I'm a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, and my father and my grandfather always told me never to run from trouble.

That's why when my father saw a big foot through his night scope, and he told me to stay out of the woods,

I sat myself down by the fire and I waited for it to come to camp and introduce itself.

Now here's my story.

In 1986, I went hunting with my father in Nevada to a place called White House Reservoir.

We drove our camper trailer there on an ice day when the weather was pleasant and not too

cold.

We always cooked out in the area where we were going to hunt.

We built a healthy log fire and enjoyed the area.

Everything was going fine until about 2.30 in the morning when the

dog started going crazy. I went outside and poked around the remains of our fire to see if maybe

an animal had come into our camp, and I couldn't see anything, but I smell something awful.

I mean, it's stank. And this dog, who would normally jump outside at any chance,

wouldn't come close to the door.

The only way to get him outside at that point

was to push his butt out the door,

but then he just ran underneath the trailer,

and he came up through the floorboards.

That's when I knew something was wrong.

I could hear something moving around close to our camp, but in the darkness surrounding

the campfire, I couldn't see anything.

I called to my father inside the trailer and I asked him to get his night scope out,

...