SO EP:616 The Night Hunters

Over the span of five decades, from the remote forests of Washington State to the wilderness of Maine, six individuals had experiences that would forever change how they viewed the natural world. A hunter in 1987, a park ranger in 1974, a wilderness guide in 1965, a hiker in 1992, a search and rescue volunteer in 2003, and a backpacker in 2019—all encountered something that shouldn't exist.

These are their stories, told in their own words. Six different people, separated by thousands of miles and decades of time, yet describing remarkably similar encounters with something large, intelligent, and undeniably real lurking in America's most remote wilderness areas.From the Olympic Peninsula's ancient rainforests to the volcanic landscape of Mount St. Helens, from the North Woods of Maine to the glacial wilderness of Minnesota, these witnesses share one thing in common: they came face to face with something that defied explanation and left them forever changed.

No campfire tales. No internet legends. Just honest accounts from people who know the wilderness intimately—and discovered they weren't alone out there.


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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hi.

Speaker 2 (00:00):
I'm doctor Maria Meyer, anthropologists, primatologist, wildlife correspondent and part
of the team on Expedition Bigfoot. I've spent my entire
life exploring the planet's wildest, most remote places in search
of the extraordinary, and now I'm inviting you to join me.
Introducing the Explorer Society, a global community of curious minds,

(00:23):
truth seekers, and adventures where we dive into the unknown,
from elusive creatures like Bigfoot, to the frontiers of science,
nature and unexplained phenomena. Live q and as and roundtable discussions,
especial guest interviews including the Expedition Bigfoot team, Dave Schrader,
Cliff Berrickman plus Josh Gates, Jack Osborne and many more.

(00:45):
On demand streaming content, invites to exclusive events and conferences
around the world, Explore Society swag, and even the chance
to join us on a real life expedition. Come explore
with me. Let's discover what's out there. Joint Explorer Society
at Maria Mayor dot com and one what are your reporting?

Speaker 3 (01:05):
I got a screen going on here. Something just kid
my dog, something killed your dog? My dog? We're flying
through the or over the tree. I don't know how
it did it? Okay, damn it. I'm really confused. All
I saw was my dog coming over the fence and
they was dead. And once you hit the grill, I
didn't see any cars. All I saw was my dog
coming over the fence. One. What are you reporting? We

(01:43):
got some wond or something crawling around out here? Did
you see what it was?

Speaker 1 (01:55):
Was?

Speaker 3 (01:55):
It was stand enough. I'm out here looking through the
window now and I don't see anything. I don't want
to go fight. Hello, hit the boddy out here, pquin
on out there. I've thought of a mention about technine.
I don't know. Easy annount there. Yeah, I'm right.

Speaker 4 (02:15):
Hey.

Speaker 5 (02:16):
There are places in this country where civilization ends and
something else begins. Deep forests where cell phones don't work,
where the nearest road might as well be on another planet,
where the only sounds are wind through ancient trees and
your own heartbeat echoing in your ears. Most people who
venture into these places come back with stories of scenic vistas,

(02:38):
wildlife sightings, and the kind of peace that only true
wilderness can provide, But some come back changed. What you're
about to hear are six accounts from people who encountered
something in America's most remote forests, something that science says
doesn't exist. These aren't campfire tales or Internet legends, their
first hand testimonies from experience outdoorsmen and women, hunters, park rangers,

(03:03):
wilderness guides, search and rescue volunteers, people whose livelihoods depend
on understanding the natural world and the creatures that inhabit it.
Each story comes from a different decade, a different region,
a different set of circumstances, but they share common threads
that run deeper than coincidence. Massive footprints in places where

(03:25):
no human should be, glimpses of something that walks upright
but isn't quite human, The unsettling feeling of being watched
by eyes that reflect in intelligence both ancient and alien.
These witnesses didn't ask to become part of this mystery.
They were simply in the wrong place at the right time,
or perhaps the right place at the wrong time, depending

(03:47):
on your perspective. Most have never spoken publicly about their experiences.
Some have never told anyone at all until now. The
forests they describe still exist, largely unchanged our increasingly connected world,
millions of acres of wilderness where something large and intelligent
could live its entire existence without ever appearing in a

(04:09):
scientific journal or government database. Places where the old rules
still apply, where humans are visitors at best and trespassers
at worst. Listen carefully to what these people have to say.
They have nothing to gain from sharing their stories and
everything to lose, but they've chosen to speak because they
believe you deserve to know that there are still mysteries

(04:31):
in this world, still boundaries between the known and unknown
that we cross at our own peril. The truth, as
they say, is out there. Sometimes it's closer than we think.
The Roosevelt elk hunting season had been disappointing that year.
Three days into what was supposed to be a week
long trip, and I hadn't seen so much as fresh sign.

(04:53):
The Olympic Peninsula's dense rainforest can swallow a man whole
if he's not careful, and after twenty three years of
hunting these woods, I thought I knew every game, trail
and creek crossing from the whole River to Lake Crescent.
That fourth morning started like any other. I'd set up
camp near a small clearing about eight miles from the
nearest logging road, far enough back that most weekend warriors

(05:15):
wouldn't bother making the track. The mist hung thick between
the massive Douglas firs and western hemlocks, creating a green
cathedral that seemed to muffle every sound except the distant
drip of condensation from branches high above. I was working
my way along a ridge that overlooked a marshy bottom
where elk sometimes came to feed in the early morning hours.

(05:37):
The ground was soft beneath my boots, carpeted with decades
of fallen needles and moss that grew thick as shag
carpet on every fallen log and rock. Visibility was maybe
thirty yards in any direction through the fog. That's when
I first noticed the tracks. At first glance, they looked human,
but no human foot measures eighteen inches long and eight

(05:58):
inches wide. The impressions were pressed deep into the soft
earth near a small creek, deeper than my own two
hundred pound frame would have made in the same spot.
Each toe was clearly defined, with what looked like claw
marks extending from the tips. The stride length between prints
measured close to five feet. I knelt down and studied

(06:19):
them more carefully. The tracks were fresh, maybe an hour
old at most. Water was still seeping into the deepest
parts of the impressions. Whatever had made them was massive
and had passed through this area just after dawn. My
first instinct was to follow them. Curiosity has always been
my weakness, and in all my years in these woods,

(06:41):
I'd never seen anything like this. The trail led away
from the creek and up a steep embankment covered in
thick salmon berry and Devil's club. The underbrush showed clear
signs of something large pushing through broken branches and crushed vegetation,
creating an obvious path. As I climbed, the four seemed
to grow quieter. The usual chatter of squirrels and the

(07:03):
distant calls of ravens faded away, until the only sound
was my own labored breathing and the soft squelch of
my boots in the muddy earth. The fog was lifting slightly,
but the canopy above was so thick that very little
light reached the forest floor. It felt like walking through
a living cave. The tracks led me along the ridge

(07:23):
for nearly half a mile before they turned sharply and
headed down into a ravine i'd never explored before. The
sides were steep, and covered with loose shale that made
footing treacherous. About halfway down, I stopped to catch my breath,
and that's when I realized I was being watched. The
feeling hit me like a physical blow to the chest.

