Speaker 1: I have a letter that was mailed. I got in
the mail some time ago. The man who wrote the
letter does not want his name revealed on this podcast,
but he's a seventy one year old. He describes himself
as a good old boy of hillbilly from the back
holars of eastern Kentucky. And he's got quite the resume.
He's got a lot of experience in two or three
different trades. He is a professional, he's not a he's
a formally educated man. And he tells me all that
to say that he's credible. That you know, someone's educational
resume and even their work resume is not necessarily an
indication they're credible. However, you know, the Bigfoot stories are
normally attributed to people like me, just average guys, rednecks
living in Mississippi. I saw Bigfoot, and so I think
that's the point he was trying to get across. And
so with all that said, this is a long story,
and it's a long letter, and I'm gonna read every
word of it. It's very very good and I hope
you enjoy it. And since it is a letter, you
may hear some paper turning, because I'm just gonna flip
the pages as I go, and I probably won't even
edit that out, but it's really good, so I'll shut up.
Here we go. His first incident was June of nineteen
sixty four. He was fifteen years old. I was a
fifteen year old boy scout when our troop was taken
to Carter Caves State Park in eastern Kentucky for a
week of primitive camping. One evening, after a day of
carousing around, swimming, hiking, cave, exploring, and loving to be
while young teenage boys, we finally had a very late supper. Afterward,
we drove the chilly night away around our campfires, a
large one of the troops and a second for the
scout master and his assistant some twenty feet away. Upon
this scene, about ten PM or so arrived a park
ranger on his nightly visit to our camp. He usually
just looked us over, asked if we had any needs,
and then he left, but this evening he apparently had
a couple of things on his mind. Upon gathering up
the scouts, the ranger said he was looking into an
incident concerning one enterprising scout. He said that he was
told that this scout was going down to the trading
post at the bottom of the mountain, buying up all
the nickel candy bars during the day, coming back to camp,
and selling them after dark for a dime. After being
informed that doing such a dastardly thing to fellow scouts
was wrong, the culprit who was me was admonished for practicing.
My first try it for a enterprise. I thought it
was fair. I spent two hours trudging up and down
the mountain every day, and for the past four days
they bought every candy bar I had. But a snitch
tried to blackmail me into giving him a share of
my profits. I wouldn't do so, so he reported me
to the ranger. The guys really gave it to me good,
rising me and shoving me around in the circle. The ranger,
on his part, put his hand on his hips and
smiled at me and shook his head and walked over
and sat down at the scout master's fire across the campsite.
Wondering if they'd talked more about me. I made a
small circle around the tents and I crept nearer. I
sat down outside the fire circles, listening in on the
adult conversation, but what I heard had nothing to do
with me. The ranger was cautioning the scout masters that
in the general area around the park there had been
a tax on area farm stock. They put the blame
on dog packs, codies, coy dogs, cougars, bears, and maybe
black panthers, which we had and still having this part
of the country. The attacks were particularly prevalent in one
area about eight miles away from the park. He said
that recently, thinking that they had the animal cornered, about
one hundred volunteers formed a line with twenty five feet
or so between each one, with some extra men at
the closing end. When it began to get dark, every
man lit up some kind of lantern or flashlight. As
they pushed through the stifling, hot and dusty tall brush.
It was a bit hard to breathe because there was
a dry spell one and the shaking the parched weeds
dusted the air with an artificial yellow fog of pollen,
which grew about eight feet high or more this time
of year. At one point, as they fought their way
among the entangling brush, they heard a scream and a
shotgun blast, and they rushed to the point in the
line they found one of the younger men, he was
about twenty years old, groaning in amongst some crushed vegetation.
