BC Rancher's 20-Year Sasquatch Bond Continues With Her Cub

A 71-year-old rancher in British Columbia's remote Chilcotin region is sharing what might be one of the most emotionally heavy Sasquatch stories to surface in years. Harold Weekes, who has run cattle on leased crown range about 18 miles west of the Chilcotin River since 1982, claims he spent 20 winters feeding a Sasquatch that showed up on his property — and that this past November, something changed that broke his heart in a way he didn't see coming. The story begins in December 2004, during one of the harshest winters the region had seen in years. Weekes went to his equipment shed around 9 p.m. to grab a tow chain for a neighbor whose truck had slid into a ditch. What he found wedged between his grain auger and a stack of fence posts stopped him cold. A seven-foot-tall, dark-haired Sasquatch, sitting with its knees drawn up, conserving heat, with a deep wound along its left forearm. The creature looked at him with what he describes as total exhaustion — not aggression. It had run out of road. Instead of calling anyone or doing what any "sane rancher" would have done, Weekes left food. And he kept leaving food every winter after that. For two decades, the same Sasquatch returned to his feeding trough by the hay shed. Then, last November, the trough sat untouched for four straight nights. On the fifth night, something smaller emerged from the black spruce at the edge of his north pasture. It was her cub. Smaller, thinner, hurt, and alone. The way Weekes tells it, the young one looked at him "the way a child looks at the only adult left in a room." The cub stayed for six weeks, sleeping under his hay shed. By the time it finally walked back into the timber, Weekes says he understood something about that being — and about himself — that he had spent two decades refusing to look at directly. What makes this account stand out isn't just the longevity of the reported contact. It's the emotional weight. Weekes lost his wife Denise to cancer in 1998, just 11 weeks from diagnosis. He raised their son Colin mostly alone on the ranch. Denise grew up on a Chilcotin ranch herself, and her father — a trapper and guide who worked out of Anaham Lake for 30 years — used to tell her there were things in those mountains smarter than the government would ever admit to, and that the smart move if you crossed paths with one was to leave it food and leave it be. Weekes admits he took that as old bushman superstition until the night of December 11, 2004. The Chilcotin region has long been considered Sasquatch territory by those who pay attention to such things. The Tsilhqot'in people have lived across that plateau and the surrounding uplands for longer than any settler family's records go back, and there are old stories in communities around Anaham Lake and further west about beings in the high country that are treated with a particular kind of settled caution — not fear, but an understanding that certain parts of the mountains belong to something else. Weekes says he never asked anyone to explain those stories in detail because it never felt like his place to ask. The full account, including how Weekes handled those six weeks with the cub and what he says he finally understood about himself, is worth watching in his own words. It's the kind of story that stays with you.