Archive 221 Bigfoot

house where the reunion was taking place. My uncle turned to my great uncle and he said, tell us about what you saw that night you were out raccoon hunting. Right away, my great uncle got a look on us face that I'd never seen before. It was a mix of bewilderment and fear, and he turned away like he didn't hear what my uncle asked him. And then his son said, go ahead, Dad, tell him what we saw. You tell them. My great uncle said under his breath, all right, I'll tell the story, his son said, and

he began. At that time, my dad was sixty seven years old. He'd spent his whole life out in the woods, hunting mostly quail and raccoons. That night they were headed out to the land behind their house, and the property had recently been sold and the new owner had bulldozed the old fence line and put in a new wire fence. They had three dogs, two walkers, and a red bone. The fence was on an incline that the dogs couldn't

get over, so they had to put them over. The son handed the twenty two rifle to his dad and he crossed the fence, and then my great uncle handed the rifle over and he crossed. Two Up the hill, twenty five yards from the old fence was a brush pile. They walked in that direction and then let the dogs off the leaves, and they began sniffing around the pile. They had only just begun to smell the awful stench coming from it when something stood up up in the middle of that pole and let out a scream so

loud that it knocked them over. It was reddish brown. It stood eight or nine feet tall, and it was four feet wide, and the dogs ran right back past them, and this time they didn't have any trouble clearing that fence. My uncle and his son stood there face to face with it for two or three seconds until it quit screaming, and then it jumped up on top of the wood pole and it leaped off and it ran up the hill. They turned and ran in the opposite direction back down

the hill. They didn't have much trouble getting over the fence either. It was three hundred yards from that fence back to the house, and neither one stopped running until they got there, and my uncle said he felt like his heart was going to explode from the effort. When they got back to the house, my uncle asked his son where the rifle was. Well, he didn't know. He

thought maybe he'd dropped it. The next morning, they took a shotgun and a thirty all six and went back out to where they crossed the fence, and they found the twenty two and they got the hell out of there. Shortly after that, my uncle sold his hounds and he never went hunting again. Now, I talked to his son several times after that reunion. I'd always ask him if

they'd ever seen that thing since that night. He said no, they'd never seen anything, but they did hear that exact same scream on two different occasions after my great uncle passed away in nineteen eighty eight, except to go back to get the rifle the next morning. He never stepped foot on that property again, and after his death, his wife sold their place, and his son said he never went back there again either. My great uncle never liked to talk about it. He didn't like for people to

know about it. He was always afraid that they would think he was crazy or that he was a liar. If we hadn't had our encounter while out hunting frogs, and my uncle hadn't shared the story with his cousin uncle's son, who then told them about their incident, he might have got his wish and taken the story to his grave. Here's my story, which happened when I was

sixteen years old. Our neighborhood backed onto a large forest which led right up to the I'm not even going to try to pronounce this zekea zeka swamp z e kiah, which we used to explore up to the point back along the woodlands. I had three brothers, all of whom lived in the woods, and being the only girl, I

tagged along like a tomboy as best I could. My oldest brother and three of his friends decided to put their carpentry skills into practice and spent several weeks building a treehouse deep in the forest, two miles back from our neighborhood. All the materials were hauled in by hand or loaded on motorcycles. I was impressed with a instruction project, but I was disappointed that it was so high off

the ground. I was afraid of heights. They hammered horizontal steps going up the tree, and the floor hatch door was a bit awkward to access, which made entering and exiting the treehouse a challenge. This was no treehouse for sissies. It was built solid and even had a small locking sliding window to block out critters from getting in. Back in those days, this was the nineteen eighties, all the young people seemed to roam wild with little or no supervision.

I have no idea how we kept this treehouse a secret from our parents for so long, but it was where we all went to smoke cigarettes and drink Boone's farm or beer. Don't forget the Mad Dog twenty twenty, MD twenty Mogan David twenty twenty. We called it mad Dog. Lot of people my age will remember that. Anyway. One of my friends hear was Debbie. She got the idea that it might be fun to spend the night in

the treehouse. Besides being afraid of heights, I wasn't overly king on pitch black woods either, but hey, you're only a teen once, so I agreed it might be fun. We lied to our parents and we told them we were spending the night at the other person's house, and we packed what we needed for the night to stay in the treehouse, including sleeping bags, candles, magazines, and food. We hiked into the woods and settled into the treehouse

before dark. We were grubbing on junk food and talking about school and things that girls talk about at sixteen, and we didn't tell anyone we were going to sleep in the treehouse for fear that someone would try to spoil the fun for us. We settled in for the night. It was quiet in the woods, unusually quiet up until something struck the side of the treehouse. We both stopped talking and we noticed the smell. All it was like rotting trash. Oh, you guys, I just have the best

