Kentucky Farmer Recounts 1976 Bigfoot Warning of Coyotes

Folks, if you haven't stumbled across this one yet, you're in for a treat. A video has surfaced over on YouTube that tells one of the most remarkable firsthand accounts of a Bigfoot encounter I've come across in a while, and it's got that old-school, fireside quality that makes the hair on your arms stand up. The story comes from a man named Floyd Jenkins, who spent 51 years working a 186-acre farm on Stillhouse Branch in Bath County, Kentucky. The back line of his property butted right up against what was then still called the Cumberland National Forest (renamed Daniel Boone in 1966, though the old-timers didn't bother updating their vocabulary for a while). Floyd raised burley tobacco, Hereford cross cattle, and around 90 blackface ewes that lambed each January and February. The lambs paid for everything that the tobacco note didn't cover. Now here's where it gets interesting. In the spring of 1974, something changed on Floyd's top field. It's a 20-acre piece of orchard grass and clover lying against the woods with a plank gate in the upper corner where an old wagon road climbs the hollow. When he turned the ewes up there the second week of April, same as always, the whole flock bunched along the bottom fence within three days. Every head pointed uphill. Lambs tucked behind. They held that position for nearly a week. A sheep will stand like that when a strange dog is sitting at the edge of a field. But Floyd walked the field and found no dead groundhog, no fox den, no flattened weeds where dogs had been lying up. Just good grass and a fence in fair repair. What he did notice was the silence. April in a Kentucky hollow is loud, but the upper corner of that field was dead quiet. No peepers. No redbirds. Nothing. His English shepherd, Tip, refused to go up the field. Walked two-thirds of the distance, sat down, then lay flat in the grass with his chin on the ground, shaking like he did in a thunderstorm. Floyd had never seen that dog turn down a whistle before. When he finally mowed the field for hay, he found a patch of grass along the upper fence, six or seven feet long, pressed down hard and worn thin in the middle. No cow had been in that field. No cow lies with her back against a fence post looking down a hill at a farmhouse. Then the knocking started in May. One lick, hard and clean, like a man swinging a ball bat against a dead hickory, coming from the ridge above the top field. A second knock would answer from far off to the east. Floyd's nine-year-old daughter Connie nailed it when she said it sounded like church right before the preacher stands up. "Everybody's being quiet on purpose," she told them. "Even the frogs." And she was right. Every evening, the peepers at the stock pond would be going full tilt until that first knock came off the ridge, and then they'd stop like somebody had thrown a switch. A neighbor a mile down the branch, Roy Butler, kept eleven Walker fox hounds and ran them on the ridge above his place two Saturdays in a row. Both nights they struck a fox and ran it east along the ridge toward Floyd's line. Both nights the whole pack shut their mouths at the same spot and came back to the fire. His best female, a lemon and white hound named Belle, came in with her tail clamped down and crawled under his truck. He had to drag her out by the collar to load her. Now, here's the part that makes this account stand out from so many others. On the evening of October 10th, 1976, a Bigfoot stood at Floyd's upper pasture gate and told him what was coming to kill his lambs. He told him close to four months before the first lamb died, and before any farmer in that county had laid eyes on the thing that did it. The Bigfoot never spoke a word of English, then or ever. He talked in borrowed sounds, same as he always had with Floyd. But that evening he borrowed one Floyd had only ever heard coming out of a television set. He made it in five or six voices out of one chest. Then he showed Floyd how many were coming, from which direction, and what they would do to a lamb when they got there. Floyd says he has been pinned under a tractor with the frost coming down, and what that Bigfoot described at that gate frightened him worse. What makes this account particularly fascinating is the context. The Army Corps of Engineers finished the Cave Run Dam on the Licking River in the fall of 1973, just five or six miles east of Floyd's place as the crow flies. They shut the gates early the next year, and the water backed up over better than 8,000 acres of riverbottom in four counties. Families Floyd knew had sold out to the government and moved their dead out of the churchyards ahead of it. Every wild thing that lived in that bottom had to climb out and find new ground, and the nearest big timber west of the river was the ridge behind Floyd's top field. Something had been pushed out of its home, and it had something to say about it. Vocalizations like the ones Floyd describes aren't unheard of in the literature. Witnesses across the country have reported Bigfoot mimicking sounds from their environment, chainsaws, generators, other animals, and occasionally human speech or media sounds. The "ventriloquist" effect of producing multiple voices from a single chest is a recurring theme in credible encounters. What sets this story apart is the purpose behind it. This wasn't a territorial display or a chance encounter. This was a warning, delivered with intent, four months in advance. The video is worth every minute of your time. Floyd's voice carries the weight of a man who has nothing to gain and nothing left to prove. He tells it the way it happened, without embellishment, and lets the strangeness speak for itself. Pour yourself a cup of coffee, settle in, and give it a watch. Stories like this one are why the research continues.