Bull Sasquatches Do Battle

to see it. I was close to eight years old, and it scared me so much that I remember curling up with my face pressed into the back of the seat so I wouldn't have to look at the monster. A few weeks later, I had a flashback from when I was a toddler, back when we were still in Missouri, and I remember sitting up and talking to three little men.

I could see them clearly, even though it was dark in my bedroom, and I could hear them even though they weren't moving their mind they talked right into my head, and that's how I answered them too. They were gray, they had large, elongated tear drop eyes, and they were only as tall as the front rail of the bed, which made them just a few inches taller than I was at that time. I remember looking from one to the other as they spoke to me and not being

afraid of them. They visited me a lot, and I liked them because I knew they were happy to see me. I didn't like the tall ones. Though they rarely came into the house anyway, they always came out of the kitchen right next to my bedroom door. I didn't mind them coming in, but I hated when I had to go into the kitchen and out the back door with them because it went by the basement door, and that door terrified me. My mother was an alcoholic and was

cata tonic for most of my childhood. One day I was left on my own wandering around the house looking for my brothers and sisters. I couldn't find anyone in the house, so I decided to look in the basement and I opened the basement door and I leaned on the wall beside the stairs. It was a long way to the bottom for such a small child. There was a window to the left that let them light into the room, but an inky darkness covered the far end

of the space. There were two large barn doors that opened out into the backyard to the far right, and in the darkness was a work bench. I slowly went down those stairs, scooting down each one on my bottom because I was so small. The dim light from the window reflected off the big crank washer that was a few feet from the bottom of the stairs, but otherwise it was too dark to see much of anything. I realized that no one was down there, and that they

must have been outside playing. But I would have to get my little legs all the way back up those stairs and out the back door through the kitchen to get to them. I sat on the bottom stairs, making up my mind about what I would do. Something by the work bench, and the darkness caught my attention. I was too young to have been afraid of much, even in the darkness, so I got up and walked over to the bench, and that's when I saw the feet.

There were big feet, maybe bigger than I was at the time if I had laid down next to them. And then I saw the brown, hairy legs that went up and up, and I had to lean my head back as far as it would go to see the top of this thing. It was a fuzzy man who was so tall that his shoulders hit the ceiling and his head was bent down looking at me. I remember his huge hands coming at me, and then everything went blank.

I can't tell you what happened next, because fear either erased that memory or buried it so far down that I wouldn't have to relive it. I had always wondered where my fear of heights came from, and now I think I know it came from the beast in the basement picking me up. My oldest brother came back from Germany right as the Vietnam War stopped, just before he was to ship out. He had always thrown me up in the air and caught me before he left on the tour. But when he came back that time, he

tossed me up like he always did. But that time I screamed and I begged him to stop. I was terrified of being even a few feet off the ground. We had a ladder with three steps on it that we used to climb into a pear tree in the backyard, but I couldn't use that anymore. Even on the first step, I would freeze in terror. In retrospect, I don't think the beast in the basement meant to hurt me or anyone else. But I was a little kid, and he

was so huge that it frightened me. All of us knew about him, but that is a story for another time. One night after my encounter in the basement, the three little men told me that I didn't have to be afraid because the big men wouldn't come around and scare me anymore. And try as I might, I never could remember everything that they talked to me about on all their visits to my room while the rest of my

family slept. Looking back now, though, it's difficult to say which memory is more disturbing, the beast in the basement or the three men who visited me in the middle of the night. Thank you for reading my story. It took me a while to find the courage to write it. Well. Thank you, ma'am. She wants to be anonymous, so I won't thank her by name, but she'll hear this. This

is an older email that I got. What an experience for a little bitty kid through It's like aliens talking to her at the foot of her bed, big aliens coming in, possibly a bigfoot in the basement. That's really a crazy story. And some of you may think it's just a bunch of wahoo, but maybe it's not. You know, the name of my podcast is what if It's true? What if this story's true? What was this young what was this little girl dealing with in that house? Her

mother was a drunk, catatonic all the time. Maybe she was in a Maybe she was in a Maybe she was a vulnerable kid. And that's who these alien type beings pray on. I don't know, but it's a very interesting story. I hope you're doing okay now and those memories don't come back and scare you too bad. It's a great story. I appreciate you sharing it with us. All right, all right, how about a new podcast, not

an archive. I know some people may be a little frustrated that I'm putting let me get my mic here, here we go. Mike was like a foot two feet from my mouth. Some people get a little annoyed at the archived videos. But there's a lot of people who haven't heard those stories. And I've been away from the podcast. I've been working on Steve Lilly Night and Day. People hounded me for a year to get another one out. Well, I put three out in the span of about seven days.

