I'm from Mississippi originally, but I've lived in Oklahoma, Texas, Pennsylvania, West Virginia. Since I've discovered the subject of sisquatch. I'm so sure that they're real. I don't need to see one believe me. But here is my second hand story. My mom and her siblings made up a huge family who lived on a plantation in Sunflower County. Mom always called it the Patterson Plantation because there were more daughters
than sons in this family. Mom and her sisters always worked with their dad in the field hoe in cotton. The boys were too young, The girls were about eight to twelve years of age, and they were hard workers. Mom would tell us that when their dad was sick, the girls would go to the field by themselves. They were just carrying on for daddy. The only thing that truly spooked them was the fact that something on two
legs would paste them. The girls would be on a dirt road which was flanked on either side by the Sunflower River or the forest. This animal would pacete them just out of sight in the forest. Mom said. One time they asked my grandpa Daddy, what is that walking next to us? Mom said that he grinned and said, it's just a bunch of squirrels. This went on for a while. It never showed its face, And yes, if it had been a vagrant or an escapee from parchment,
surely he would have been seen at some point. The girls were not the only ones who heard this noise. Mom said other adults in the field would also walk the same direction, and they also heard the noises. But to top this off, my mom's family all lived in a little shotgun house that had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room room. The kitchen door was secured by a thumb. Look at night, Mom said, someone would open the kitchen door walk across the linoleum kitchen floor
to their bedroom. All the girls slept in one bed. They would walk around the bed and stroke the girl's heads. Mom says she always wanted to know who was doing this, so the next time it happened, she jumped up and she hit the lights. She wasn't quick enough, though. Darn it anyway, I just thought I would pass this along before I forget about it. Keep up the good work, signed Cheryl in November of nineteen seventy nine. I was fourteen,
not old enough to hunt legally in New York. My dad was an avid hunter who usually hunted in Naples. They call it part of the southern tier of the state. My dad worked with a man who owned some prime hunting property there. My uncle was supposed to go with him that year, but something came up, so my dad asked me if I'd like to go in his place and push the deer. Of course, I said yes. I was so excited I barely got any sleep the night
before we left. We drove off at four am and headed to the dark and frozen woods and our ford pinto wagon. Dad explained as we went what my function would be. I would head into the woods alone and push the deer to where he would be set up and ready for them. We got to the gravel road that took us into his coworker's property and Dad told me to walk about two hundred yards in the woods and hunker down for forty five minutes or so, and then start walking east. I actually knew a lot about
the woods even then. I spent pretty much every spare moment of my time in the woods around our home. Well. Anyway, Dad handed me his twelve gage shotgun. It was empty, but I had a couple of slugs in my coat pocket just in case. I stood there watching the tailgates of the pinto disappear over the crest of the hill, and then turned and let my vision adjust to the darkness for a minute before I started walking. I wasn't afraid of the woods back then. I walked quite aways,
and I had to scale an old fence line. At one point. I remember the patches of snow and how cold I was, despite being dressed in three layers of clothes and a good pair of winter boots, the kind with liners that can be removed. It began to get light outside, but the sky was overcast in dark shades of angry gray. I went into a deep gully with ten to fifteen foot banks, and I followed it until it turned east, the direction I had to go to
get to my father. Then I climbed the tall bank and found a good sized tree that had fallen, and where I squatted and rested my back against it. And by then I was tired. Without a good night sleep, I'd been running on pure adrenaline all morning. I guess I've knotted off. I woke up to the sound of a tree branch snapping, and I panned the area across the gully to the opposite ridge, thinking it might have
been a big buck. And I searched across the area and I saw what looked like a large man standing next to a tree. Well, I focused in and I froze. It wasn't a man. My father was six feet tall, and this thing was nearly twice that. It was covered in hair, but it wasn't a bear either. I couldn't see its face, its long, matted hair covered it, but I could see clouds of breath pouring through the hair on the cold morning air. Its hair was all brown, but a lighter shade on its chest in the front
of its thighs. Based on its body position, it had to be looking straight at me. Well, I figured it was standing like this for five minutes or so, which felt like a lifetime to me. My heart was pounding out of my skin the whole time, but I was frozen in place and I couldn't move. And then it took one step in my direction, and that unfroze me. I turned and started running as fast as I could in the direction that i'd come. I had the twelve gage,
but I didn't think about it at the time. I approached the fence line and I chucked the shotgun over it and dove over the fence behind it, and then I grabbed the gun and briefly looked back to see if anything was behind me. And I kept running until I got to the gravel road. During that Olympic run, I managed to lose a boot. I was only wearing
the lining, but I didn't care. I got my bearings and headed up the road in the direction my dad had gone, and I found the Pinto parked on the side of the road, but to my horror, it was locked there. I was surrounded by heavy woods in the middle of nowhere, and now painfully aware that monsters do exist. I loaded the gun and knelt down with my back against the car and waited and listened to every single noise. When my dad finally came out of the woods, he
was asking, what the hell happened to you, boy? I told him exactly what happened. It was probably a bear, if anything at all, he reasoned. I told my best friend back then, and he seemed to believe me. I'm now fifty six and I live in Florida. Dad has been gone since nineteen eighty seven, but I can relive that morning like flipping a switch. I did some small game hunting after that happened, but only in the woods
where I grew up in Neverden. When I was in my thirties, I ran across the BFRO and reported the incident to them. A man contacted me about it, and we spoke for quite a while. The research I've done since then shows that these things migrate from the Adirondack Mountains down through the Herkimer Valley and into the Southern Tier, as well as northern Pennsylvania and the Ohio Valley regions. This happened in Brasstown, North Carolina, in nineteen eighty six.