imaginations for a riting trash. Isn't that funny? But I think when I come up on smells, I always just naturally laughed. Anyway, She writes, I looked at Debbie and I wondered what she ate earlier that day, and then she pinched her nose, and I knew the smell was coming from outside. And then bang, something hit the treehouse again, but it was much bigger. We were both very frightened, and we heard grunting sounds and scraping at the bottom

of the treehouse. We locked the hatch, which was made of wood and was almost invisible to the eye from outside, as the boys had made it look like a part of the flooring from underneath. But the thing wasted no time in finding it, and it tried to slide it open, or so it seemed to us. I said directly on top of the hatch, and Debbie was in a panic. I was too scared to be in a panic, and I sat frozen like a statue, and I prayed with all my heart for this thing to go away. I

kept thinking that we were going to die. This thing was way too determined to figure out how to get inside. The trees that supported the treehouse were very substantial, and you could never imagine someone could actually shake them, and I could barely get my arms around them, but the treehouse shook slightly, and then we heard funny sounds. I don't remember exactly what they were, but they sounded like gibberish.

Maybe there was more than one, we couldn't tell. We heard the loud footsteps and undergrowth of the leaves and sticks snapping, and I decided to blow out the candle. And then I walked over to one of the small windows, which had a sliding covers, and I tried to peek out, but it was so dark that I couldn't see. And I shut the window back and I locked it, and then it or they started scraping the bottom of the treehouse again, and this went on for a long time.

After a while, we were both exhausted from fear. Things started landing on the roof of the treehouse too. Debbie had big blue eyes and she kept staring at me with them wide open. We spoke with our eyes, occasionally closing them tight. We were afraid to speak, and I wanted them to think that we were asleep. I didn't know what to do or think. I just wanted to

be in my own bed back home. After several hours of banging, things hitting the treehouse and shaking and scraping, things started to quiet down just before sunrise, and then we heard a loud, roaring growl sound, but unlike anything else we had heard before, and it felt like it could easily have pulled the treehouse down and gotten inside after hearing that, and I knew it was really big, whatever this thing was. And then it went totally quiet

and everything stop. We waited for a couple of hours after they left, never speaking a word, until finally I said that we should take a look outside. By this time it was seven a m. And I whispered that we should leave very quietly and leave all of our stuff there and run like hell. Once we got down to the ground, she nodded and was softly crying, and I slid the hatch open and popped my head through to look as best as I could, and I didn't see anything, and we went for it and we ran

like hell. And as soon as we got home, we woke the boys and told them all about our experience. They called their friends and went back to retrieve our stuff for us and have a look around. Two of the boys took rifles. My older brothers said that we were pretty stupid for going back there for the night, and we agreed. He was not going to get any argument from us. They said it was probably a bear or the goat man, and they teased us for months

following this event, but I knew they believed us. Needless to say, Debbie and I never went back there again at night. I moved up north after high school, and I lost touch with Debbie. I found her on Facebook a few years later, and we chatted online a bit, and then one night I messaged her and asked her if she remembered that night in the treehouse, and I asked her if she would share what she remembered so I could fill in some of the blanks. She never replied.

I messaged her three times and I tried to rephrase my question being careful and considerate, but I got nothing from her. She never replied back at all. Because I'm in my seventies now, long past caring about what others think of me, I'm not sure I ever did. I've lived much of my life in South Carolina, but in my forties we bought a place in New Mexico on the checkerboard, a mix of federal state and counties in Navajo Zuni and private land. Any major issue out there

brought a real assortment of law enforcement officers. We were planning to build a cabin and live there for the two years that it would ultimately take to complete the renovations on our business location in Charleston. Many of my neighbors there lived by the tenant that we are all here because we are not all there. It is a

land of rebels, misfits, and highly independent people. One Navajo man told me that everyone who lived out there on our patch of private land were tax dodgers, small time crooks, crazies, marijuana growers, and fugitives, and then he advised me that we should move. He was a nice man, and after that he checked on me from time to time and

became a real friend. Once we settled in, I would often stay home when my husband went to grants or gallop for building supplies, so it was not unusual for me to be out exploring on my four wheeler alone. I rode all over our fifty acres and out onto the state and federal land. I was in the woods a lot by myself, learning the area and getting acquainted with the flora and the fauna. We do have both black bears and mountain lions, but I have only seen

mountain lions from time to time. I haven't thought about these incidents since two thousand and three, but your stories brought them back to me. It all seems just as surreal now as it did back then. It was on one of those occasions undes, when I was home alone, that it all began. I was clearing brush from around our camping trailer building a fire pit one day with my cattle dog. I was quite focused on what I was doing when I was suddenly overcome by a sense

that I was being watched. I looked around me, but I saw nothing. We are on a high plateau and our land is pretty flat, with sparse trees and almost no bushes. Because at that time cattle grazed on the subdivided ranch our place was part of, it was reasonable that I would have been able to see anything out of place nearby, and I continued working for a few

