Kidnapped By Bigfoot

Albert Ostman Bigfoot Abduction: Six Days in the Valley of the Sasquatch

Some Bigfoot stories are just a flash of movement in the trees or a blurry figure on film. Albert Ostman’s account isn’t one of them. His tale barges into cryptid history with muddy boots, dumps its pack by the fire, and makes itself comfortable—because according to him, he spent nearly a week as an unwilling guest of a Sasquatch family in the remote mountains of British Columbia.

It was the summer of 1924, maybe 1925—Ostman himself wasn’t certain. A Swedish-born Canadian prospector, he was out chasing gold near Tofino with a rifle, enough supplies for a week, and zero interest in meeting eight-foot hairy landlords. The first few days were routine, except for a strange nighttime visitor helping itself to his food. He figured it was a bear.

Then came the night he woke inside his sleeping bag to the sound of deep, rhythmic breathing right above him. The ground seemed to sway beneath him, but it wasn’t the ground—it was him. Hoisted up, swaying against something massive, carried in a rocking, shoulder-borne rhythm that made his stomach turn. The smell was musky and sharp, like damp fur and crushed cedar. He couldn’t see a thing. For hours, he felt the crunch of pine needles underfoot that weren’t his own, until finally he was dropped onto soft moss. When he unzipped the bag, daylight hit him—and so did the sight of a family of four enormous, hair-covered beings staring right at him.

The male stood close to eight feet tall, with a barrel chest and thick arms. The female was shorter but still towering, her face more human than ape. Two juveniles hovered in the background, one male and one female, their curiosity winning out over caution now and then. They didn’t speak in words, but their grunts, whistles, and snorts had a pattern to them, like a language just out of reach.

The basin they’d brought him to was a natural enclosure—sheer rock walls, a fringe of evergreens, and a creek cutting through mossy ground. The family stayed close, watching him. The female often brought food: thick white roots, tangy berries, and a sweet-tasting grass they chewed before passing to him, the ends damp with their saliva. It was hardly fine dining, but it kept him alive. The juveniles sometimes played, mock-wrestling or tossing sticks, while the male would vanish into the woods and return with armfuls of vegetation or unknown forage.

Ostman kept his rifle near but made no sudden moves. He sensed they weren’t going to kill him—but they weren’t going to let him leave either. The walls of the basin were too steep to climb without being seen. Days passed in this uneasy rhythm, each one stretching longer as his mind worked over and over the same problem: how to get out.

On the sixth day, he saw his opening. The male’s curiosity about his belongings was constant, so Ostman offered something new—his chewing tobacco. The giant sniffed it, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it whole. Minutes later, the big male was doubled over, groaning in obvious distress. In that moment, Ostman grabbed his rifle and bolted, scrambling up the steepest part of the basin wall, branches snapping under his boots. He didn’t stop climbing until the trees and rock swallowed the valley behind him.

Skeptics point out the flaws: no photographs, no footprints, no proof. The escape-by-tobacco feels like the kind of flourish born from too many nights swapping stories by a campfire. And the thirty-year gap before he went public gives doubters plenty to work with. Yet, under every interview—some by relentless journalists, others by seasoned cryptid researchers—Ostman’s story never wavered. John Green, one of Canada’s most respected Sasquatch researchers, concluded that Ostman truly believed what he was saying.

So was it a hoax, a hallucination, or the truth? The only certainty is that this is no quick, forgettable “I saw something in the woods” story. It’s the image of a man, zipped into a sleeping bag, swaying high above the forest floor in the arms of something massive. It’s the feel of moss underfoot after six days of strange food, strange company, and watchful eyes. And it’s the sound of his own boots hammering against rock as he ran for his life, the smell of cedar and musk still chasing him long after the basin was out of sight.