Sasquatch Chronicles Blog

A listener writes “This happened in November of 2020 on our East Texas property. All year long I had been checking game cameras, planting deer food plots, and keeping the feeders full doing everything I could to make the deer want to stay on our land. With 92 acres of extremely thick forest, it wasn’t a hard sell.

Over the course of the year, something unusual began showing up on my trail cams: a massive buck pure white. Not albino white no pink eyes. This deer had striking gold eyes and a solid rack to match his size. I had never seen anything like him before. From the camera footage, it was obvious the other bucks deferred to him. When he approached the feeder, the others backed away. He was the dominant buck on the property, no question about it.

And he immediately became the number one deer on my list.

Hunting this place isn’t easy. The woods are so thick that visibility is terrible if you see a deer, it’s going to be close. And if the wind isn’t right, the deer will know you’re there long before you know he’s there.

To make things harder, I’d suffered a bad fall in 2016 while putting up a tree stand. I was seriously injured internally, and my back never healed properly. Sitting for long periods is painful, and climbing into tree stands is no longer an option. That meant hunting from a ground blind putting the advantage squarely in the deer’s favor.

On this afternoon, I was fully camouflaged from head to toe, sitting low in a hand-built brush blind. I had been obsessive about checking wind direction daily to make sure my scent wouldn’t blow toward the feeder, which sat only about 35 yards away. On this property, shots beyond that distance are rare.

It was around 4:30–4:45 p.m., and daylight was fading fast. I hadn’t seen a single deer all day. Just as I started thinking it wasn’t going to happen, he stepped out of the woods.

The big white buck.

That was the moment I learned the true meaning of buck fever. My heart was pounding, adrenaline surging. Slowly, carefully, I raised my rifle and pushed it through the narrow opening in the blind, terrified he’d sense me before I could line up the shot.

BOOM.

When the recoil settled and I lowered the rifle, he was gone. But I knew I had him. As the echo of the shot faded, I heard violent crashing in the brush and the sound of running through dry leaves heading straight toward the extremely dense bamboo lining the creek.

Then came one final crash.

Silence.

He was down.

Darkness would be coming soon, and tracking blood in these woods after nightfall would be nearly impossible. I started at the feeder and followed the direction I’d heard him run but there was no blood trail at all. I pushed through thick brush, bending and nearly crawling, relying only on sound memory.

After about 15 minutes, I saw him lying on his side near the slope that dropped down toward the bamboo and creek 20 to 30 yards short of terrain so thick I’d never have found him.

I was ecstatic. Hunting alone meant no one to celebrate with, so I did the next best thing laid my rifle across his back, lifted his head with one arm, and fumbled with my phone until I finally got a decent photo.

Because of my back injury, lifting a deer is out of the question. But since we were already near the top of the hill, I was able to drag him down through the leaf-covered slope to a dirt road I’d cut earlier. I’d hidden my side-by-side in the bamboo nearby, rode it to the barn about half a mile away, and came back with the tractor. The front-end loader did what my back couldn’t.

By then, I had maybe an hour of usable light left. I set up every portable light I had, plus the mercury vapor “booger light” on the barn, giving me just enough illumination to gut, skin, and quarter the deer. Using the loader to lift the gambrel, I barely got him high enough to keep his head off the ground. He was a big deer.

By the time I finished gutting him and started skinning, it was fully dark. And in East Texas woods, when it gets dark it gets dark. The lights created a visibility bubble of maybe 30 yards. Beyond that was pure black.

My back was screaming, but I had no choice. I had to finish.

As I worked carefully around the head and neck planning to have it mounted I heard it.

A deep, violent growl almost a roar coming from just inside the woods, maybe 30–35 yards away.

I know the animals on this property. My mind ran through the possibilities. A huge hog? The lung capacity sounded enormous—but it didn’t fit. A cougar? One had been spotted here a couple of years earlier, but this was far deeper and larger. A black bear? None exist anywhere near here.

Whatever it was, it was big, and it was pacing back and forth, thrashing through vines and brush, growling and roaring intermittently.

And I got the unmistakable feeling it wanted my deer.

I stepped toward the back of the tractor to try to see it, but couldn’t make out anything. The thrashing continued. Alone, in the dark, exhausted and hurting, I made a decision I wish I hadn’t.

I drew my .40-cal Glock and fired a round into the woods.

To my shock it didn’t retreat.

It got louder. More aggressive.

That’s when the realization hit me: I am not holding enough gun.

I backed into the barn and grabbed my lever action .44 Magnum from the side-by-side. Walking back out, rifle raised, I yelled,
“NO! You’re not getting my deer! I’ll fight you for it!”

I won’t lie I was scared.

After several tense minutes of watching the treeline, the thrashing gradually slowed. The growls faded. Then it went quiet.

I wasn’t convinced it was gone.

I repositioned myself deeper into the barn so the only way to reach me would be through the open door.

About 10–15 minutes later, every dog at the nearby lake half a mile away went absolutely berserk. I’ve heard them bark before, but nothing like this. It sounded like they’d seen a monster.

That’s when it hit me the thing had moved on.

I finished processing the deer as fast as I could and prepared to shut everything down. I still had a massive gut bucket to deal with. I didn’t want to leave it near the barn or RV, but I wasn’t about to walk into the dark woods either.

So I dumped it into the tractor’s loader, drove about 50 yards down the road, dumped it, and raced back. I tossed everything into the barn, rifle in hand, sprinted into the RV, and locked the door.

The next morning, I found the gut bucket down the road empty with a large hole punched clean through the side.

That wasn’t the first strange thing on this property. I’ve found green trees snapped off eight feet up, trunks thicker than my arms, with tops thrown several feet away. I’ve never caught anything like that on camera.

A few months later, one trail cam near the barn captured something I still can’t explain: glowing balls of light hovering near a feeder while a doe calmly ate beneath them completely unfazed.

I’ve heard other strange sounds too. Years earlier, while standing near the burn barrel one afternoon, I heard a full-volume donkey bray erupt from the woods 10–20 yards away. We don’t own a donkey. Neither do our neighbors.

I’ve since learned that Sasquatch are often described as excellent mimics.

Years before all this, the owners of a nearby RV park told me they’d had multiple Sasquatch sightings one near a horse corral, one stepping out from behind an RV, another confronting a woman at a laundry building.

Looking at Google Maps, there’s a continuous stretch of dense woods connecting their land to ours.

Food. Water. Cover.

Have I ever seen one? No.

But after everything that’s happened here, I’m not willing to say they’re not around.

And if they are I just hope they’re more interested in deer and hogs than people.”