His gun was found with the stock smashed in the
barrel bent at the base of a nearby tree. He
was out of his head with fright, so he was
transported to the hospital where he was kept overnight for
chest bruising and shock. He was sedated, so nothing could
be learned about the incident until the next morning. After
a day or so, according to what I overheard the
ranger say, the boy had calmed down enough to relay
his story. He said that he was walking through the
dusty growth with his lantern raised in one hand and
a shotgun in the other. He said he heard and
saw a rush of movement from directly ahead that something
was coming directly for him. When a huge white wall
came crashing down on him, he awkwardly lifted his shotgun
in one hand and fired, but was immediately struck in
the chest and launched through the air. The crush of
vegetation gave little clue as to the type of an
animal that had attacked the boy. There was no blood
at the scene, and I don't know if anyone tried
to backtrail it through the weeds to see where it
came from, but they didn't get even another glimpse of it,
and no one would volunteer to follow after it. The
boy didn't know if he'd even shot it and had
no idea what it was. He was sure that it
struck him with more powerful of a push than a hit,
but it was able to propel him through the air
in what he perceived to be a very little effort
on the thing's part. But the thing was never caught
after apparently getting through the line. Needless to say, that
was the end of any more skirmish lines, and for
this thing could withstand a shotgun blast than all bets
were off. It has still been seen throughout the following
decades as something like a white shadow going through the woods,
and has remained around the southeastern portion of Carter County,
about twenty miles south of the park even to this day.
But more on this particular thing later. As I squatted
shaking in the night, the forest noise around me seemed
to go quiet. I realized I was alone in the dark. Spooked,
I made it safely back to my tent and my
sleeping bag. At that time, the mention of it being
a sasquatch was never discussed or even considered. Bigfoot was
alive and well at this time, supposedly in the Pacific Northwest,
or so we thought back some fifty five years ago,
not as it would be in the later sixties and
early seventies, and so was lost in my mind for
all these years. And now Incident number two occurred not
in August of nineteen sixty six, and this gentleman was
seventeen years old. Here's a little note, he writes to
me before he starts the story. I finished writing this
incident four months after incident. I I've never told anyone ever,
not even my wife, until now about this occurrence. I
thought the event of over fifty three years ago would
be easy to put down on paper and ready to
send to you in a couple of hours. I found,
to my surprise that I hardly remembered any details at all.
But in starting to piece it all back together, I
was shocked by what I remembered concerning the terror I
had buried regarding this incident so many years ago. Over
the last four months, things that I hadn't thought about
in any detail over the last half century fell back
into place, having been a counselor. I'm aware that I
blocked much of it due to trauma, but unplugging the
memories started it flooding back so fast I could hardly
keep up with my thoughts. Worst of all was that
I felt like weeping for that boy and the horror,
and especially the loneliness of this singular night. But be
that as it may. Let's go forward with a little
over two years after the first incident to when I
was seventeen. A few weeks before my senior year began,
a couple of my friends and I were invited by
a very close family member, Billy, to go hiking through
areas of eastern Kentucky from north to southeast, in places
where we'd never tramped before. At that time, there were
hardly any inhabited areas in this part of the states,
and roads were few and far between. It was to
be a two day trek off trail and through the
dense woods in steep ravines, not far from where the
white Thing had had been roaming some years earlier, but
we didn't give it any mind. Only Billy had a firearm.
The rest of us had hunting knives and hatchets. The
temperature was over one hundred with near one hundred percent humidity,
a typical southern hot and dusty August day with a
miserable time for such a hike. All the creeks we
passed were dry. Only the largest creek, Tigert Creek, had
a good amount of water, whose course constantly doubles back
on itself. Our tongues were clinging to the roofs of
our mouths, and we were inhaling hot air and exhaling
hot air back out using our canteens cause a problem
as we were going to fill up as we went
with clear creek water, but as I said, they were
all dry. We started out in jackets in the cool
of the early morning, but as the heat quickly rose,
we soon were shedding down from jackets to shirts to
T shirts. On we went, snagging our way through heavy
brier patches, ankle catching vines, tripping over hidden rocks, insects
die bombing our faces, and gnats doing their best to
land on our open eyeballs. Finally, at the end of
the day, Billy decided that we would set up camp
in a limestone cave set in the side of a
steep cliff with a clear but small stream of cold
water running through it. The gurgling brook echoed over and
over in the small cave. A wide flat stone porch
in front of the cave overlooked a sixty foot drop.
The cave was in the side of a limestone cliff,
and I shined my light and checked the drop of
the cliff from above the cave's position. It was about
forty feet down from the trail that we had been following.
