forest and new growth, with plenty of
Speaker 1: places where something could remain hidden while maintaining a clear
Speaker 1: view of the valley. I began to notice patterns in
Speaker 1: my unease. The feeling was strongest when I was working
Speaker 1: in certain areas of the valley, particularly near the eastern edge,
Speaker 1: where a steep slope rose to a ridge line about
Speaker 1: three hundred feet above the valley floor. When I moved
Speaker 1: to other locations, the sensation would fade, but it never
Speaker 1: disappeared completely. It was as if something was tracking my movements,
Speaker 1: positioning itself to maintain observation while staying out of sight.
Speaker 1: That evening, as I was setting up my camera for
Speaker 1: some sunset shots, I heard something that made me freeze
Speaker 1: in place. It was a sound unlike anything I'd ever
Speaker 1: heard before, a deep, resonant howl that seemed to echo.
Speaker 2: Through the entire valley.
Speaker 1: It wasn't like a wolf howl, which I'd heard plenty
Speaker 1: of times before during my work in wilderness areas. This
Speaker 1: was much deeper, more guttural, and it had an almost
Speaker 1: mournful quality that raised goose bumps on my arms. The
Speaker 1: sound lasted for maybe ten or fifteen seconds, beginning low
Speaker 1: and rising to a peak before trailing off into the
Speaker 1: evening air. After it ended, the silence returned, but now
Speaker 1: it felt different, not just empty, but expectant, like the
Speaker 1: entire valley was waiting for something to happen. I abandoned
Speaker 1: my photography session and retreated to my campsite, where I
Speaker 1: spent the evening organizing my equipment and reviewing the images
Speaker 1: i'd captured over the past few days. I kept my
Speaker 1: cameras close at hand, hoping that whatever had made that
Speaker 1: sound might present itself for a photo. But as darkness fell,
Speaker 1: the only sounds were the distant crew and the occasional
Speaker 1: settling of my tent in the light evening breeze. That night,
Speaker 1: I had trouble sleeping. Every small sound seemed amplified in
Speaker 1: the darkness, the rustle of my sleeping bag, the gentle
Speaker 1: flapping of the tent fabric. Even my own breathing seemed
Speaker 1: unnaturally loud. I found myself lying awake for long periods,
Speaker 1: listening for any indication that something was moving around my campsite.
Speaker 1: I must have dozed off sometime around three in the morning,
Speaker 1: but I woke up suddenly just before dawn to the
Speaker 1: sound of something moving around my tent. At first I
Speaker 1: thought it might be the wind, But as I lay
Speaker 1: perfectly still and listened more carefully, I realized that something
Speaker 1: was walking slowly around my campsite. The footsteps were deliberate
Speaker 1: and measured, too heavy and regular to be an animal
Speaker 1: wandering randomly through the area. Whatever was out there moved
Speaker 1: in a slow circle around my tent, maintaining a distance
Speaker 1: of maybe twenty or thirty feet. The movement was accompanied
Speaker 1: by the occasional sound of disturbed gravel or the snap
Speaker 1: of a small branch, but whoever or whatever it was
Speaker 1: seemed to be making an effort to move quietly. The
Speaker 1: deliberate nature of the movement was what disturbed me most.
Speaker 1: This wasn't random wandering, but purposeful investigation. After what felt
Speaker 1: like an eternity but was probably only five or ten minutes,
Speaker 1: the sound stopped. I waited another hour before I finally
Speaker 1: worked up the courage to unzip my tent and look outside.
Speaker 1: The sky was just starting to get light, and I
Speaker 1: could see clearly around my campsite. Everything looked normal. My
Speaker 1: camera equipment was still properly stored, my food was untouched
Speaker 1: in its bare resistant containers, and there were no obvious
Speaker 1: signs that anything had been disturbed. But as I started
Speaker 1: breaking camp that morning, packing up my gear for the
Speaker 1: planned hike out, I noticed something that made my hand shake.
Speaker 1: As I folded up my tent. There were impressions in
Speaker 1: the soft earth around my campsite, not clear footprints exactly,
Speaker 1: but definite depressions in the ground that showed where something
Speaker 1: heavy had been walking. These impressions were much larger than
Speaker 1: what a human foot would make, and they formed a
Speaker 1: rough circle around where my tent.
Speaker 2: Had been pitched.
Speaker 1: The pattern suggested that something had indeed walked around my
Speaker 1: campsite during the night, just as I'd heard, but the
Speaker 1: size and depth of the impressions indicated that whatever made
Speaker 1: them was far larger and heavier than any person. I
Speaker 1: documented the impressions with my camera, taking multiple shots from
Speaker 1: different angles and including objects for scale, but even as
Speaker 1: I photographed them, I could see that they didn't show
Speaker 1: up as clearly in the images as they appeared to
Speaker 1: my naked eye. The depressions were subtle, visible mainly because
Speaker 1: of the way they caught the early morning shadows, and
Speaker 1: I knew that anyone viewing the photos later might dismiss
Speaker 1: them as natural variations in the soil. The hike out
Speaker 1: felt like it took forever. I found myself looking over
Speaker 1: my shoulder, constantly expecting to see something following me through
Speaker 1: the burned forest. Every shadow between the standing snags seemed
Speaker 1: to hold potential threat, and every sound from the recovering
Speaker 1: forest made me walk faster. It wasn't until I reached
Speaker 1: my truck and was driving back down the forest service
Speaker 1: road that I finally started to relax. But even now
Speaker 1: months later, I can't stop thinking about that experience. I've
Speaker 1: gone back to remote areas since then, continuing my documentation work,
Speaker 1: but I find myself being much more cautious. I carry
Speaker 1: a satellite communicator now, something I never felt the need
Speaker 1: for before, and I've started choosing camping locations that offer
Speaker 1: better visibility in all directions. I've also begun to notice
Speaker 1: things in my photographs that I might have overlooked before.
Speaker 1: In several of the images I took during those first
Speaker 1: three days in the valley, there are areas of deep
Speaker 1: shadow between the trees where the burned forest meets the
Speaker 1: new growth. I've spent hours examining those shadows on my computer,
Speaker 1: adjusting the contrast and brightness, trying to see if there's
Speaker 1: anything there that I missed when I was taking the pictures.
Speaker 1: So far, I haven't found anything definitive, but sometimes late
Speaker 1: at night, when I'm going through my work, I think
Speaker 1: I can make out shapes in those shadows that don't
Speaker 1: quite look like trees or rocks. The shapes are indistinct,
Speaker 1: could easily be tricks of light and shadow, but there's
Speaker 1: something about their proportions that seems wrong for natural features.
Speaker 1: What bothers me most is not knowing what was out
Speaker 1: there in the valley with me. I've researched the area
Speaker 1: extensively since returning, looking for reports of unusual wildlife or
Speaker 1: any explanation for what I experienced. The valley is well
Speaker 1: within the range of black bears and mountain lions, both
Speaker 1: of which I've encountered safely many times before, but neither
Speaker 1: of those animals would account for the sounds I heard,
Speaker 1: the size of the impressions around my campsite, or the
Speaker 1: persistent feeling of being observed with what seemed like intelligence.
Speaker 1: I've considered going back to the valley, this time with
Speaker 1: more preparation and possibly with a companion, but something holds
Speaker 1: me back. Part of it is professional caution. I can't
Speaker 1: afford to lose expensive equipment or put myself in danger
Speaker 1: for the sake of satisfying curiosity. But there's also a
Speaker 1: deeper reluctance, a feeling that whatever was out there in
Speaker 1: the recovering forest might not welcome a return visit. The
Speaker 1: recovery project I was working on turned out well, and
Speaker 1: the magazine published a major feature based on my photographs
Speaker 1: from various fire affected areas, but I never included any
Speaker 1: of the images from that particular valley, and I haven't
Speaker 1: mentioned the experience to any of my professional colleagues. Some
Speaker 1: encounters are too personal, too unsettling to share in the
Speaker 1: context of scientific.
Speaker 2: Or artistic work.
Speaker 1: Instead, that experience has become part of my internal landscape,
Speaker 1: a reminder that the wilderness still holds mysteries that camer
Speaker 1: lenses can't capture and scientific explanations can't fully account for.
Speaker 1: Every time I head into a remote area, now I
Speaker 1: carry with me the memory of those footsteps circling my
Speaker 1: tent in the darkness, and the knowledge that sometimes in
Speaker 1: the deepest places of the wild, something might be watching back.
Speaker 1: Our next story comes from someone who spent decades navigating
Speaker 1: the remote back roads that wind through these mysterious forests.
Speaker 1: I spent most of my adult life working in the
Speaker 1: timber industry, first as a logger and then as a
Speaker 1: truck driver hauling loads from the cutting sites to the mills.
Speaker 1: It's hard, honest work that kept me outdoors in some
Speaker 1: of the most beautiful and remote country in Oregon. In Washington,
Speaker 1: over thirty five years, I drove thousands of miles of
Speaker 1: logging roads, some so remote that you might not see
Speaker 1: another human being for days at a time. I knew
Speaker 1: every turn, every steep grade, every seasonal challenge that these
Speaker 1: mountain routes could throw at you. Logging roads are a
Speaker 1: world unto themselves. They're built for function, not comfort, carved
Speaker 1: into mountain sides and following ridge lines and ways that
Speaker 1: would terrify most ordinary drivers. As I traveled, were maintained
Speaker 1: just well enough to handle the massive trucks carrying full
Speaker 1: loads of logs, but they required skill, experience, and constant
Speaker 1: attention to navigate safely. Most of them were single lane
Speaker 1: affairs with occasional turnouts where you could pull over if
Speaker 1: you met oncoming traffic. The trucking life meant long days
Speaker 1: and irregular schedules. During peak season, I might be on
Speaker 1: the road for fourteen hours a day, making multiple runs
Speaker 1: between the cutting sites and various mills throughout the region.
