I never believed in Bigfoot. Not really. I’d laughed at the blurry photos, the breathless stories on late-night radio, the grainy documentaries that always ended with “maybe someday.” The Pacific Northwest was full of legends, but I’d always thought Bigfoot was just a story people told to make the mountains feel a little wilder. That changed last September, deep in the Cascade Mountains, on a trip that was supposed to be all about solitude—a chance to clear my head and find some peace after a year that had nearly broken me.

Three days alone in a remote section of National Forest, just me, my pack, and the kind of silence you only get in places where the trails disappear and the trees have been standing longer than anyone can remember. I won’t say exactly where, and I never will. Some promises are meant to be kept.

The first day was uneventful, just hiking through the thick woods, my boots crunching over pine needles, the air cool and damp. I set up camp beside a creek, ate my dinner of freeze-dried chili, and watched the stars come out, one by one, until the sky was a black velvet curtain studded with diamonds. I slept like a rock, grateful for the quiet.

The second day, everything changed.

I woke up to the steady patter of rain on my tent, gray light filtering through the nylon. The forecast had called for clear skies, but the Cascades don’t care about forecasts. I considered staying put, reading my battered paperback until the weather cleared, but the thought of being cooped up made my skin itch. After a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, I packed up and headed deeper into the wilderness, navigating by compass and topo map since the trail had vanished beneath the undergrowth.

By midafternoon, I was off course. Not dangerously so—I had my GPS and enough supplies to last a week—but definitely somewhere I hadn’t planned on being. The rain had stopped, leaving the forest fragrant and alive, every green thing dripping and glistening. I came around a boulder the size of a school bus and stopped dead. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, but not the clean, sharp scent of a campfire. This smoke was musky, almost sweet, with an edge of something animal and wild.

I hesitated, every instinct screaming at me to turn back. But curiosity won out. I crept forward, my steps muffled by the wet ground, and peered through the underbrush into a small clearing surrounded by ancient cedars.

That’s when I saw them.

Two massive creatures sat cross-legged on either side of a small fire. Even seated, they were easily seven or eight feet tall, their bodies covered in dark, reddish-brown hair that hung in wet mats from the rain. The one on the left had lighter coloring around its face and chest; the one on the right was almost black. They were focused on the fire, where something was cooking on a spit made from green branches.

I froze, heart hammering so loud I was sure they’d hear it. The creatures tore off pieces of the cooked meat, passing them back and forth, eating with a surprising delicacy. Their movements were oddly human, but also distinctly not—their gestures fluid and graceful like apes, but their posture and the way they handled the food showed clear intelligence.

I must have shifted my weight, because the darker Bigfoot’s head snapped up and looked straight at me. I stopped breathing, every muscle locked. The creature stared for what felt like forever, then made a low rumbling sound in its chest. The other Bigfoot looked up, and suddenly both were focused on the bush where I crouched.

Run? Impossible. They could outpace me in seconds. Play dead? Ridiculous. Make myself look big and scary? Even more ridiculous.

Before I could do anything, the lighter-colored Bigfoot stood up. At full height, it was enormous—at least eight feet tall, with impossibly broad shoulders. But instead of charging or roaring, it simply gestured toward the fire with one enormous hand. The meaning was unmistakable: I was being invited to join them.

My legs shook so badly I wasn’t sure I could stand, but somehow I managed to step out from behind the bush. Both Bigfoot watched me carefully as I approached, but neither made any threatening moves. Up close, their faces were a strange blend of ape and human—heavy brow ridges, flat noses, deep-set eyes that glittered with intelligence.

The inviting Bigfoot gestured again, pointing to a spot near the fire. I sat down slowly, keeping my hands visible. The two creatures looked at each other, and I swear they were communicating, though I heard no sounds beyond the occasional grunt or rumble. The darker Bigfoot reached toward the fire and carefully removed a portion of the meat—salmon, I realized, based on the pink color—and held it out to me.

I hesitated. Every wilderness survival guide says never eat food from unknown sources, but refusing might be seen as insulting. The Bigfoot continued holding out the fish, waiting patiently. I reached out and took it, the meat hot enough to make me juggle it between my hands. The Bigfoot made a sound that might have been amusement.

I took a small bite. The fish was delicious, seasoned with some kind of herb that gave it a minty, earthy flavor. As I ate, both creatures watched me with what I can only describe as satisfaction. They resumed eating their own portions, and for several minutes, we sat there in this bizarre tableau—three beings sharing a meal around a fire as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The lighter Bigfoot finished eating, wiped its hands on its thighs, and reached into a natural pocket formed by thick fur at its side, pulling out a handful of deep purple berries—huckleberries. It held them out to me, and I took them gratefully. They were perfectly ripe, sweet with just a hint of tartness. The Bigfoot made that rumbling sound again, which I realized might be their version of pleasure or approval.

I smiled and nodded, trying to convey my thanks. The darker Bigfoot suddenly stood up, stretching its arms above its head in a gesture so human it was startling. Then it walked to the edge of the clearing, picked up a basket woven from cedar bark, and brought it back to the fire, setting it down with surprising gentleness. Inside were more gathered foods—roots, berries, nuts, and several uncooked salmon.

The Bigfoot selected one of the raw fish and began preparing it for the fire with practiced efficiency, using a sharp stone to clean the fish. Every movement was purposeful and precise. When the fish was ready, it was arranged on the spit, and the other Bigfoot adjusted the fire to maintain the heat.

As we waited, the lighter Bigfoot reached out and touched my backpack with one massive finger, looking at me quizzically. I understood the question and slowly opened the top flap, showing my supplies—a water filter, energy bars, first aid kit, rain jacket. The Bigfoot leaned forward to peer inside, sniffing audibly. I pulled out a chocolate chip energy bar, broke it in half, and offered portions to each creature. They sniffed the food suspiciously before the darker one took a small bite. Its eyes widened, and it made a huffing sound that might have been surprise. Both quickly finished their pieces, looking at me hopefully, and I gave them the rest to share.

While they were distracted, I took the opportunity to really observe them. Their bodies were incredibly muscular, their hands huge but remarkably dexterous, similar to human hands but much larger and thicker. The hair covering their bodies wasn’t uniform—thicker and longer in some places, shorter and sparser in others. Around their faces, the hair was shorter, allowing me to see more of their features. The most striking thing was their eyes—unmistakable intelligence and curiosity.

These weren’t mindless beasts. They were thinking, reasoning beings who had chosen to share their meal with an unexpected visitor. The realization gave me chills that had nothing to do with the cool mountain air.

After we finished eating the second round of fish, the sun was getting low. I knew I should head back to camp before dark, but I was reluctant to leave. The Bigfoot seemed to be having a discussion, making various sounds and gestures. Finally, the lighter Bigfoot turned to me and gestured clearly: follow us.

My rational mind screamed that this was a terrible idea, but curiosity won. When would I ever get another chance like this?

I stood up and nodded, trying to convey that I understood. Both Bigfoot made that rumbling sound of approval. The darker one picked up the basket of food, the lighter one kicked dirt over the fire, erasing signs of their presence with practiced efficiency.

They led me into the forest, moving with surprising silence despite their size. I found myself sandwiched between two enormous creatures, being led deeper into the wilderness toward an unknown destination.