Speaker 1: The first encounter took place in the summer of nineteen
seventy six at Cougar Hot Springs, nine miles outside of
Blue River, Oregon, in the Willamette National Forest. I was
living in the woods in Willamette National Forest with my
boyfriend in a semi log cabin. I say semi because
it had a roof and walls on only three sides.
There was no bathroom, kitchen, or bedroom. A fire pit
stood in front of where the fourth wall should have been.
The nearest home was nine miles away. Since it was
a national forest, regular housing was not allowed. We were
about a mile from the actual hot springs for which
the place was named, but it was mainly frequented by
hippies back then, since hiking had not yet become popular.
The cabin could only be reached by going up a
small path on a steep old, gross timber covered mountain side.
There were no roads beyond the highway below, no campers
or camping, or no dwelling of any kind. No one
was hanging around the cabin during the day. It was
only used by us and an occasional friend or to
at night. We were hiding from the police. I had
run away from home to escape my alcoholic stepfather. The
hot Springs was a party place with a lot of
pot smoking and drinking. It was not a family place
by any means. One moonless night, as we were climbing
up to the cabin at about one in the morning,
sounds erupted all around us. We were only about halfway
into the woods, and being comfortable with the path, we
hadn't brought a flashlight. There were multiple voices, all yelling
at the same time. If you could call it yelling,
it was more like singing in the sense that the
sounds were controlled. They started with one octave, held the
note for about a minute, and then changed to another octave.
They were voices in unison, almost like a choir. It
went on for a good ten minutes. They weren't human,
at least they didn't sound human, but what else could
they be. It was like a Gregorian chant with all
the monks chanting just one sound. All that chanting at
once was terrifying. We found the little cops of tall
pine trees and cowered down to the ground, hugging ourselves
to a tree trunk for protection, and frantically whispering to
each other, what is that? There were no lights of
any kind, just voices coming from all directions, and they
surrounded us. They weren't human voices, but they weren't mechanical either.
They were organic and changed in perfect unison with perfect precision.
They were close enough that we should have seen something.
If they'd been a human, we should have seen them.
Even if they'd been a bunch of aliens, we'd have
seen something lights or figures moving about. At least if
it had been a Satanist Wickens, both of which are
known to use the woods for their various rights, we
would have seen or heard someone or something because these
sounds were right on top of us. But we saw nothing.
There were no shadows, no movement, and no other sounds either.
It was like we had stepped into a different world.
It was nothing like we'd ever heard or experienced before.
In April of twenty nineteen, it was Easter weekend and
we were camping in our RVs in Tobec Canyon, Colorado.
We'd planned on boondocking, no electric or sewer hookups, just
generators in the hilly canyons outside of Tobec Canyon, east
of Grand Junction, not far from the Colorado River. There
was a decent sized group of us, and so we
circled our RVs like a wagon train, leaving a huge
place in the middle for the campfire. Ours was parked
next to a ravine that was full of wash from
the many commonly occurring flash floods in the canyon lands
and deserts. The ground was a mix of scrub grass
and red earth. All around us were ridges and slopes
covered in boulders and dotted with small cave openings. The
first night, we played music, we cooked dinner, We made
some'mores and drank wine, and hung out in chairs around
the fire. The kids, ranging in age from three to thirteen,
rode their bikes and played around the RVs when they
weren't at the fire, making more s'mores. My husband went
to bed early because he'd been up since four thirty
that morning. He and my son in law had come
up early to set up camp. My daughter is a
full time nurse and I had not retired from teaching. Suddenly,
my husband stuck his head out the door and asked,
why is someone slamming into the RV? What I exclaimed,
We're all sitting here by the fire. No one's around
the RV. Or slamming into it. And then I asked,
was it many Many was a tiny men pin? No,
he said, it was too heavy, like a person. Someone
slammed into the RV. Many's too small. She couldn't have
done that. I had a creepy feeling in my gut
at that point, but I didn't say anything. The next day,
everyone went to explore one of the red earth covered
ridges while I took a shower. They said they were
going to wait for me, but the three year old
twins got antsy, so they all went ahead. I didn't
know it, but one of the women found a huge
footprint on top of that ridge. She took a picture
of it, but it wasn't until later, when she posted
it to Facebook that I knew anything about it. In
the early hours of the next morning, around four am,
my husband jerked me awake and was loudly what was that?
What was what? I asked, still half asleep. You didn't
feel that, he said, emphatically, No, what I answered, confused.
Someone slammed into the RV hard enough to rocket, he said,
and then he added, I'm not going out there to
find out what it was. I knew then what was
going on inside I was freaking out. My husband knew
I believed in Bigfoot. Later we talked about it, he
said it was a person big enough to rock the
entire RV. This RV is thirty five feet long. It
has a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room in a second
small room with two bunks. We eventually went outside to
look for footprints, but we didn't find anything. We searched
down in the ravine as well, but there were no
footprints there either. On a warm June day in twenty
nineteen at Sequoia National Forest, my family and I were
high one of the seldomly used pathways. As we entered,
we'd heard woodknocks and sounds like monkeys. There were no
other sounds at all, no birds or insects, and no wind.
