Retired Nurse Finds Trapped Juvenile Bigfoot, Keeps Secret 34 Years

A 66-year-old retired nurse from Lewis County, Washington has come forward with what might be one of the most detailed first-hand encounters with a juvenile Sasquatch ever shared publicly. The story comes from a woman named Sharon Reed, who waited 34 years to finally break her silence after carrying the weight of this experience alone. Back in September of 1991, Sharon was 32 years old, working the emergency and urgent care floor at Morton General Hospital. She and her husband Frank owned 40 acres off State Route 131, about 8 miles north of the tiny community of Randall. For those unfamiliar with this part of Washington, it's the kind of country that makes you feel like you've stepped back in time. US Route 12 climbs east from the I-5 corridor at Chehalis and winds into the Cascades, and by the time you reach Randall, you're 45 miles from the nearest freeway. The Gifford Pinchot National Forest presses in from both sides, the Cispus River cuts through a narrow valley floor, and both Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens loom in the distance. The blast zone from the 1980 eruption was still raw and strange back then, a reminder that this landscape operates on time scales that have nothing to do with humans. Sharon had walked the seasonal creek bottom on her property, Rowan Creek, hundreds of times over the years. She knew that ground intimately. So when strange sounds started coming from the alder flat below her property line for three nights in a row, she paid attention. Frank initially dismissed it as a Roosevelt elk with a leg caught in something, which would be a reasonable guess given the area. But the sounds changed over those three nights, becoming lower in pitch, more sustained, and carrying a quality Sharon struggled to describe, something more deliberate and controlled, as if whatever was making the sound was pacing itself rather than crying out in pure distress. On the fourth morning, a Tuesday in early September, Sharon went down to investigate at first light. The temperature had dropped to 43 degrees. She found what she was looking for about 60 yards below the fence line, tucked into a depression where the creek had cut a hollow into the east bank. It had its back to the bank and was facing away from her. Her first thought was that it was a young person, maybe a teenager, but the proportions were all wrong. It was roughly the size of a large 14 or 15-year-old boy in a crouched position, but the head was too large, the shoulders too wide, and the body carried a density no teenager she'd ever seen possessed. It was covered entirely in coarse dark hair, sable in color, longer on the back and shoulders and thinning toward the face. The hair was matted along its left side with what Sharon identified as dried blood. The damage was severe. A quarter-inch steel snare cable, the kind poachers set for bear in the national forest, had wrapped around the lower left leg above the ankle and below the knee. The flesh had begun to close over the wire after three and a half days of struggling. The torn ground and bent anchor pin told Sharon this juvenile had pulled with tremendous force against the trap. What happened next is where Sharon's story takes a remarkable turn. Despite the fear, despite the impossibility of what she was witnessing, the nurse in her took over. She had spent nine years triaging compound fractures, lacerations, and crush injuries. She knew how to assess trauma, pack a wound, and talk a patient through pain without losing composure. Those skills, honed in emergency rooms, were about to be called upon for a patient no medical textbook had ever accounted for. This is the kind of testimony that separates casual campfire stories from serious documentation. Sharon provides specific dates, medical details, geographic coordinates, and emotional responses that ring with authenticity. The Pacific Northwest, particularly the Cascades region of Washington, has long been considered prime habitat for Sasquatch, with the dense old-growth forests, abundant water sources, and remote terrain providing ideal cover. The area around Mount St. Helens, in particular, has been a hotspot for reports, with many researchers noting that the 1980 eruption may have displaced populations and altered movement patterns in ways that continue to this day. The fact that Sharon kept this story buried for over three decades, only sharing it after her husband Frank passed away in the spring of 2018, adds another layer of credibility. She had no reason to fabricate such a detailed account, and the specificity of her nursing background gives her observations a clinical precision that most witnesses simply cannot provide. If you want to hear Sharon tell this story in her own words, with all the emotional weight and detail that a written summary simply cannot capture, the video is absolutely worth your time. It's the kind of encounter report that stays with you long after you've finished watching.