Me and Bigfoot in the Deep Woods

I Was Alone in the Woods… With Bigfoot: A Harrowing Tale of Survival, Suspicion, and Stupid Choices

By Mike Walk, A Man Who Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Use Matches

---

They say that solo camping is a "spiritual experience". That’s true, in the same way that falling down a flight of stairs is a "spiritual experience": Mostly because you find yourself yelling “OH LORD” a lot while evaluating your life choices in a rapidly descending tumble.

My adventure began when I decided to "reconnect with nature," a phrase here meaning "pack fifteen pounds of beef jerky, a harmonica I don't know how to play, and a survival kit I bought because it had cool pictures of fire on the box."

The plan was simple: hike deep into the forest with no cell service, no backup, and only my rugged wits to keep me alive. You know, suicide by stupidity.

I set up camp in a charming glade that looked like something out of a murder documentary. The trees whispered ominous things like “You’re not gonna make it” and “Something out here eats people.”

After an afternoon of wrestling with the tent like a blindfolded octopus at a yoga retreat, I settled in for a peaceful evening of boiling water badly and eating ramen dust directly from the packet. That’s when the noises began.

At first, it was subtle: a twig snapping here, a branch crunching there, a distinct sniffing sound just outside the tent, followed by what can only be described as a low, wet grunt that sounded like a walrus clearing its sinuses.

“Probably a raccoon,” I thought, bravely, while silently writing my will on a napkin with a crayon I found in my emergency marshmallow ration kit.

Then came the howl.

It was long, guttural, and unmistakably the sound of something that had opinions about me being in its woods. And by “opinions,” I mean “an overwhelming desire to eat me like a rotisserie chicken.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “It’s probably just a coyote, or a bear, or a raccoon with a megaphone and a grudge.” That’s what I told myself too, right before I saw the footprints.

Not bear prints. Not human prints. These were Size 47 triple-E slabs of foot that looked like someone had been walking through the forest wearing surf boards for shoes. And the stride? HUGE. Either Bigfoot was out there, or Shaquille O’Neal had gone feral.

I did what any sensible, seasoned outdoorsman would do: I screamed like a tea kettle, locked myself in my tent using a carabiner and positive thoughts, and brandished a spork for protection.

That’s when I heard the snort.

It came from RIGHT outside the tent, followed by the unmistakable sound of something dragging its knuckles across my cooler, which was full of Slim Jims, generic-brand bologna, and desperation.

“He’s after my food,” I whispered, as if that would help.

Now, I should pause here to mention my friend Steve Baker (not his actual name), who once told me that the best way to deal with forest creatures is to stand tall, make yourself look big, and yell “Back off, beast, I’m a Republican!” I tried this. Bigfoot laughed. No, really! It was a kind of breathy, wheezing chuckle, like the way a redneck, watching his buddy fixing to use gasoline as lighter fluid in his BBQ pit, chuckles.

Eventually, I did the only thing I could do: I played the harmonica.

It was an act of desperation, sure, but I figured if Bigfoot was going to eat me, he’d at least suffer first. I blasted out a haunting rendition of "Hot Cross Buns," a tune so soul-crushingly awful it once made a raccoon pass out at a Cub Scout camp.

Miraculously, the noises stopped.

I guess Bigfoot, like most sentient beings, hates amateur harmonica.

I didn’t sleep that night, unless you count lying completely still while imagining being turned into pulled pork, as sleeping. At dawn, I ran—ran—back to civilization, which in this case meant a gas station that sold beef sticks, Monster energy drinks, and baffled glances.

So what did I learn?

1. Don’t camp alone unless your insurance covers mythical creature attacks.

2. Harmonicas can be used as weapons.

3. If you hear something dragging a cooler in the night, it is either a bear, a hillbilly, or a cryptid—none of which are ok.

Would I do it again? Absolutely not.

Unless someone dares me.