Speaker 1: I hauled everything from small diameter lodge pole pine to
Speaker 1: massive old growth cedar logs that were worth more than
Speaker 1: most people make in a year. Each type of load
Speaker 1: required different handling, different route planning, and different precautions. This
Speaker 1: particular incident happened during my last year before retirement, so
Speaker 1: I was probably around sixty four at the time. I
Speaker 1: was hauling a load of old growth ceedar from a
Speaker 1: cutting site about forty miles northwest of Bend, Oregon. The
Speaker 1: logs I was carrying that were specimens trees that had
Speaker 1: been standing for probably three hundred years before they were harvested.
Speaker 1: Each log was worth thousands of dollars, and the total
Speaker 1: value of my load was probably close to one hundred thousand.
Speaker 1: It was late in the season, probably early November, and
Speaker 1: we'd had some early snow in the higher elevations. The
Speaker 1: logging road I was using was one i'd driven many
Speaker 1: times before, a winding, single lane track that climbed up
Speaker 1: through dense forest for about twenty miles before connecting to
Speaker 1: a paved county road. The road was in decent shape
Speaker 1: despite the recent weather, and I was making good time.
Speaker 1: I'd made the same run earlier that day without any problems,
Speaker 1: delivering a load of smaller logs to a mill in town,
Speaker 1: but this was my second load and I was running
Speaker 1: later than usual. The cutting site crew had been delayed
Speaker 1: getting the cedar logs ready. And by the time I
Speaker 1: got loaded and secured everything properly, it was already getting dark.
Speaker 1: I prefer to make these mountain runs during daylight hours,
Speaker 1: but sometimes the schedule doesn't cooperate. The truck I was
Speaker 1: driving was a Peter built with a five hundred and
Speaker 1: fifty horsepower engine and a specially designed trailer for hauling logs.
Speaker 1: Fully loaded like I was that evening, The whole rig
Speaker 1: weighed about one hundred five thousand pounds. It wasn't the
Speaker 1: newest equipment in the fleet, but it was reliable, and
Speaker 1: I knew every sound it made, every quirk in its handling.
Speaker 1: After fifteen years driving logging trucks, you develop an intimate
Speaker 1: relationship with your equipment. I was about halfway down the mountain,
Speaker 1: making good time on the winding descent, when I came
Speaker 1: around a sharp curve and had to slam on the
Speaker 1: brake so hard that the load shifted slightly in the trailer.
Speaker 1: There was something standing in the middle of the road,
Speaker 1: about one hundred feet ahead of me, clearly visible in
Speaker 1: the glare of my headlights. My first impression was of
Speaker 1: size and wrongness. Whatever was blocking the road was tall,
Speaker 1: much taller than a person and covered in dark hair
Speaker 1: or fur. It was standing on two legs like a human,
Speaker 1: but the proportion were all wrong. The shoulders were incredibly broad,
Speaker 1: broader than seemed possible for any living creature, and the
Speaker 1: arms hung down past where its knees should have been.
Speaker 1: Even from that distance, I could tell it was looking
Speaker 1: directly at me. I sat there for maybe thirty seconds,
Speaker 1: engine idling, air brakes, hissing, trying to process what I
Speaker 1: was seeing. The logical part of my brain was suggesting
Speaker 1: it had to be a bear, standing up on its
Speaker 1: hind legs, but bears don't stand like that. This thing
Speaker 1: was perfectly upright, perfectly balanced, showing no signs of dropping
Speaker 1: back down to all fours, and the more I looked
Speaker 1: at it, the more obvious it became that it wasn't
Speaker 1: a bear at all. The head was the wrong shape,
Speaker 1: too human like, but not quite human either. The arms
Speaker 1: were too long, hanging down in a way that no
Speaker 1: person's arms would hang. And there was something about the
Speaker 1: way it stood, a sense of awareness and intelligence that
Speaker 1: was unlike any animal I'd ever encountered. It seemed to
Speaker 1: be studying me, just intently as I was studying it.
Speaker 1: After what felt like forever, but was probably only a
Speaker 1: few more seconds. I laid on the horn. The sound
Speaker 1: was enormously loud in the mountain, silence, echoing off the
Speaker 1: surrounding peaks and probably traveling for miles. The thing in
Speaker 1: the road turned its head slightly in my direction when
Speaker 1: I honked, and I got a better look at its
Speaker 1: face in the headlight glare. What I saw wasn't quite
Speaker 1: human and wasn't quite ape like either. It was something
Speaker 1: in between, with features that were almost familiar, but disturbing
Speaker 1: in a way I can't quite describe. The eyes seemed
Speaker 1: to have a depth and intelligence that was unsettling, and
Speaker 1: there was something about the expression, if you could call it,
Speaker 1: that that suggested it was as curious about me.
Speaker 2: As I was about it.
Speaker 1: We looked at each other for another few seconds that
Speaker 1: stretched like hours, and then it simply stepped off the
Speaker 1: road and disappeared into the trees. The movement was fluid
Speaker 1: and graceful, despite the creature's obvious size, like it was
Speaker 1: perfectly comfortab navigating the steep forested terrain in complete darkness.
Speaker 1: One moment it was there blocking my path, and the
Speaker 1: next it was gone, leaving no trace except the image
Speaker 1: burned into my memory. I waited another couple of minutes
Speaker 1: before I started driving again, creeping forward slowly and watching
Speaker 1: the tree line on both sides of the road. My
Speaker 1: hands were shaking slightly on the steering wheel, and I
Speaker 1: realized I'd been holding my breath for most of the encounter.
Speaker 1: When I got to the spot where it had been standing,
Speaker 1: I stopped the truck and looked out the side windows
Speaker 1: into the forest. I couldn't see anything, but I had
Speaker 1: the strong feeling that it was still out there, somewhere,
Speaker 1: watching me from the darkness between the trees. The forest
Speaker 1: seemed different, now, more alive and aware than it had
Speaker 1: just minutes before. Every shadow could be hiding something. Every
Speaker 1: movement of branches in the wind could be something large
Speaker 1: moving carefully through the undergrowth. The rest of the drive
Speaker 1: down the mountain was the longest twenty miles.
Speaker 2: Of my life.
Speaker 1: I kept check my mirrors both side and rear, expecting
Speaker 1: to see something following behind me. The road seemed darker
Speaker 1: than usual, the trees closer and more oppressive. I found
Speaker 1: myself pressing the accelerator harder than I should have on
Speaker 1: those winding turns, eager to get off the mountain and
Speaker 1: back to the familiar lights of the valley below. Every
Speaker 1: time the headlights swept across the forest as I navigated
Speaker 1: the curves, I found myself scanning the trees for any
Speaker 1: sign of movement or any indication that something might be paralleling.
Speaker 2: My route through the woods.
Speaker 1: The logging road followed the natural contours of the mountain side,
Speaker 1: and there were many places where something moving through the
Speaker 1: forest could easily keep pace with the truck navigating the
Speaker 1: winding route. When I finally made it to the county
Speaker 1: road and could see the lights of a gas station ahead,
Speaker 1: I felt like I could breathe again. But even then,
Speaker 1: as I drove the remaining thirty miles to the mill
Speaker 1: where I was delivering the load, I couldn't stop thinking
Speaker 1: about what I'd seen. The image of that thing standing
Speaker 1: in my headlight light was burned into my memory. The
Speaker 1: way it had looked directly at me, with what seemed
Speaker 1: like intelligence and awareness, the casual way it had stepped
Speaker 1: off the road, as if my massive truck was just
Speaker 1: a minor inconvenience in its evening routine. I didn't tell
Speaker 1: anyone about the encounter right away. In the logging industry,
Speaker 1: you develop a reputation for being reliable and level headed,
Speaker 1: and the last thing I wanted was for people to
Speaker 1: think I was losing my mind or becoming unreliable in
Speaker 1: my final.
Speaker 2: Years on the job.
Speaker 1: Word travels fast in the tight knit logging community, and
Speaker 1: a reputation for seeing things could end your career quickly.
Speaker 1: But over the next few weeks I found myself bringing
Speaker 1: up the subject indirectly with other drivers. I'd ask if
Speaker 1: they'd seen anything unusual on that particular road, or mentioned
Speaker 1: that the wildlife seemed more active lately.
Speaker 2: Most of them laughed.
Speaker 1: At off or changed the subject, but I noticed that
Speaker 1: a few of the more experienced drivers got a strange
Speaker 1: look when I mentioned certain roads or certain areas. One
Speaker 1: evening after work, I was having a beer with Pete Kowalski,
Speaker 1: another driver who'd been working the logging roads even longer
Speaker 1: than I had. Pete was probably pushing seventy at the
Speaker 1: time and was known throughout the industry for being about
Speaker 1: as practical and no nonsense as they come. He'd driven
Speaker 1: just about every logging road in Oregon and Washington over
Speaker 1: the course of his forty year career. I mentioned my
Speaker 1: encounter casually, not going into too much detail, but describing
Speaker 1: what I'd seen in general terms. Pete got quiet for
Speaker 1: a moment, then pulled me aside to a table where
Speaker 1: we could talk more privately. He told me he'd had
Speaker 1: his own encounter on that same stretch of road about
Speaker 1: five years earlier. He described seeing something similar, a large,
Speaker 1: upright figure that had watched his truck pass from just
Speaker 1: inside the tree line. Pete said he'd never told anyone
Speaker 1: about it because he figured no one would believe him,
Speaker 1: and he didn't want to deal with the jokes and
Speaker 1: skeptical looks that would inevitably follow, But he'd been thinking
Speaker 1: about it regularly ever since, especially whenever where he had
Speaker 1: to drive that particular route. He admitted that he'd started
Speaker 1: taking alternate roads when possible, even though they added time
Speaker 1: and miles to his runs. Our conversation opened up something
Speaker 1: I hadn't expected. Over the following weeks, as words spread
Speaker 1: quietly among the more experienced drivers, I learned that my
Speaker 1: encounter wasn't unique. Several other drivers had their own stories,
Speaker 1: brief sightings, unusual sounds, moments when they'd felt like they
Speaker 1: were being watched from the forest. Most had never talked
Speaker 1: about their experiences, keeping them private out of concerns about
Speaker 1: professional reputation and credibility. What struck me was the consistency
Speaker 1: of the accounts. The sightings were always of something large,
Speaker 1: upright and clearly not human, but possessing an intelligence that
Speaker 1: was unsettling in its obviousness. The encounters typically happened on
Speaker 1: remote mountain roads during early morning or evening hours, and
Speaker 1: in every case the witness was left with a profound
Speaker 1: sense that they'd seen it's something that wasn't supposed to exist.