Billy chose the cave for its natural cool air conditioning
due to the damp limestone walls the running stream for
a water supply. The old man was a hunter and
seasoned hiker that knew what he was doing. I was
sure glad to unload my backpack and sleeping bag and
quickly lay down before I threw up. I was suffering
from a pounding headache. I had all the signs of
heat exhaustion. There was nothing to do but try to
sleep the horrible pounding headache away. We were whipped, so
there wasn't much talking around the campfire. We ate a
late meal, gorged ourselves in cold water, and then turned
in as soon as darkness fell. About nine thirty PM.
I tossed in turn for hours in a fitful sleep,
but about one am I felt the result of all
that water. Groggily pulled on my socks and gem shoes,
buckled my jeans, and went out to water the grass.
This is the downside of sleeping in a cave. We
had to walk back up the trail to take a leak,
and Billy didn't want us to go out to the
porch edge for fear that we'd be so sleepy that
we'd likely fall over. It was chilly in the cave,
much cooler as I stepped up on the ground above
the cave aways in just my t shirt. I would
be back in my warm bag in just a couple
of minutes, though. I had my rail backed flashlight and
my bowie knife tied on my right leg in a
low quick draw sheathe, both of which my dad had
made for me. I turned several times and finally chose
a direction that wouldn't spray in the direction I would
have to use in the return to the cave. Aiming
is important. As I was doing my business, the great
chattering noise brought on the night air suddenly ceased. I
felt creepy, so I finished as quick as I could.
The night was clear, and the air was cold and damp,
and I was shivering, so I headed back to my
sleeping bag where it would be warm. Still in the
throes of heat exhaustion, and I stumbled away in the
wrong direction. After not coming back to the trail to
the cave for five or ten minutes, I knew I
had lost my way. I grew a bit frantic as
I went each way along the cliff and I couldn't
find the small trail over the edge and down to
the cave. I let out desperate shouts, but I got
no reply. The loud babbling brook that echoed in the
cave must have drowned out my pleas I was in
heavy brush, so the path to the cave did not
stand out. I'd been a scout and an explorer for
six years, and I had hunted since I was eight,
so I was filled with the false overconfidence of youth.
I believe that even lost, I'd be able to walk
out in a few hours. I had a strong flashlight
and a twelve inch blade bowie knife, but the heat
exhaustion and the lower temperatures were now causing me to
sometimes shake violently. I felt like I was in an
ice house, but I knew that when I found Tigert
Creek that I'd find my way out. If I walked
against the current, so to speak, I was bound to
eventually run into an east west highway a few hundred
yards further. The bank gave way under my right foot,
and I was launched out in space on an elevator
ride to Hell. The fall seemed to take forever. I
had crashed through flimsy branches, falling about forty feet to
a point where the limestone wall met the incline. When
I hit a heavier, forked branch covered with tangles of
vines and briars, my back landing on the limb, knocking
the wind out of me. Thank God for the outstretched limb.
Without it, I would have hit the rock strown basin
far below the entangling limb. Ye and slowly tipped sideways
with my weight, And I saw by the waning moonlight
that I might be able to use the vines as
a sort of lighter and climb down to within ten
feet of the steep bank under me. When I got
free enough to drop down, I knew that my best
bet would be to dig my heels into the earth
upon impact and ease down the rest of the way
to the bottom. I let go and my heels hit
and jammed in the loose earth. I was in for
a fast, hard tumble and slide to the rocky bottom
of the draw. When I stopped tumbling, I lay there,
surveying any damage done to my body. I was happy
to find that, aside from many thorn scratches and some
probable bruising, I was whole. I slowly got up on
very shaky legs, and I turned around, and as soon
as I could think, I saw that I was standing
beside a tiny creek. A person would think you could
look up and see the fireplace slight in our cave,
but it would have died down by now, and I
didn't know in which direction to look. I tried anyway,
but upon searching the cave, I could not see anything
but the leaves and the brush and the walls effectively
made this a prison hole. I did try to find
either or both my flashlight and a knife, but those
two were lost causes needles in a black haystack. I
stood there alone in the dark in a steep wedge.