(07:44):
Every hunter knows that sensation, the primitive awareness that you've
become the hunted. The hair on the back of my
neck stood up, and my mouth went dry. I turned slowly,
scanning the forest around me, but saw nothing except the
endless maze of tree trunks and shadows. But the smell
hit me then, Not the sweet decay of rotting vegetation

(08:05):
or the musty scent of damp earth. This was something else, entirely,
something organic and alive. It reminded me of a wet
dog that had been rolling in mud. But underneath that
was something sharper, more acrid, like the smell of fierce sweat,
but magnified one hundredfold. I continued down the ravine, moving

(08:25):
more slowly now, my rifle ready but feeling inadequate in
my hands. The thirty six that had dropped dozens of
elk over the years suddenly seemed like a toy. At
the bottom of the ravine was a small stream, maybe
three feet wide, running crystal clear over rounded stones. The
tracks continued across it and up the opposite bank. That's

(08:47):
where I found the tree. It was a western red cedar,
probably eight feet in diameter and ancient even by old
growth standards. But about twelve feet up the trunk, someone
or something had twisted of off branches as thick as
my arm and woven them together in a crude but
deliberate pattern. The fresh sap was still bleeding from the wounds,

(09:08):
and some of the branches were still green and flexible.
Whatever had done this possessed incredible strength and had been
here very recently. I was studying the tree when I
heard the sound. It started low, almost below the range
of human hearing, a rumbling that seemed to come from
the earth itself. Then it rose in pitch and volume

(09:29):
until it became a vocalization unlike anything I'd ever heard.
Not quite a roar, not quite a scream, but something
that combined the worst elements of both. The sound echoed
off the walls of the ravine and seemed to go
on forever. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run,
but my legs felt like they were filled with concrete.

(09:50):
I stood there, rifle raised but shaking in my hands,
scanning the forest around me. The sound had come from
somewhere ahead, deeper in the ravine, but the acoustics made
it impossible to pinpoint exactly where. About sixty yards away,
standing motionless between two massive Douglas firs, was a shape
that didn't belong. At first, my brain tried to make

(10:13):
sense of it, to categorize it as a stump or
a boulder, or anything else that would fit into the
natural order of things. But as my eyes adjusted and focused,
there was no denying what I was looking at. It
stood nearly eight feet tall, covered in dark brown hair
that seemed to ripple and flow as it breathed. The
shoulders were impossibly broad, at least four feet across, and

(10:36):
the arms hung down past where the knees should be.
But it was the face that froze my blood. Even
at that distance, I could see the eyes, dark and intelligent,
watching me with the same calculating stare a wolf gives
a deer before it decides whether to attack or move on.
We stared at each other for what felt like hours
but was probably only seconds. Then, without any warning or sundund.

(11:00):
It simply melted back into the forest. One moment it
was there, solid and undeniably real, the next it had vanished,
as if it had never existed at all. I stood
there for several more minutes, waiting for something else to happen,
but the forest had returned to its previous quiet, and
gradually the normal sounds of birds and small animals began again.

(11:22):
When I finally worked up the courage to move, I
backed away, slowly, never taking my eyes off the spot
where the creature had stood. I didn't follow the tracks
any further. Instead, I made my way back to camp
as quickly as the terrain would allow, broke down my gear,
and hiked out to my truck. The entire eight mile
trek back to the logging road was accomplished in record time,

(11:45):
fueled by adrenaline and the constant feeling that I was
being followed. I never saw anything directly behind me, but
several times I heard branches breaking in the forest parallel
to the trail I was following. Whatever was back there
was keeping pace with me, staying just out of sight,
but making sure I knew it was there. The message
was clear, I was being escorted out of its territory.

(12:08):
That was thirty five years ago, and I've never been
back to that particular area of the Olympics. I still hunt,
but I stick to areas closer to civilization now, places
where the sound of logging trucks and chainsaws reminds you
that humanity hasn't been completely swallowed up by the wilderness.
I've told this story to exactly three people over the years,

(12:28):
my brother, my son, and now you. Each time I
see the same look in their eyes. The polite skepticism
that says they think stress or isolation, or maybe just
too much time alone in the woods has affected my judgment.
But I know what I saw that day, and I
know it was real. The locals in the small towns
around the peninsula have stories, of course, they always have,

(12:52):
but they don't talk about them much to outsiders, and
they don't venture too far back into the old growth
forests without good reason. They know, like I know now,
that there are some places where humans are tolerated only
as long as they remember their visitors in something else's home.
That was nineteen ninety, the end of an era when
vast stretches of American wilderness remained truly unknown, But even

(13:16):
as the country became more connected, more mapped, more explored,
the encounters continued. Three thousand miles away, in the opposite
corner of the continent, another man in uniform would have
his own life changing experience. Seven years earlier, twenty six
years I worked for the main Department of Conservation, and
the last fifteen of those were spent at Baxter State Park.

(13:39):
In all that time, patrolling over two hundred thousand acres
of wilderness, dealing with everything from lost hikers to aggressive moose.
I thought I'd seen everything the North Woods had to offer.

Speaker 3 (13:50):
I was wrong.

Speaker 5 (13:52):
August of nineteen seventy four was one of the wettest
on record. The Panobscot River was running high and fast,
and several of the smaller streams that usually dried up
to a trickle by Midsummer were flowing like spring freshets.
The constant rain had driven most of the wildlife deeper
into the forest, and we'd had fewer bare encounters than usual,
which was both a blessing and a mystery. I was

(14:15):
three days into a backcountry patrol, checking campsites and trail
conditions along the Appalachian Trail Corridor near Mount Catadan. The
rain had finally stopped, but the forest was still dripping constantly,
and the air was thick with humidity and the smell
of wet earth and decaying leaves. Visibility was limited by
low hanging clouds that drifted between the peaks like ghostly fingers.