At one point, we heard something huge slamming to the
ground not far from us. We thought it was an airplane.
When we witnessed a commercial airliner crash into some houses
in San Diego in nineteen seventy seven, there was a
mushroom cloud of smoke, so we looked up, but we
didn't see any of that. We knew it wasn't an
earthquake either. Later, as we headed out, we came across
some park rangers in the parking area who wanted to
ask us some questions, and we told them about the sound,
and they told us it was a tree that had fallen.
They said nothing like that ever happened before. We thought
that was odd because trees come down there every year.
They didn't elaborate, so we assumed they must have been
referring to the fact that it was a warm, windless day,
not a snow storm or other inclement weather. On Monday,
December second, twenty nineteen, in Grand Junction, Colorado, my husband
had gone to bed early. He's a chef and Tuesdays
or truck Day, meaning he has to get up early
and be at the restaurant to check the food delivery.
He has no trouble sleeping with the television and lights on,
so as always I was up much later than him.
I'm retired now finally as a teacher. Our house is
on the edge of town in a semi rural area
known as Orchard Mesa, next to the Colorado River. To
the west, it extends into the Colorado National Monument, which
is similar to a small Grand Canyon. To the south,
it is the LaSalle Mountain Range, and the Arizona, New
Mexico and Utah borders. East of US are fields, farms, vineyards, pastures,
and small hills, all connected to the bottom of the
ten thousand foot high Grand Mesa, at the top of
which is a collapse volcano that forms the largest mesa
platform in the country. It's dotted with alpine meadows and
hundreds of lakes, past which the Colorado River winds as
it makes its way to our orchard Mesa. The river
in this section is heavily wooded on both sides, and
all sorts of animals frequent the river. We have a
few crab avel trees in the garden section of our yard,
as do our neighbors. We also have grape vines and
mulberry trees, all of which are inviting for various animals.
And our house sits on half an acre and closed
by a tall wooden fence, except for one section that
is blocked off by both a huge shed and a
small one connected by a gate. This is to keep
our dogs from escaping through our neighbors short wire fence.
We used to keep a garden back there, but life
is sort of gotten in the way and now it's
abandoned and full of tall. As my husband slept and
I watched TV, our dog Daisy ran through the dog
door out into the backyard and immediately started barking like
someone was out in the road. Walking by my other dog, Timmy,
who generally ignores Daisy's youthful antics, perked up his ears
and then jumped off the bed and ran out the
door to join her. I was a bit surprised and
frankly a little concerned that they might wake up my husband.
It was not entirely unusual for them to bark at
the fence. People walk their dogs down to the river
all the time, but this time the barking was different.
Instead of the typical intermittent barking interspersed with running and
pacing along the fence, they were barking on the move,
as if they were hysterical. I knew immediately something was
in the yard. I panicked with the thought that they
may have cornered a rabbit, skunk, or a coon. I
didn't want to have the break up any fights, even
more so I didn't want to get bit. And furthermore,
we once saw a raccoon in our garbage area, big
enough to be mistaken for a dog. If that's what
they were up against, I knew they would be outmatched.
With all of this running through my mind, I jumped
out of bed and grabbed a flashlight from the cupboard
and headed outside. I could see them all in the
small shed, barking towards the abandoned garden area. I was
grateful for the fence between them and whatever they were
barking at, and I yelled for them to stop it
and come on. In twenty years of teaching, in thirty
eight years of parenting has given my voice the kind
of authoritative sound not to be ignored. But the speed
with which they responded was more than just a little surprising.
I figured it must have been a raccoon they were
barking at. Bears were already hibernating. Dogs would have barked
back or even fought back. The cat would have run
off right away. After I ushered the dogs back into
the house, curiosity got the better of me, and I
turned the powerful flashlight I was using back on the yard.
I stepped as close to the little shed as fear
and caution would allow, and I raised the light a
little higher, and I caught movement behind and a little
above it. The problem was I shouldn't have been able
to see anything above the shed. The only thing back
there to stand on was the neighbor's flimsy four foot
high wire fence. However, I could see a bulky shape
moving around back there, like someone hunched over in an
orange and tan coat. My mind started racing with thoughts
and questions. Is that the neighbor's teens going up to
no good again? Those kids had proven themselves to be
trouble in the past, so anything was possible. And then
I realized the person in question was coming into my yard.
I couldn't believe they weren't reacting to the light. It
was all happening so quickly, though, that I didn't have
time to do anything but watch while this person moved closer.
He or she or it was moving in a weird
gliding way. There was no head bobbing, just a smooth glide.
I thought, is that a cat on top of the roof?
But it was too big? Why was it so big?
Was it a raccoon? How did it get up the
side of the metal shed? And then the moment hit,
the exact second when my eyes revealed the truth and
my mind accepted it. It had stopped gliding and turned
towards me, creating a silhouette made up of an apex
center and sloping shoulders. This wasn't something on top of
the roof. It was something behind the shed, and if
I could see it, this something had to be taller
than eight feet. I knew what it was. I couldn't
breathe as I stared at that classic Patty style bigfoot silhouet.