I was fifteen and staying at my grandparents' place. They lived in the Styx, and they had no neighbors close by. The wood circle. My grandparents' trailer about eight miles in every direction. As an adult, looking back in hindsight, I can say it was really beautiful, and being that far back in the woods, we, being non hair humans, were not in our element. We were only guest actors in Mother Nature stage. I always played in the woods. My grandfather taught me how to carry and use a gun
when I was ten years old. He never let me leave the house without protection. I've always I wondered if my grandpa knew about these beings that dwell in the woods, and if that was the real reason he taught me how to use and carry a gun at such an early age. I once wrote a comment in response to a YouTube video that really got me angry. I edited it at the time, and I wrote it because I
wasn't nice. It was making fun of the notion of Bigfoot and the people with the courage to report their encounters, and that's why people won't step forward about what they
have seen and what it did to them. Mentally, it's not a joke when you're staring down a monster and you're the poor bastard who's just stumbled into the domain of a predator, when suddenly everything becomes primal and your gut reaction is to either fight or flight, and that gun that you've brought for protection, it most likely will
only piss it off before it charges you. It had a massive chest, and judging by the size of its head hands, it was a fit specimen that reminded me of those barrel chested men you see on those tough man challenges, except this thing was four times as big, and if it didn't duck its head, it would have clocked it on a tree limb. It had shiny hair that seemed unusually well groomed. More than anything else, I was fascinated by its face. It had a wide jawline and a mouth set lower than a human, with a
wide gap between its nose and top lip. I would compare its brow to a Neanderthal, except a little more evolved, and it didn't protrude as far. Its hairless face was framed by a beard, and I could understand someone not wanting to shoot at it because of the human characteristics. I could sense intelligence, but when we made eye contact, there was a feeling of something sinister, like nothing in the realm of goodness. Have you ever walked into a
room of people you don't get along with. Nobody says anything nice, They just stopped talking and look right through you. It was humbling times ten that instantly put my world into perspective and crushed my soul. This monster made me feel like a shell of a man. Now was nothing more to it than pray. The beet stared me down with its greenish red eyes, letting me know who the boss was in our stand off. It was unreal to
me to see something so gigantic be so agile. It walked with no jerk to its step, and its head did not bob up or down. Its attitude was all, Hey, you're lucky to be alive. You punk human. For lack of a better word, it took the fifteen year old boy right out of me. Other people like me have had similar encounters and won't say a word to anybody, partly because we don't want to be laughed at. I don't know which screws you up more mentally the encounter
of the doubters that hang labels on you. There are a lot of fake videos on the internet, and to those uploading them, I would say, please, don't insult my intelligence by claiming these stage clips are real. They always missed the mark by about four feet or five hundred pounds. In my thirty plus years of digging into this topic, with all the cover ups, the lies, and the truth that would blow the average person's mind away, it's just
another day at the office. To me. I've read thousands of testimonials and stored thousands of pictures and videos that day, the gun and I were both useless in every sense of the word. To those who want to find a bigfoot, I would say, don't even try to those that have I'm sorry, and I mean that. I remember it vividly.