If you haven't heard eighteen, it'll be available tonight. I think around six Central times, so you can listen to that tonight. We listen to this one first because it's full of really good stories, and thank you for clicking on the video. Certainly do appreciate you. It was late summer of twenty nineteen and the peak camping season had passed. My wife and two kids had reserved a primo campsite at a fairly remote campground in Kern County, California. Oh

that's a mouthful. Kern County, California. Kern County, California, Kern County, California. Try to say that three times this excuse me. This campground had no electricity, running water, or sewer hookups, just pit toilets that forced you to hold your breath as long as possible, do your business and get your feed out of there. There was a mountain spring that some folks thought was safe to drink. Otherwise it was several miles down the road to fill up your jugs with

good old holes water. But that's what the old folks liked roughing it. The occasion, however, was a somber one. The previously mentioned old folks had passed on and we were burdened with the task of scattering the remains of my wife's grandparents and their dog into the river, the same river to which they had already committed two of their boys in the past year. This spot was a special one, and my wife had been going there since she was an infant, and her mom's family long before that.

I had always enjoyed hiking in the mountains as a boy's scout, and I went along with them when we first started dating to the spot, and we continued the tradition with them. Sadly, the tradition almost faded away. It was one last hurrah and I wanted to go tent camping for old time say. Our camp site had a good view of the other side of the river, which was miles and miles of empty land that eventually hooked

up with the Sierra Nevada National Park. It would take some incredibly rough and rugged individuals to truck across such a landscape, and if a sasquatch felt like getting a view of campers, it was the perfect spot for them to do it. We stayed at the campsite for a few nights, but my hopes of squatch watching never materialized. On our last night, we had a lovely camp for our dinner, and I slept with the roar of the

river lulling me to sleep, and life was good. The next morning we had to pack up and go, and as usual, we took our time, waking up, long after the chill of the night was replaced by the sun warming our tent. We made coffee on the ancient persnickerty Coleman stove, and as the deadline approached for us to clear out of the campground, we leisurely packed up and watched the early risers drive off and head to wherever

home was. When we were alone in the campground and our kids were waiting for us in the car, my wife and I marveled at how cool it was to be there with no other campers at all, and that had never happened, as our traditional camping time was the peak summer right around the fourth of July. But our feeling of coolness quickly turned to a feeling of oddness. It had only been a few minutes since the departure of the rest of our neighbors when we both got

the distinct impression that something wasn't quite right. Do you I started to ask my wife, not exactly sure how to phrase the strange sensation of fight or flight that had quickly come over me. Yes, she said, looking at me with a mixture of worry and confusion. I feel it too. We became consumed by the need to pack up and get out of there as quickly as possible. We never heard or saw anything, but it didn't make

the experience any less disturbing. It was like we had been covered by a wet blanket of fear, and it was the strangest thing, and neither of us had ever experienced anything like this. It was weird to be in such a beloved place all along and then suddenly so put off as we hot tailed it out. If there had occurred to me that maybe I had my sosquatch

watching experience. After all, I've heard about the fear other people have experienced, and how it comes out of nowhere, and how it violates your space and encompasses you in an inexplicable, terror fueled urge to run for your life. Well, that's exactly what this felt like. I haven't been back since, but not out of fear, or so I tell myself. Pummeling humans with the fear is probably intended to keep

us away, but it's the opposite effect on me. I actually can't wait to go back, maybe in the off season, and this time be better prepared. But next time the fear hits, I won't be so quick to run. I hope I don't regret that. Oh dude, I hope you don't regret that too. I don't know. I've never had a feeling in my life like I should just run, and that must be a strange sensation for people, because

I've never felt that. There was a day in the last two weeks I was telling my wife that you all know, I ride my bike around all these woods around my house, and we were back there, riding around some ponds and across some levees, and it was so quiet. It was it's like the middle of August, it's really hot. Maybe it was right before it was either right before or right after all that rain got pushed up here by the hurricane that landed just three or four weeks ago.

It was so quiet that it was weird. And normally I don't stop to listen to the noises unless I hear noises, then you kind of listen for them. But it just and then I just it just felt strange and my dogs were like looking around off at nothing. It's like they would both stop. Their heads would be turned looking in the same direction, their ears would be perked up, and they would just stand there when they're

normally running around like wild hyenas. But they would eventually move on and we'd ride on and everything would be fine. But I have had those experiences in my life, very few, very few. But I didn't mean to make this about me and talk about myself. But that's how we relate to these things. We kind of compare other people's experiences to our own, and then we talk about ours, and it kind of fleshes it out a little bit. So