Speaker 1: I only drove that particular logging road a few more
Speaker 1: times before I retired six months later, and I never
Speaker 1: saw anything unusual again. But I'd be lying if I
Speaker 1: said those final runs weren't tense. I found myself driving
Speaker 1: faster than I should have, especially through the section where
Speaker 1: I'd had my encounter. I'd check my mirrors constantly and
Speaker 1: scanned the forest on both sides of the road, looking
Speaker 1: for any sign of movement in the darkness between the trees.
Speaker 1: The logging industry has changed dramatically since I retired eight
Speaker 1: years ago. Most of the cutting is done and managed
Speaker 1: forests now, and the roads are better maintained and more
Speaker 1: heavily traveled. The remote wild areas where I spent most
Speaker 1: of my career are increasingly rare, either protected as wilderness
Speaker 1: or developed for other uses. Sometimes I wonder if that's
Speaker 1: for the best. I still live in the same area,
Speaker 1: though I've moved down from the mountains to a house
Speaker 1: in the valley. Sometimes when I'm driving the back roads
Speaker 1: around here, running errands or visiting friends, I find myself
Speaker 1: automatically scanning the tree line more carefully than I probably need. To.
Speaker 1: Stay tuned for more Backwoods Bigfoot stories. We'll be back
Speaker 1: after these messages. I've never seen anything since that night,
Speaker 1: but I've heard sounds coming from the forest that I
Speaker 1: can't quite identify, calls or vocalizations that don't match any
Speaker 1: animal I know. And sometimes when I'm working in my
Speaker 1: yard in the evening and the light is fading into
Speaker 1: that gray twilight that mountain dwellers know so well, I
Speaker 1: get that same feeling I had on the logging road,
Speaker 1: the feeling that something is out there in the shadows
Speaker 1: between the trees, watching and waiting. It's a feeling that
Speaker 1: never quite goes away, a reminder that there are still
Speaker 1: places in this world where the wild things maintain their secrets,
Speaker 1: and sometimes those secrets cross paths with the human world
Speaker 1: in ways we don't fully understand. While truck drivers pass
Speaker 1: quickly through these forests, others spend weeks at a time
Speaker 1: in their depths. Our next account comes from a scientist
Speaker 1: who had an extended encounter in one of the most
Speaker 1: remote regions of the Cascades. I worked as a meteorologist
Speaker 1: for the National Weather Service for thirty two years, and
Speaker 1: during that time I spent countless hours at remote weather
Speaker 1: monitoring stations throughout the Mountain West. Most of these stations
Speaker 1: are automated, now equipped with sophisticated sensors that transmit data
Speaker 1: via satellite links, but back in the eighties and nineties,
Speaker 1: many of them required regular maintenance visits and manual data collection.
Speaker 1: I was used to working alone in isolated locations, often
Speaker 1: for weeks at a time, and I'd grown comfortable with
Speaker 1: the solitude and the particular rhythm of life in the wilderness.
Speaker 1: The work involved maintaining a network of monitoring stations that
Speaker 1: fed critical data into our weather prediction models. These stations
Speaker 1: measured everything from temperature and humidity to wind speed, precipitation,
Speaker 1: and atmospheric pressure. They were positioned strategically throughout the region
Speaker 1: to provide comprehensive coverage of weather patterns, many of them
Speaker 1: located in extremely remote areas that were difficult to access
Speaker 1: and support. The incident I'm about to describe happened at
Speaker 1: a station located in the North Cascades of Washington, about
Speaker 1: as remote a location as you could find while still
Speaker 1: being accessible by four wheel drive vehicle. The station sat
Speaker 1: on a high ridge at about five thousand feet elevation,
Speaker 1: surrounded by dense old growth forest that stretched for miles
Speaker 1: in every direction. The nearest town was a forty five
Speaker 1: minute drive on winding mountain roads that were often impassable
Speaker 1: during winter months, and the nearest neighbor of any kind
Speaker 1: was a fire lookout tower about ten miles away.
Speaker 2: As the crow Flies.
Speaker 1: I'd been assigned to spend two weeks at this station
Speaker 1: in late August, updating some aging equipment and collecting data
Speaker 1: that our automated systems hadn't been recording properly. The work
Speaker 1: was routine but necessary, replacing sensors, calibrating in instruments, downloading
Speaker 1: stored data, and performing preventive maintenance that would keep the
Speaker 1: station operational through the upcoming winter season. The station consisted
Speaker 1: of a small building that housed the monitoring equipment, communication gear,
Speaker 1: and a basic living quarters that included a kitchen, a bedroom,
Speaker 1: and a bathroom with a chemical toilet. There was a
Speaker 1: propane generator for power, a two way radio for communication
Speaker 1: with our regional office, and enough supplies to support one
Speaker 1: person for a month if necessary. The building was well
Speaker 1: constructed and weather proof, designed to withstand the harsh mountain
Speaker 1: conditions that characterized the area. I'd driven up from Seattle
Speaker 1: on a Sunday afternoon, taking my time on the mountain
Speaker 1: roads and enjoying the scenery. The weather forecast was excellent,
Speaker 1: clear skies and mild temperatures predicted for the entire two
Speaker 1: week period. I'd made this trip many times before over
Speaker 1: the years, and I looked forward to the combination of
Speaker 1: productive work and peaceful solitude that these assignments. The first
Speaker 1: week went smoothly and according to plan. The work was
Speaker 1: absorbing and technically challenging, requiring precise calibration of instruments and
Speaker 1: careful documentation of all procedures. I fell into my usual
Speaker 1: pattern of working during the day and spending the evening's reading,
Speaker 1: listening to music or simply sitting on the small deck
Speaker 1: outside the building and watching the sunset over the distant peaks.
Speaker 1: The weather was indeed perfect, clear skies during the day,
Speaker 1: with temperatures in the seventies and cool nights that rarely
Speaker 1: dropped below fifty degrees. I saw plenty of wildlife from
Speaker 1: the windows of the building, deer, a few black bears
Speaker 1: moving through the forest at a distance, various bird species,
Speaker 1: and once a magnificent elk that grazed in the small
Speaker 1: meadow beyond the instrument array. It was exactly the kind
Speaker 1: of peaceful, productive environment that had attracted me to this
Speaker 1: kind of field work in the first place. It was
Speaker 1: during the second week that things started to feel different.
Speaker 1: I first noticed it on a Wednesday morning, when I
Speaker 1: woke up to find that something had been on the
Speaker 1: property during the night. I've always been methodical about maintaining
Speaker 1: the exterior areas around the monitoring stations, partly for professional
Speaker 1: reasons and partly because I found the routine of keeping
Speaker 1: things neat and organized to be personally satisfying. The wooden
Speaker 1: deck that extended from the front of the building showed
Speaker 1: what looked like muddy footprints, much larger than anything A
Speaker 1: human would make. The prints were smeared and indistinct, but
Speaker 1: they were definitely there, crossing from one side of the
Speaker 1: deck to the other in a purposeful pattern. More concerning
Speaker 1: was the fact that one of the metal weather instrument housings,
Speaker 1: a wind speed sensor mounted on a pole about twenty
Speaker 1: feet from the building, had been moved. The housing wasn't
Speaker 1: damaged in any way, just shifted about two feet from
Speaker 1: its proper position. This wasn't a minor displacement that could
Speaker 1: be explained by wind or settling. The housing was heavy,
Speaker 1: probably fifty pounds, and securely they mounted on a metal
Speaker 1: pole that was anchored in concrete. Moving it would require
Speaker 1: considerable strength, and, more importantly, seemed to require deliberate action
Speaker 1: rather than accidental contact. I spent the morning examining the
Speaker 1: area around the building, more carefully documenting what I'd found
Speaker 1: and trying to determine what might have caused the disturbances.
Speaker 1: I checked all the monitoring equipment to make sure it
Speaker 1: was still functioning properly, and everything appeared to be operating normally.
Speaker 1: The data log showed no interruptions or anomalies that might
Speaker 1: indicate equipment tampering. My first assumption was that a bear
Speaker 1: had wandered through during the night. Bears are curious animals,
Speaker 1: and certainly strong enough to move weather equipment while investigating it.
Speaker 1: The muddy prints on the deck could have been bear pause,
Speaker 1: though they seemed larger and more elongated than the bear
Speaker 1: tracks I'd seen before. I made note of the incident
Speaker 1: in my daily log, but didn't consider it particularly unusual.
Speaker 1: But the next morning brought new evidence that something had
Speaker 1: been visiting the station. This time it was the garbage.
Speaker 1: I always stored my trash in a heavy metal can
Speaker 1: with a tight fitting lid secured with a bungee cord
Speaker 1: to prevent animals from getting into it. The container was
Speaker 1: designed to be bare resistant and had proven effective at
Speaker 1: other remote stations where wildlife encounters were common. The trash
Speaker 1: can hadn't been opened or damaged, but it had been
Speaker 1: moved about ten feet from where I'd positioned it the
Speaker 1: previous evening. Again, the movement seemed deliberate rather than accidental.
