Stalking

Following a spring bear-hunting drop-off east of Salcha, an experienced Alaskan bush pilot named "Buck" decided to take advantage of extra fuel and landed his Piper Cub on a remote stretch of tundra north of the drop zone. Struck by an unnatural, deafening silence upon stepping out of the aircraft, he grabbed a day pack and his digital camera, armed with a .454 Casull revolver. Spotting distant movement along a black spruce tree line roughly 500 yards away, Buck walked over to photograph what he assumed was a bull moose, kneeling in the moss to attempt a cow moose call.

Fred sits down with fellow Dillingham resident and tribal council member Hillary to discuss growing up in the Bristol Bay region and what it was really like navigating day-to-day life with the presence of the Hairy Man. Spending her childhood traveling between villages along the Nushagak River—including Ekuk, Ekwok, Portage Creek, New Stuyahok, and Koliganek, as well as Aleknagik—Hillary describes an upbringing steeped in practical awareness rather than fireside tales.

Back in the 1990s, Kathy lived on the Kenai Peninsula across from a neighbor who was raising homestead animals and raising several children while her husband worked away on the North Slope. Shortly after sending her kids off to school one morning, Kathy answered an urgent knock at her door from the shaken neighbor pleading for help. Walking over to the homestead, Kathy was met with a chilling sight: eight or nine farm-raised meat rabbits lined up in pristine condition with their bodies still warm and limp, but every single head cleanly removed with zero blood or sign of a struggle.

About eight years ago, two young brothers—Kyle and his younger sibling—were out picking berries along a remote trail roughly a mile and a half from the nearest road just outside Fairbanks. Their peaceful outing turned unsettling when a persistent, low grumbling noise began shadowing their movements through the brush. Realizing something was pacing them, Kyle tried to keep his composure, telling himself and his terrified brother to walk instead of run to avoid triggering a predator's chase response.

Back in the late 1990s, Joseph was staying alone overnight to guard supplies at an unfinished family cabin along the remote Nushagak River. The cabin was still under construction, lacking finished window panes and leaving open, rough-framed cutouts directly into the wilderness. As dusk fell, Joseph heard an unsettling, unusually loud howl echoing miles away that sounded like a poor imitation of a wolf. Within an hour, the unnatural howling had closed the distance, sounding less than 200 yards away from the cut bank before falling dead, unnervingly silent.

Six years ago, Jesse, a cannery worker from Dillingham, decided to spend his final week in Alaska fly fishing along Silver Salmon Creek. Setting off from Aleknagik Road with a collapsible rod, he hiked deep into the dense brush, catching and releasing silver salmon. On his second night, while frying up a small salmon at his spike camp, he heard a low, dog-like woof echoing from the distance. Later, while fishing a deep eddy, the forest fell completely dead and silent, and he spotted a large, brown mass lurking on the opposite bank.

While navigating the Nushagak River near Henry Slough (just south of New Stuyahok) roughly ten years ago, two hunters portaged their skiff into a narrow, muddy backchannel to scout for moose. After successfully dropping a massive bull with a single shot from the bank, the hunters sat down for a celebratory cigarette before the grueling task of field dressing it. Their break was interrupted by a deep, guttural grunt echoing from the nearby willows. Believing it was a second, agitated bull moose, the hunters crept closer, hoping to drop a second animal and save themselves an extra trip.

Growing up near the Gulkana River in the mid-1970s, ten-year-old Dan was exploring a game trail when he realized something massive was actively pacing him through the dense Alaskan timber. The terrifying cat-and-mouse game ended abruptly when the creature crashed through the brush and cut off his trail just 15 yards ahead. Paralyzed by a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread, Dan was too terrified to even look at the entity, immediately turning and fleeing back the way he came.

A husband and wife, John and Betty, agreed to house-sit for close family friends along the highway north to Fairbanks. To deter local equipment thieves while their friends were away, the couple parked their fifth-wheel camper jackknifed across the driveway. After spending a quiet evening by an outdoor fire pit behind the house, they were walking back to the camper when they heard a bizarre, guttural gurgling sound coming from the darkness.

A family vacation took a terrifying turn when Walter, Bernice, and their adult son Michael were towing a 16-foot toy hauler up the remote Taylor Highway. Approaching the bridge over the Mosquito Fork of the 40-Mile River, they spotted three massive figures crossing the road ahead. Initially mistaking them for fly fishermen dragging rod tubes, the family was shocked to realize the figures were nearly nine feet tall—and appeared to have thick, four-foot-long tails.

Three years ago, two friends, Jack and Eric, launched their kayaks near the Denali Highway to caribou hunt down the remote Maclaren River. After setting up a spike camp downriver, they awoke to a deafening, unnatural silence. While hiking the tundra in the lifting morning fog, Eric spotted a dark shadow pacing them laterally just inside the mist.

In 1978, Eric and two friends from the Tongass National Forest cruiser team took their two-week leave to camp and explore the pristine wilderness around Powers Creek, located in the ominous Tracy Arm-Fords Terror Wilderness of Southeast Alaska. On their second day, the peacefulness of their trip was shattered by a hellacious scream originating further down the Endicott Arm inlet. Dismissing it at first, the three unarmed men returned to camp to find their belongings strangely shifted and toyed with.

About 25 years ago, a fly fisherman named Daniel paid to be dropped off by a guide service on the first big bend of the Tikchik River. Armed with a .480 Ruger revolver, he fished for hours before sitting down by the riverbank willows for a snack. As the autumn wind rippled the leaves, he suddenly spotted a massive, towering dark shadow lurking just inside the brush. Thinking it was a grizzly bear, Daniel drew his hand cannon and fired a warning shot into the willows, only to be met with an eerie, low, humming vocalization.

While prospecting for gold veins along the remote King Salmon River (north of Dillingham), Ivan and his younger brother set up a small spike camp on the riverbank. On their third night, their quiet evening was shattered by a scream from across the river that sounded like a woman being murdered. Grabbing their rifles, the brothers crossed the river in their 18-foot skiff to investigate. Finding nothing in the small stands of black spruce, they heard splashing back across the river—and turned to see a dark figure running into the brush exactly where they had just left their camp.

Fred and Squatch Bait hike two miles deep into the dense, overgrown brush along the Kings River to document the site of a harrowing encounter from the previous year. After navigating past massive beaver dams and deeply scarred timber, they reach the exact spot where a man named Daniel was stalked and chased from his isolated camp.