Bigfoot Captured on Game Camera at Washington Timber Lot

Okay, folks, buckle up because this one is a doozy. A video just surfaced that has the whole community buzzing, and honestly, it's the kind of story that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. We're talking about a fresh encounter report out of the Mount St. Helens foothills in Southwest Washington, complete with trail camera footage, a 19-inch track, and a connection to one of the most legendary incidents in Sasquatch history. The witness, Kabat Hargrove, is a 46-year-old timber lot owner who knows that land like the back of his hand. We're talking about 40 acres of second-growth timber and a spring-fed creek that his grandfather bought back in the 1950s. The cabin was built by hand out of lodge pole and riverstone, and Kabat has been running twelve game cameras across his property for years. He knows every ridge, every draw, every rock slide. He knows what a bear looks like from every angle in every light, and he has roughly 10,000 bear pictures to prove it. So when something walked into frame at the upper salt lick one October night in 2024, Kabat knew immediately it wasn't anything that belonged in those woods. The trail camera caught four frames. In the first, the figure is there at the far tree line, standing upright, deliberate, half-turned so most of what you see is shoulder and the side of a head. By the fourth frame, it's gone. Just empty lick and trees behind it. Now here's where it gets really interesting. The thing didn't just pass through. It came back. Three nights in a row, each night closer to the cabin where Kabat and his two friends, Dale and Jory, were sleeping. By the third night, the distance had closed to nothing, and the three men were firing through the walls of the cabin into the dark. Let's talk about the evidence, because this is where things get wild. Kabat found a barefoot print in the soft ground at the edge of the salt lick, where the seep keeps the earth wet. Nineteen inches long. Five toes. Pressed deep enough into the mud that whatever made it was carrying serious weight. He put his own size-12 boot next to it, and it looked like a child's shoe by comparison. The stride between prints was impossibly long, the kind of distance you'd need to jump to cover, but whatever made it covered it walking. Then there's the hair. Caught on the top strand of an old barbed wire fence his grandfather had strung decades ago, snagged at a height of seven feet off the ground. Coarse, long, dark rust brown going to charcoal at the tips. Nothing Kabat could name. Not deer, not elk, not bear, not any animal he knew. And the dog. A good hunting shepherd named Ranger, who had been on that mountain a hundred times and feared nothing that walked or flew. On the first night, Ranger wouldn't leave the cabin. He pressed himself into the corner farthest from the door and made a low, continuous whine deep in his chest that Kabat had never heard from him before. By the second morning, Ranger bolted through the open door and down the logging road. Kabat never saw him again. Now, here's the part that gave me chills. Standing over that footprint, Kabat thought about the story every kid who grows up in the shadow of Mount St. Helens knows. In July of 1924, five miners working a gold claim called the Vander White up on the southeast slope were driven out of their cabin by a group of tall, hairy creatures that threw stones at their roof all night and reached through the walls. They abandoned $200 in gear, which was real money back then, and they never went back. One of them, Fred Beck, wrote it all down forty years later. The place is called Ape Canyon now because of what they said happened there. That claim was maybe nine miles from where Kabat was standing. Same mountain. Same trees. A hundred years apart. The 1924 Ape Canyon incident remains one of the most famous and well-documented encounters in Sasquatch history. Fred Beck's account, along with those of the other miners, described large, ape-like figures with broad shoulders and powerful builds, exhibiting behavior that suggested intelligence and territoriality. The miners reported being pelted with rocks and having their cabin besieged throughout the night. When they finally fled at dawn, they left everything behind. The story has been passed down through generations in the Pacific Northwest, and it's become a cornerstone of Sasquatch lore. What makes Kabat's account so compelling is the parallel. The same mountain. The same kind of presence. The same sense of something that doesn't want you there. And the fact that this happened in 2024, a full century after the Ape Canyon incident, raises questions that researchers have been asking for decades. Is there something about that specific location? That specific stretch of forest? Or is it simply that the Pacific Northwest has always been, and continues to be, home to these elusive beings? The video includes the trail camera footage, the phone clips Kabat's friends captured, and Kabat's own account given in his own words. It's raw, it's firsthand, and it's the kind of report that reminds you why people keep going back into those woods. If you haven't seen it yet, do yourself a favor and check it out. Just maybe don't watch it alone at night. And definitely don't listen too hard for footsteps outside your window.