Bigfoot Hums Late Wife's Song to Grieving Wyoming Rancher

There's something about a firsthand account that hits different, and this one stopped me in my tracks. A video surfaced on YouTube from a channel called The Forest Sentinel and The Deep Forest Tales, and it tells the story of a 68-year-old Wyoming man named Roy Dixon who has been sharing his mornings with a Bigfoot for nine winters. And what happened on this particular night? The Bigfoot finally spoke. Not only did it speak, but it sang his late wife's favorite hymn back to him in the dark. Let me set the scene for you. Roy is a contract elk feeder for the Wyoming Game and Fish Department, working one of the state's 21 feed grounds up in the Hoback Basin between Pinedale and Jackson. For those unfamiliar, these feed grounds have been operating since the early 1900s when ranchers pushed elk out of the valley wintering grounds. Without them, the elk would raid haystacks every February. Roy's feed ground sits at about 7,000 feet in a long open flat with aspens and lodgepole on the north side and the Gros Ventre range standing white behind it. A beautiful, brutal place to be. Roy didn't choose this life to find a Bigfoot. He chose it because his wife Fay died in October 2016 after a stroke, and he was drowning in grief. He ran cattle with her for 34 years on her family's place south of Pinedale. She was the rancher. He was the kid from Rock Springs who married into it in 1981. When she passed, he sat in their house in Pinedale and did nothing for a year. A Game and Fish man named Brian Hughes came knocking in the fall of 2017 and offered him a job feeding elk. Roy said yes before Brian finished his coffee. His daughter thought he'd lost his mind. He thinks it saved his life. Now here's where it gets interesting. Roy's first winter out there, his team of Belgian geldings, Pete and Duke, spooked hard on the north edge of the flat near the aspens. They planted their feet, threw their heads up, and refused to move. The elk weren't bunched up the way they get when wolves are around, but a group of about 40 cows had drifted off the hay and were standing in a half circle, all staring into the same patch of trees. Then the smell hit him. Wet dog rolled in something dead, with a musky sweet edge underneath. Roy had worked around cattle for 35 years, skinned elk, cleaned chicken houses, even dragged a dead horse off a creek bank in August heat. This was different. It hung in the frozen air for about a minute before the wind shifted. Three nights later, Roy was lying in his bunk talking to Fay when he heard knocking out in the timber. A hard, hollow crack, like an axe handle hitting a dead tree. One knock, then a pause, then two more close together. From somewhere up the slope toward the Gros Ventres, a single knock answered. Now, anyone familiar with Bigfoot research knows that tree knocking is one of the most commonly reported forms of communication from these beings. Researchers like Dr. Jeff Meldrum and others have documented this behavior extensively. A tree splitting from cold doesn't do it three times in a rhythm, and another tree a mile away doesn't answer back. Then came the stackyard incident. The stackyard is fenced with heavy steel panels, 8 feet tall, chained together at the ends. Roy walked out at 5 AM to load his sled and found one of those panels lifted clean off its post and set down leaning against the fence, neat as you please. The chain was still hooked. Whoever did it lifted the panel straight up, chain and all. Those panels weigh better than 200 pounds. Four bales of hay were gone, and the tracks heading toward the aspens weren't snowmobile tracks or boot tracks. They were bare footprints. Big ones. Roy hums while he works. Fay used to sing all the old gospel songs while she did chores, and her favorite was "I'll Fly Away." She sang it forking hay to the cows, doing dishes, and in the hospital in Salt Lake the week before she died. Roy can't sing, but he can hum, and that first winter at the feed ground, he hummed that song every morning to keep her close. Nine winters. That's how long this Bigfoot has been coming around. And last night, a little after 9 PM, it walked up out of the aspens, stopped 20 feet from Roy's porch, and spoke. A long run of sounds pitched so low that the glass in his cabin window hummed in its frame. Most of a minute long. In all those winters, Roy had never heard it make a sound that long, and he'd never heard it point one straight at him. Then, near the end, it sang Fay's song back to him. Fay has been gone almost ten years. Roy is the only person alive who still hums that song every morning. And last night, standing in two feet of snow in the dark, so was the Bigfoot. I had to pause and collect myself when I heard that part. The Wyoming Range and surrounding areas have long been a hotspot for sightings, and stories like this one carry the kind of weight that makes you sit with your thoughts for a while. The intelligence on display here, learning a song over years of listening, lifting a 200-pound fence panel with the chain still attached, choosing to speak only after nearly a decade of patience, it all points to something far beyond what the skeptics want to admit exists in these woods. This video is worth every minute of your time. Roy Dixon tells his story in his own voice, and it's the kind of account that stays with you. Go find it on YouTube and listen to the whole thing.