May 30, 2026

Sasquatch Saturday: The Knock on Tug Hill

Sasquatch Saturday: The Knock on Tug Hill
Sasquatch Saturday: The Knock on Tug Hill
The Broadcasting Seeds Podcast
Sasquatch Saturday: The Knock on Tug Hill
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WEBVTT

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Proof in the minds of the bet.

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The rain started before dusk and never really stopped. It

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came down in long, gray curtains across the tug Hill

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back roads, turning the logging trails into rivers of black

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mud and pine needles, the kind of rain that muffles

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the world. No birds, no wind, just water hitting leaves

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and the occasional groan of old trees swaying in the dark.

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Caleb had been hunting those for twenty three years. Not Bigfoot,

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at least that's what he told people. He hunted deer

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in the fall, coyote in the winter, turkey in the spring.

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He trapped a little when fur prices were worth the effort.

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He knew every creek crossing, every ridge line, every patch

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of cedar swamp between Redfield and the western edge of

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the Adirondacks, and because of that he knew when something

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didn't belong. The first sign came three weeks earlier, a

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dead white tail buck, not unusual by itself, harsh winters

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and coyotes cleaned up plenty of deer, but this one

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bothered him. The animal had been twisted around backward near

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the creek bed, ribs broken inward like it had been squeezed.

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No scavengers touched it, no tracks around it either, except

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for one massive print sunk deep in the mud that

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was about twenty feet away, five toes human like, but

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far too large. Caleb measured it with his hand, nearly

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seventeen inches long. He convinced himself it was a prank

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until the sound started. Every night around two am, something

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screened from the ridge behind his cabin. Not a bobcat,

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not a fox, not a coyote. This sounded like a

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woman being murdered, mixed with a roar of a bear.

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His dog stopped going outside after dark, and then one

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of them vanished. Old Duke was one hundred round cheper

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mix that feared absolutely nothing. Caleb found the dog's collar

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hanging from a broken pine limb nearly eight feet off

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the ground. No blood, no body, just the collar. That's

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when Caleb called his friend Randy. Randy was the only

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person he knew who wouldn't laugh at this whole thing.

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You ever hear tree knocks out there, Randy asked, over

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coffee at the diner in PLASKI. Caleb froze, how'd you

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know that? Randy leaned back slowly, because I heard the

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same thing in ninety eight. He explained how he'd been

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camping near Panther Lake during bow season when something circled

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his camp at night. Heavy footsteps, rocks thrown into the fire,

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then three loud knocks against a tree that echoed though

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that echoed through the woods like a baseball bat. Randy

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left before sunrise and never camped there again. You think

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it's one of those things, Caleb finally asked. Randy stared

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out the diner window at the rain. I think there's

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things in those woods we ain't supposed to count to corner.

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That Saturday, the storm rolled in hard. Caleb should have

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stayed home. Instead, he loaded his old Marlin forty five seventy,

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grabbed a flashlight, and drove his ATV toward the ridge

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behind the creek basin where Duke had disappeared. The woods

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felt wrong the moment he arrived, just too quiet. Even

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the insects were wrong. The gone. He parked near an

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abandoned logging road, and he started walking uphill through dripping

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fir trees. His boots sank deep into the wet moss

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as fog crept low between the trunks. Then came the

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knock crack, one hard strike against woods somewhere ahead. Caleb

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stopped moving. Another knock answered from farther up the ridge,

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then another behind him. His stomach tightened. He suddenly realized

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he wasn't listening to random sounds. Something was communicating. The

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flashlight beam shook slightly as he turned in a slow circle,

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and that's when he smelled it, rotting garbage mixed with

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a wet dog and swamp water. The odor hit him

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hard and he s gagged. Branches snapped uphill, heavy bipedal,

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not running, walking deliberate, Caleb raised the rifle. Who's there? Silence?

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Then came a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the

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trees more than echoed off them, and suddenly the woods exploded.

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Something massive moved between the pines ahead of him. Not glimpses,

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not shadows, a body, huge shoulders, dark reddish brown hair

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plastered against muscle from the rain, a cross between two trees,

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and three silent strides at least eight feet tall, maybe more.

