Shots Fired

While managing a salmon subsistence set-net site on the Wood River drainage above Dillingham near the McClung River mouth, a man named Keith, his wife Danielle, and their three young children (ages twelve, nine, and five) were targeted by an unusually bold entity. While stacking gear and mending twine on the riverbank, Keith's 12-year-old daughter pointed out a 'man' inside the 12-foot shoreline willow brush who was actively waving and smiling at her. Keith investigated with a shotgun, firing a warning blast into the air to deter what he assumed was a routine bear.

Jonathan, a 30-year resident of a remote forested property situated within the Wasilla-Willow corridor, was ambushed by a pair of massive Sasquatch entities while executing nighttime supply runs from his vehicle to his cabin. Transporting an awkward bulk package of Costco toilet paper balanced on his left shoulder, Jonathan heard heavy brush-crashing seamlessly parallel his step just feet away inside the pitch-black thicket. Hit by an unprecedented wave of absolute dread, he left the package on the trail and retreated to secure a 10mm Glock pistol.

In the 1980s, lifelong outdoorsmen Spencer and Max returned to a remote, reverse-Z-shaped muskeg swamp line near the boundary of Denali National Park, ten years after discovering an abandoned camp layout and enduring anomalous mimicry whistles and gibberish vocalizations in their youth. Operating a high-speed Honda 250R three-wheeler, Spencer hopped off the rear rack to escape exhaust fumes, walking the spongy moss edge while Max opened the throttle down a 3-mile valley trail.

Two years prior to 2022, a couple named Jesse and Monica purchased an uncompleted 10x12 Caribou cabin kit on the outskirts of Fairbanks to insulate and use as a rural starter house. Located a half-mile down a private driveway off the main road, the site was surrounded by dense, un-cleared timber and willow thickets. While setting up a wood stove on a weekend visit during a light autumn snow dusting, the couple began hearing a loud, exceptionally crisp, and snappy 'clicking' noise that occurred at a strict, regular cadence of every two to three seconds.

During a spring bear hunt expedition, a veteran Alaskan bush pilot named Buck flew two out-of-state hunters to a remote base camp east of Salcha. Left with an hour of free fuel time, Buck puddle-jumped his Piper Cub onto a nearby open tundra ridge flanked by a sparse black spruce tree line and large old-growth timber stands. Encountering an uncanny, absolute silence upon stepping out of his cockpit, Buck slung a .454 Casull revolver on his chest and hiked 500 yards out into a tundra berry patch to engage in wildlife photography.

In the 1990s, a Bristol Bay native named Joseph was left alone to overnight inside an unfinished, windowless log cabin frame under construction on the west bank of the Nushagak River, roughly 40 feet from a steep riverbank cut. After executing a secure, bear-aware camp cleanup, Joseph heard an anomalous, interactive series of 'imitation wolf howls' echoing from several miles deep in the timber line. Sitting on the entrance logs at dusk, a severe 'glass-dome' silence enveloped the tree line, and the vocalizations re-emerged less than 200 yards out.

Around 2016, a seasonal cannery worker from Dillingham named Jesse utilized his week off to execute a solo catch-and-release silver salmon trek along Silver Salmon Creek, hiking from the Aleknagik Road culverts down to the Wood River mouth. Setting up an 8-inch skillet camp cookstove on a hard bank slough, Jesse heard a series of heavy 'woof' grunts that he initially attributed to a stray dog. While casting into a deep pool, an absolute silence dropped over the drainage, and Jesse spotted a large chocolate-brown mass crouching across the channel just 20 meters out.

Around 2012, a native villager and his hunting partner portaged their skiff across an ice-overflow gravel ridge into Henry Slough, a specialized secondary channel of the Nushagak River located just south of New Stuyahok. Spotting a bull moose over a mud-and-grass cutbank, the men anchored the skiff using a concrete stake and initiated a silent layout stalk through the alders. While tracking the antlers, an interactive clacking sound erupted from multiple directions, which they mistook for a competing bull.

While house-sitting a rural property north of Glennallen along the Richardson Highway to protect against localized equipment theft, a married couple named John and Betty jackknifed their 16-foot fifth-wheel trailer across the driveway entrance, placing their camper a mere 100 feet off the primary asphalt road. While returning to the rig at dusk after utilizing an outdoor fire pit behind the main house, they were unsettled by a low, non-animal gurgling throat-clear emerging from the foliage.

While traveling along a remote stretch of the Taylor Highway near the Mosquito Fork bridge of the Fortymile River, north of the Tok junction, an out-of-state family—parents Walter and Bernice, and their adult college-graduate son Michael—experienced an unprecedented multi-creature encounter. Approaching the bridge clearance zone at a 300-yard distance, they observed three colossal figures walking single-file across the asphalt road.

Around 2019, a first nations hunter named Jack and his less-experienced partner, Eric, executed a remote catch-and-release style caribou hunt via single-man kayaks, launching from the Maclaren River bridge off the Denali Highway down to the Tyone Creek confluence. After pitching pop-up tents on the river's west bank, they awoke to an absolute, deafening silence that dropped over the tundra canopy. Proceeding on foot down a game trail through heavy morning fog, Eric spotted an edge-of-vision dark shadow tracking them.

Around 1997, a fly-fisherman named Daniel chartered a bush flight to drop him off alone on a sharp grassy spit at the first major bend of the Tikchik River system, northwest of Tikchik Lake. Armed with a heavy .480 Ruger revolver in a chest vest, Daniel finished a four-hour trout session. While packing his rod at the slough edge, a shift in the august wind parted the dense, 12-foot shoreline willow wall to expose a massive dark silhouette that towered far above his own standing height. Out of extreme caution, Daniel backed up flush to the river cutbank.

While investigating an active beaver dam system on the Kings River, the channel researcher and his companion, 'Squatch Bait,' documented complex engineering in the form of multiple, multi-cut tree trunks and a submerged, canopied beaver tunnel. Transitioning to a specific encounter site marked by orange surveyor tape, the researcher noted the exact location where a local witness named Daniel observed a large, dark-brown figure squatting on a log segment that jutted into the water.

Two shares, the first a retired fish and game biologist that had an experience ten years ago off the Mulchatna river while gathering data on salmon with three others, where they realized what they at first thought was a person exiting the freezing cold river was a Sasquatch they estimated to be over 10'.  They later met up with a group of observers who didn't believe them at first, but did later after they had an encounter, topped off with screams.  When both groups tried to relay their experiences to a fish and game trooper, they fell on deaf ears.

Mark was camping with his family off the Matanuska River back in 2020 when they heard a scream and loud splashing in the river.  After he saw it in the water, they had sunlight and used it to pack up camp and leave.  He has not camped since.