Speaker 1: The can was heavy when full, probably forty pounds, and
Speaker 1: the ground around where it had been sitting showed clear impressions,
Speaker 1: indicating that something had picked it up and carried it
Speaker 1: to its new location. Over the next several days, the
Speaker 1: disturbances continued and became more frequent. Every morning, I'd find
Speaker 1: subtle signs that something had been moving around the property
Speaker 1: during the night. Tools that I'd left on the deck
Speaker 1: would be in slightly different positions. The chairs I kept
Speaker 1: outside would be rearranged, sometimes stacked in configurations that couldn't
Speaker 1: have been the result of wind or random animal activity.
Speaker 1: Nothing was ever damaged or taken, just moved or rearranged,
Speaker 1: and the movements always seemed purposeful, deliberate, like someone or
Speaker 1: something was examining my equipment and living arrangements with careful attention.
Speaker 1: It reminded me of how a curious person might explore
Speaker 1: an abandoned building, touching things and moving them around to
Speaker 1: better understand their function. I began to develop a routine
Speaker 1: of carefully noting the position of various objects before going
Speaker 1: to bed each night, then checking them in the morning
Speaker 1: to see what had changed. The pattern was consistent. Items
Speaker 1: would be moved, but never in ways that suggested hostility
Speaker 1: or destructive intent. It was more like investigation or exploration
Speaker 1: conducted by something with obvious intelligence but unknown motivations. The
Speaker 1: most unsettling aspect wasn't the physical evidence, but the growing
Speaker 1: sense that I was being watched. During my daytime work
Speaker 1: around the station, I'd occasionally get the feeling that something
Speaker 1: was observing me from the forest. I'd look up from
Speaker 1: my equipment and scan the tree line, but I never
Speaker 1: saw anything out of the ordinary. The feeling would pass,
Speaker 1: but it always returned stronger each time. I started staying
Speaker 1: up later at night, positioning myself at different windows around
Speaker 1: the building and watching the surrounding forest for any signs
Speaker 1: of movement. The station's windows provided good visibility in all directions,
Speaker 1: and there was enough ambient light from the stars and
Speaker 1: moon to see fairly clearly across the meadow and into
Speaker 1: the edge of the forest. But whatever was visiting the
Speaker 1: property only seemed to be active when I wasn't actively watching.
Speaker 1: I'd spend hours at the windows, looking and listening, but
Speaker 1: I never observed anything directly. It was only in the
Speaker 1: morning that I'd find new evidence of the nocturnal visits,
Speaker 1: more moved objects, new impressions in the soft earth around
Speaker 1: the building, occasionally what looked like handprints or fingerprints.
Speaker 2: On equipment that had been handled.
Speaker 1: On my last night at the station, I decided to
Speaker 1: try something different instead of going to bed at my
Speaker 1: usual time. Around ten o'clock, I turned off all the
Speaker 1: lights in the building and positioned myself at the kitchen
Speaker 1: window with a pair of binoculars. I wanted to see
Speaker 1: if I could finally observe whatever was responsible for the
Speaker 1: nightly disturbances. I sat there in the dark for hours,
Speaker 1: watching and waiting. The forest was alive, with the normal
Speaker 1: sounds of night time owls calling, the distant howl of coyotes,
Speaker 1: the rustle of small animals moving through the underbrush. Around midnight,
Speaker 1: I was starting to feel drowsy when I heard something
Speaker 1: that instantly brought me fully awake. It was the sound
Speaker 1: of the deck creaking underweight. Someone or something was walking
Speaker 1: across the wooden planks right outside the front of the building,
Speaker 1: moving slowly and deliberately. The footsteps were heavy, much heavier
Speaker 1: than a person would make, and they had a measured
Speaker 1: quality that suggested careful placement rather than casual movement. I
Speaker 1: held my breath and listen, and as the footsteps moved
Speaker 1: across the deck from one side to the other, each
Speaker 1: step produced a distinct creak from the wooden planks, and
Speaker 1: I could tell from the sound that whatever was out
Speaker 1: there was taking its time exploring the deck systematically, rather
Speaker 1: than simply crossing it to get somewhere else. After what
Speaker 1: felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes,
Speaker 1: the footsteps stopped. I waited for several more minutes, straining
Speaker 1: to hear any other sounds, but everything had gone quiet.
Speaker 1: Even the normal forest sound seemed muted, as if the
Speaker 1: entire mountain side was holding its breath. Finally, I gathered
Speaker 1: enough courage to move to a position where I could
Speaker 1: see out the front window without exposing myself. The night
Speaker 1: was clear, with enough moonlight to see the deck and
Speaker 1: the immediate area around the building, but there was nothing there.
Speaker 1: Whatever had been walking across the deck had disappeared as
Speaker 1: silently as it had arrived. I spent the rest of
Speaker 1: the night awake, listening for any other sounds and watching
Speaker 1: for any movement outside the windows. Just before dawn, around
Speaker 1: five point thirty in the morning, I heard something. It
Speaker 1: was a vocalization coming from somewhere in the forest surrounding
Speaker 1: the station, a deep, mournful sound that seemed to echo
Speaker 1: off the surrounding peaks. The sound wasn't quite a howl,
Speaker 1: and wasn't quite a moan, but something in between. It
Speaker 1: had a quality that was unlike anything I'd ever heard
Speaker 1: from any known animal. There was an emotional depth to it,
Speaker 1: almost like grief or longing, that was profoundly unsettling. The
Speaker 1: vocalization lasted for maybe ten seconds, rising and falling in pitch,
Speaker 1: and then everything went quiet again. When the sun came
Speaker 1: up an hour later, I found new evidence of the
Speaker 1: night's visit. The deck showed clear footprints, much more distinct
Speaker 1: than any I'd seen before. These weren't the smeared, muddy
Speaker 1: impressions from previous mornings, but clear, well defined prints that
Speaker 1: showed remarkable detail. The prints were definitely not human. They
Speaker 1: were much larger than any person's foot would make, probably
Speaker 1: eighteen inches long and seven or eight inches wide. At
Speaker 1: the widest point. They had clear impressions that looked like
Speaker 1: individual toes at the front of each print. The depth
Speaker 1: of the impressions indicated that whatever made them was extremely heavy,
Speaker 1: much heavier than even a large person. The prince showed
Speaker 1: a complete crossing of the deck from the steps at
Speaker 1: one end to the railing at the other end, and
Speaker 1: then they simply stopped. There was no indication of how
Speaker 1: whatever made them had left the deck. No prints leading
Speaker 1: away into the yard, no disturbance in the vegetation around
Speaker 1: the building. It was as if the creature had simply
Speaker 1: vanished at the edge of the deck. I documented the
Speaker 1: prints thoroughly with photographs and measurements, but I knew from
Speaker 1: experience that such evidence rarely translated well to skeptical audiences.
Speaker 1: The prints were there, undeniably real, but I also knew
Speaker 1: how easy it would be for someone to dismiss them
Speaker 1: as natural formations or hoaxes. I packed up my equipment
Speaker 1: and left the station that morning, a day earlier than
Speaker 1: originally planned. The official reason I gave was that I'd
Speaker 1: completed all necessary work ahead of schedule, but the truth
Speaker 1: was that I no longer felt comfortable staying alone at
Speaker 1: the remote location. Something about the pattern of visits and
Speaker 1: the intelligence they suggested made me uneasy in a way
Speaker 1: I'd never experienced during decades of field work. I submitted
Speaker 1: my technical report on the equipment maintenance and data collection,
Speaker 1: but I didn't mention anything about the nocturnal visits or
Speaker 1: the strange vocalizations. I wasn't sure anyone would believe me,
Speaker 1: and more Importantly, I wasn't sure such information would serve
Speaker 1: any useful purpose. The station continued to operate normally, and
Speaker 1: subsequent visits by other technicians revealed no unusual problems or incidents.
Speaker 1: But I never forgot that experience, and it fundamentally changed
Speaker 1: how I approached remote field assignments for the rest of
Speaker 1: my career. I became much more aware of my surroundings,
Speaker 1: much more careful about securing buildings and equipment, and much
Speaker 1: more attuned to the subtle signs that might indicate unusual
Speaker 1: wildlife activity. During subsequent assignments at remote stations, I found
Speaker 1: myself automatically noting the positions of objects before going to
Speaker 1: bed and checking them in the morning. I developed a
Speaker 1: heightened sensitivity to sounds and movements that didn't fit normal patterns,
Speaker 1: and I never again felt completely alone at those isolated outposts.
Speaker 1: The experience also changed my relationship with the wilderness itself.
Speaker 1: I'd always viewed remote natural areas as peaceful retreats, places
Speaker 1: where human activity had minimal impact and where the normal
Speaker 1: stresses of civilization could be forgotten. But after that two
Speaker 1: weeks in the North Cascades, I began to see the
Speaker 1: wilderness as a more complex environment, home to intelligences and
Speaker 1: awareness that we don't fully understand. Sometimes, even now, years
Speaker 1: after retiring, I think about that station on its high ridge,
Speaker 1: surrounded by endless forest. I wonder if the nocturnal visits
Speaker 1: continued after I left, if other maintenance workers had their
Speaker 1: own encounters, if whatever was out there is still watching
Speaker 1: our human activities with curious, intelligent eyes. Some questions don't
Speaker 1: have answers, and perhaps that's as it should be. There
Speaker 1: are places in this world where mystery still exists, where
Speaker 1: the unknown can approach us on its own terms, and
Speaker 1: sometimes the wisest response is simply to acknowledge the encounter
Speaker 1: and carry the memory with appropriate humility and respect. Our
Speaker 1: next story follows an experienced angler who discovered he wasn't
Speaker 1: alone on what should have been a solitary fishing trip.
