Sasquatch Chronicles Blog

In the fall of 1956, a small group of hunters set out near the rural community of Paris, Michigan, expecting nothing more than a quiet evening tracking deer. The air was cold and still, the kind that carried every snapped twig for miles.

They parked their truck along a forest road and moved in on foot, rifles slung over their shoulders, boots crunching softly through leaves and early frost.

It didn’t take long to find sign.

Fresh tracks cut through the underbrush large, deep impressions that suggested a heavy animal moving fast. The hunters assumed it was a wounded deer. The spacing of the prints looked wrong, though longer than expected but adrenaline and excitement pushed the concern aside.

They followed the trail deeper into the forest.

As the light began to fade, the woods seemed to close in around them. The trees grew tighter, their branches weaving together overhead, blocking the last of the daylight. The forest was unnaturally quiet. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of their own breathing and the slow crunch of boots on leaves.

Then one of the men stopped.

The tracks had changed.

What had clearly been four legged impressions suddenly shifted into two distinct footprints, set wide apart, pressing deep into the soil as if something incredibly heavy was now walking upright. The hunters stared down in silence, unsure of what they were seeing.

Before anyone could speak, something moved ahead of them.

On a low ridge just beyond the trees, a shape stood silhouetted against the dimming sky. At first glance, it looked like a man tall, broad, standing still. But as their eyes adjusted, the details became impossible to ignore.

The head was wrong.

It was unmistakably canine, with a long snout and pointed ears rising above its skull. The body was covered in dark hair, thick through the shoulders and chest. It stood upright, easily seven feet tall, arms hanging loosely at its sides. Its legs bent backward like a dog’s, yet it balanced effortlessly.

The creature was watching them.

No movement. No sound. Just a silent stare that felt deliberate and intelligent. One of the hunters whispered a curse under his breath. Another raised his rifle, hands shaking.

Then the creature tilted its head.

That small, almost curious gesture snapped whatever spell had held them frozen.

A shot rang out.

The crack of the rifle shattered the silence, echoing through the trees. The bullet struck somewhere near the ridge whether it hit the creature or the ground beside it, no one could say. But the response was immediate.

The thing let out a howl.

It was deep and powerful, starting like a wolf’s call and then rising into something wrong longer, louder, almost human in its tone. The sound vibrated in the hunters’ chests, sending a surge of fear through every one of them.

The creature turned and moved.

It didn’t run like an animal. It strode fast, smooth, upright disappearing into the trees with long, confident steps. Branches barely moved as it passed. Within seconds, it was gone.

The forest went silent again.

No one spoke.

After a long moment, one of the men finally said what they were all thinking “That wasn’t a bear.”

They didn’t follow the tracks.

The hunters turned around and walked back the way they came, rifles still raised, eyes scanning the tree line. Every shadow seemed to move. Every sound felt closer than it should have been. When they reached the truck, they piled in without discussion and left the area immediately.

None of them returned to that spot.

The men told a few people what they’d seen, quietly, without exaggeration. Over time, the story faded into local legend one more strange tale whispered among hunters and woodsmen.

But those familiar with Michigan lore would later recognize the details: the upright stance, the canine head, the unnatural howl.

Another encounter to add to what would eventually be known as the Michigan Dogman phenomenon and one of the earliest sightings tied to the deep forests near Paris, Michigan.

Whatever stood on that ridge in 1956 had been watching them long before they ever knew it was there.