(14:39):
My route that day took me along the old Tote
road that connected several of the remote ponds on the
eastern side of the park. It was primitive even by
main standards, more of a game trail than an actual road,
marked only by occasional blazes cut into the bark of
ancient white pines and sugar maples. The footing was treacherous
from all the rain, with hi and roots and rocks

(15:00):
lurking beneath a carpet of wet leaves. And stay tuned
for more Sasquatch oat to see. We'll be right back
after these messages. Today, I want to tell you about
a journey that I've been on for most of my life.
Ever since I was a kid, I've heard tales of
bigfoot and wild men while spending time with my friends
and family. As I grew older and read more about

(15:23):
the paranormal, my interest in encryptids and other things strange
only deepened. That's why I'm so excited to share with
you what I've personally become involved with The Untold Radio Network.
The Untold Radio Network is a live streaming podcast network
that airs a new show every day across all podcast platforms, YouTube,
and more. They have eight different shows on all sorts

(15:44):
of exciting topics such as bigfoot, cryptids, UFOs, aliens, and
much more. I even have my own show called Weird Encounters,
where I talk about all things strange. This is more
than just a podcast network. It's a community that allows
me to meet so many amazing people who share their
stories and experiences with the strange. If you're interested in
hearing more of these stories and learning more about the

(16:05):
paranormal encryptids, make sure you check out the Untold Radio
Network for all kinds of exciting shows. It's free to subscribe.
So what are you waiting for? Visit www dot untold
radionetwork dot com. Today, I was maybe five miles from
the nearest maintained trail when I came across the first
sign that something was off. A large birch tree maybe

(16:28):
two feet in diameter had been snapped off about eight
feet from the ground, not cut or sawed, but twisted
and broken, as if something had grabbed it and wrenched
it apart with brute force. The break was fresh, with
bright white wood showing where the trunk had been severed.
Storm damage was always a possibility in the main woods,
but there hadn't been any significant wind in the past week,

(16:50):
just steady rain, and the way the tree had been
broken suggested something had grabbed it from below and twisted upward,
not the downward pressure you'd expect from wind or falling debris.
I took some photographs from my report and continued along
the trail. About a quarter mile further on, I found
more evidence of disturbance. Saplings had been pushed aside or

(17:12):
broken off, creating a path that diverged from the main
trail and headed deeper into the forest. The undergrowth showed
clear signs of something large passing through, but the tracks
in the muddy ground were unlike anything in my field guides.
As a ranger, I'd learned to follow my instincts, and
every instinct I had was telling me to radio for

(17:32):
backup and wait for assistance. But curiosity got the better
of me, and I decided to follow the trail for
a short distance to see where it led. That decision
nearly cost me everything. The path led through increasingly dense forest,
winding between massive granite boulders left behind by glaciers thousands
of years ago. The canopy above was so thick that

(17:54):
even in mid afternoon, the light barely penetrated to the
forest floor. The air seemed to grow heavier with each step,
and the normal sounds of the forest, the chirping of
birds and the rustling of small animals in the underbrush,
gradually faded away until the only sound was my own breathing.
After about half a mile, the trail led to a
small clearing beside a beaver pond that wasn't marked on

(18:17):
any of my maps. The water was dark and still
reflecting the overcast sky like a black mirror. Along the shoreline,
the mud was churned up, as if something large had
been waiting or drinking there recently. But what caught my
attention were the structures on the far side of the pond.
Three trees had been uprooted and arranged in a rough triangle,

(18:38):
their root systems still clinging to clods of earth and rock.
They hadn't fallen naturally. They'd been deliberately placed to form
what looked like a primitive shelter or marker. Inside the triangle,
smaller branches had been woven together to create a kind
of nest or bed lined with fresh moss and ferns.
I was studying this construction through my binoculars when I

(18:59):
heard the sound. It started as a low, whooping call,
unlike anything I'd heard in my years in the main woods.
Not the territorial call of a moose or the howl
of a coyote, but something that seemed to combine elements
of both while being distinctly neither. The sound came from
somewhere across the pond, echoing off the water and the

(19:19):
surrounding trees. Then came an answering call from somewhere behind me.
I spun around my hand, instinctively, going to the three
point fifty seven revolver on my hip, though I suspected
it would be about as effective as a pop gun
against whatever was making those sounds. The forest around me
looked the same as it had moments before, but something

(19:39):
had changed. The quality of the silence was different, more oppressive.
I backed toward the edge of the clearing, my eyes
scanning the tree line for any sign of movement. That's
when I saw them, two shapes, barely visible in the
shadows between the trees on the opposite side of the pond.
They stood upright like humans, but were far too large

(20:01):
and covered in what appeared to be coarse, dark hair.
Even at a distance of maybe two hundred yards, I
could tell they were massive, probably eight feet tall or more,
with shoulders that would have made a professional linebacker look small.

Speaker 1 (20:15):
One of them.

Speaker 5 (20:15):
Stepped slightly forward out of the deepest shadows, and for
a moment I got a clear look at its face.
The features were distinctly non human, but disturbingly familiar. The
brow ridge was heavy and pronounced, the jaw jutted forward,
and the nose was flat and wide. But the eyes
were what struck me most. They weren't the dull, vacant

(20:37):
eyes of an animal. They showed intelligence, awareness, and something
that looked disturbingly like recognition. We stared at each other
across the dark water for several long seconds. Then the
creature raised one massive arm and pointed directly at me,
not in a threatening gesture, but more like it was
identifying me. To its companion. The second creature stepped forward well,

(21:00):
and I could see that it was even larger than
the first. That's when my nerve finally broke. I turned
and ran, crashing through the underbrush with all the stealth
and dignity of a panicked deer. Branches tore at my
uniform and pack, and I slipped several times on the
wet leaves, but I didn't slow down until I reached
the main trail nearly a mile away. My radio crackled