Speaker 1: I've been fishing the rivers and streams of northern Idaho
Speaker 1: for close to forty years, and I thought I knew
Speaker 1: every mile of water worth fishing in a three county area.
Speaker 1: What started as a childhood hobby growing up on my
Speaker 1: grandfather's farm had evolved into a serious passion that shaped
Speaker 1: how I spent most of my free time and vacation days.
Speaker 2: I'm not a.
Speaker 1: Tournament angler or a guy, just someone who finds peace
Speaker 1: and satisfaction in the pursuit of wild trout in beautiful places.
Speaker 1: Most of my fishing trips are day excursions to spots
Speaker 1: I can reach by truck or with a short hike,
Speaker 1: places where I can fish for six or eight hours
Speaker 1: and be back home for dinner. But a couple times
Speaker 1: a year, usually in the spring after runoff and again
Speaker 1: in the fall, I like to pack light and head
Speaker 1: into the real back country for multi day trips where
Speaker 1: I can fish waters that maybe see a dozen anglers
Speaker 1: in an entire season. These backcountry trips require a different
Speaker 1: set of skills and equipment than day fishing. You have
Speaker 1: to be completely self sufficient, carrying everything you need for
Speaker 1: several days in a pack that's light enough to handle
Speaker 1: on long hikes over rough terrain. I've developed a system
Speaker 1: over the years that balances my needs for shelter, food,
Speaker 1: and fishing gear in a way that keeps my pack
Speaker 1: weight under forty pounds while still providing everything necessary for
Speaker 1: a comfortable and productive trip. This particular trip was planned
Speaker 1: for mid September, right at the peak of the fall
Speaker 1: feeding season, when trout become aggressive in preparation for winter.
Speaker 1: I'd been planning it for months, studying topographic maps and
Speaker 1: talking to other anglers about a section of stream that
Speaker 1: was supposed to hold large wild cutthroat trout in deep
Speaker 1: pools surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountain scenery
Speaker 1: in the state. The stream runs through a narrow canyon
Speaker 1: about fifteen miles from the nearest road, accessible only by
Speaker 1: an old mining trail that winds through extremely remote and
Speaker 1: rugged country. The trail had been built in the early
Speaker 1: nineteen hundreds to access silver mines high in the mountains,
Speaker 1: but it had been abandoned for decades and was now
Speaker 1: maintained only by occasional use from hunters and backpackers. I'd
Speaker 1: managed to get three and a half days off work,
Speaker 1: enough time for a four day trip into the canyon.
Speaker 1: The plan was to hike in on a Thursday afternoon,
Speaker 1: establish a base camp, and fish Friday, Saturday, and Sunday
Speaker 1: before hiking out Monday morning. The weather forecast was ideal,
Speaker 1: clear skies and mild temperatures, with nighttime lows in the
Speaker 1: forties and daytime highs in the sixties. The hike in
Speaker 1: took most of Thursday afternoon, following the old mining trail
Speaker 1: as it switched back down into the canyon through dense
Speaker 1: forest and across several tributaries. The trail was in better
Speaker 1: condition than I'd expected, though it was obviously little used.
Speaker 1: I saw evidence of occasional horse traffic, probably hunters in
Speaker 1: the fall, but no recent footprints or other signs of
Speaker 1: human activity. The canyon itself was spectacular. Steep walls rose
Speaker 1: several hundred feet on both sides, covered with a mixture
Speaker 1: of old growth pine, fir and aspen. The stream ran
Speaker 1: clear and cold over a bottom of granite stones and gravel,
Speaker 1: forming deep pools connected by fast running riffles that looked
Speaker 1: perfect for holding trout. I'd studied the area on maps,
Speaker 1: but seeing it in person exceeded my expectations. I chose
Speaker 1: a campsite in a small meadow about fifty yards from
Speaker 1: the stream, protected by tall trees and offering good access
Speaker 1: to both upstream and downstream fishing areas. Stay tuned for
Speaker 1: more Backwoods Bigfoot stories. We'll be back after these messages.
Speaker 1: The spot was level enough for my tent and had
Speaker 1: a natural wind break that would provide protection if the
Speaker 1: weather changed. There was also a fire ring made from
Speaker 1: local stones, indicating that others had used this site before,
Speaker 1: though it looked like it hadn't been occupied recently. Setting
Speaker 1: up camp in such a remote location requires particular attention
Speaker 1: to organization and security. Everything has to be properly stored
Speaker 1: to protect it from weather and wildlife. I use a
Speaker 1: lightweight but strong tent designed for mountain conditions, and I
Speaker 1: always hang my food and bear resistant containers from tree
Speaker 1: branches well away from my sleeping area. That evening, I
Speaker 1: spent a couple of hours exploring the water near my
Speaker 1: camp site and getting a feel for the fishing conditions.
Speaker 1: The stream was running at perfect levels, enough to keep
Speaker 1: the fish comfortable, but low enough to allow for effective
Speaker 1: fly fishing. I caught and released several nice trout, including
Speaker 1: a couple that were probably close to twenty inches long.
Speaker 1: The fish were healthy and aggressive, obviously well fed and
Speaker 1: living an ideal habitat. As the sun set, I cooked
Speaker 1: a simple dinner on my backpacking stove and settled in
Speaker 1: to enjoy the solitude and the incredible beauty of the canyon.
Speaker 1: The walls rose so steeply that the stars appeared in
Speaker 1: a narrow strip directly overhead, creating an almost cathedral like atmosphere.
Speaker 1: The only sounds were the constant murmur of the stream
Speaker 1: and the occasional call of an owl from somewhere in
Speaker 1: the forest above.
Speaker 2: I woke up Friday.
Speaker 1: Morning to find that something had visited my campsite during
Speaker 1: the night. My backpack, which i'd left leaning against a
Speaker 1: tree about ten feet from my tent, had been moved.
Speaker 1: It wasn't dramatically displaced, just turned around so that it
Speaker 1: was facing a different direction. The pack was still properly
Speaker 1: zipped and secured, and a quick inspection showed that nothing
Speaker 1: was missing or damaged. I examined the area around where
Speaker 1: the pack had been sitting, looking for tracks or other
Speaker 1: signs of what might have moved it. The ground was
Speaker 1: soft enough that clear prints should have been visible if
Speaker 1: a bear or other large animal had been investigating my
Speaker 1: camp site, but I didn't find anything definitive. There were
Speaker 1: some vague disturbances in the pine needles and soft soil,
Speaker 1: but nothing I could identify with certainty.
Speaker 2: My first thought was that a.
Speaker 1: Bear had wandered through during the night and had investigated
Speaker 1: my pack out of curiosity. Bears are naturally curious about
Speaker 1: human sense and unusual objects, and they're certainly strong enough
Speaker 1: to move a forty pound pack without any effort. The
Speaker 1: fact that nothing had been damaged or opened suggested that
Speaker 1: whatever moved it had lost interest quickly and moved on.
Speaker 1: I spent Friday fishing and trying not to think too
Speaker 1: much about the incident. The fishing was outstanding, one of
Speaker 1: those days where everything goes right. The weather was perfect,
Speaker 1: the fish were cooperative, and I felt completely at peace
Speaker 1: with the world. I caught trout in every pool I fished,
Speaker 1: including several that were larger than anything I'd caught in
Speaker 1: years of fishing more accessible waters. By evening, I'd almost
Speaker 1: forgotten about the moved pack. I prepared dinner as the
Speaker 1: sun disappeared behind the western wall of the canyon, enjoying
Speaker 1: the peaceful transition from day to night in such a
Speaker 1: beautiful and isolated place. The temperature dropped quickly once the
Speaker 1: direct sunlight was gone, but it was still comfortable enough
Speaker 1: to sit outside for a while and listen to the stream.
Speaker 1: But Saturday morning brought a new set of concerns. My
Speaker 1: fishing rod, which i'd left assembled and leaning against a
Speaker 1: boulder near the edge of the stream had been moved
Speaker 1: about twenty feet upstream. The rod was a high quality
Speaker 1: bamboo fly rod that I'd built myself, and I was
Speaker 1: always extremely careful with it. I would never have left
Speaker 1: it in a position where it could be damaged by
Speaker 1: wind or falling debris. Like the pack the previous morning.
Speaker 1: The rod hadn't been damaged in any way, just relocated.
Speaker 1: It was still in its aluminum case, properly secured, but
Speaker 1: it was now lying on a flat rock in a
Speaker 1: position where it would have been clearly visible from my tent.
Speaker 1: The movement seemed deliberate rather than accidental, as if something
Speaker 1: had picked it up, examined it, and then placed it
Speaker 1: in a new location. More disturbing was the discovery of
Speaker 1: what looked like a depression in the ground near where
Speaker 1: my tent was pitched. The depression was roughly oval shaped,
Speaker 1: maybe eighteen inches long and eight inches wide, and pressed
Speaker 1: down into the soft earth, like something heavy had been
Speaker 1: lying there for an extended period. The shape and size
Speaker 1: suggested that something large had been resting there during the night,
Speaker 1: positioned in such a way that it would have had
Speaker 1: a clear view of my tent. I spent Saturday morning,
Speaker 1: searching the area more thoroughly, looking for additional evidence of
Speaker 1: what might have been visiting my campsite. I found a
Speaker 1: few more partial impressions and softer ground, but they were
Speaker 1: indistinct and could have been natural formations or the result
Speaker 1: of water runoff. What was clear was that something had
Speaker 1: been in my immediate camping area during the night, close
Speaker 1: enough to my tent to leave that depression in the ground.
Speaker 1: The fishing that day was still excellent, but my focus
Speaker 1: wasn't entirely on the water anymore. Every sound seemed amplified,
Speaker 1: the splash of a beaver working somewhere upstream, the call
Speaker 1: of a hawk circling overhead, the wind moving through the
Speaker 1: aspen trees whose leaves were just beginning to turn color.