I struggled over the bottom of the draw in each
direction for at least an hour. When I heard the
sound of that of a bear, quieting the forest chatter
once again. I looked around into the darkness of the
narrow pit of the mountain. I saw nothing, but felt
once again that I was being watched by something, and
I prayed it wouldn't be a cougar or a black
panther or a bear aside from wolves or worse, a
dog pack. I tried to climb the side of the hill,
but each time I slid back down on my belly.
I tried to choose the right way back along the
dimly lit cliff, but I couldn't discern from which side
I had fallen. Logically, I chose to go down the
draw following the dried up creek bed, which is all
I had since it was away from the growl. After
a long stumbling journey of constantly having to climb over, under,
and around obstacles without a light or knife in the
near darkness, I finally came to a break in the
limestone wall on one side. I stopped and laid my sweaty,
filthy body over yet another tree. Falling from a bank
to bank gasping for breath. With much effort, I used
small trees to drag myself out of my limestone prison,
sliding two steps down the bank while advancing just three,
getting filthier and sweatier by the minute I found He
made the top edge of the flat on the mountain side,
and I flopped over above the cliff, and I drew
in a heavy, damp breath of air. After resting on
the grimy flat in order to stop wheezing out my lungs,
I got up and continued to crash through the thorn
rows and stumble over rocks and depressions covered by dirt,
gasping for air, sweating in the cold night. When I
made out a larger game trail. Imagine the fear of
a skinny one hundred and forty five pound kid, three
months into his seventeenth birthday, shivering in a filthy, wet
T shirt, groping through the darkness, almost legally blind and
not knowing what direction to go. The moon was going down,
and once again the noise of the forest stopped, but
this time it stopped around me. My heart was pounding
through my ribs as I struggled onward, so again all
I could say, were silhouettes of trees and bushes. And there,
in a right hand curve in the trail, looking through
and over the brush. Standing on each side of the
game trail were two large back lip figures, one slightly
taller than the other. They were massive and the last
thing I wanted to run into. Suddenly, the thought of
a bear or a cougar was more preferable than the
pair of things I was looking at now. At first,
coming up slightly from the side, I thought they were
two massive black panthers sitting on large boulders, because they
seemed to have cat's ears pulled back to a point
my knees got weak. The worst possible meeting was about
to take my life. But as I turned to view
them straight on, I realized they were not on boulders,
but things that stood eight to nine feet tall. They
didn't move but for a small sway. Their heads appeared
to be directly attached to their three to four feet
wide shoulders. Whatever they were if they were looking at
me at all, I could not tell, and looking back
on it now, I probably misconstrued their sloping heads for
possible ears, them being a pair of sasquatch again, never
even occurred to me until decades later, when sightings became
more common outside the Northwest. I stood there, shaking, as
my sweat soak body trembled with cold and just plain
near panic. I then leaned over and put my hands
on my trembling knees to steady myself. I was as
wet as I could be, covered with a filth of
many stumble and falls, and I already had had blood
running down my arms from the briars that had torn
at them. I had been lost so long, so many hours.
I was tired and weary. It seemed so unfair to
be stopped, injured, or even killed. Now I tried so hard.
Was it for nothing? I raised my head and gazed
up at these beasts. I was only about twenty five
feet from them at this point, but as I stood there,
I could make out hair and a shadowy face, but
again no details. It would be four decades later before
I read about such encounters and how the creatures almost
become as still as statues while observing humans, and how
many people went through exactly what I did. But for now,
I realized that I was halfway up the mountain. To
my left were briar patches and wildly tangled brush. To
my right was empty darkness that meant a cliff's edge.
I could not go back because I didn't know where
back was, my strength was not up to it, and
I didn't know what would happen if I turned my
back on them. Why they stood in the brush on
each side of the train instead of blocking it, I'll
never really know. They still swayed slightly in the dead air,
but as with any predators, I knew that if I
kept my head about and made no eye contact, perhaps
they would just look at me as a harmless curiosity.