(21:23):
with routine traffic from other rangers, the normal sounds of
civilization that seemed impossibly distant from what I just experienced.
I didn't report the encounter officially, who would have believed it. Instead,
I marked the area on my personal maps and made
sure that future patrols avoided that particular section of the park.
Over the years, I've had a few occasions to return

(21:44):
to the general area, but I never found that unmarked
beaver pond again, despite having what I thought were accurate coordinates.
But I wasn't the only one who'd had unusual experiences
in that part of the park. Over the next few years,
I started paying closer attention to the reports that came
in from hikers and campers, sounds in the night that
didn't match any known wildlife, large footprints found near camp sites,

(22:10):
structures made from arranged branches, and logs that showed clear
signs of intelligent construction. Most of these reports were dismissed
as hoaxes or misidentifications, and I went along with the
official explanations. But I started keeping my own files documenting
patterns and locations. What I found was that all of
these incidents occurred within a roughly ten square mile area

(22:32):
of the park's most remote backcountry, an area that included
the Beaver Pond where I'd had my encounter. After I
retired in nineteen eighty nine, I turned my files over
to a colleague who I knew had had his own
unexplained experiences in the park. He since retired as well,
and I don't know what became of those records. Officially,
Baxter State Park has never had any confirmed encounters with

(22:55):
unknown wildlife, but the park is huge, over three hundreds
square miles of wilderness, and there are vast areas that
see maybe one or two visitors per year. The north
Woods of Maine have always harbored secrets, and the Panobscot
and Passamaquaddie tribes have stories that go back centuries about
creatures that walk upright like men, but live apart from

(23:17):
human civilization. I've never spoken publicly about what I saw
that day in nineteen seventy four, But now that I'm
in my eighties and facing the reality that these stories
die with the people who experience them, I feel an
obligation to add my voice to the record. What I
saw was real, and it was intelligent, and it was
aware of my presence in its territory. Whether it was

(23:40):
the last remnant of some unknown species or something else entirely,
I can't say, but I know that the Deep Woods
of Maine still hold mysteries that science hasn't cataloged and
probably never will. Some boundaries are meant to remain uncrossed,
and some questions are better left unanswered. The forest keeps
its own council, and those of us who work in

(24:01):
it learned to respect that silence. The north Woods of
Maine and the Pacific Northwest get most of the attention
when people talk about bigfoot encounters, but the creature or
creatures don't respect regional boundaries. The Appalachian Mountains stretching from
Georgia to Canada have their own long history of unexplained encounters.

(24:22):
In the summer of nineteen sixty five, nine years before
that Ranger's experience in Maine, a wilderness guide in North
Carolina would discover that the Blue Ridge Mountains held secrets
of their own. I'd been guiding hunting and fishing parties
through the Blue Ridge Mountains for almost a decade when
the Hendersons hired me for what they called a wilderness
photography expedition. They were from New York City, a father

(24:44):
and his college aged son, both carrying more camera equipment
than most professional photographers I'd known. The plan was simple,
spend five days deep in the Pizga National Forest, camping
in areas where few people ventured, documenting what they ca
called the authentic Southern Appalachian wilderness experience. September in the

(25:04):
Carolina Mountains is about as perfect as weather gets. The
summer heat was breaking, but the real cold hadn't set
in yet. The leaves were just starting to turn, painting
the ridges in subtle shades of gold and red. We'd
had enough rain to keep the streams running clear and cold,
and the morning mist would rise from the valleys like
smoke from some ancient fire. I took them into an

(25:27):
area I knew well, about twelve miles south of the
Blue Ridge Parkway, where old Cherokee hunting trails wound through
stands of virgin timber that had somehow escaped the logger's saws.
The terrain was challenging, but not dangerous for experienced hikers,
with plenty of scenic overlooks and wildlife viewing opportunities that
would give them the shots they were looking for. Our

(25:50):
first two days went perfectly. The Hendersons proved to be
competent outdoorsmen despite their city origins, and young Michael had
a real eye for photography. He captured images of morning
mists rising from hidden valleys, ancient rhododendron thickets, and mountain
streams that looked like they'd never felt the touch of
human hands. His father focused more on the broader landscapes,

(26:12):
the endless ridges fading into blue distance that gave these
mountains their name. On the third day, we were camped
in a small meadow beside Laurel Creek, maybe eight miles
from the nearest Forest Service road. The site was one
of my favorites, surrounded by towering white oaks and tulip poplars,
with a clear view of the surrounding ridges. The Hendersons

(26:34):
had spent the day photographing a family of black bears
that had wandered through the area, keeping a respectful distance
but getting some remarkable shots. That evening, as we sat
around the campfire sharing stories and planning the next day's route,
Michael mentioned that he'd been hearing odd sounds during the night.
Not the usual nocturnal symphony of owls and whipper wheels,

(26:56):
but something else, something that seemed to move through the
forest parallel to our camp. His father had noticed it too,
but neither of them seemed particularly concerned. City folks often
have trouble sleeping in the woods at first, overwhelmed by
sounds that seem unnaturally loud in the darkness. I'd heard
the sounds as well, but hadn't thought much of them.

(27:18):
Large animals moving through the forest at night wasn't unusual,
and the sound seemed to come from far enough away
that they posed no immediate threat. Bears, deer, even the
occasional wild boar, would create plenty of noise crashing through
the underbrush especially if they were startled or just passing
through their territory. The fourth morning changed everything. I woke

(27:40):
before dawn, as was my habit, to get the fire
started and coffee brewing before my clients stirred. The forest
was wrapped in that peculiar stillness that comes just before sunrise,
when even the night sounds have faded, but the day
shift hasn't yet taken over. I was crouched beside the
fire ring arranging kindling when I noticed the smell. It

(28:01):
wasn't the clean scent of wood smoke or the earthy
aroma of morning mist. This was something organic and potent,
like wet fur mixed with something sharper and more pungent.
Not unpleasant exactly, but definitely foreign to these mountains. I'd
smelled black bear at close range, and this wasn't that.
This was something else entirely. I looked around the campsite

(28:24):
more carefully and noticed that our food, which we'd hung
properly in a bare bag twelve feet up a nearby
oak tree, was undisturbed. That's when I found the footprints.
They were in a muddy patch beside the creek, maybe
thirty yards from our tents. At first glance, they looked
almost human, but the proportions were all wrong. Each print