Speaker 1: I found myself looking over my shoulder more often than
Speaker 1: I was watching my fly on the water. I began
Speaker 1: to pay more attention to the forest around the canyon
Speaker 1: during the day, scanning the steep walls in the areas
Speaker 1: where the tree line met the cliff faces. The canyon
Speaker 1: was deep and narrow enough that anyone or anything on
Speaker 1: the rim above would have an excellent view of the
Speaker 1: stream and my camp site. I never saw anything definitive,
Speaker 1: but I occasionally caught glimpses of movement that could have
Speaker 1: been animals, falling rocks, or shadows caused by the shifting sunlight.
Speaker 1: That evening, I made the decision to break camp early
Speaker 1: and hike out Sunday morning instead of staying for my
Speaker 1: planned fourth day. Something about the situation felt increasingly wrong,
Speaker 1: and my instincts were telling me it was time to leave.
Speaker 2: I'd learned to.
Speaker 1: Trust those instincts during decades of solo outdoor activities, and
Speaker 1: they'd never steered me wrong. Before I secured all my
Speaker 1: gear more carefully than usual before going to bed, bringing
Speaker 1: some items inside the tent that I would normally leave outside.
Speaker 1: I also kept my flashlight and my knife close at hand,
Speaker 1: though I wasn't sure what I might need them for.
Speaker 1: The rationale part of my mind said I was probably
Speaker 1: overreacting to coincidental events, but a deeper part of me
Speaker 1: was genuinely concerned. I don't think I slept more than
Speaker 1: an hour or two that night. Every small sound woke
Speaker 1: me up, and I found myself lying there in my
Speaker 1: sleeping bag, listening intently for anything that might indicate something
Speaker 1: was moving around my camp site. The stream provided a
Speaker 1: constant background noise that could mask other sounds, and every
Speaker 1: change in its rhythm made me more alert. Around three
Speaker 1: in the morning, I heard something that made me sit
Speaker 1: up straight in my sleeping bag. It was the sound
Speaker 1: of something large moving through the water in the stream
Speaker 1: not far from where I was camped. The sound wasn't
Speaker 1: random splashing, like an animal drinking or crossing, but deliberate movement,
Speaker 1: like something was walking upstream through the shallow water near
Speaker 1: the bank. The sounds continued for several minutes, moving slowly
Speaker 1: but steadily in the direction of my campsite. I could
Speaker 1: hear what sounded like footsteps in the water, each one
Speaker 1: accompanied by a small splash, and the sound of water
Speaker 1: being displaced. Whatever was moving through the stream was doing
Speaker 1: so carefully and methodically, like it was trying to minimize
Speaker 1: the noise it made. Eventually, the sound stopped altogether, somewhere
Speaker 1: very close to where I was camped. I lay in
Speaker 1: my tent, barely breathing, waiting for any indication of what
Speaker 1: might happen next. The silence stretched for what felt like
Speaker 1: hours but was probably only twenty or thirty minutes. Eventually
Speaker 1: I heard movement again, but this time, it sounded like
Speaker 1: something moving away from the stream, heading up the slope
Speaker 1: toward the forest. When dawn finally started to break, I
Speaker 1: gathered enough courage to unzip my tent and look outside.
Speaker 1: The morning light revealed a camp site that had been
Speaker 1: completely rearranged during the night. My boots, which I'd left
Speaker 1: just outside the tent entrance, were now sitting side by
Speaker 1: side about ten feet away, positioned as if someone had
Speaker 1: carefully placed them there. The stones I'd arranged around my
Speaker 1: camping stove for wind protection had been moved into a
Speaker 1: different pattern, not scattered randomly, but rearranged into what looked
Speaker 1: like a deliberate design. Most disturbing of all, my fishing creel,
Speaker 1: which I'd hung from a tree branch about six feet
Speaker 1: off the ground to keep it away from ground dwelling animals,
Speaker 1: was now sitting on the ground with the leather strap
Speaker 1: neatly coiled beside it. Everything was still there, nothing was
Speaker 1: damaged or missing, but the entire camp site had been
Speaker 1: reorganized by someone or something with obvious intelligence and purpose.
Speaker 1: The careful placement of objects, the neat arrangement of the stones,
Speaker 1: the way my boots had been positioned, all of it
Speaker 1: suggested deliberate action rather than random disturbance by curious animals.
Speaker 1: I broke camp as quickly as I could, stuffing gear
Speaker 1: into my pack with much less care than usual, driven
Speaker 1: by an urgent need to get out of the canyon.
Speaker 1: The fifteen mile hike back to my truck felt like
Speaker 1: it took forever, and I kept looking back over my shoulder,
Speaker 1: expecting to see something following me. On the trail, every
Speaker 1: shadow between the trees seemed to hold potential danger, and
Speaker 1: every sound from the forest made me walk faster. The
Speaker 1: old mining trail, which had seemed perfectly safe and familiar
Speaker 1: on the hike in, now felt exposed and vulnerable. I
Speaker 1: found myself hurrying through sections where the forest came close
Speaker 1: to the trail, and breathing easier only when I reached
Speaker 1: open areas where I could see clearly in all directions.
Speaker 1: When I finally reached my truck and loaded my gear
Speaker 1: into the back, I felt a relief like I'd never
Speaker 1: experienced before. It wasn't until I was driving back down
Speaker 1: the forest service road, putting distance between myself and the canyon,
Speaker 1: that I finally started to relax and process what had
Speaker 1: happened during those three days. I've been back to that
Speaker 1: general area since then for day trips fishing other sections
Speaker 1: of the same drainage system, but I've never returned to
Speaker 1: that particular stretch of stream in the canyon. There are
Speaker 1: plenty of other excellent fishing waters in northern Idaho, places
Speaker 1: that don't require such long hikes into such remote country,
Speaker 1: And while I still enjoy solo fishing trips, I find
Speaker 1: myself choosing locations that are a little closer to civilization,
Speaker 1: a little more accessible if something goes wrong. The experience
Speaker 1: changed how I think about remote wilderness areas and my
Speaker 1: place in them. I'd always felt like these places belonged
Speaker 1: to anyone willing to make the effort to reach them,
Speaker 1: But now I understand that some areas have their own inhabitants,
Speaker 1: their own rhythms and relationships that we might not fully understand,
Speaker 1: sometimes where visitors and places where others have prior claim,
Speaker 1: and sometimes the best response to that realization is respectful withdrawal.
Speaker 1: I never did figure out what was responsible for rearranging
Speaker 1: my campsite and moving my equipment around, the deliberate nature
Speaker 1: of the actions, the apparent intelligence behind them, and the
Speaker 1: careful way everything was handled suggested something far more complex
Speaker 1: than random wildlife behavior. Whatever was in that canyon with
Speaker 1: me had its own purposes and its own way of
Speaker 1: interacting with the world, and I was fortunate that the
Speaker 1: interaction remained peaceful and ultimately harmless. Some mysteries are better
Speaker 1: left unsolved, especially when you're alone in the wilderness with
Speaker 1: nothing but fishing gear and your own judgment to depend on.
Speaker 1: The mountains and forests of northern Idaho are vast and
Speaker 1: largely unexplored, home to wildlife and natural forces that we
Speaker 1: still don't fully understand. Sometimes the wisest course of action
Speaker 1: is to accept that we share these places with others,
Speaker 1: to fish and hike and camp with appropriate respect and humility,
Speaker 1: and to remember that we are visitors in a world
Speaker 1: that belongs to more than just ourselves. Our final account
Speaker 1: comes from someone whose job was to measure and map
Speaker 1: these wild places, only to discover that some territories resist
Speaker 1: being fully known. I spent fifteen years working as a
Speaker 1: land surveyor, mostly for logging companies and government agencies that
Speaker 1: needed precise mapping of remote forest areas before they could
Speaker 1: begin development or conservation projects.
Speaker 2: The work required.
Speaker 1: Extensive technical training in both the traditional arts of surveying
Speaker 1: using transits, measuring chains and establishing benchmarks, and the modern
Speaker 1: technologies of GPS, electronic distance measurement, and computer mapping that
Speaker 1: transformed the profession during my career. Surveying is fundamentally about
Speaker 1: precision and PACI. Every measurement must be exact, every benchmark
Speaker 1: must be placed with mathematical precision, and every calculation must
Speaker 1: be verified through multiple methods. A small error in the
Speaker 1: field can result in property disputes, construction delays, or environmental
Speaker 1: violations that cost thousands of dollars and create legal problems
Speaker 1: that can last for years. The work took me to
Speaker 1: some of the most remote and pristine wilderness areas in
Speaker 1: the Pacific Northwest, places where my footprints might be the
Speaker 1: first human tracks in decades. I've surveyed old growth forests
Speaker 1: that pre date European settlement, mountain valleys that have never
Speaker 1: been logged or developed, and stream corridors that support wildlife
Speaker 1: populations largely unchanged since before human contact. Most surveying projects
Speaker 1: involved teams of two to four people working together, but
Speaker 1: I often worked alone, especially on reconnaissance surveys where the
Speaker 1: goal was to establish preliminary boundaries and identify potential challenges
Speaker 1: before bringing in larger crews. Solo work required complete self
Speaker 1: sufficiency and the ability to make accurate measurements without the
Speaker 1: benefit of a partner to hold chains or verify calculations.