As I slowly lowered my head, I got the impression
that they too might have lowered their heads to better
watch me. I'm not sure. The path was a good
three feet wide, so I very slowly made my way
towards these two things. I wanted to look up and
see what kind of beasts they were, but I think
my first thought was correct, and I kept looking down.
As I stepped closer. I wanted to scream and run
for it. All either of them had to do was
crush my head like a grape. The forest was dead still,
and it came to me that they could have been
stalking me all through the night. As of now, though
it seemed as eternity was marked in slow inches. But
in the end I was permitted to pass unharmed. I
looked neither right or left or back, and neither did
I raise my head. I didn't realize that their feet
were partially on the trail, but I couldn't make them
out in the gloom. After passing by them, I quickened
my pace until the beautiful night's noises began again. I
must state that even passing by within a foot of
these things, I smelled nothing beyond my own sweaty stink.
I walked on for an hour or so and finally
hit Tigert's Creek. I collapsed forward on all fours into
the creek, putting my mouth under and slurping up water
through my parched lips like there was no tomorrow. I
didn't have a canteen, but this time I followed the
creek opposite its flow to keep my thirst quenched. And
within a few hours I heard a lone truck's moan
just south of the creek. I stumbled about five hundred
feet in that direction upon an east west highway. I
tried to flag down the four or five passing cars
and trucks at that early hour, but looking at myself
a hardly looked human in my totally filthy condition, I
then walked what turned out to be over five or
six miles until I flagged down a cruiser and told
the deputy of my plight. He drove me clear back
to the farm where we'd started out from the day before.
Several hours later, a car pulled up outside and out
the rest of the team jumped out and shouted with relief.
They had been searching for me, and we simply had
a tremendous emotional release from the worst night of my
life thus far. But the really bad part was that Billy,
who led us in whom I hunted with several times,
never allowed me to go out in the woods with
him again. Until now, I hardly remembered any of this incident,
having just told one of my friends at the time
about spotting the creatures, but he just told me I
was hallucinating from the terrified time that I had had.
But it's very clear that God and God alone spared me.
This friend, even though it was fifty four years ago,
still refers to it as the night that you went crazy.
But those of us who were there no better, and
I never ever mentioned it again, not even to my
wife until we were listening to many of your people's tales.
Be it as it may. Until now, I hadn't realized that,
aside from mentioning, I had gotten lost in the woods
and fell from a cliff. I never ever had thought
about this in such minute detail until the last few
months of piecing it all back together using twenty twenty hindsight.
Having studied everything about Bigfoot for over fifty years and
listening to others' run ends with Bigfoot, I wonder there
were all of those sudden silences as I fought my
way out of the unentangled forest, forcing me to flee
in the opposite direction of the growls. Could it be
that the creatures were just hurting me, making sure that
I would take the right path out of the woods.
Once I hit Tiger Creek, there were no more silences
or growls. I just don't know. And now incident number
three November two thoy fourteen, and the Gentleman was sixty
five years old. I was speaking with a local author
who had a popular bestseller, whom I had asked to
sign a copy of his book for my daughter in law.
While passing the usual small talk, we got on the
subject of strange tales, and I told him of the
talk I had overheard the ranger tell when I was
in the Scouts back in Incident number one. When he
finished listening to my tale, he asked if I would
like to come to a meeting of the Carter County
Bigfoot Research Group in Grand Kentucky and listen to others
encounter stories and retell my story of the white thing
for the group. I was glad to go, but why
that minor tale seemed important to him, I didn't know.
That evening I heard a lot of great stories from farmers,
a doctor, and other professional people. The author then told
the group that they should listen to my story as
it would be of great interest to them all. After
completing the story, there was some silence, and then the
group's leader explained that there had been a white bigfoot
around eastern Carter County for decades, but that this was
the oldest confirmed story with dates and details they had
heard about from so long ago. I reiterated that I
didn't know if it was a bigfoot, since at the time,
it was just described as some kind of large white thing.
They went on to tell me any more stories of
this old white bigfoot, two of which a woman also
recounted some five years later for a local newspaper. I've
included two quotes from that newspaper, and here's quote number one.
The title of the article is Carter County Bigfoot Regional
Sightings prompt Questions. The author of the article is Jeremy Wells.