(28:45):
was nearly sixteen inches long, and the heel impression was
deep and round. The stride length between prints was at
least four feet. I called the Hendersons over to look,
and Michael immediately started photographing the tracks from multiple angles,
while his father took measurements and made sketches in his
field notebook. They were excited by the discovery, speculating that

(29:06):
they might have stumbled onto evidence of some unknown species,
or possibly a hoax left by previous campers. But I
knew these mountains too well to dismiss the tracks as
a prank. We were miles from any established trail in
an area that maybe saw a dozen visitors per year.
The prints were too perfect, too detailed, and too fresh

(29:27):
to have been manufactured. Whatever had made them had been
in our camp during the night, close enough to touch
our equipment, and we'd never known it was there. We
spent most of that morning following the trail of footprints.
They led away from the creek and up a steep
ridge covered in mountain laurel and rhododendron so thick it
formed natural tunnels through the vegetation. The creature had pushed

(29:49):
through this nearly impenetrable thicket with ease, leaving broken branches
and crushed foliage in its wake. About halfway up the ridge,
the trail led to a small clearing where several large
stone had been arranged in what looked like a deliberate pattern.
And stay tuned for more sasquatch ott to see.

Speaker 1 (30:06):
We'll be right back after.

Speaker 5 (30:07):
These messages not random placement, but organized purposeful, as if
someone had been trying to create some kind of structure
or marker. In the center of the arrangement was a
pile of fresh pine boughs, still green and aromatic, woven
together in a loose, nest like construction. Michael was photographing

(30:31):
everything when his father grabbed my arm and pointed toward
the opposite side of the clearing. Standing just inside the
tree line, partially hidden by the shadows and thick vegetation,
was a shape that didn't belong to any animal I'd
ever seen in these mountains. It stood upright like a man,
but was far too large and covered in coarse, dark
brown hair that seemed to ripple in the morning breeze.

(30:53):
The shoulders were impossibly broad, but it was the head
that held my attention. The skull was a long d
and peaked, with a pronounced ridge above the eyes, and
the face was a disturbing mixture of human and ape
like features. We stared at each other across the clearing.
The creature showed no sign of fear or aggression, just
a kind of patient curiosity, as if it was studying

(31:17):
us the same way we were studying it. Then, without
any sound or sudden movement, it simply stepped backward into
the deeper shadows, and it was gone. The three of
us stood in stunned silence for a long time after
it disappeared. Michael had been too shocked to take any photographs,
and his father's hands were shaking too badly to write
in his notebook. We were experienced outdoorsmen, not prone to

(31:40):
hysteria or flights of fancy, but what we'd just witnessed
challenged everything we thought we knew about the natural world.
We made our way back to camp in subdued silence,
each of us trying to process what we'd seen. The
Hendersons wanted to return to the clearing and set up
a longer observation post, but every instinct idea developed in
nearly ten years of guiding told me that would be

(32:02):
a mistake. Whatever we'd encountered had allowed us to see it,
possibly even wanted us to see it, but that didn't
mean it would tolerate extended intrusion into its territory. That night,
the sounds around our camp were different. Instead of the
distant crashing through underbrush we'd heard on previous nights, there
were closer sounds, more deliberate, the sounds of large feet

(32:26):
circling our camp site, the occasional crack of a branch.
Most unsettling of all, what sounded like soft vocalizations, low
whooping calls that seemed to come from multiple directions at once.
None of us slept much that night. We took turns
keeping the fire burning bright and staying alert for any
sign of immediate danger, but whatever was out there in

(32:47):
the darkness seemed content to observe from a distance. When
dawn finally came, we found fresh tracks around the perimeter
of our camp, as if something had been patrolling our
site throughout the night. We broke camp that morning and
hiked out to the truck a day earlier than planned.
The Hendersons had gotten their wilderness photography expedition, but not

(33:08):
in the way any of us had expected. Michael's photographs
of the footprints and the stone arrangement came out perfectly,
but he's never shown them to anyone outside his immediate family.
The experience changed all of us in ways that are
difficult to explain. I continued guiding in the Pisga National
Forest for another fifteen years, but I never took clients

(33:29):
back to that particular area. Several times over the years,
I returned alone to see if I could find any
additional evidence, But the forest had reclaimed the clearing where
we'd had our encounter. The stone arrangement was gone, scattered,
or removed, and the area showed no signs of continued
unusual activity. But I've never forgotten those few moments when

(33:50):
I stood face to face with something that science says
doesn't exist. The mountains of North Carolina have been home
to the Cherokee for thousands of years, and their led
speak of creatures that walk upright like men, but live
apart from human civilization. The old timers in the communities
around the National Forest have their own stories passed down

(34:11):
through generations of hunting and logging families. Most people dismiss
these accounts as folklore or misidentification, and maybe their right.
But I know what I saw that September morning in
nineteen sixty five, and I know it was real. The
Southern Appalachians are old mountains, worn smooth by millions of
years of weather and time, and they harbor secrets that

(34:33):
go deeper than most people realize. Some of those secrets
are better left undisturbed, living reminders that human knowledge has limits,
and that mystery still has a place in our increasingly
cataloged world. The mountains of North Carolina were ancient when
the first European settlers arrived, but the forests of northern
Minnesota were shaped by more recent forces. Glaciers carved the

(34:56):
landscape into a maze of lakes and streams, creating some
one of the most remote wilderness left in the lower
forty eight States. It was in this maze, during the
difficult economic times of the early nineteen nineties, that a
man seeking solitude would find far more than he bargained for.
The plan had been simple enough, a solo backpacking trip

(35:18):
through the Boundary Waters Canoe Area wilderness, taking advantage of
the brief window between the end of hunting season and
the arrival of serious winter weather. November and northern Minnesota
can be unpredictable, but the forecast called for clear skies
and temperatures in the thirties, perfect for the kind of
solitary hiking that helps clear your head after a difficult year.

(35:40):
I'd been through a messy divorce that summer, lost my
job in the corporate downsizing that seemed to be hitting
everyone in the early nineties, and needed time away from
the relentless demands of modern life. The Superior National Forest
offered exactly what I was looking for, a million acres
of pristine wilderness where a man could walk for without

(36:00):
seeing another human being or any trace of civilization beyond
his own footprints. My route started from the gun Flint
Trail and led deep into the back country along a
series of portage trails that connected remote lakes and streams.
The autumn colors had already peaked and fallen, leaving the
hardwood forest bare and stark against the gray November sky.