Speaker 1: The project I'm going to tell you about took place
Speaker 1: in a roadless area of the Olympic National Forest, about
Speaker 1: sixty miles southwest of Port Angelus, Washington. The Forest Service
Speaker 1: had commissioned our company to survey a twenty square mile
Speaker 1: section of old growth forest that they were considering for
Speaker 1: inclusion in an expanded wilderness protection area. The work required
Speaker 1: establishing a network of survey markers throughout the entire region,
Speaker 1: which meant I'd be hiking every square mile of terrain
Speaker 1: and spending about six weeks total in the field. The
Speaker 1: Olympic Peninsula contained some of the most spectacular and diverse
Speaker 1: forest ecosystems in North America. The area I was assigned
Speaker 1: to survey included massive Douglas fir and Sitka spruce trees
Speaker 1: that were several hundred years old, forming a canopy so
Speaker 1: dance that very little sunlight reached the forest floor. The
Speaker 1: understory was relatively open in many areas, which made hiking
Speaker 1: easier than it might have been, but it also created
Speaker 1: an environment where sound carried in strange and unpredictable ways.
Speaker 1: I began the project working with a partner for the
Speaker 1: first week, helping to establish the primary survey points and
Speaker 1: get the overall grid laid out according to the specifications
Speaker 1: in our contract. We used GPS equipment to establish our
Speaker 1: initial coordinates, then worked outward from those points using traditional
Speaker 1: surveying techniques to create a network of benchmarks that would
Speaker 1: guide the rest of the work. After that initial week,
Speaker 1: I was on my own for the detailed survey work,
Speaker 1: which involved hiking to predetermined coordinates throughout the project area
Speaker 1: and setting up markers with precise GPS readings and elevation measurements.
Speaker 1: I established a base camp in a clearing about three
Speaker 1: miles from the nearest forestry road, and from there I
Speaker 1: made day hikes to different sections of the search. The
Speaker 1: base camp was more elaborate than what I'd use for
Speaker 1: a simple camping trip. I needed a weather resistant shelter
Speaker 1: that could protect my electronic equipment, a reliable power source
Speaker 1: for my GPS units and data recorders, an organized storage
Speaker 1: for the survey markers, tools, and supplies i'd be using
Speaker 1: over the six week period. I used a large military
Speaker 1: style tent with a separate rainfly, supplemented by a smaller
Speaker 1: equipment tent for gear that needed to stay completely dry.
Speaker 1: The work was both physically demanding and intellectually challenging. Reaching
Speaker 1: each survey point often required navigating through dense forest, up
Speaker 1: steep slopes and a cross terrain that had no established trails.
Speaker 1: I had to carry my equipment pack, including GPS units,
Speaker 1: electronic distance measuring devices, tripods and markers, plus enough food
Speaker 1: and water for a full day in the field. Everything
Speaker 1: went normally for the first three weeks. I was making
Speaker 1: excellent progress on.
Speaker 2: The survey work.
Speaker 1: The weather was cooperating better than I'd hoped, and I
Speaker 1: was enjoying the complete solitude and the opportunity to work
Speaker 1: in one of the most beautiful environments I'd ever encountered.
Speaker 1: The forest was everything the maps and aerial photographs had suggested, pristine, diverse,
Speaker 1: and largely untouched by human activity. I saw plenty of
Speaker 1: wildlife during those first weeks. Deer were common, moving through
Speaker 1: the forest in small groups and generally showing little fear
Speaker 1: of my presence. Black bears appeared occasionally, usually at a distance,
Speaker 1: and always moving away when they detected me. I identified
Speaker 1: more bird species than I could catalog, and I often
Speaker 1: heard elk calling from the deeper parts of the forest,
Speaker 1: though I never saw them directly.
Speaker 2: The work required.
Speaker 1: Complete accuracy in both my GPS coordinates and my placement
Speaker 1: of survey markers. Each marker had to be positioned according
Speaker 1: to precise specifications and documented with detailed measurements and photographs.
Speaker 1: The markers themselves were aluminum discs about four inches in diameter,
Speaker 1: mounted on steel posts that I drove into the ground
Speaker 1: with a small sledge hammer. It was during the fourth
Speaker 1: week that I started noticing things that didn't quite fit
Speaker 1: the normal pattern of forest activity. I'd arrive at survey
Speaker 1: points i'd mark the previous day to find that some
Speaker 1: of my flagging tape had been removed. This wasn't unusual
Speaker 1: in areas with high wildlife activity. Animals often investigate anything
Speaker 1: new in their territory, and bears in particular are curious
Speaker 1: about unfamiliar objects. But these removals seemed different. The flagging
Speaker 1: tape hadn't been torn off by wind or chewed on
Speaker 1: by animals, as I'd seen in other locations. Instead, it
Speaker 1: had been carefully untied and left in neat piles at
Speaker 1: the base of the trees where I'd attached it.
Speaker 2: The tape was.
Speaker 1: Folded and arranged in a way that seemed deliberate, not random.
Speaker 1: When I radioed our office to check if other survey
Speaker 1: crews might be working in the area, they confirmed that
Speaker 1: I was the only person with authorization to be in
Speaker 1: that section in a forest.
Speaker 2: The nearest permitted.
Speaker 1: Activity was a wildlife research project being conducted about fifteen
Speaker 1: miles away, and those researchers were working on stream ecology
Speaker 1: rather than forest areas. A few days later, something happened
Speaker 1: that elevated my concern from mild puzzlement to genuine unease.
Speaker 1: I was working on establishing a marker at a particularly
Speaker 1: challenging location. The coordinates placed it on a steep slope
Speaker 1: covered with fallen logs and thick undergrowth. Reaching the precise
Speaker 1: spot required careful navigation and slow progress through obstacles that
Speaker 1: could easily damage my equipment. I'd spent about two hours
Speaker 1: working my way down to the coordinates, carefully measuring distances
Speaker 1: and taking GPS readings to ensure I was in exactly
Speaker 1: the right location. Stay tuned for more Backwoods bigfoot stories.
Speaker 1: We'll be back after these messages. The precision required for
Speaker 1: this type of survey work means that being off by
Speaker 1: even a few feet can comp the entire grid system
Speaker 1: we were establishing. I'd made it to the bottom of
Speaker 1: a small ravine where the coordinates indicated the marker should
Speaker 1: be placed when I realized I was no longer alone.
Speaker 1: I couldn't see anything unusual, but I had the unmistakable
Speaker 1: feeling that something was watching me work. The forest had
Speaker 1: gone completely quiet. No bird songs, no insects, not even
Speaker 1: the sound of wind in the trees above the ravine.
Speaker 1: This type of sudden silence isn't uncommon in forest environments.
Speaker 1: It usually indicates that a predator is nearby, causing other
Speaker 1: animals to freeze and remain motionless until the threat passes.
Speaker 1: I'd experienced this before when cougars or large bears were
Speaker 1: in the area, and I knew to be cautious but
Speaker 1: not panicked. But this silence felt different, somehow, more complete,
Speaker 1: more expectant, as if the entire forest was.
Speaker 2: Holding its breath.
Speaker 1: I stopped working and listened carefully for several minutes, scanning
Speaker 1: the steep walls of the ravine and the dense vegitation
Speaker 1: above me for any sign of movement. I saw nothing,
Speaker 1: but the feeling of being observed remained strong and unsettling.
Speaker 1: After about ten minutes, the normal forest sounds gradually returned.
Speaker 1: Birds began calling again, insects resumed their humming, and I
Speaker 1: could hear the distant rustle of small animals moving through
Speaker 1: the undergrowth. I convinced myself that I'd just been spooked
Speaker 1: by the isolation and the challenging terrain, and I continued
Speaker 1: working on the survey marker placement. But as I started
Speaker 1: the difficult climb back up to the ridge, carrying my
Speaker 1: equipment and navigating through the fallen logs and thick brush,
Speaker 1: I found something that stopped me in my tracks. There
Speaker 1: were footprints in the soft soil at the edge of
Speaker 1: the ravine, in a position where someone or something would
Speaker 1: have had an excellent view of me working below. I
Speaker 1: was absolutely certain these prints hadn't been there when I'd
Speaker 1: descended into the ravine two hours earlier. I'd specifically looked
Speaker 1: for the safest route down, studying the ground carefully to
Speaker 1: avoid loose or unstable footing, and I would have noticed
Speaker 1: footprints in such an obvious location. The prints were much
Speaker 1: larger than mine and had a completely different shape than
Speaker 1: any human track I'd ever seen. They were elongated and
Speaker 1: showed what looked like individual toes. Each print was probably
Speaker 1: eighteen inches long and seven or eight inches wide, pressed
Speaker 1: deep into the soil by something extremely heavy. What really
Speaker 1: disturbed me about the prints wasn't just their size and
Speaker 1: unusual shape, but their position. They were located precisely where
Speaker 1: someone would stand to observe activities in the ravine below.
Speaker 1: It was as if something had been watching me work
Speaker 1: from above, staying just out of sight while I struggled
Speaker 1: with the survey equipment in the difficult terrain. I knew
Speaker 1: those prints hadn't been there before. I documented their location
Speaker 1: in my field notes, though I kept the description technical
Speaker 1: and factual, noting unusual tracks of unknown origin without speculating
Speaker 1: about what might have made them. Over the next week,
Speaker 1: the incidents continued and became more frequent. More flagging tape disappeared,
Speaker 1: always removed carefully and left in neat piles. I'd occasionally
Speaker 1: find my equipment moved slightly from where I'd left it
Speaker 1: during breaks. Nothing dramatic, just small adjustments in position that
Speaker 1: could have been accidents, but seemed too deliberate to dismiss,
Speaker 1: and I kept finding those footprints. They appeared on different
Speaker 1: days in different parts of the survey area, but they
Speaker 1: were always the same size and shape, and they were
Speaker 1: always positioned where something could have watched me work from
Speaker 1: a concealed position. The pattern suggested that whatever was making
Speaker 1: the prints was following my activities, staying just out of
Speaker 1: sight but maintaining awareness of my location and movements. The
Speaker 1: logical part of my mind tried to find rational explanations.