I guess that's why I do that. I don't care that y'all know that I felt weird that day, so I'm not trying to talk about myself. I just kind of popped in my head. Squirrel. All right, Thank you to the writer for this. This was very good. I appreciate it. Greetings, my white brother. I'm sending you this story because I believe it may give me some relief and getting it off my chest will help me come out of the shadows. I'm a part of the ute nation, or at least what is left of it, as we

are a nation of decreasing numbers. I'm a traditional bow hunter and have harvested more record bucks and bull elk than ninety nine percent of the hunters here in this state or neighboring states. One might say that I have a vested interest in the ancient ways of my people when it comes to hunting. I have made my own bow from a cedar tree and arrows from a choke cherry tree, and I made my own airheads by napping obsidian. WHOA,

that is cool. My bow is somewhere between seventy five and ninety pounds pull and has only been pulled back to full draw by myself and my father. Nobody else that we are acquainted with has been able to pull it to full draw. As deer season approaches, I prepare for my hunt the two weeks prior to going out to the woods, and in that time I only eat fruits and vegetables, and I refrain from consuming any meat

of any form. I fast for the last twenty four hours prior to going into the woods, and I spend that time in a sweat lodge to cleanse my body of the smell of a meat eater, and I bathe in a soap made from the yucca plant and other roots for the week prior, as well as wash my hunting clothes and equipment in a mixture of dried yucca and other plants native to the region. I do all this to remove any scent of a predator being in the woods, and I give myself the scent of the forest.

At this point, I am one with the forest and I'm ready to hunt, and this practice helps me get close to the prey without them having any clue that a predator is only feet away. I take my old nineteen seventy four Chevy C twenty Camper Special, which is orange over white, and it's more rust and metal now, but it runs better than anything else on the roads here, and it tears down the trails in old mining and logging roads like a mule, and it eats like one

two about eight gallons to the mile. I park and walk the last two miles to where I want to hunt, usually prior to the sun coming up, and I wear the traditional soft soul moccasins and buckskin pants which protect my legs from the briars and thorns, and a camouflage top of some nature. I either use a swing tight tree stand or I stalk my prey. I learned how to hunt from my elders, but mostly from my grandfather,

who is one of the elders of our tribe. It's been known to be the best hunter for over two hundred years, and when hunting, I have learned to only be seen if I want to be seen. It was almost a year ago now, and I went through my normal routine and I got out to the woods before dawn. I had positioned myself just below a ridge where I knew a game trail ran. I had taken quite a few nice meal bucks from this location over the past years, and I had the expectation of taking another record breaking

buck again this year. This was simply going to take patients and waiting for the right one to walk over the ridge. I knew there were going to be some younger bucks and does, and maybe a bear, maybe a mountain lion or other critters, but I would just have to sit tight and stay true to my goal. Just after dawn, I saw a large dough and her two yearlings walk down the trail at the top of the ridge. I gave them a free pass and A couple of minutes later, after she dropped over the other side of

the ridge, she wailed out in pain. The two year lings ran past me in reckless abandon and I wondered what had grabbed her. I didn't know if it was a mountain lion or a bear, so I just sat tight and I kept my ears and eyes open. I didn't want to interrupt a mountain lion's breakfast or a grizzly's mid morning snack, because it would only end badly for one of us. Just a few minutes after the commotion and struggle had stopped, I heard a roar, paired

with what sounded like King Kong pounding his chest. I split second later another roar answered the first. I had never heard this sound in the mountains before, but I could tell that it was two different animals by the pitch and tone of their voices. The volume was so intense that it made my stomach turn and my handshake. And then I heard a crash that sounded like two

bull elephants smashing their heads together. And I could hear the rush getting torn out of the ground and being rolled over, and I could see tops of trees being shaken and knocked around, and then I heard some kind of chattering from just over the ridge, and it reminded me of a group of kids in the schoolyard encouraging

and egging on a fight. And I had never heard any of these sounds in the mountains before, and the noise was unsettling, so I sat tight where I was and I listened to the battle from over the top of the ridge, and then I got to look at what was making all the noise. Two beasts that were bigger than any grizzly bear I had ever seen before, bit and punched and pulled at each other's hair. They looked like giant hairy men with huge mouths and enlarge

canine teeth. Their arms were longer than a human's and move like sledgehammers as they relentlessly hit each other. The fight rolled back over the top of the ridge and out of sight, and it sounded like one had finally I managed to dominate the other, and I heard one of them being slammed into a tree, and then another, and I heard one of them moan in pain and the other growl and rage, And then came what I

can only describe as a death whale. The likes I have never imagined from any living animal, and I heard some sort of cry for mercy, and then a final thud. There was a brief moment of silence, and then an eruption of noise from the other side of that ridge. First came a roar from the victor, followed by the unfamiliar chatter of a strange language that I could not understand. I stayed in my stand for almost thirty minutes after