The publication is the Grayson Journal Times, dated February six,
twenty nineteen, and here's the quote. Other sites online, including
Kentucky hunting dot Net, also record sightings from the area
around Carter Caves, including a supposedly all white bigfoot that
the person reporting the sighting was nicknamed Big John, who
reportedly liked to eat from the lodges dumpsters, but naturalists
at the park have stated that they are not familiar
with any reported sightings from the park or the lodge.
The next article is also by the same writer's same publication,
and that the title of the article is Grand Squatching
Bigfoot meet Up draws witnesses and the curious, and the
article reads like this once she Tabitha Siegel started investigating,
she found out that there are sightings dating back to
the nineteen sixties and earlier, and one hair raising tail.
A young man writing a mopad after dark had a
bike stall on him as he was trying to get
it started. He glanced at his side mirror and saw
a tall creature covered in white hair coming up the
road behind him. With this extra motivation to get moving,
the young man was able to get his bike to
turn over and fled the area without looking back. So
at last, after fifty four years, I finally was able
to put a face on the creature from back in
my scouting days. And here is incident. For the last incident,
it's dated February twenty fifteen and he is sixty six
years old. At this time, I had purchased a farm
on fifty five acres of mostly forest in nineteen ninety three.
The property was twenty five hundred feet deep and sixty
eight hundred feet wide and locked into all of my
other family's properties. We all used the combined area for
hunting and simply to enjoy the woods. A lot of
people from out of state would come in just to
get a big buck in its rack, and it was
common knowledge that I wanted deer to butcher and didn't
care about the rack. Since we have never been on
a high side of income. We eat lots of game, rabbit, squirrel,
and of course deer. The hunters would feel dressed them,
so all the skinning and butchering was up to my
wife and I. When we had to dispose of the
rest of the head, hide, bones, and bits of meat,
I had a certain place that I dumped the remains.
It was about five to six hundred feet out back
of our barn. It was at the base of a
small ledge overlooking a creek bottom. There were tracks in
the mud on both sides of My Creek, a tributary
of Upper Tiger Creek. My home is about sixteen miles
from my nineteen sixty six adventure. There are many prints
of animals that I can identify, very large and small,
from possum, squirrel, rabbit, raccoon, to mountain lion and an
occasional bear. I've done this for decades, which lent to
one mystery. I would come back to dump other carcasses
and the ones before would be totally gone, usually within
eighteen to twenty four hours. I've seen what happens when
dogs codies lines and black panthers get into them. The
remains are strewn about and with only bones or bits
of meat or left. But that is not the case now.
There was nothing left of almost sixty carcasses. I'd drop
back there. So after twenty five years, I finally got
curious enough to borrow my son's trail cam and change
things around. I stacked the remains of the deer on
the flat overlook of the creek, just above the area
in which I tossed the remains. I then placed the
trail cam about eight feet up a tree on the
side of a bank, which placed it about four feet
above the level of the flat rock. Here it couldn't
be reached by anyone without a step lighter, or be
quickly noticed by any game. Then I came back the
next day, all that load of remains was gone, right
down to the dirt. When I excitedly took the camera
down and rushed at home, all I had was a
photo of me putting the camera up, then a second
from the next day when I took it down. What
in the world happened to all the other photos that
should have been taken. I checked the camera when I
took it down, and it hadn't been disturbed. In fact,
you really had to look for it. It was concealed
very well. During this time, there seemed to be nightly
noises and movements around our house. I've caught possums and
coons around here. So I took the trail camera and
placed it twenty feet behind the house in a tree
on top of a six foot cutaway bank. About five
feet up the tree. That put the camera at twelve
feet above my driveway looking at the back of the house,
so there was no way to step around this tree.