Speaker 1: Maybe there was another survey crew in the area that
Speaker 1: hadn't been properly coordinated with our office. Maybe there were
Speaker 1: researchers or wildlife biologists working in the forest who didn't
Speaker 1: know about my presence. Maybe the tracks belonged to someone
Speaker 1: from the local Native American tribes who had traditional access
Speaker 1: rights to the area. But none of these explanations really
Speaker 1: fit the evidence. Other surveyors would use standard hiking boots
Speaker 1: and would have no reason to hide their presence or
Speaker 1: remove my flagging tape. Researchers would likely have radios or
Speaker 1: other equipment that would make noise, and they'd probably try
Speaker 1: to coordinate with me to avoid interfering with each other's work.
Speaker 1: And while I knew that local tribes did have some
Speaker 1: access rights to parts of the Olympic Peninsula, most of
Speaker 1: those rights were specific to certain areas and activities, and
Speaker 1: I'd been assured that my survey work wouldn't conflict with
Speaker 1: any traditional uses. The footprints themselves argued against any of
Speaker 1: these conventional explanations. They were simply too large and too
Speaker 1: unusual in shape to have been made by any normal footwear,
Speaker 1: and their consistent appearance at observation points suggested a level
Speaker 1: of stealth and awareness that seemed inconsistent with innocent, scientific
Speaker 1: or traditional activityvities. Most unsettling of all was the growing
Speaker 1: sense that I was being studied rather than simply observed.
Speaker 1: The careful removal of flagging tape, the subtle movement of equipment,
Speaker 1: the strategic positioning of the footprints, all of it suggested
Speaker 1: an intelligence that was trying to understand my activities and purposes.
Speaker 1: It felt less like casual observation and more like systematic investigation.
Speaker 1: During the fifth week of the project, I had an
Speaker 1: encounter that left no doubt in my mind that something
Speaker 1: extraordinary was happening in that forest. I was working on
Speaker 1: one of the final survey points, located in a particularly
Speaker 1: dense section of forest, where massive old growth trees created
Speaker 1: an almost cathedral like space underneath their canopy. The area
Speaker 1: was characterized by enormous Douglas firs and Sitka spruces, some
Speaker 1: of them probably five hundred years old or more. I'd
Speaker 1: been at this location for about two hours, taking GPS
Speaker 1: readings and making the precise measurements necessary to established the
Speaker 1: survey marker when I heard something that stopped me cold.
Speaker 1: It was a sound like wood striking wood, but not random,
Speaker 1: like a falling branch or a tree settling. The sound
Speaker 1: was rhythmic and deliberate, three sharp strikes, followed by a pause,
Speaker 1: then three more strikes. The sound seemed to be coming
Speaker 1: from somewhere in the forest around me, but the dense
Speaker 1: canopy and the way sound echoed among the massive tree
Speaker 1: trunks made it impossible to pinpoint the exact direction. I
Speaker 1: stopped working and listened carefully for several minutes, but the
Speaker 1: sound didn't repeat immediately. About an hour later, as I
Speaker 1: was packing up my equipment to move to the next
Speaker 1: survey point, I heard the sound again, three deliberate strikes,
Speaker 1: a pause, then three more. This time it seemed to
Speaker 1: be coming from a different direction, maybe a quarter mile away,
Speaker 1: and then from somewhere else in the forest. Entirely, I
Speaker 1: heard an answering sound, the same pattern of three strikes
Speaker 1: repeated three times. The implication was unmistakable. Something was using
Speaker 1: these sounds to communicate, and there was more than one
Speaker 1: of whatever was making them. The sounds were too regular
Speaker 1: and too patterned to be natural phenomena, and they were
Speaker 1: too loud and resonant to be made by small animals.
Speaker 1: Whatever was producing them had to be large enough and
Speaker 1: strong enough to strike wood with considerable force. I gathered
Speaker 1: my equipment as quickly as I could and headed back
Speaker 1: toward my base camp, moving faster than was probably wise
Speaker 1: on the rough terrain. The hike back felt longer than usual,
Speaker 1: and I kept stopping to listen for the wood striking
Speaker 1: sounds or for any indication that something was following me
Speaker 1: through the forest.
Speaker 2: During the entire return trip.
Speaker 1: I maintained the strong feeling that I was being observed,
Speaker 1: not just the vague unease I'd been experiencing for weeks,
Speaker 1: but the specific sense that eyes were tracking my movement
Speaker 1: through the forest. I found myself checking over my shoulder
Speaker 1: frequently and scanning the spaces between the enormous tree trunks
Speaker 1: for any sign of movement. That night at base camp,
Speaker 1: I made the decision to finish the survey work early
Speaker 1: and pack up my operation. I radioed the office and
Speaker 1: told them I'd completed all the essential measurements for the
Speaker 1: project and would be hiking out the next day instead
Speaker 1: of staying for the final planned week. I made up
Speaker 1: some excuse about equipment concerns and potential weather problems, but
Speaker 1: the truth was that I no longer felt safe alone
Speaker 1: in that forest. The experience had moved beyond simple curiosity
Speaker 1: about unusual tracks or mysterious sounds. The systematic nature of
Speaker 1: the observations, the apparent communication between multiple individuals, and the
Speaker 1: growing boldness of the activities around my work sites suggested
Speaker 1: that I was in the territory of something that viewed
Speaker 1: me as an intruder, but had so far chosen not
Speaker 1: to confront me directly. The hike out the next morning
Speaker 1: was uneventful, though I maintained a heightened state of alertness
Speaker 1: throughout the eight mile trek to my vehicle, I loaded
Speaker 1: my equipment into my truck and drove away from the
Speaker 1: forest with a mixture of relief and from frustration.
Speaker 2: Relief at being.
Speaker 1: Back in the familiar world of roads and civilization, frustration
Speaker 1: at leaving a job unfinished and carrying with me more
Speaker 1: questions than answers. I completed my survey report according to
Speaker 1: professional standards, documenting all the measurements i'd taken and providing
Speaker 1: the GPS coordinates for the markers i'd established. The report
Speaker 1: included detailed topographic information, notes on vegetation and terrain challenges,
Speaker 1: and recommendations for future survey work in the area. But
Speaker 1: I made no mention of the footprints, the missing flagging tape,
Speaker 1: or the wood striking sounds. How do you include such
Speaker 1: information in a professional report? How do you document encounters
Speaker 1: that have no official framework for discussion or analysis. I'd
Speaker 1: been hired to map terrain features and establish property boundaries,
Speaker 1: not to investigate unexplained phenomena or speculate about unknown inhabitants
Speaker 1: of the forest. It's been over ten years since that project,
Speaker 1: and I've worked on many similar surveys in remote forest
Speaker 1: areas throughout the Pacific Northwest. I've developed a heightened awareness
Speaker 1: of my surroundings and a greater sensitivity to signs that
Speaker 1: might indicate unusual activity. But I've never had another experience
Speaker 1: quite like that one. I've talked informally with other surveyors
Speaker 1: and forestry workers about unusual encounters in remote areas, and
Speaker 1: I've learned that my experience wasn't entirely unique. There's a
Speaker 1: kind of informal network of stories among people who work
Speaker 1: alone in wilderness areas, accounts of strange sounds, unusual tracks,
Speaker 1: and the persistent feeling of being watched by something that
Speaker 1: remains just out of sight. Most of these accounts never
Speaker 1: make it into official reports or scientific literature. They're shared
Speaker 1: quietly among colleagues, discussed in vague terms over coffee or beer,
Speaker 1: filed away in personal memory rather than institutional records. The
Speaker 1: professional world has little room for unexplained phenomena, and careers
Speaker 1: can be damaged by reports that seem to challenge conventional
Speaker 1: understanding of forest ecosystems. But the experiences remain carried by
Speaker 1: the individuals who live through them, shaping how they approach
Speaker 1: their work and how they understand their relationship to the wilderness.
Speaker 1: I'm more careful now about where I establish base camps,
Speaker 1: more attentive to signs of unusual activity, more respectful of
Speaker 1: the possibility that remote forests might harbor intelligences that we
Speaker 1: don't yet recognize or understand. The Olympics remain a working forest,
Speaker 1: subject to ongoing management and development pressures. The area I
Speaker 1: surveyed has since been included in an expanded wilderness protection zone,
Speaker 1: which means it will remain relatively undisturbed for the foreseeable future.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I think about that vast expanse of ancient forest
Speaker 1: and wonder what lurks there in the spaces between the
Speaker 1: mapped boundaries and surveyed lines.
Speaker 2: There are things in.
Speaker 1: This world that resist measurement and documentation, experiences that don't
Speaker 1: fit into the precise categories of scientific observation and professional reporting.
Speaker 1: Sometimes the most important encounters are the ones that leave
Speaker 1: us with questions rather than answers, that remind us how
Speaker 1: much we still don't know about the natural world and
Speaker 1: our place in it. The forest doesn't care about survey
Speaker 1: lines or property boundaries. It has its own residence, its
Speaker 1: own relationships, its own ways of acknowledging and responding to
Speaker 1: human presence. Sometimes the wisest thing a surveyor can do
Speaker 1: is complete the work efficiently and respectfully, document what can
Speaker 1: be measured and verified, and leave the deeper mysteries to
Speaker 1: those better equipped to understand them. Some territories are meant
Speaker 1: to be mapped only from a distance, observed but not claimed,
Speaker 1: approached with humility, rather than conquered with instruments and stakes
Speaker 1: and official documentation.
Speaker 3: I shot your ski, half God, A taste from your
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Speaker 3: That drink is your life.
Speaker 1: Man.
Speaker 3: You'll see the come fall you, come and foll you.
Speaker 2: You better.
Speaker 3: From movies out.
Speaker 2: Now you're gonna hear my.
Speaker 3: Home.
Speaker 2: You better run.
Speaker 3: Some movison. Now you're gonna hear my
Speaker 2: O