So this is not my story, but my wife's English is a second language for her, and I've decided to send you this story on her behalf. You have our permission to share it on the air, should you choose. I've never had a sizquatch encounter myself. For many many reasons, I maintained full mental conviction that they most definitely exist within our world. My wife is Filipina and came to the United States from the Philippine Islands at the age of
twenty six in nineteen ninety two. Her paternal grandfather was a provincial legal magistrate near Cebu. Oftentimes he would be compensated for his legal services in the form of rural property. Over a career of forty years, he became a very large landowner. When she was growing up, her parents, as well as most of her many aunts and uncles, were rural farmers, operating small to
medium sized farms on deeply rural, sparsely populated property. As a child, it was normal for my wife to visit her various aunts and uncles on these farms, sometimes just to visit and sometimes to help with some of the work. Once, at the age of ten in nineteen seventy six, when visiting a favorite uncle who lived deep in the Philippine jungle, she had a bigfoot
encounter. It took place close to dusk between seven and eight pm. Her uncle lived in a decent sized, fairly nice home built out of a well constructed napa hut. One evening, after dinner, she went out to the side porch to sit and relax in the cool evening air while he enjoyed a cigarette. My wife was sitting inside, but she got bored, so she went out to the porch to sit with him. As soon as when she got outside, she noticed a foul odor, similar to a skunk, but
much worse. Being a loud mouth, obnoxious little kid, she harshly complained about the horrible smell. Her uncle sternly asked her to lower her voice, and then pointed over to a tree about fifty yards away. High up in this tree, she saw an enormous orangessh brown hairy man sitting recumbent with his back against a tree and legs stretched out in front of him, resting on a limb. His legs were crossed at the knees, and he had enormously
long feet sticking up in the air. This huge, hairy man had a dry banana leaf rolled up tightly like a giant cigar, and was sitting there calmly smoking it like a wise old man. The incredible size and length of his feet struck my wife as being hilariously funny, so she started jumping up
and down and pointing at it while squealing loudly with laughter. Quickly, her uncle jumped up from his chair and lightly wrapped her on the mouth with the back of his hand, while holding his index finger in front of his mouth. He said, shush, if you're going to make it mad, you're going to be sorry. She was furious with her uncle for treating her this way, and my wife stormed inside the house. Later she would learn that
her uncle saw the creature in the tree on a semiregular basis. When my wife first came to the United States, she assumed that Americans knew sisquatch were real. Over some time. Once she figured out that sisquatch were largely considered strictly mythical by most higher minded Americans, she decided to share her story only with the select few individuals, usually after a beer or three. When asked to describe the creature, the best way she could. My wife said it
looked like a mixture between a human and an orangutang. It was nine to ten feet tall, with oranges brown hair similar in color to that of an orangutang, and it had grayish skin. Its feet looked to be twenty four inches in length. She said. It smoked the exact same way as a human would, taking deep drags and blowing the smoke out. On a side
note, there's little doubt that these huge manlike creatures exist. By twenty nineteen, it seemed quite apparent that our government has gone to great links to not only conceal their existence, but to also create a societal subtext that people who believe in them must be crazy. Not only do we know that sosquatch exists, but there are vast numbers of different breeds, sizes, and temperaments. The question we must ask ourselves why does a government regularly go to such links
to keep them out of our mainstream paradigm. It can only be a gain, yes, but I assert part of the reason is that they don't want us to become further aware of some of the abilities which sasquatch possess, such as infrasound and psychokinetic influence. They wouldn't want ordinary, lowly people to discover
that maybe we might possess some hidden talents ourselves. Also, there's the further consideration that if Sasquatch cultures can strongly thrive in the wall for countless generations in the complete absence of any centralized government or paper money, we can too. The government does not want us to figure out that we all might be able to live relatively free lives. So I'm a Cree Indian born in Saskatchewan,
Canada. When I was three months old, we moved to British Columbia, where, from an early age of four, my grandfather would pick me up every day of hunting season and take me with him to get a moose. It was ninety nine percent road hunting because I was too young to be walking old log cuts and skidder trails. Regardless, I spent thousands of hours in the bush with my grandfather. As I grew older, my grandfather would pick me up after school each day to hunt, and on weekends we were in
