I was born in Roanoke, Virginia, but when I was around 11 or 12 years old, sometime in 1978, my family had a small weekend cabin on the Bedford side of Smith Mountain Lake. Our cabin sat on a quiet cove—lake to the left, forest and open land to the right.
One hot July afternoon, after swimming, I decided to walk up the dirt road to see if friends across the cove were around. They weren’t home, so I headed back. The lake stretched out on my left, while the wooded area pressed close on my right.
That’s when I saw it.
Crouched behind a pine tree, in the shadows, was a dark figure. At first, I thought it was a bear—but it was too upright, too still. Its hair was dark, almost black, shaggy but not overly long. The creature was clearly on two legs, in a crouched position, broad-shouldered and massive.
I only saw its back and never caught sight of its head, but I knew it wasn’t a cow or any animal I was familiar with. The wind was at my back, so I caught no scent. But I felt watched.
Panic set in, and I sprinted home to tell my dad. His only words were a stern warning: “Stay out of the woods and close to the house.”
By the next day, the figure was gone. Whatever I saw wasn’t a tree, and it wasn’t my imagination. To this day, I’m convinced I crossed paths with Bigfoot at Smith Mountain Lake.
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