It was a summer of nineteen ninety eight. Sarah, my wife the time, and I had spent a lovely first week of our vacation with my parents and siblings in Michigan's Upper Peninsula along the southern shore of Lake Superior, camping and canoeing near the mouth of the Two Hearted River. It is a wild and beautiful place that I have been visiting since my childhood, and it always seems to
call me back. Sarah and I had not spent much time in the lower portion of Michigan before, so we decided to split off from the rest of the family and do some exploring For the remainder of our vacation. We spent several relaxing days at Lake Anne State Forest, then planned to break camp take a day to hike the Sleeping Bear Dunes, which culminates with the breathtaking view of Lake Michigan and its many shades of blue. This
is where the story begins. The day was sunny and hot, and by late afternoon the ambient temperature on the dunes was probably hovering around any degrees or above, and we were ready to be done. Once we completed our hike, we planned to find a camp site, preferably by the water, and then drive back home to Ohio. The following day, we stopped at the ranger station to inquire about nearby camping, only to discover that pretty much every campground in this
part of Michigan was full. In retrospect. I should have expected this since it was a Friday in the high summer and had a very popular destination for weekend vacationers. The ranger told us that we were probably out of luck, though he knew of a trail camp some ten miles distant, primarily used by equestrian campers. It wasn't much to look at,
yet would do as an overnighter. I was grateful for the tip, and we thanked the ranger and set out for our destination, and we followed the directions he had written down for us. The site was it's not easy to find, since it ended up being on a road or off a road off another road, but we finally located it and pulled into the entrance. We travel further down the dusty gravel course that ended with a loop and a clearing. It was sparse, with trees and hitching
posts set at regular intervals. To our surprise, there was absolutely no one within view, and my first thought was perfect, we'll have this place to ourselves. And I turned off the van and we got out to look around and decide which site to choose. This is when things got freaky. As in aside, I should point out that I have always considered myself to be somewhat of a psychic brick. If anyone is going to hear ghosts talk with their spirit guides or have premonitions, it isn't going to be me.
Not that I'm not open to it. I'm just not very sensitive in that way. The sun was getting low in the sky and the air was warm, but still it was quiet here, even peaceful. Yet I could not explain this growing sense of dread. I scanned the area to explain my cognitive dissonance. Where was this perceived danger coming from? All I saw was an apparently tranquil meadow with nobody around in virtually no places for a threat
to be concealed. I pushed down the feeling, telling myself that I was just imagining things all because I didn't want to worry Sarah. She looked at me and she asked, so, what do you think. I don't know. I said, something feels off. She agreed too quickly, and it turned out that she had been sensing the same unease and didn't
want to mention it to me either. Let's get the hell out of here, I said, in a low voice, without wasting another moment, we hurried back to the van and locked the doors and spun the tires in our haste, leaving a cloud of dust behind all to put some distance between us and a nameless menace. We traveled east toward home, and we molded over, trying to understand what
had just transpired. There had been absolutely no visual or auditory que to indicate that anything was amiss in that camp, yet we both had the distinct feeling that something very bad was about to occur, and had we stayed, we most certainly might die. Since then, I have never experienced that level of dread for something that didn't happen. More than twenty four years later, I still think about it from time to time, and I wonder what did we avoid?
Had there been an axe murderer in camouflages hiding behind a tree preparing to pounce. Was something paranormal about to unfold? I wonder if that feeling of something being wrong precedes an abduction event or the spontaneous opening of time and based portals. Only many years later did I discover that the Great Lakes area, particularly Michigan, is known for its unexplained disappearances of people, ships, and aircraft, as well as
other paranormal activity. On multiple occasions, I have tried to locate the trail camp that we visited using Internet searches based on its probable position, but without any success, and unfortunately the original written directions have long been lost. Did we wander into and out of an unstable pocket of reality just before it collapsed? I'd love to know the answer from a distance, though I'm eternally thankful that we
didn't experience at firsthand whatever it was. Back in nineteen seventy five, while we were in law school, a friend of mine and I were fishing in Lake Chappaka on the Canadian Washington border. At that time, the road to the lake was long, dirt, rough and rocky drive. They may have paved it since then. I really don't know. We were poor students who didn't have trucks or four wheel drives in the lake, but instead we had my family's old Volvo. Volvos and rocky roads don't mix well.
