Oregon Timber Cruiser Discovers Deceased Sasquatch on Remote Slope

There's a video making the rounds that every serious researcher needs to carve out time for. A timber cruiser named Bracken Hollstead, who spent over a decade walking remote parcels across Oregon's backcountry, captured something on his chest camera back in March 2016 that he sat on for nearly nine years before deciding the world needed to see it. What makes this footage stand out isn't just what the camera caught. It's everything that surrounded it. Hollstead was working a pre-sale parcel on the North Slope above the Miloma drainage in Kous County, Oregon. He'd been cruising timber for eleven years, walking more ground than most people see in a lifetime, and in all that time, he had never called in something he couldn't explain. That changed on the morning of March 22nd, at 10:11 AM, when he recorded what appears to be a deceased Sasquatch on his chest-mounted camera. But here's where the story takes a turn that should give anyone pause. Within an hour of his call, a recovery team came up that slope faster and more organized than any county or state operation Hollstead had ever seen. They weren't local. They didn't identify themselves. They took the body, they took his chest camera, and within a month, the entire timber sale was cancelled. The parcel was pulled from county records as if it had never been surveyed. Hollstead was paid out and let go. No case number. No agency willing to confirm any part of it. The only reason any footage survived at all is because of a habit Hollstead had set up eleven years earlier and completely forgotten about. His chest camera automatically dumped recordings to his personal phone on a timer. So when the men took his equipment on the slope, a copy was already sitting on his phone. He never showed it to anyone. He kept it for nine years, and then he decided he was done keeping it. What he shares in the video leading up to that moment is just as compelling as the footage itself. Hollstead describes a previous encounter from October 2015, five months before the March incident. He was cruising a stand about 40 miles from the Miloma when he came out of the timber into a small cut meadow at the top of a ridge. Something was standing at the far tree line, watching him. He couldn't make out a face or hair, just a shape, upright, too tall and too broad across the shoulders to be a man. It stood there for the better part of a minute, then stepped back into the timber at its own pace, not spooked, just done with him. Hollstead filed it away as a bear standing bare at a distance in bad light, the way anyone who works alone in the woods learns to explain things away. The March assignment itself felt off from the start. It came in late, the Friday before, with no plat map in his inbox, just coordinates and a gate key he had to pick up from a lockbox. When he asked who had cruised the parcel before him, he was told flatly that nobody had, that it was fresh ground. Within two hours of climbing the slope, he found pink flagging tape chest high. Somebody had walked that parcel before him, and his office either didn't know or was told to tell him otherwise. Then came the signs that something was very wrong on that slope. The forest went silent. After four days of rain, a wet slope should be loud with dripping canopy, junkos, ravens. Hollstead heard nothing but his own breathing and his boots in the mud. He filed it under weather and kept climbing. Ten minutes later, he found a game trail crossing the slope. The prints weren't deer or elk. They were long, flat, with a distinct heel, instep, and five toes, and they sank deeper into the mud than his own boots did right next to them. Whatever made them weighed significantly more than he did. He put his boot beside one and his looked like a child's. A bear track is round and clawed. This was something else entirely. Then he found a structure tucked under the root wad of a big fallen fir. Thick limbs, wrist-thick and thicker, stacked parallel and leaning the same direction, pressed down into the dirt at the base as if something heavy had bedded on them. The ground underneath was packed flat and bare on a slope where everything else was ankle-deep in wet leaf litter. No fire ring. No trash. No boot sign. Just packed dirt and laid-up limbs and a smell that was only beginning to register. Hollstead didn't go under that root wad. Every instinct told him not to put his body inside that space, and for once, he listened. Two hundred yards higher, the smell hit him full force. A dead animal smell so thick it got into the back of his throat. The kind of smell you don't forget. The footage from that point is what started this whole chain of events, and it's what the video finally shows after nearly a decade of silence. What happened after is the part that should make every researcher sit up and pay attention. The speed and coordination of the recovery. The disappearance of the camera. The cancellation of the sale. The scrubbing of the parcel from county records. The fact that Hollstead's chest camera, his insurance policy for eleven years of walking other people's property lines, was taken from him on the slope and never returned. These are not the actions of a routine county response. For those who have followed reports of government involvement in Sasquatch incidents over the years, this fits a pattern that researchers like John Green, Chris Murphy, and others have documented for decades. Quick responses. Quiet removals. Witnesses paid off or pressured into silence. Parcels of land suddenly off-limits. The pattern is consistent, and Hollstead's account adds another data point to a much larger picture. The footage itself, after nine years of sitting on a phone, is now out in the open. Watch the full video. Listen to Hollstead's own words. He comes across as a man who spent a long time trying to explain everything away and finally ran out of explanations. This is the kind of firsthand account that doesn't come along often. A working professional with eleven years of experience, a camera rolling, and a chain of events afterward that raises far more questions than it answers.