I was eleven when I realized that monsters in the woods were real. I learned this while visiting my grandmother for Thanksgiving in 1989. The woods of the Pacific Northwest hold something in them—something large and very frightening. At least, they can seem to be.

Coming from the breadbasket in the heart of the country, where the land is as flat as a pancake, the mountains and valleys of the Pacific Northwest, where my grandmother lived, seemed dark and dreary in the late fall. Still, they were beautiful and full of mystery.

Here is my story…

The Trip

I would be singing, with my class, that timeless song “Over the River and Through the Woods” in front of my entire school for our Thanksgiving concert in November of 1989. The next day, with a wry smile on my face, I reminded my best friend Ben that my vacation would start earlier than his because my family and I were flying out to my grandmother’s home in Oregon.

My dad was born in Grants Pass, Oregon, and had lived quite a distance outside the small town of Merlin. My grandma and grandpa had a large home along the Rogue River, a mile or two past Indian Mary Park. It was pretty far out there, with only a few neighbors close by—well, just her, my grandmother living there at this point.

Unfortunately, a couple of years before this trip, my grandfather had passed away in his sleep. His health had been fine, with no major issues. My dad said the good Lord decided to take him home, and he passed peacefully that warm summer night.

So, we decided to make a trip out to see her for Thanksgiving. We flew into Medford and drove to her home, ironically, along the river and through the woods. It was a long drive, that was for sure.

I admit it was nice to see so many trees, hills, and snowcapped mountains. Coming from the land of flatness, all that green and mist pouring over the mountains was breathtaking, and it made everything seem dark and mysterious. At every town we passed and every bend in the road, my dad had a story to tell my older sister, Caroline, and me.

Finally, after an hour and some odd minutes, we reached my grandmother’s house. The old song I’d sung at school came to mind again as we pulled into the driveway. Grandma came out to meet us—not running, but walking as fast as she could; she had a bad hip. I will always remember that smile that greeted us, not to mention the secret she would reveal to me days later.

The River

The wild, scenic, and winding Rogue River flowed just below the edge of her property. Grandpa had built a beautiful deck with steps that led down into the backyard. There were three apple trees on one side, three plum trees on the other, and a beautifully manicured lawn that extended to the edge of the riverbank, where the rock and sand transitioned into the water.

On the opposite side of the river was a large sandbar of rock and sand, edged by tall shrubs, and beyond that—nothing but towering mountains and thick forest. The river was calm near her home. It flowed swiftly around a bend above, then slowed just as it reached her property. Grandpa used to fly fish there almost every day, weather permitting.

That first day, we spent unpacking and relaxing around the fireplace, going through old photos of Grandma, Grandpa, and my dad as a young boy growing up in such a beautiful place.

Then, the night came.

“Spooky” is the only word I could think of as I watched the sun disappear behind the mountains of the Pacific Northwest. I was sipping my hot cocoa and watching as the mist and fog formed over the river, and cloaked the mountains in a shroud of grey. It was spooky, that was for sure.

I went to bed early that night; the long trip had taken its toll on me. My room was my dad’s old one. It sat at the back of the house with large windows that offered a perfect view of the backyard, the river, and the mountains beyond. I left the curtains open and the window slightly cracked. I liked the cool night air and wrapping myself in blankets to stay warm and toasty.

It had to be around midnight—definitely after everyone had gone to bed—when I heard it. It was a sort of hum, but, weird as it may sound, it had an almost musical tone. It was deep-sounding yet light and wispy at the same time. Very eerie and strange.

Eventually, it faded, and I fell back to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up early—before everyone else. I decided to go down to the river with a cup of hot cocoa and take in the beauty my grandparents had enjoyed every day for decades. It was so foggy, however, that I couldn’t see up or down the river, let alone into the woods on the far side. But I could at least see the treeline.

I sat on a large rock I knew my grandfather had fished from a thousand times. I watched the river flow. From time to time, a fish would jump or breach the water. Then there was a splash—but not from a fish. It was the sound of a rock hitting the water! I looked behind me to see if my sister was messing around. Nobody was up; the house was still dark inside.

I looked up and down the river on my side. Nothing was moving. Then I heard it—the snapping of branches across the river, coming from inside the treeline. That startled me, especially after recalling the weird sound I’d heard the night before. I stood up and scanned the tree line. Nothing. No movement. But then again, the fog was thick as turkey gravy everywhere.

I felt the chill of fear crawl up my arms in the form of goosebumps. I felt as if a pair of eyes were looking right through me. I turned and quickly walked back to the house, cocoa in hand.

Grandma Said What?

My grandmother was baking pies that next evening—one pumpkin, one apple. I was helping her while the rest of the family had gone to do some early Christmas shopping in Grants Pass. So, it was just her and me.

With our cocoa beside us, I peeled apples while she rolled dough. It took me a few minutes to build the courage to tell her about my experience, that sound I’d heard the night before. Her response shocked me—but I took it seriously.

