Washington Timber Lot Game Cam, a 19-Inch Track, and a Dog That Never Came Back

Alleged event: an October night in 2024 on a timber lot in the Mount St. Helens foothills of southwest Washington (no exact day published). Public coverage: a Squatchable.com staff piece dated Sept. 1, 2026. This is a retrospective summary of that account.

Four frames at a salt lick. Then it came back. Then the dog ran.

That is the spine of the story Squatchable.com published on September 1, 2026, about an October night in 2024 on a timber lot in the Mount St. Helens foothills of southwest Washington.

The witness they name is Kabat Hargrove, 46, owner of 40 acres of second-growth and a spring-fed creek his grandfather bought in the 1950s. Hand-built cabin. Lodgepole and riverstone. Twelve game cameras. A man who, they say, has roughly 10,000 bear pictures and knows what a bruin looks like from every ugly angle.

When something walked into frame at the upper salt lick, he claims he knew it did not belong.

Monstrum Athenaeum has not independently verified Hargrove, the lot, the frames, or the dog. The exact calendar day in October 2024 was not published in the piece we reviewed. We are dating the file to that month because that is the best event date on the page.

What the camera allegedly caught

Frame one, according to Squatchable: figure at the far tree line, upright, deliberate, half-turned. Mostly shoulder and the side of a head. By frame four: empty lick. Empty trees.

It did not just pass through. They say it came back. Three nights in a row, each night closer to the cabin where Kabat and two friends — Dale and Jory — were sleeping. By the third night the distance had closed to nothing, and the three men were firing through the walls into the dark.

Read that again. If this is true, it is a night of terrified people discharging firearms through a cabin they could not see out of. If this is theater, it is theater that wants you to feel the muzzle flash. Either way, it is not a cute trail-cam story anymore.

We cannot tell you what they hit. The write-up does not say. It does not say they hit anything.

Nineteen inches, and hair at seven feet

The physical claims are why researchers will keep this one in the pile.

Kabat, they say, found a barefoot print in the soft ground at the edge of the lick, where a seep keeps the earth wet. Nineteen inches long. Five toes. Deep enough that whatever made it was carrying real weight. He put his size-12 boot next to it and it looked, in his telling, like a child's shoe. The stride between prints was a distance you would jump. Whatever made it, he says, covered it walking.

Then the hair. Snagged on the top strand of an old barbed-wire fence his grandfather had strung. Seven feet off the ground. Coarse. Long. Dark rust-brown going charcoal at the tips. Not deer. Not elk. Not bear. Not anything he could name.

Hair is a lab's problem, not a blog's. If it still exists, it should be in a bag with a chain of custody, not in a paragraph. Squatchable does not say it was typed. We will not pretend it was.

Ranger would not leave the cabin. Then Ranger left for good.

The dog's name, they say, was Ranger. A hunting shepherd. A hundred trips on that mountain. Feared nothing.

Night one: Ranger would not leave the cabin. Pressed into the corner farthest from the door. A low, continuous whine Kabat claims he had never heard from him.

By the second morning, Ranger bolted through the open door and down the logging road.

Kabat never saw him again.

That is the line that will travel. Dogs quitting a mountain is a folklore staple because it works on the nervous system. It is also what happens when a dog is spooked by a bear, a cougar, a drunk friend with a rifle, or a man who left a door open. A vanished dog is a wound. It is not a species ID.

The account says the dog ran away and was not seen again. It does not establish what happened to him.

Nine miles from Ape Canyon, a hundred years later

Standing over the print, Squatchable says, Kabat thought about the story every kid in the St. Helens shadow knows.

July 1924. Miners on a gold claim on the southeast slope. Tall, hairy figures throwing stones at the roof at night, reaching through the walls. The men abandoned their gear and left. Fred Beck wrote it down decades later. The place is called Ape Canyon because of what they said happened there.

That claim, in this telling, was maybe nine miles from where Kabat was standing. Same mountain. Same trees. A century apart.

Ape Canyon is one of the most chewed-on incidents in the file. Broad-shouldered ape-like figures. Rocks. A cabin under siege until dawn. It is also a story that has had a hundred years to grow barnacles. Parallel is not proof. Parallel is why southwest Washington never leaves the map.

1924 plus 2024 is a neat rhyme. Be suspicious of neat rhymes. Also be suspicious of a mountain that keeps offering the same silhouette.

How to hold this without getting played

What the secondary coverage actually gives us: a named timber-lot owner, a month, a four-frame lick sequence, a 19-inch print claim, fence hair at seven feet, a dog that ran, two friends, shots in the dark, and a video package that supposedly includes the trail-cam frames and the friends' phone clips.

What it does not give us: a day-of-month, a lab on the hair, a cast of the track, a sheriff's report on the shooting, or independently authenticated original recordings.

Possible mundane reads: a person circling a cabin to scare three men; a bear at the lick plus panic; a 19-inch slide that was not a foot; hair from a known animal at an overestimated height; a dog that ran from gunfire.

Possible non-mundane read: the same presence that pounded Ape Canyon in 1924 walked a grandson's salt lick in 2024, closed on the cabin across three nights, and ran a shepherd off the mountain.

We are filing both. We are baptizing neither.

If you go looking for that lot, you are the problem. Private timber, a cabin that already ate gunfire, and a mountain that does not owe you a cameo. A story is not a permit. If you are in danger, you call local authorities.

Bottom line

Kabat Hargrove says an October 2024 game-cam sequence, a 19-inch track, seven-foot fence hair, and a dog that never came home turned his St. Helens lot into a siege. Squatchable says the video is raw and firsthand.

Until the frames, the hair, and the print are in public with measurements a stranger can check, this is an unresolved Washington timber-lot claim with a loud 1924 echo. Watch the original package if you can authenticate it. Measure the boot in the photo, if there is a photo. And do not fire through a wall because a salt lick went quiet.

Monstrum Athenaeum will update this page if a cast or a hair analysis enters the record.

Sources

• Staff summary of Kabat Hargrove, the 2024 salt-lick frames, the 19-inch track, the fence hair, Ranger, and the cabin gunfire — Squatchable.com, Sept. 1, 2026, Bigfoot Captured on Game Camera at Washington Timber Lot. The coverage embeds Most TERRIFYING New CLEAR Bigfoot Footage Ever Reported by Midnight Terror Tales. We confirmed that source reference and its title, not the authenticity of the footage, narrator or encounter.
• 1924 Ape Canyon historical context (not proof of the 2024 claim) — Ape Canyon overview

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