Vietnam Veteran Claims to Live with Sasquatch Wife in Mountains

If you've ever wondered what it would look like for someone to actually walk away from modern life and into the woods to live among the Sasquatch people, this account might be the closest thing you'll ever hear to a firsthand answer. A video surfaced on YouTube featuring a woman named Faye Coleman, born in 1951 in Trinity County, California, who shares the story of her brother Glenn, a Vietnam veteran who in 1974 told his family he was leaving to live with a Sasquatch woman in the mountains, and never came back to normal society. Faye's telling is rich with the kind of detail that makes you lean in. She describes growing up in Hayfork, a small valley community at about 2,300 feet elevation surrounded by Douglas fir and ponderosa pine, roughly 30 miles from Weaverville. Trinity County has long been one of those quiet, overlooked corners of Northern California, but for anyone familiar with Sasquatch lore, the region carries serious weight. The nearby Bluff Creek area, just over the county line in Humboldt, is where Roger Patterson and Bob Gimlin captured their famous 1967 footage, and the Six Rivers and Shasta-Trinity National Forests have produced countless sighting reports over the decades. The terrain Faye describes, steep canyons, dark timber, remote creeks, is exactly the kind of country where people have reported encounters for generations. The story begins with their grandfather, Chester Coleman, who came to Trinity County in 1932 during the Depression to work a placer gold claim on a creek west of Hyampom. He built a one-room sugar pine cabin with a rock chimney, lived there sixteen years, and the cabin burned in 1948, but the chimney still stood like a gravestone above the water. That chimney became a kind of anchor point for the family, and for young Glenn, a place of fascination. Faye recalls a night in the summer of 1957, when she was six and Glenn was nine, when he woke her in the dark to listen to three hard knocks echoing up the slope, followed by three answering knocks from across the canyon. Glenn insisted somebody was talking. His father dismissed it as a woodpecker. Glenn never forgot it, and later told Faye it was the first time those people ever spoke to him. Glenn grew up tall, quiet, and observant, the kind of boy who could name every bird by its call and track deer across bare rock. He graduated in 1965, went straight into logging, and by spring of 1967 had his draft notice. He served in Vietnam, came home in November 1968 having lost thirty pounds and carrying a scar through his left eyebrow he never explained. He couldn't sleep inside a house anymore. He'd lie down for twenty minutes, then take a blanket to the porch, even in the snow. Their father, a Navy veteran himself, told their mother to leave him be. The woods became Glenn's medicine. By 1969 he was spending weekends at the old claim, then weeks at a time. His logging boss, a Guadalcanal veteran named Hank Rogers, understood and let him go without a word. When Glenn came back from those trips, he was himself again, shoulders down, teasing his sister at supper, helping with the fence. Whatever was out there was giving him something no doctor or preacher could. Then came that Tuesday morning, June 11, 1974. Glenn sat at the kitchen table and announced, in the same flat voice he'd use to tell you the price of gas, that he was going to live in the mountains with a Sasquatch woman. He told Faye they were human, that they were people, same as you and me, and he was done pretending otherwise. He kissed his mother on the head, picked up his pack, and walked out across the pasture toward the hills. Faye didn't see his face again for five years. Glenn is seventy-eight now. He's still up there. And this past spring, sitting on a rock beside a creek Faye says she will never name, he asked her to finally tell people what he told the family that morning, and why he has never once taken it back. What makes this account stand out isn't just the claim itself, it's the texture. The Vietnam backdrop, the grandfather's Depression-era claim, the logging culture of Trinity County, the porch sleeping in the snow, the smell Faye caught on her brother's hair at her 1972 wedding that she couldn't place. These are the kinds of details that either come from lived experience or from someone who has spent a lifetime listening to the person who lived it. Either way, the story raises questions that don't fit neatly into any box, and that's exactly why it's worth sitting with. The video runs long and is worth the time. Faye's voice has that steady, matter-of-fact quality that people from the rural North Coast tend to carry, and she doesn't try to sell you anything. She just tells it the way her brother told it. If you've got any pull to the Trinity County area, or any curiosity about what a lifelong relationship between a human and a Sasquatch woman might actually look like from the human side, give it a watch. It's one of those accounts that stays with you.