(36:22):
The conifers, mostly red and white pine with scattered stands
of spruce and balsam fir, provided the only color in
a landscape that seemed drained of warmth and life. Everything
went wrong On the fourth night. The temperature had dropped
below freezing and I was camped beside a small lake
about six miles from the nearest trail. I chosen the
spot because it felt isolated and peaceful, exactly what I

(36:45):
needed after the divorce. Around midnight, I was jolted awake
by the sound of something large crashing through the woods
on the opposite shore. Not the careful movement of a
deer or bear, but heavy, deliberate footsteps that seemed to
circle the entire lake. I lay in my sleeping bag,
listening as whatever it was made a complete circuit of
the water, the sounds getting closer each time it passed

(37:08):
my camp site. Then came the first rock. It hit
my tent with enough force to shake the entire structure,
followed immediately by a low, guttural vocalization that sounded like
a mix between a bear's roar and something almost human.
I grabbed my flashlight and unzipped the tent, fly scanning
the treeline across the lake. That's when I saw the eyes,

(37:30):
two points of greenish light reflecting my beam, positioned about
eight feet off the ground and spaced too far apart
to belong to any animal I knew. They didn't move
or blink, just stared at me with an intensity that
made my skin crawl. When I shifted the light away
and back again, they were gone. But the rock throwing
had just begun. For the next hour, stones pelted my

(37:53):
campsite with mechanical regularity, not random throws, but carefully aimed
projectiles that hit my tent, my pack, even my cooking
gear with deliberate precision. Each impact was followed by that
same unsettling vocalization, now coming from multiple directions around the lake.
I wasn't dealing with one creature. There were several of them,

(38:15):
and they were coordinating their harassment. The vocalizations grew more
complex as the night wore on. What started as simple
grunts and roars evolved into what sounded almost like communication,
different tones and patterns that seemed to be responses to
each other. Whatever these things were, they were talking, and
I was the subject of their conversation. Around three am,

(38:38):
they got bold enough to approach my camp site directly.
I could hear heavy breathing just outside my tent, so
close that the fabric moved with each exhalation. Something brushed
against the guylines, testing their tension, while footsteps circled my
shelter with what seemed like deliberate slowness. The closest one
made a sound I'll never forget, a low rumbling that

(39:00):
I felt in my chest as much as heard with
my ears, like a massive cat's purr mixed with a growl.
It was right next to my head, separated only by
a thin layer of nylon fabric. I stayed perfectly still,
barely breathing, until the sounds finally moved away toward dawn.
When the first light appeared, I packed my gear with

(39:21):
shaking hands and started the longest hike of my life
back to the parking area. But they weren't done with
me yet. The entire six mile trek out became a
gauntlet of psychological warfare. I could hear them pacing me
through the forest, staying just out of sight, but making
sure I knew they were there. Branches broke in the
woods on both sides of the trail, Rocks sailed past

(39:44):
my head close enough that I could feel the air displacement.
Every few hundred yards. I'd catch glimpses of movement in
my peripheral vision, dark shapes that vanished the moment I
turned to look directly at them. But the eyes were
the worst part. Whenever I stopped rest or check my map,
I'd see those greenish reflections watching me from the forest.

(40:05):
Multiple pairs positioned at different heights and distances. About three
miles from my car, one of them stepped partially into view.
It was massive, easily seven feet tall and built like
a linebacker, covered in dark hair that hung in coarse patches.
But what struck me most was how human like its
posture was, standing fully upright with arms that hung nearly

(40:27):
to its knees. It watched me for maybe ten seconds,
then melted back into the forest without making a sound.
The last mile was pure terror. The harassment intensified, as
if they knew I was almost to safety. Rocks flew
constantly now, and the vocalizations grew louder and more aggressive.
Something heavy crashed through the underbrush just ahead of me,

(40:49):
and I could smell a rank, musky odor that reminded
me of a zoo's primate house. I reached my car
at a dead run and through my gear in the
back without even looking behind me. As I drove away,
I could see shapes moving at the forest edge in
my rear view mirror, watching my departure with what seemed
like satisfaction. I've never been back to that part of

(41:10):
the Superior National Forest, and I've never told this story
to anyone who might think I was crazy. But sometimes
on quiet nights, I still wake up hearing those vocalizations
and feeling like something is watching me through the darkness.
The ojibwe have stories about creatures in those woods, beings
they say are guardians of the deep forest who don't

(41:30):
appreciate human intrusion. After what I experienced, I think they
might be right. Some places are meant to stay wild,
and some boundaries shouldn't be crossed. Our next account moves
us forward eight years and over one thousand miles west
to the volcanic landscape of Mount Saint Helens in Washington State.
By two thousand and three, the mountain's blast zone had

(41:52):
become a living laboratory for studying ecological recovery, but some
forms of life that return to the devastated landscape weren't
in any scientific textbook. A veteran search and rescue volunteer
would learn that when people go missing in the shadow
of an active volcano, sometimes what you find challenges everything
you thought you knew about the creatures that call the

(42:13):
wilderness home. The call came in just after dawn a
family of three missing in the blast zone near Mount
Saint Helen's. The Yamadas had been camping at Swift Creek
and failed to check out or return home as scheduled.
What should have been a routine search and rescue operation
turned into the most terrifying experience of my eight year

(42:34):
volunteer career. We found their abandoned campsite within the first hour.
The tent was still standing, but something had clearly gone
wrong during the night. Gear was scattered everywhere, sleeping bags
dragged outside and left in the dirt. The camp chairs
were overturned, and their food cooler had been ripped open
with what looked like claw marks. But the most unsettling

(42:56):
discovery was the silence. Mount Saint Helen's recovering ecosystem usually
buzzed with bird calls and insect activity, but the entire
area around their campsite was dead quiet, not even wind
in the trees. We split into teams to cover more ground,
and I was paired with Janet to search the northeast quadrant.
About two miles from the campsite, we found the first

(43:19):
sign of what we were really dealing with, a line
of depressions in the soft volcanic soil that were definitely footprints,
but far too large to be human. Each print was massive,
easily twice the size of my boot, with clear tow
impressions and a stride length that suggested something over seven
feet tall. The tracks led deeper into the blast zone,