I could see long tan hair streaked with brown covering
its head. I don't remember its eyes. Maybe I didn't
want to make eye contact. That would have made it
more real and more dangerous. It froze, and my mind
began to tell me I was only seeing stone where
it was standing. I couldn't be seeing anything. I thought,
this is my fault, and it's here they know me.
This is my fault. I kept staring at the stone
image in front of me, burning the picture into my mind,
proving to myself I was seeing it, and telling myself
I wasn't crazy. I could feel it looking at me.
Fright dissolved into flight. Run, I mentally screamed at myself.
Instantly I turned and ran back inside, slamming the locked
door behind me. More questions came. Should I wake my husband?
What should I do? Oh? My god, I don't know
what to do. He won't believe me anyway. I know
he knows now that these things exist, but he won't
believe that there's one in our backyard. It's just too
much of a coincidence. Not knowing what else to do,
I turned to the group chat on messenger, where I
had shared my other experiences. Fortunately someone was online and
I was able to relate the entire event. He told
me to go back out there. What heck, no, I said,
there's no way, try, he said, somewhere down inside. Maybe Foolishly,
I found the courage to take his advice. At his request,
I put him on live feed, and carrying my phone
in the flashlight, I went back outside. I was grateful
for the light behind that shed that revealed no silhouette.
This time, my adrenaline was so high, so much so
that I barely noticed the icy cement under my stocking feet.
But standing out there and facing my fear was quickly
erasing the terror that had gripped me earlier. The next day,
as instructed by my friend, I went back out and
took pictures, and when my husband got home, I told
him the entire ordeal, and we walked out together to
look at the grass that was tamped down. There was
a path leading to the neighbor's wire fence. There were
spots that could be giant footprints, but all too grassy
to be sure. But it was evidence enough for me,
so I examined the shit and confirmed that there was
no place for a raccoon to climb on top of it.
I took pictures of everything. It's been five years since
this happened. Although I didn't actually see anything, I can't
just explain away what happened either. I guess that's why
it stays with me to this day. I bought a
fifth wheel located in Henderson, Texas. It was parked in
an RV camp just outside of town. The park was
surrounded by a large, fairly dense forest, and there were
about fifteen other RVs park there as well, with the
woods behind us. I had never stayed in an RV
before I bought it to get out of the city
and rest. I'm a retired nurse. I was glad to
get out of the city and travel for a while.
I had my dog with me, my buddy and traveling
companion of thirteen years, Roscoe. Roscoe and I enjoyed going
for long walks. Sometimes we'd venture into the forest behind
the fifth wheel. It was quiet back there and peaceful.
It had a calming effect on me at times, though
it could be a little spooky. It was almost like
I could feel eyes watching me. There was one event
during my stay in that area that I will never forget.
Roscoe and I were off on one of our walks.
We decided to take the trail leading into the forest.
We took our usual walk around and then started back
up the trail. Suddenly, Roscoe whined softly. He stood alert,
sniffing something beyond my senses. The hair stood up on
his back as he stared deeper into the forest. I
couldn't tell what he was seeing, or smelling or sensing.
Not knowing what he knew only served to make me
even more nervous. Then his tail went down, the hair
on his back stood more rigid, and his neck rough
fluffed up. He had a look that I've only seen
when he doesn't like whatever he's seeing. It was a
warning look of danger. I softly said his name, and
in response, He whined again and looked straightforward, as if
to say, Mom, there's something out there. Roscoe will chase cats,
and he's been known to be slightly protective of me
around strangers, but this was more than usual. It was
something different. He was truly spooked and he stood there
for a few more minutes, but I couldn't see or
hear anything. Eventually we moved up on the road to
my trailer. That night was a little weird as well.
I like to go out on my porch and sit.
There's something truly magical about the sounds of the crickets
and nightbirds, and course with the tree frogs and the
katie DIDs. It was a nice way to end each day.
But that night there were no sounds. It was deathly quiet.
There were no crickets, no birds or anything. Rather than
being relaxing, it was a bit nerve racking. The next day,
when Roscoe and I took our walk, we started down
the trail into the woods again. This time there was
a small tree branch leaned over the trail. It wasn't
like it had broken and fallen it was damaged. It
was just leaned over to block the trail. I thought
it was rather peculiar, and Roscoe was acting funny again.
He was looking down the trail and acting like he
didn't want to go into the forest, and I decided
we take a different raph for the next few days
and check out the camp instead. That evening, I took
my usual seat outside of my trailer. This time I
heard some weird breaking noises in the forest behind me,
but I didn't get up to investigate. The hair was
standing up on the back of my neck and I
got this really creepy feeling that I couldn't shape. I
left there a week later for better camping spots. While
we were there, I never actually saw anything or even
really heard anything other than some breaking sounds, but that
was one that stayed with me and probably always will.
Thank you for reading this. It was nice to share
it with someone.