She smiled, continued rolling her dough, and told me that something had been hanging around the property and that part of the river for a few months after my grandfather died. I asked her what it was. She thought it might be Bigfoot. She hadn’t seen it, but she said Grandpa had once found tracks near the Galice Bridge, not far away, many years ago.

I had a basic idea of what Bigfoot was, but my mom had told me it was a myth—a fairytale at best. Grandma believed they existed. She said she’d occasionally heard one hollering in the distance beyond the river. I told her again about the sound I heard. She said that was odd—it didn’t match the screaming and hollering she’d heard. She also mentioned it only happened in the late fall and winter. Once spring came, the sounds had stopped.

That night, sitting on the back porch with my dad, I asked him about it. He was a believer, too. Grandpa had told him about the tracks he’d found while fishing. One of Grandpa’s friends who lived farther up the road swore he saw a Bigfoot one Christmas Eve back in the early eighties.

He said he was taking the garbage out to the burn barrel when he heard something moving through the trees. There was a small clearing where he had planned to cut a trail through the hill, but never finished. All of a sudden, something stepped into that open area. Under the full moonlight, Marvin saw the silhouette of a massive creature—a Bigfoot. It stopped, turned, looked at him, huffed, then darted off and disappeared like a chipmunk into a hole in a tree.

We laughed at the thought of seeing one in real life, clanked our cups of hot cider together, said “cheers,” and headed inside to enjoy the rest of the night by the fire with the family after they returned.

A Mesmerizing Bigfoot

We were all busy in the kitchen from morning until night on Thanksgiving Eve. I learned how to prepare a turkey, make green bean casserole, cranberry sauce from scratch, and mashed potatoes—just like Grandma’s.

By evening, everyone but me was tired. My parents let me stay up to watch the classic Thanksgiving specials like Charlie Brown. I didn’t go to bed until around ten. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear that strange humming sound again—that weird musical tone that had intrigued me so deeply before.

It stopped after a minute or so, and I fell asleep, dreaming of Bigfoots.

Morning came quickly—probably because I slept so well—but I was still up before dawn, a habit I’ve never grown out of. I grabbed a hot cup of cocoa and went down to the river to watch the sunrise over the mountains. It was a stunning view.

I found the rock Grandpa used for fishing and sat down, wrapping a short blanket over my shoulders. The mist and fog swirled overhead. It was beautiful, but also eerie. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something felt off.

As I sipped my cocoa and looked around, I realized what was making me feel uneasy. A tall shadow stood across the river. I didn’t remember any trees, tall shrubs, or bushes in that particular spot before. Yet there it was—a tall, black figure, still as a statue.

I tried to focus my eyes, but the swirling fog made it difficult. I took another sip of cocoa, keeping my eyes on it—then it moved.

I nearly dropped my ceramic mug, spilling some cocoa on my pajamas. I stood up immediately as the figure leaned slightly to the right. It was alive—not a tree or a bush. And it was tall—taller than the basketball players in the games my dad always watched on television.

When I stood, the creature straightened up, then stepped forward to the river’s edge. I could see it more clearly now. It was covered in black hair—not too long, but it moved in the breeze. It had a slightly visible neck and a very muscular build, like the most athletic person imaginable, but thicker. Its long arms reached past its knees. Its head was conical, but not a sharp point at the top, just conical with a long face covered in hair as well.

I could not make out facial features, but you could tell it was not a bear or a person.

Then, I heard it—the humming. It was coming from the creature. I now knew what it was: a Bigfoot. The sound was almost tangible, maybe because I wasn’t behind the protective walls of a house.

I was mesmerized—not in a way that made me lose my mind, but because the sound was oddly beautiful. The creature began walking—gliding almost—along the edge of the river. Its stride was enormous, and I could hear the crunch of river rocks beneath its feet.

It continued walking back and forth, humming all the while.

Then it stopped and looked directly at me. I nearly jumped out of my skin as a hand lightly settled on my shoulder. It was Grandma.

She shushed me before I could speak. In a whisper, she reminded me that this particular Bigfoot had been coming around since Grandpa passed. It came at night or early in the morning during autumn to pick fruit from the trees and ate fish from the river during the winter.

She believed—though she wasn’t sure—that the humming was a warning sound, letting her know it was nearby and there to collect some fruit or fish.

The creature continued pacing for another minute before turning and walking back toward the forest. Just before it vanished, it stopped, looked over its shoulder at us, then disappeared into the trees.

I never heard it again during the rest of that trip.

Back Home

I moved here. I did. My grandmother passed away not many years later, leaving everything to us—the home and all. I never thought of myself as a West Coast girl, but here I am.

I haven’t seen that Bigfoot again—or any Bigfoot—but I listen every night while sipping cocoa on the back porch. I told my husband the story. He found it interesting but gave me that look that said, “Are you sure you saw what you saw?”

Well, I did. And here, on this property, in this family home, I will wait for it to come around again.

Who knows? Maybe it will come back this Thanksgiving…

That is my story. Thanks.

– Emma.