the bush from morning until night. We had our favorite spot and we were successful year after year. When I was seven, I was considered old enough to be given a thirty two Winchester Special, a gun that I still own to this day. I've always been a big boy, so I was not bothered by the recoil. I used it to kill my first bull moose when I was eight. Once I was old enough to carry a weapon, my grandfather felt we would be more successful parking the truck and walking for hours into
old cuts or hidden swamps. One morning in nineteen seventy nine, the year I was finally old enough to drive legally, we pulled up to an old skitter trail that we had walked many times. It led to an old logging area that was like a magnet for moose. I dropped Grandpa off there and drove to another spot, and I promised to be back in two hours to pick him up, and he promised to be waiting on the road When I got there. At sixteen, I was now carrying a seven millimeter mag My
grandfather had taught me about bears and what to do if they charged. My grandfather was a wise old hunter, and he said if a bear charged, to drop down on one knee so that I was on the same level as the bear, and then I would not miss if I had to shoot. I parked my truck and walked into my spot where it was very quiet, and there I found a good vantage point and sat for an hour. During that time, I saw only a cow with twins, not being in rut
yet, I doubted any bull would be hanging around. It was time to go back and get Grandpa, so I hiked back out and drove back to the spot where I knew he would be waiting. My grandfather was always punctual. If he said he would be in a certain place at a certain time, he would be there. But this time he was nowhere to be seen. I hadn't heard any shots, so I was pretty sure that he wasn't cleaning a bull. When forty five minutes had passed and he didn't come out
of the woods, I began to worry. Grandpa was diabetic. I started thinking maybe he was in a medical distress, so I decided to drive down the skidter trail to find him. It was only about three quarters of a mile to a clearing that was about five hundred yards wide and eight hundred yards long. Where I parked and got out. The area was dotted with small trees and a few rolling mounds, but I could otherwise see as far as
one hundred and fifty yards around me. I started walking in the direction I thought Grandpa might be myself not to yell out as I went, in case he might be on to something. Ten minutes into my walk, I noticed a powerful stench that I couldn't recognize, but I was too concerned about my grandfather to give it much thought. It was a quiet day, and a couple of minutes later I noticed the sound of footsteps running away from me.
Somewhere around sixty yards to my left. A mound blocked my line of sight, so I didn't see what it was. After ten seconds, it stopped and I needed to find my grandfather, so I dismissed it. A few more minutes passed and I found my grandfather. He was sitting on a stump, looking pale. I said, Grandpa, you don't look good. Is it your sugar? He said there was nothing wrong with his sugar, and then asked if I had walked all the way in or if I drove.
I told him the truck was only about fifteen minutes away, so we started our walk out. I tried to get him to tell me what was wrong, but he wouldn't say. When I changed the subject by telling him about the horrible stench I had smelled not five minutes from where we were, he perked up. I described the smell to him, and then I told him about hearing something running, but that I didn't see what it was. To my surprise, he grabbed my arm and said, beat on alert, but
if you see anything strange, do not shoot at it. And I gave him a startled look, unsure of how to react, and he dropped his hand, looked down and started moving again, before adding, just keep walking. Well, this frightened me, and I don't scare easily, neither did my grandfather, but there was no doubt that something had him worried. We made it back to the truck and I saw that someone or something had broken
off the antenna in the windshell wipers. Oh, I was furious. I'm six foot three and two hundred and fifty five pounds and I was forced to be reckon with when it came to someone causing harm to my family or our property. I never heard of vehicles, so I assumed that whatever did this was on foot. I took off, running to the main road. Hoping to catch the culprit before they got away. I didn't get fifty steps before
Grandpa called out to me to stop. Obediently, I went back to him, and as I did so, I noticed that the road around the truck was smeared, as if someone was trying to hide their tracks. I pointed this out and asked why he thought that might be. He said he didn't know, and he urged me to get in the truck and get us out of there. Grandpa never spoke a word all the way home, which was
completely out of character for him. Our drives home were generally filled with conversation about the day, what we'd seen or what we had not seen and why. But that wasn't the case today. It only served to increase my concern. Later I spoke with my two uncles about Grandpa's behavior. Often hunted with them when I wasn't with Grandpa, and I thought they might have some insight. I told them everything that happened that day. One uncle said maybe he