(43:40):
toward terrain so rough that experienced hikers would need ropes
and climbing gear to navigate safely. We followed the trail
for another mile before we heard the first scream. It
came from somewhere ahead of us, high pitched and clearly human,
a woman's voice echoing off the volcanic ridges. But mixed
with it was something else, a deeper roar that made

(44:01):
the hair on my neck stand up. We radioed our
position and pushed forward, moving as fast as the treacherous
terrain would allow. The sounds led us into a narrow
canyon that had been carved by the eruption's debris flows.
The walls were steep and unstable, covered in loose rock
that could avalanche at any disturbance. At the bottom of

(44:22):
the canyon, we found evidence of a struggle, torn fabric
caught on sharp rocks, scattered personal items, and more of
those massive footprints. That's when we realized we were being watched.
Eyes reflected our flashlight beams from ledges high up on
the canyon walls. Multiple pairs positioned at impossible heights where
nothing should have been able to climb. They didn't move

(44:45):
or blink, just tracked our movements with predatory focus. Janet
grabbed my arm and pointed upward. Something large was moving
along the rim of the canyon, paralleling our route, but
staying just out of clear sight. Stay tuned for more
sasquatch otta see, We'll be right back. After these messages,

(45:09):
we could hear rocks dislodging under its weight, the scrape
of claws on stone, and occasionally a low huffing sound
that echoed off the canyon walls. We weren't alone down there,
and whatever was watching us wasn't human. The harassment started
small pebbles dropping from above just enough to get our attention,
then larger rocks thrown with enough accuracy to land uncomfortably

(45:32):
close to our position. Each impact was accompanied by what
sounded like laughter, if animals could laugh, a series of
grunting barks that came from multiple directions. We found the
family huddled in a shallow cave about a quarter mile
deeper into the canyon. They were alive, but traumatized, The
parents shielding their teenage daughter while scanning the canyon walls

(45:54):
with wild eyes. When they saw us, they nearly collapsed
with relief. Their story came out in fragments between sobs.
Something had surrounded their camp site during the night, multiple
creatures that stayed just outside the range of their flashlights,
but made themselves known through vocalizations and rock throwing. When
the family tried to retreat to their car, the creatures

(46:17):
had herded them deeper into the forest like wolves driving prey.
The harassment had continued for hours, with the creatures taking
turns approaching their hiding spots and forcing them to keep moving.
They described glimpses of massive, hair covered figures that moved
through the devastated landscape with impossible ease, leaping between boulders

(46:37):
and scaling cliff faces that would challenge experienced rock climbers.
Getting the family out of the canyon became a nightmare.
Whatever was watching us from above grew more aggressive as
we tried to leave, raining down rocks and debris with
increasing intensity. The vocalizations grew louder and more coordinated, coming
from all sides now in what sounded like an organized

(47:00):
effort to trap us in the narrow space. About halfway out,
one of them showed itself completely. It stood on a
ledge maybe fifty feet above us, silhouetted against the gray sky.
Even at that distance, its size was overwhelming, easily eight
feet tall, with shoulders that looked powerful enough to move boulders.
It watched us for several long moments, then threw back

(47:22):
its head and let out a roar that echoed through
the canyon like thunder. The sound was answered immediately from
multiple locations around us. We were surrounded, and they wanted
us to know it. The final push to get out
of the canyon was pure chaos. Rocks flew constantly, now,
some large enough to cause serious injury if they connected.

(47:43):
The creatures crashed through the forest around us, staying just
out of sight but making sure we knew they were there.
The family's daughter broke down completely, and we had to
carry her the last few hundred yards. We reached the
search command post with a full scale rescue operation mobilizing
around us. But when additional teams went back to investigate
the canyon, they found nothing, no tracks, no evidence of

(48:07):
the creatures we'd encountered, no sign that anything unusual had
happened at all. The official report listed the incident as
a case of the family getting lost and panicking in
difficult terrain. The physical evidence we'd observed was attributed to
misidentified bear signs and stress induced hallucinations, but those of
us who were there knew what we'd experienced. I retired

(48:30):
from search and rescue work two years later, but I
still think about that day. In the blast zone. Mount
Saint Helen's eruption created a unique landscape, vast areas of
devastated terrain that provide perfect cover for things that don't
want to be found. Maybe we discovered that some legends
are based on reality, and that the recovering forest harbors

(48:50):
more than just returning wildlife. The family never spoke publicly
about their experience, but they moved to Florida within six months.
They send me a Christmas card every year with the
same message. Thank you for believing us. I always will.
Our next account takes us forward in time to twenty nineteen,
to the ancient peaks of New York's Adirondack Mountains. By

(49:14):
this time, social media and smartphone cameras had made wilderness
encounters harder to keep secret, but some experiences transcend documentation.
Our final witness discovered that in the digital age, the
most terrifying encounters are still the ones that leave no
evidence behind, only memories that refuse to fade, and the
certain knowledge that something was hunting him through the darkness.

(49:38):
The weather alert came through just as I was finishing
dinner at my camp site beside coldon lake, severe storm approaching,
sudden temperature drop, possible early snow. I'd been backpacking for
twenty years and felt confident riding it out. But I
should have hiked out immediately. Some storms bring more than
just bad weather. The first sign of trouble came around

(49:59):
ten pe when every animal in the area went silent.
Not the gradual quiet of creatures settling down for the night,
but an abrupt, total silence that felt wrong. Even the
lake stopped lapping against the shore, as if the entire
landscape was frozen in fear. Then I heard the howl.
It started low and mournful, like a wolf's call, but wrong, somehow,

(50:23):
too long, too intelligent, with an almost human quality that
made my skin crawl. The sound echoed off the surrounding peaks,
and when it faded, it was answered by another howl
from the opposite direction, then another, and another, until I
realized I was surrounded by whatever was making those sounds.
I retreated to my tent and zipped it shut, listening

(50:46):
as the howls grew closer and more frequent. But the
vocalizations weren't random. They followed patterns that suggested communication, coordination
between multiple individuals. Whatever was out there was talking. Around midnight,
they moved in closer. I could hear heavy paws moving
through the forest around my campsite, circling at a distance

(51:08):
of maybe thirty yards, Not the careful steps of wildlife,
but deliberate, purposeful movement. Occasionally I'd catch glimpses of reflected
light through my tent walls, eyes that glowed with an
eerie green shine, positioned higher off the ground than any
natural predator. The harassment started slowly. A stick would break

