Vietnam Veteran Lived With Sasquatch Wife Since 1974, Sister Reveals

A story just surfaced online that has the Sasquatch community buzzing, and honestly, it's one of the most extraordinary firsthand accounts I've come across in a long time. A woman named Faye Coleman, born and raised in Trinity County, California, shares the remarkable tale of her brother Glenn, who walked away from their family home in June of 1974 with the intention of living in the mountains with a Sasquatch woman. And here's the kicker — Glenn never came back to normal life. He's still out there. He's seventy-eight years old now. The video, posted by Bigfoot Sightings Canada on YouTube, runs through Faye's memories of growing up in Hayfork, a tiny valley tucked into the mountains of Northern California at about 2,300 feet elevation. For those unfamiliar with the area, Trinity County is one of those places that feels like stepping back in time. No incorporated towns, vast stretches of wilderness, and a long history of logging, gold mining, and yes — Sasquatch reports. The Six Rivers National Forest and the surrounding Trinity Alps have been a hotspot for sightings for decades, with everything from wood knocks to vocalizations to physical track finds reported by loggers, hunters, and residents alike. Faye paints a vivid picture of her family. Their father Virgil came home from the Navy after World War II, lost two fingers on a head saw at the Hayfork mill, and raised his kids on venison, pinto beans, and cornbread. Their grandfather Chester had come to Trinity County in 1932 during the Depression to wash gold out of the creeks, settling on a placer claim west of Hyampom in the steep country draining toward the South Fork of the Trinity River. That claim became the family's weekend retreat, and it's where Glenn's connection to the deep woods really began. One detail that stood out to me was the story from 1957, when Faye was six and Glenn was nine. Camped at the claim with their father, Glenn woke her in the middle of the night to listen. Out in the dark came three hard knocks against a tree trunk, followed by silence, and then three answering knocks from far across the canyon. Glenn whispered that "somebody was talking." Their dad dismissed it as a woodpecker the next morning, but Glenn never forgot it. He later told Faye it was the first time those people ever spoke to him. That knocking phenomenon is something researchers hear about constantly. Three-knock patterns, often exchanged between ridges or across canyons, are reported across North America in Sasquatch hotspots. Some researchers believe it functions as a territorial signal or a form of communication between family groups. Glenn's early encounter fits that pattern almost perfectly. After high school, Glenn went straight into the logging camps, setting chokers on steep slopes for a gyppo outfit. Then came Vietnam. He shipped out in 1967, came back in November of 1968 having lost thirty pounds and carrying a scar through his left eyebrow he never explained. He couldn't sleep under a roof anymore. He'd lie down, pace, and end up on the front porch in a sleeping bag while snow blew in under the eaves. Their father, a man who'd seen men come home from Okinawa, told their mother to leave him be. The woods called him back. By the early 1970s, Glenn was spending longer and longer stretches at the old family claim on the creek west of Hyampom, packing in coffee, flour, bacon, and rifle shells. His logging boss, a Guadalcanal veteran named Hank Rogers, let him go without a word. Hank understood. When Glenn came back from a week in the mountains, he was himself again — shoulders down, teasing his sister at supper, helping with the fence. Whatever was out there was doing something for him that no doctor or preacher could. Then came that Tuesday morning, June 11, 1974. Glenn sat down at their mother Edna's kitchen table and announced, in the same flat voice he'd use to tell you the price of gas, that he was going to live in the mountains with a Sasquatch woman. He said they were human. He said they were people, same as you and me. Then he kissed his mother on the head, picked up his pack, and walked out across the pasture toward the hills. Faye didn't see his face again for five years. This past spring, sitting on a rock beside a creek she says she'll never name, Glenn asked Faye to finally tell people what he told the family that morning, and why he's never once taken it back. The full account is worth sitting down and listening to. Faye's voice carries the weight of someone who watched her brother make an impossible choice and stuck by him through it. The details about Trinity County, the family history, the old placer claim, and the gradual shift in Glenn's life all build toward that kitchen table moment in a way that feels almost literary. It's the kind of testimony that reminds you how many stories are still out there, hidden in small mountain towns, passed between siblings over coffee. If you're interested in long-term residency claims, generational Sasquatch encounters, or just want to hear a well-told story from someone who lived it, this one deserves your time. The video is up now and runs through Faye's memories in her own words. Go give it a watch.