Alaskan Hunting Guide Recounts Terrifying Bigfoot Encounter at Remote Cabin

There's something about a seasoned outdoorsman telling his story in his own words that just hits different. When someone who's spent decades in the wilderness describes an encounter, you pay attention, because these folks don't scare easily and they know their animals. That's exactly what makes this next video so gripping. I came across this one on the Día de la luna YouTube channel, and it's a firsthand account from a guy named Jack Norton, a 52-year-old hunter and guide who's lived in Alaska for nearly his entire life. Twenty years of leading tourist hunting groups through some of the most remote terrain in North America will teach you a thing or two about what's out there, and Jack thought he'd seen it all until February 2012. He headed out to Lake Iliamna, which, for anyone unfamiliar, is the largest lake in Alaska, sitting about 320 kilometers southwest of Anchorage on the peninsula. In winter, the snow hits waist-deep, temperatures plunge to 30 or 40 below, and the nearest town is 80 kilometers away. It's the kind of isolation that real hunters seek out, and Jack rented an old log cabin on the north shore, about 60 miles west of Nondelton. The cabin had been standing since the 1970s, built from thick logs with a wood stove and a small window. He brought his two trusted huskies, Rex and Maya, and enough supplies for two weeks. The first few days were uneventful. He hunted moose, checked his marten and lynx traps, and enjoyed the kind of stillness that only deep wilderness can offer. The dogs were calm, occasionally growling at something in the dark, which is normal behavior for working huskies at night. Then came February 17th. Jack stepped outside around 8 a.m. and spotted tracks near the shed. At first glance, he thought bear. The prints were massive, 17 to 18 inches long, pressed four inches deep into the snow, which suggested something weighing 400 to 500 pounds. But the shape was all wrong for a bear. No rounded pad with claws out front. These looked like enormous human feet, five toes, wide heel, with a stride of about five feet between prints. Jack followed the trail. It came from the forest, circled the shed, then went straight to the cabin window. The snow around the window was trampled, like something had stood there for a while, looking in. That window sat six feet off the ground, meaning whatever made those tracks was tall enough to peer inside without needing to climb. The trail then headed back into the trees toward the mountainside. Jack grabbed his rifle and followed the tracks about half a mile into the forest before losing them where the wind had scoured the snow thin. That's when he noticed the silence. No woodpeckers, no ravens, no squirrels. Just an eerie, absolute quiet, the kind that makes the hair on your neck stand up. Then came the smell, acidic and animal, like wet hair mixed with something sour, sweat or urine, and strong, like the source was close. That night passed without incident, but February 18th around 11 p.m. is when things escalated. Jack was sitting by the stove reading when he heard it, heavy, rhythmic footsteps at two-second intervals, coming from the forest toward the cabin. Rex jumped up with his hackles raised, growling low. Maya whimpered and retreated to the far wall. The footsteps circled the cabin slowly, methodically, like something inspecting every side. Jack could feel the floor vibrate under the weight. The dogs growled but didn't bark, which is unusual, huskies typically raise a racket at bears or wolves. This was different. This was fear. Jack cracked the shutter and looked out into the moonlight. The snow was bright enough to see almost as well as day. And there, at the edge of the clearing near the shed, stood a figure. Nine, maybe ten feet tall, broad-shouldered, with arms long enough to reach nearly to its knees. Dark, thick, coarse hair covering the entire body, blowing in the wind. A large head sitting on a powerful neck with no visible transition, a sloping forehead, and a protruding jaw. The proportions were off compared to a human, shorter legs relative to the torso, longer arms, a barrel chest. It stood upright on two legs. The creature turned its head toward the window, and Jack got a look at its face. Flat, wide nose, deep-set eyes that caught the moonlight with a yellowish gleam, mouth slightly open revealing large white teeth. It stared directly at the cabin for several seconds, then took a step forward. Jack slammed the shutter shut. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He knew bears hibernate in winter, and the ones that don't walk on four legs, not two. They don't circle cabins. This was something else, something he'd only ever heard about in old hunter stories and Indigenous legends. Bigfoot. Sasquatch. He shouted out the window, something like "Hey, get out of here," and got a response he'll never forget. A deep roar that started somewhere in the chest and built into a deafening scream, somewhere between a bear's growl and a human cry of pain. The walls of the cabin vibrated. Dishes rattled on the shelf. His ears popped from the pressure. The dogs howled and cowered in the corner, Rex covering his muzzle with his paws. The roar lasted about five seconds, then stopped. Silence. Then the footsteps returned, this time heading straight for the door, heavy and fast, the ground trembling with each one. The video cuts off there, but you can imagine the rest. Jack Norton, a man who'd spent his whole life in the Alaskan bush, came face to face with something that changed everything he thought he knew about what walks these woods. Encounters like this from experienced outdoorsmen are exactly the kind of testimony that researchers find so valuable, not because they're proof, but because they come from people who know the difference between a bear, a wolf, and something else entirely. If you want to hear Jack tell the rest of the story in his own words, definitely check out the video on the Día de la luna channel. It's worth every minute.