minutes until an odor came over me. It was a smell of a poorly tinded garbage dump, with overtones of dead things and a touch of heaven only knows what else. I paused at what I was doing and looked at my dog to see if she was reacting to anything she could not have done a better point had she been trained to do it. Now, this was a dog who regularly chased cows away from our place and had no fear of large animals. She was, after all, a blue healer. Her reactions put my senses on high alert,

and I looked around me. First, I looked at our camper trailer and decided that anything that wanted to get into it would have no trouble. I then turned to my old Dodge truck, and I decided that it was a better choice. When I opened the door, my dog practically ran over me to get in the truck. That was not terribly alarming. She loved to drive in the truck, but she didn't stop there. She got onto the floorboard

and curled up into a tight little ball well. I was inspired to join her as quickly as possible, and I locked the doors behind me. I was living in the hope that the truck would be more secure than the camper. Also, at that moment, I vowed to carry a truck key with me from now on, as it was I was going nowhere. We sat there for ten minutes before I rolled down the window enough to tell that the smell was gone, and I got out and

blithely went back to work. My dog chose to stay in the truck, so I left the door open for her, and by the time my husband got home, I had pretty much forgotten about it, and I felt pretty silly for hiding in the truck just because I smelled something stinky. After that, my life went back to normal. I still rode my four wheeler and I hiked all over the place by myself. I was just happy to be outdoors and free to roam. My dog had evidently forgotten about

it as well. She was always the first one on the four wheeler when I would go for a ride, and always on my heels when I went for a hike. Five years later, I was heading to a potline at a friend's place. I was about two miles from my turn when I came to a curve known for the seasonal build up of mud or snow. If we made it through the curve without getting stuck, we'd always give

a short prayer of thanks for doing so. As I came out of the curve, I saw a large dark form that my brain tried to twist into the form of a cow flailing miserably I was unable to accept that realization, and my mind went to a black bear. That week, a black bear had broken into a woman's kitchen and killed her. So black bears was already on my mind, except bears don't run on three legs, and this thing did. It loped along beside me between one

hundred and two hundred feet to my left. I couldn't go any faster than about ten miles per hour on that road, so it had no trouble pacing me. It stayed with me until the last thousand feet or so of gravel. It didn't feel threatening, and it didn't seem to tire. It just loped along beside me. I told the woman that the pot luck about it, and one of them, who had lived out there for decades, called me several days later and asked me to come over. She had a medicine man at her place and she

wanted us to talk. He listened to my story, and he told me that it was one of the elder brothers and that I need not be afraid of it. My friend paid him the customary gift of tobacco, and he went on his way. We'll be going back to New Mexico in a month or so, and this memory will not keep me out of the woods. Sadly, my dog has been gone for years. My walks will be solitary, and there will be more seat room in the four

wheeler without her. And now I'm going to have to go have a good cry over my long lost cattle dog her. That's not the end of the story. But she's the name of her cattle dog, and I don't want her to hear this and not think that I at least attempted to pronounce the name of the cattle dog. But the name of her dog is I think pittile a pitie. I'm trying to find it here, p I T A l e a h. Anybody know what that says. I don't know, and I didn't want to mispronounce it.

But now that I've gotten to this point in the story and she has very fond memories of her dog, ma'am, I'm I'm just I don't want you to feel insulted. I didn't pronounce your dog's name, or say your dog's name, but I just don't think I'm pronouncing it right, So I'm sorry. But the dog's name is Pittile a pital pittlee okay on with the story. If you're still with me, I have also seen a UFO. In nineteen eighty nine,

Charleston was ravaged by Hurricane Hugo. The path of the storm left a wound that would take years to heal. I was a part of a group of people that were seekers. The seeking led us to a healing tradition that has its roots in antiquity, and in parentheses, she says, it's called reiche r e I k I riky reiki I don't know. We came together one night to receive an invitation into the healing form. We met at a hairdresser's shop to take the class. In the middle of

the evening, I can't remember the hour. We took a break and we were told to go sit and think about what we had been told and to make sure that we wanted to continue. There wasn't a lot of space for us to spread out inside the shop, and it was a beautiful, starry night, so my friend and I went to sit in her car. We'd been sitting there talking a little and thinking a lot, and when she said what is that? She was leaning over her steering wheel, looking up while leaned forward as well, and

I saw nothing. And then I remembered that it was a beautiful story night, I should at least be able to see the stars. In fact, they were all around us, just not directly over us. We got out of the car and watched as a massive triangular shaped object passed overhead. And then we got back in the car and we sat there stunned. Later that evening we checked in on each other just to make sure we saw what we

thought we saw. The following day, there was an article in the news and courier about a UFO that had been seen on a path from Charleston to Columbia. And beyond the whole experience of seeing something by virtue of not seeing the stars, something that must have been an acre in size, still leaves me speechless. My friend and I talk about this incident once in a while, just to check in and validate our sanity. Well, those are my story reason. Thanks for listening, MHM.