West Virginia Farmer Recalls 1991 Bigfoot Encounter With Her Son

# A Mother's 1991 Sasquatch Encounter in Pocahontas County, West Virginia Still Echoes Through the Hills There's something about a well-told witness account that hits different, and this one from the Bigfoot Sightings Canada channel is no exception. Dorothy Price, a 67-year-old woman who has spent over four decades on a 112-acre farm on the eastern slope of Droop Mountain in Pocahontas County, West Virginia, finally decided to share a story she's been carrying around since the summer of 1991. And once you hear it, you'll understand why she's kept it close to her chest for so long. The setting alone is the kind of place that makes researchers' ears perk up. Pocahontas County sits deep in the Appalachian highlands, and the Price farm borders the Monongahela National Forest, one of the largest tracts of contiguous wilderness in the eastern United States. The property runs along Cranberry Creek on the north side and is hemmed in by mixed hardwood forest that stretches for miles without a break. It's the kind of remote, heavily wooded terrain that has produced Sasquatch reports for generations, and the region has long been considered prime habitat by those who study these beings. Dorothy and her late husband Eugene ran a small beef cattle operation and grew hay and sweet corn. They were the kind of folks who drove their trucks past 200,000 miles because they still ran, attended the same Methodist church Eugene's parents had gone to, and paid their taxes on time. She makes a point of saying all of this because, as she puts it, she and her family are "the exact opposite of people who see things that aren't there." And then she tells the story. It was a dry summer in 1991. Eugene had gone to Lewisburg that Tuesday morning to pick up a tractor part, and Dorothy sent her nine-year-old son Dale out to the hand pump well at the north edge of the property, near the tree line. The well drew from an old sandstone aquifer, and the water was sweet and cold even in August. Dale had made that walk a hundred times, maybe 300 yards through open pasture and then another 50 yards of scrub brush before the real trees began. He was gone longer than usual. Dorothy wasn't worried at first. Dale was the kind of boy who would stop to watch a beetle or a water strider or a hawk making lazy circles overhead. But when 25 minutes stretched into 40, she started watching out the kitchen window. That's when she saw him come out of the trees. He was moving slowly, arms pressed flat against his sides, head turned just enough to watch whatever was behind him without fully facing it. And behind him, about 12 feet back, was something that made Dorothy's coffee cup hit the bottom of the sink. She describes it exactly as she saw it, and she insists on not making it bigger or more dramatic than it was. The being stood roughly four feet tall, possibly four-one, with a compact build that she compares to a bear cub, mass distributed low and wide through the haunches and across the shoulders. Its body was covered in long, coarse guard hair the color of old hickory bark, almost black in the shade but showing a warm dark brown where the morning light caught it along its back. It stood upright, weight settled square over both feet, arms hanging loose at its sides. But it was the face that stopped her from calling Dale back inside. The nose was broad and flat, the brow heavy, the features coarser than a human child's in ways she says she can't entirely reduce to language. The eyes were amber, closer to gold than brown, and they moved across her face with an attention she had only ever seen in a being that was thinking, not reacting. It was assessing her the same way she was assessing it. Dale, meanwhile, wasn't afraid. He was excited, the way he got when he found an arrowhead in the creek bed or a box turtle under the orchard grass. He held out his hand the way he would to any animal, trying not to startle the young Sasquatch. The being made a sound Dorothy could hear through the kitchen glass, a low clicking trill somewhere between a wood thrush call and the deep chest hum of a hound dog. Dale later told his mother what had happened at the well. He'd pumped the bucket full and heard rustling in the scrub brush behind the well house. He thought it was a groundhog at first, but the movement was low and deliberate instead of quick and nervous. After about two minutes, it came out of the brush. It was small. It looked at him, then went partway back into the brush, then came back out, back and forth twice, until Dale understood it wanted him to follow. He didn't follow it, but he also didn't leave right away. They stayed like that for maybe five or ten minutes, just looking at each other. Then Dale picked up his bucket and started walking home, and the young Sasquatch followed him. When the being finally looked away from Dorothy, down at Dale's outstretched hand, and then back up at her face, it made the clicking trill again, lower this time, sustained for about four seconds. Then it turned, not fled, not startled, just turned with deliberate ease, and walked back into the trees. Walking, not running, the way you walk when you've already decided you'll return. Dorothy got Dale inside, sat him down at the kitchen table, and asked him carefully to tell her everything. He said the young Sasquatch had made a different sound when it sat down, quieter, like humming almost in your chest rather than your throat. When she asked if he was scared, he thought about it and said no, not once. He could see it good. It smelled weird, though, he said, like the creek after it rains, dirt and something warm. Dorothy never spoke about it publicly. The three people she told over the years, her sister Ruth in Tully, Pennsylvania, Eugene's brother Harold, and her daughter Carol who found out accidentally in her twenties, all responded the same way, with the polite, concerned disbelief that's wrapped in love for the person doing the telling. So she stopped telling people. She kept it. She carried it. Eugene passed away in 2015 from cancer. Dale is now 34, a large, quiet, steady man who manages a landscaping crew in Greenbrier County and lives about six miles from the farm on a piece of property he bought after getting out of the army. He has told his mother on more than one occasion that what happened when he was nine years old is the thing he thinks about more than anything else from his childhood, more than anything else from his life. The video goes on to describe what happened next, and it's the part that gives the story its title. Dorothy finally takes the stone out of her pocket and looks at it in full light. This one is worth your time. The way Dorothy tells it, with the steady cadence of someone who has had decades to weigh every word, gives the account a weight that few witness testimonies ever achieve. She doesn't ask anyone to believe her. She just tells you what she saw, and then she lets you sit with it. Check out the full video over on the Bigfoot Sightings Canada channel. It's a long one, but the kind of long that earns every minute.