I wanted that so that no curious possum or coon
could climb around the linbs. And then set it up
and I focused it on the back of the house,
the parking area, and the edge of my garage. The
tree had no limbs below or around the camera for
a bird to light. The only toe hold was a
five inch ledge that allowed me to reach up and
hang the camera. And then he has sent me three
hard copies of photos that he got from where he
set this camera up. I might scan him and put
him on here, but I mean, I really don't see
anything in these photos, and I'm not being ugly about it,
But I just don't see anything. I see a house,
and I see a truck and a man walking away,
which I assume is the writer. And I see some
lights in the back of a house. And another photo
there's nothing there. There's another photo that's kind of blurry here,
and then there's another photo that's just over exposed. But
I'll read what he writes here. These photos begin on
the eleventh of February in twenty fifteen, at about eight pm.
The days were in the thirties during the day in
twenties at night, so that thin crust of ice froze
on top of the snow. Understand that this camera was
a low light there was no flash involved. In the
first picture, you can see me jumping down the short
ledge dry installed it. The next picture was taken about
six pm on February thirteenth, twenty fifteen, of my wife's
return from town. See the ice reflecting off the lights.
The next photo, also dated February thirteenth, is of just blackness.
It's not included. The shutter went off, but something appears
to be blocking the lens. But nothing could prepare me
for the photo taken next there's a tremendous white shine
around it, and it doesn't appear to be anything blurry,
And in truth, it seems that the mystery picture is
in focus, displaying at least muscle, eyelids, and blood veins,
doesn't it or what? Well, I'm looking at that photo
right here, and I don't see anything. I just see
an overexposed. It could be hair, and it looks like
white hair if it is hair. But I really can't
what this is, so he asked, what is it? I've
had dozens of people view it in the last five
years without luck. A white owl was kicked around by
some people, but the owl would have to hover to
get this image. The kicker here is there were and
still are no white horses in this area. But the
last photo also seems to have something to tell. The
lens caught a really large flash and then it was gone,
the next shot being another black streak. Again. There is
no outside light other than the above back door. I
say again, the camera has only a low light lens.
The light had to be from an outside source, and
no animal that I know of is internally lit, although
my wife thinks it might be an angel horse that
floats above the ground. It's as good a guess as any.
The last thing the camera caught was almost as mysterious
as the shining animal. There was a tremendous flash, and
the final photo is black, and I'm looking at I'm
looking at just a white, over exposed photo here. Do
you have any idea what this thing is? It's also
been speculated that it could be a twelve foot tall bigfoot,
face turned back toward the camera, perhaps looking over its
left shoulder. It is of the eck andeers of sorts
instead of an eye, but I just don't know. However,
as I said before, there was a thin glaze of
ice over an inch of snow, and nothing could have
walked around that tree without leaving places where a foot
would have crushed in its crust. This is the first
thing that I thought of after this, was to look
for any prints, because hoofs would have broken through, and
there weren't any. Again, I had mounted that camera over
the edge of a little edge. If a horse had
stood behind the tree and twisted its neck around, the
thin ice would have been broken. Aside from leaving dozens
of other hoof prints, I have no further ideas. And
then the gentleman goes on to ask for anonymity, and
he gives me his name and phone number and all
those things. So that was a long story, and I
did not a lot of these stories. I do a
little bit of editing to make them a little more.
I don't know, to follow a line of a story.
You're kind of getting all these pages back together here,
But that's what I do. But I didn't know on
this one because this man had spent a lot of
time putting this together and me not being able to
see anything in these photos. I'm not making fun of
him or you know, I'm not being ugly about it.
I just don't see anything in the photos. It just
looks like a house and some people and you know,
some blurry things and it could be anything. I mean,
it could be anything to set off the lens of
the camera, and if they're right in front of it,
it's just going to pick up, you know, some blurry
over exposed hair or fur or whatever. So I don't
think they show anything, so I'm not going to show them.
But I appreciated the story. I think his tale of
getting lost was spectacular. And walking right walking right by
to Bigfoot is oh, that's unreal. And then the tale
of the that the ranger told the scout masters was
pretty good. So Carter k the Carter Caves area in
eastern Kentucky must be a big white bigfoot running around there.
Thank you to the writer for taking so much time
in mailing me this, and I really appreciate it. I
hope you guys enjoyed the video On that long story.
It may have seemed to have creeped along at times,
but I wanted to just read his letter word for word,
and I hope you hope you appreciate that. All right,
We'll see you guys on the next video. Thanks