But soon he'd lost his steering or transmission or some damn thing, and I crawled under the car to take a look. When he fired it up, a stream of fluid came shooting out of a metal tube. Apparently a rock had punctured the line. We had no choice but to try to make it back to civilization, and we got to the main highway before we could go no further. As we sat there, a huge yellow nineteen sixty Pontiac convertible pulled up. A six foot five inch tall man
got out and asked if he could help. The man looked rather strange. He was very pale and long bleached blonde hair that was combed straight back. He was slender belt and had bird like features. But hell, he wanted to help and we needed to get to the nearest town. We explained our circumstances and he said, no problem, I can help. He walked back and opened his massive trunk, and inside we could see his entire life. Clothing was deeply folded in the cardboard box, and toilet trees were
organized in another. We saw framed photographs, food and water, and tools, and you name it, he had it. He proceeded to pull a long four inch nylon strap out of a box and affix it to the front of the volvough and then towed us into town, which boasted a gas station and very little else. The attendant put the car on the hoist and proclaimed that we were screwed.
He had nothing to place a tube on the volvo, and before we had time to digest this fact, our newly acquired friend, who had been standing patiently and knowingly nearby, again proclaimed I can help. He then walked back to the cavernous truck and pulled out a small rubber hose and two small hose clamps, and followed by a hack saw. The hose was soon replaced, but the gas station didn't have the fluid we needed, and it should have come as no surprise when our blonde friend dove back into
his trunk and produced the proper fluid. Our amusement had now progressed a full on amazement. We offered to pay him, but he refused any form of compensation except for the fluid. He then offered to follow us out of town to make sure everything worked okay. About five miles out, the road straightened and went uphill. We heard the roar of his huge as he passed us at a high rate of speed, smiling and waving with his blond hair flying in the wind. It's a side I will never forget.
And then as he screamed up the hill in front of us, he and his convertible vanished. They faded away. There were no side roads, no turn offs, no brake lights, nothing. The dude was just gone. My friend and I looked at each other. Our eyes were wide. Where the hell did he go? I asked. We slowed and looked along the roadway, but neither of us could find a place where he could have pulled off the road. He simply
disappeared into thin air. My companion has since passed away, and I'm pushing it, but I will not be surprised at all if upon crossing over that blonde guy will be there to guide me along. This is a true story. It wasn't until I listened to you tell other people's UFO encounters on your channel that I decided to share mine. I hope I can put it into words, as I have never told this story to anyone except my husband, and that was only recently. So in your words, here
we go, all right, here we go. Though I'm forty one now, on the time of my encounter, I was ten years old and living with my parents in Arkansas. We were in my father's pickup truck heading home after a visit with one of his friends. It was late. It was past midnight on one of those clear summer nights where you can see every star in the sky. I was tired, and, as I always did on long journeys at night with my folks, I laid my head on my mother's shoulder so I could close my eyes
and nap. On the way home, we were probably only thirty minutes from our house. I caught glimpses of the stars as I drifted in and out of sleep because of the bumpy back roads my father always took to get us home a little quicker. Suddenly, I heard my mother call out my father's name, Wane. She said to him, as my father snapped to attention behind the steering wheel. What in the world is that, she said. I opened my eyes and I saw my mother steering in disbelief
at something she'd spotted through the driver's side window. I looked in the same direction and my mouth fell open. There was a huge cigar shaped object over a pasture just off the road, maybe one hundred yards away, and it was hovering in the air. The trees blocked some of our view, but the object was so close that I could see. It had what looked like portholes that dotted the sides and went around the hall, just like a ship. The moon was bright that night, so I
could tell it was gray or silver in color. And there was a slight humming sound, but it wasn't loud, kind of like the hum of a ceiling fan motor. My father started to slow the truck down to a snail's pace, but my mother, shaken by what she was seeing,
hissed it my father, don't shut this truck off. All of us stared quietly at the object for a minute until my father, suddenly, gripped by panic, pressed the accelerator to the floor and pinned us to our seats as he fish tailed and sprayed gravel in a mad attempt to put some distance between our truck and this weird, metallic looking thing that my folks were at a loss
to explain. The vessel stayed in place as we sped away from it, and my mother and father glancing fearfully in the rear view mirrors and craning their necks to see out the back window, praying this thing wouldn't take flight and overtake our truck. At the time, I was too scared to look, and I fixed my gaze at the dashboard. The rest of the way home, no one said a word, and once we pulled up to our house, we went straight to bed, and in the days that
followed we never spoke of our unusual encounter. Oddly enough, once I had time to think about it, I wasn't scared by the experience. It was more like a strange fascination. As the years went by, I worried more about what the naysayers would think of my story. Rather than risk ridicule from people who wouldn't understand, I kept my experience
to myself. My husband and I were talking about UFOs recently, and I decided to ask my mother if she remembered that night She responded with a curt yes, and that was it. Decades had passed since that night, but clearly for my mother, the memory of witnessing something not of this world on a back country road in rural Arkansas still lingered. We both left it at that