that commotion settled down. Before I eased back down and snuck to the top of the ridge, and even before I looked over the side, a horrific smell of death and blood mixed with raw sewage filled my nose. And then I looked over and I saw several hairy beasts ranging in size from massive to only a few feet tall, gathered around the dough which had been torn apart, and it looked like they had ripped the internal organs out of her and torn the legs off and were sitting

around eating the meat right off the bone. Another group of beasts gathered around the loser of the battle. They had torn its stomach open and they were eating its organs and sucking the marrow out of its ribs. The loser's head had been twisted backward, and its legs were contorted in a way that they were not intended to be positioned. The massive, bloodied victor was sitting off to the site, surrounded by a couple of smaller females, and they were stroking his head and back. He was at

least ten feet tall and maybe a thousand pounds. The females were much smaller, but still taller and wider than any human. I backed out slowly, and I was able to drop over an adjacent ridge without being seen. And I ran most of the way back to my truck, and I drove straight to my grandfather's house. He told me that I had encountered the I can't pronounce the word. He says, here as sea sack. It's a s apostrophe s. I'm sorry, let me go back. It's se apostrophe s

x ac, and then he writes, or sisquatch. And I was lucky not to have been seen. And he reminded me of the stories that had been passed from a generation to generation about the sisquatch, mostly during the spring bear dads and celebrating the coming of spring each year. Well My head was swimming with questions. Why were those two males fighting? Was it a challenge over breeding rights or an invader who ventured into another clan's territory? Was it over who got the choice of pieces of meat

for the kill? Was this just a clan passing through or did they live there a year round? Do these large males kill each other often? Is it that they ether did and that's the reason we never find a skeleton or remains. I did not return to the woods last year, and I'm trying to get my nerve back to hunt this year. I've never hunted with a firearm, but if I finally get the courage up, I will be taking my Smith and Wesson five hundred with me. Oh what a this guy? This is like a story

of all stories everybody, you know. We had one story where somebody was just they had a feeling of seeing a bigfoot, and then we go right to a story where a guy watches this whole clan kind of like a schoolyard fight, and these two big males beating a crap out of each other. You heard it all. There's nothing I can add to it. And he's got a thousand questions he's really inquisitive about this. I'm sure he wanted to ask his grandfather, grandfather all this stuff. But man,

it's just a great story. And when I first read, when I first read the first sentence, when he said, greeting's my white brother. I got a comment from somebody maybe in the last two months, and uh, you know, I never know the race of the person who's commenting ever. I mean, there's no way to know even if there's a picture of a I don't know, maybe a person from India or a First Nation's person, or a black person or a white person. You know, they could put

any kind of picture up there. But this person had had the image of a black person, so I'm assuming it was them. And they ask, why aren't there any black people into this bigfoot subject? And that's a good question. There are a few. I've actually I've actually met three or four people black folks who actually follow this topic. And I think, I think, so there are people who follow it, you just don't see them doing stuff on you like all the Bigfoot channels. Do you know anyway

that's neither here nor there. It just made me think, Oh, I was so excited that I was getting an email from a from a black guy or black woman, and I was gonna be able to share it and tell this person, see, black people have experiences too. However, I'm just as excited that it was a First Nations guy from the Ute Nation. They are so in tune with nature.

You read his the first part of the story where he takes great care to hunt in the ancient ways that his ancestors did, and I think that is so cool. You know, that makes hunting a lot harder. I mean, if you actually make your own weapons, you make your own clothes, you go to so much care with fasting and making sure you know, the predator smell gets off of you from eating meat. I never thought about that.

Do we smell like meat eaters? And then it's just really impressive the way this any any He makes his own arrowheads out of what was the name of that of the stone they used, But it's that kind of stone you if you just crack it, it's like a razor blade that you know, a little piece of shell comes off and you could skin a mule deer out with a piece of it. I wish I could remember the name of it's in the story, but I'm not gonna look it up anyway. This wasn't from a black person.

It was from a First Nation's brother, and I appreciated him sending it. It was a great story, one of the best stories I've read in a long time. Giant Bigfoot fight right in front of him. Unbelievable. Thanks for the story. Okay, that's three good stories. All three of them I thought were great. They kind of reached from one spectrum to the other aliens and Bigfoot, and then the fear of Bigfoot, and then an actual bigfoot encounter and a witness to a bigfoot fight. It was so cool.

Thank you all for watching this video. I appreciate it. Jump over to the Steve Lilly channel. I'll put a link in the discretion if you haven't found the Steve Lily Stories. There a fictional set of stories that I've been writing for about three years. I think there's eighteen episodes up now, seventeen right now. There'll be eighteen tonight at six o'clock. But go check that out if you

like cool, high impact, lots of action fiction. The Steve Lily Journals, or you can just search it the Steve Lily Journals that'll come up on YouTube, or on the podcast network. All right, I'm gonna quick running my mouth. Y'all have a good week. We'll see on the next one. Thanks.