saw a sysquatch, and he started laughing. My other uncle was a lot more attentive, though Instead of laughing, he told me about a terrifying experience Grandpa had in nineteen sixty three, when we first moved to British Columbia. He said. Grandpa was alone in the MacGregor area northeast of Prince George when he was approached by something. He was sitting on the edge of a tree line overlooking a clearing when he heard it coming from about one hundred yards in
the bush and heading straight for him. He thought it might be a grizzly because of the heavy footsteps, but it was walking, not running. My grandfather held his position with the safety off, until all at once he saw a giant, ten foot tall monster on two feet stepp into his view. It didn't see him sitting there as still in as quiet as a church mouse. The creature walked into the clearing just fifteen feet from Grandpa, still unaware
of him. Then the wind shifted slightly and it turned its head and locked eyes with my grandfather. It started sniffing steadily, and then it dropped down to a crouching position. Grandpa was terrified. He didn't know if it was preparing to attack him or what it was going to do. In any case, he was sure that he was about to die. He slowly stood up from the stump and the monster reared back and roared right into Grandpa's face. He felt the breath of its roar as it resonated through his body. He
knew his two hundred and seventy pounds was no match for this thing. And then it just stood there, growling at him until he lowered his rifle, and that seemed to settle it a bit. Grandpa didn't know whether to run, walk away, or stay put. After what he was sure had to be ten minutes, he heard something else way back in the trees, making a sound he had never heard. The sasquatch took note of the sounds and grunted one more time at my grandfather before it went back into the woods in
the direction the sound had come from. Grandpa took the opportunity and ran like the wind back to his truck. It was a mile away. I understand about the ridicule people experienced from non believers, because when my grandfather would tell people about what happened, they would all laugh and say he was a nut and shouldn't be in the bush with a rifle. After a while, he just quit telling the story. He never spoke of it. I spent a lot of time with my grandfather. I knew his character, and I know
he would not have lied about this. Once I'd heard the story, my next trip with Grandpa was filled with questions. He didn't want to talk about it until I said, I believe that you saw what you saw, and I need to know what you know about these things, so I'll have some idea of what to do if I ever encountered one that seemed to do the trick. He told me he had never seen or heard or smelled another one until that day that I found him as white as a ghost, And then
he went on to tell me what had happened that day. He said he'd reached the clearing ten minutes before daylight and almost immediately heard a large tree break. There was no wind, so this puzzled him, but he decided to walk towards the sound, thinking it might be a big bull scraping his antlers on a tree. Once he figured that he was close enough, he sat
and waited a few more minutes for shooting light. Even after he could see clearly, he waited for movement because he knew whatever had made the tree break was close. He didn't see anything move, but he was suddenly aware that he was being watched terrified. Now he began to panic as the thought of his first experience flashed through his mind. He stayed frozen to the stump he was sitting on, and that's when he was overcome by disgusting odor. Now
he was on full alert. Two minutes later, one of these things stood up fifty feet away from him. It was staring right at him. He could tell it was perturbed that he was there, and it kept looking back towards the tree line. And then Grandpa caught movement to his left as another
smaller one stood up. It was only about six feet tall. The big one beside Grandpa started making weird noises, and the little one answered it, and then the little one turned and went straight back down the trail Grandpa had come up. The larger one waited until the juvenile was out of sight, and then walked right past Grandpa and followed the same trail the little one did. Grandpa said he was in shock and couldn't get his legs to move.
He tried, but he was frozen to the stump. He was sure they were still close by when I showed up two and a half hours later. Because of the stench, I smelled. Hunting was my grandfather's way of life. He said he didn't want to tell me what had happened because he was worried that I wouldn't want to hunt anymore. He couldn't have been more wrong. And my passion for hunting is just as strong as his, and I would never let anything stop me from being in the bush. I did eventually
have my own encounters with them. I saw one once, and I've heard them on four other occasions, but those are stories for another time.