(51:29):
in the forest, followed immediately by silence, then another break
from a different direction. They were testing my nerves, seeing
how I'd react to their presence. When I stayed silent
and motionless, they escalated. The first rock hit my tent
around one am, not large enough to cause damage, but
thrown with enough accuracy to make their intent clear. They

(51:51):
knew exactly where I was, and they wanted me to
know they were there. Each impact was followed by a
low growling sound that seemed to come from multiple throats,
but it was the stalking behavior that truly terrified me.
One of them approached my tent directly, moving with such
stealth that I only knew it was there when I
heard breathing just outside the fabric, deep rhythmic inhalations that

(52:15):
told me something large was studying my scent, learning everything
it could about the human hiding inside. When I shifted position,
the breathing stopped. Then I heard what sounded like sniffing,
as if the creature was following my movements by smell alone.
It circled my tent, slowly, pausing at different points to investigate,

(52:35):
occasionally making soft whimpering sounds that were disturbingly dog like.
Around three AM, I made the mistake of looking outside.
I unzipped the tent blide just enough to peer through
and found myself staring directly into a pair of glowing
eyes less than ten feet away. But these weren't the
eyes of any normal animal. They showed an intelligence that

(52:57):
was unmistakably aware of being observed. The creature held my
gaze for several long seconds, then opened its mouth in
what looked like a grin, revealing teeth that reflected my
flashlight beam. The face was a nightmare fusion of wolf
and human features, elongated muzzle filled with predator's teeth, but
with an expression that was disturbingly knowing. When I jerked

(53:21):
back and zipped the tent closed, I heard what could
only be described as laughter, a series of barking sounds
that held genuine amusement. They played with me for the
rest of the night. Rocks pelted my campsite in carefully
timed intervals, each throw designed to keep me awake and
on edge. The vocalizations grew more complex, incorporating sounds that

(53:43):
ranged from wolf howls to something that almost resembled human speech.
When dawn finally came, I packed my gear in record
time and started what became a seven mile run for
my life. They followed me the entire way. About three
miles from the trailhead, one of them stepped into the open.
It stood in the middle of the trail, about fifty

(54:03):
yards ahead, and my first thought was that someone was
playing a prank. No animal could stand that upright or
look that human. But as I got closer, the wrongness
became obvious. The proportions were all off, too tall and
too muscular, and a head that was distinctly canine despite
the human posture. We stared at each other for a

(54:25):
few seconds, then it dropped to all fours and loped
off into the forest with a grace that no human
in a costume could replicate. But not before I saw
the intelligence in its eyes, ancient, calculating, and completely unafraid.
The last few miles were a blur of terror and adrenaline.
I reached my car at a dead sprint and drove

(54:46):
straight home without stopping, constantly checking my mirrors for signs
of pursuit. It wasn't until I was back in civilization,
surrounded by traffic and noise, that I finally felt safe.
I've researched the area extensively, then and found scattered reports
dating back over a century of similar encounters in the
Adirondack region. The descriptions are consistent, large wolf like creatures

(55:10):
that display human intelligence and behavior, particularly an apparent enjoyment
of psychological harassment. The local Howdenisaani traditions include stories about
creatures they call night hunters that test humans who venture
too deep into the wilderness. According to these accounts, the
creatures aren't necessarily malevolent, but they don't tolerate disrespect for

(55:31):
their territory. I still backpack regularly, but I stay closer
to popular trails now. The Adirondack Park covers six million
acres of mostly wild forest with vast areas that rarely
see human visitors. It's entirely possible that remnant populations of
unknown predators survive in such remote regions, especially if they've

(55:52):
learned to avoid human contact. But sometimes, when conditions are
right and someone ventures too far into their domain, they
make their presence known. And once you've experienced that level
of predatory intelligence focused on you personally, the wilderness never
feels quite as peaceful again. Multiple encounters spanning decades and

(56:13):
covering thousands of miles of North American wilderness, different witnesses,
different creatures, but all sharing common threads that run deeper
than coincidence. Each of these accounts came to us through
different channels. The Boundary Water story from a retired engineer
in Minneapolis who contacted us after hearing our show, The
Mount Saint Helen's incident from a former search and rescue

(56:36):
volunteer who finally felt ready to share his experience, and
the Adirondack encounter from a social media post that led
to hours of detailed interviews. What strikes us most about
these stories isn't their dramatic elements, but their consistency, the
intelligence displayed by these creatures, their apparent coordination and communication,

(56:57):
their ability to remain hidden while making their presence it's
unmistakably known to those who venture too deep into their territory.
These aren't random monster encounters or cases of mistaken identity.
There are accounts of interactions with beings that clearly understand
human behavior, human psychology, and human limitations. Whether we're dealing

(57:17):
with unknown species, interdimensional visitors, or something else entirely, one
thing is certain. We're not alone in the wilderness. The
vast forests of North America still hold secrets that science
hasn't cataloged, Mysteries that are increasingly connected world hasn't solved.
In an age of satellite imagery and GPS tracking, where

(57:40):
every mountain peak has been photographed and every trail has
been mapped, it's both humbling and terrifying to realize that
there are still things watching us from the shadows of
the deep woods. To our listeners who are planning their
own wilderness adventures, respect the forest, respect its inhabitants, and
remember that you're entering tearritory that belong to others long

(58:02):
before humans ever set foot on this continent. Pack your gear,
plan your roots, but also pack your humility. The wilderness
is not a playground or a conquest to be achieved.
It's a living ecosystem where predators still hunt, where ancient
territorial boundaries still matter, and where some residents prefer to
remain undiscovered. Stay safe out there, keep your eyes open,

(58:26):
and remember if something seems to be watching you from
the tree line, trust that instinct. It probably is. Until
next time.

Speaker 6 (58:36):
They say you don't gotta go home, but you can't
stay steps, steps.

Speaker 1 (59:08):
Stops, chart, this child, that chart.

Speaker 4 (59:15):
Everything came right back, bride back to Joy.

Speaker 1 (59:19):
For me Joy stay right there, you.

Speaker 4 (59:25):
Come in right away. Still step.

Speaker 1 (01:00:00):
Fasts do do do Talk about.

Speaker 7 (01:00:20):
Thesssssts us stas

Speaker 1 (01:00:36):
Used USS