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Caleb's brain refused to process it. The thing stopped behind

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a hemlock about thirty yards away. He could see part

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of its face now deep set, black eyes, broad nose

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human like, but wrong, somehow ancient. The creature leaned sideways

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from behind the tree and stared directly at him, not

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like an animal, like a man deciding what to do.

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Caleb later said the eyes were the worst part. There

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was intelligence in them, he told Randy afterwards, not animal intelligence,

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something else. The creature clicked its teeth together once. Then

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another answer came from behind Caleb. He turned fast and

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nearly dropped the rifle. A second one stood uphill behind him, smaller,

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maybe female. Its head tilted curiously as rain dripped from

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the strands of black hair hanging off its shoulders. Caleb

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realized then he was boxed in, hunted. The larger one

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stepped forward, slowly, no aggression, no charge, just dominance, like

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it wanted him to understand whose woods these were were.

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Then came a sound Caleb would never forget, a short

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whistle from deep and deep in the forest. The big

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creature immediately turned its head toward it. Another whistle answered

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farther away. Without warning, both beings melted back into the trees,

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almost impossibly fast for their size. No crashing, no chaos,

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just gone. The woods fell silent again except for the rain.

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Caleb stood frozen for nearly ten minutes before finally backing

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down the ridge toward the ATV. Halfway down, his flashlight

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caught something pressed into the mud near the trail, a footprint,

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fresh water already pooling inside it, seventeen inches long, and

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beside it a dog collar. Dukes Caleb never hunted that

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ridge again, but every October, when the rain rolls in

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heavy across tug Hill and the fog settles low in

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the pines, he claims he still hears the knocks echoing

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through the darkness, one then two, then three, like something

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out there is still talking to the woods and waiting

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for an answer. And that brings us to the end

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of tonight's Sasquatch Saturday story. Now, whether you believe Bigfoot

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is an undiscovered species, a relic population hidden in the

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deep wilderness, something far stranger right, or simply one of

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the greatest mysteries of our time, one thing remains true.

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Thousands of people, tens of thousands of peoples from every

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walk of life continue to report encounters they can't explain. Hunters, soldiers,

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police officers, and hikers and everyday folks all tell remarkably

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similar stories. The question is not whether the mystery exists,

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the question is what is really behind it. If you

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enjoy stories like this, make sure you subscribe to Broadcasting

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Seeds podcasts. Every week we explore sasquatch encounters, cryptids, strange disappearances,

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biblical mysteries, the paranormal, hidden history, and the questions that

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keep curious minds awake long after the campfire burns out.

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You can find Broadcasting Seeds on YouTube, Spotify, Apple Podcasts,

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and at broadcasting seeds dot com. And if you'd like

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to support the show and dive deeper into the unseen

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world around us, check out well check out my books,

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the latest one of Sasquatch at the Edge, a cold,

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behavioral and spiritual study of the wild band phenomenon. It's

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available at Bennett tantonbooks dot com or on Amazon. Until

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next time, keep your eyes on the tree line, pay

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attention to what the woods are trying to tell you,

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and remember sometimes the greatest mysteries aren't hiding from us,

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They're waiting for us to notice them. Good Night and

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God bless.

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Ye Joe straight from the Project Studio.

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And then the static. This ain't no pet.

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Sound story such as prophetic, It crypt the signals from

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the saddles of the Dardif we dig where a trop

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got secret, snow parted like a phone, alchemist scriptures with

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a twist peak the frequency seeds in the midst we

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drop fas like plagues, revelations in the catus, broadcasting troof

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while they trapped in surveilans wisdom with a watchman's blade,

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forth what cell while your system faith blood moons, thath

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a love echoes in the pond sasquats talking through the

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fault lines of time. We ain't mainstream, we ain't extream

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safer with the prophets to code the dreams. So with

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you tune in better gods to mind is broadcasting seeds,

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and we're breaking the design. Yeh yeh yoo yo, straight

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from the broadcast

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Static