As preserved in the archives of Plymouth Colony, A.D. 1621

In the year of our Lord 1621, when the settlers of Plymouth Plantation had endured the harsh and unrelenting bite of their first winter, they found themselves in the throes of hunger and despair. The wilderness surrounding them was vast and unyielding, and though they had established cordial relations with the Wampanoag people, the settlers’ knowledge of survival in this new land remained sorely lacking. Yet it is in the annals of misfortune that Providence often weaves its most curious designs. For it was in those desperate days that the settlers encountered a being so wondrous and misunderstood that it would forever alter their fortunes—and, in time, their traditions.

The first sighting occurred at dusk. Elder Goodman Pettibone, a man not prone to fanciful tales, returned to the settlement trembling and ashen-faced. He claimed to have seen a towering figure in the forest, taller than two men stacked one atop the other, with fur like the bark of ancient trees and eyes that glowed amber in the fading light. Its gait was slow yet deliberate, and its presence exuded an uncanny blend of power and grace.

The settlers, already beset by fears of the unknown, assumed the worst. Surely this was no forest creature but a demon or vengeful spirit sent to torment them for their sins. Governor Bradford, invoking the wisdom of Solomon, convened a council to discuss the matter. It was decided that a militia would be formed to confront the beast and rid the colony of its perceived menace.

Armed with muskets and prayers, a group of twelve brave men ventured into the woods at dawn. They followed the enormous tracks—each footprint larger than a serving platter—until they came to a clearing where the creature stood. It was as Goodman Pettibone had described: immense and hairy, with limbs as thick as tree trunks. Yet as the settlers raised their weapons, preparing to fire, the creature did something wholly unexpected. It raised its hands—not in attack, but in a gesture that seemed almost… placating.

Confusion rippled through the group. “Hold your fire!” cried Myles Standish, for even he, a seasoned soldier, sensed that this was no mindless beast. The creature, seeing that it had averted violence, stepped closer and made a low, resonant sound—not a growl, but a kind of hum, as though it were attempting communication.

The settlers stood frozen, torn between fear and awe, until Squanto, their interpreter and guide, stepped forward. With an uncanny calm, Squanto approached the creature, mimicking its gestures and responding to its sounds. Over the course of what seemed like hours, a tentative understanding began to form. Squanto, marveling at what he later called a “spirit of the forest,” explained that the creature, whom the Wampanoag called Moshup, meant no harm. Indeed, it seemed curious about the settlers and their strange tools.

What followed was a season of unexpected kinship. The settlers, humbled by their earlier misjudgment, invited the creature—whom they named “Bigge Foot” for its prodigious tracks—to their village. Though wary at first, Bigge Foot soon proved himself a gentle giant. He demonstrated his prowess in the forest, showing the settlers how to track the wild turkey, a bird they had found elusive and infuriatingly cunning. With a mixture of guttural sounds and expressive gestures, he also introduced them to a tart red berry that grew in abundance nearby. Though the settlers initially found the fruit bitter, Bigge Foot revealed how to cook it with water and honey, creating a sauce that brightened even the humblest meal.

The settlers, in turn, shared their bread and hard cider with Bigge Foot, who seemed particularly enamored of the latter. It was not long before the creature’s visits became a regular occurrence, and his guidance transformed the settlers’ prospects. The colony thrived, their bellies filled and their spirits lifted by the newfound bounty of the land.

When autumn arrived and the harvest was gathered, Governor Bradford proposed a feast to give thanks—not only to the Almighty but also to their unexpected benefactor. The settlers prepared a grand meal, with roasted turkey, stewed cranberries, and other delicacies learned from their time with Bigge Foot. The Wampanoag were invited as honored guests, and though they regarded the settlers’ fascination with Moshup with mild amusement, they joined in the celebration nonetheless.

Bigge Foot, ever bashful, appeared at the edge of the clearing as the feast commenced. The settlers rose to greet him, cheering and waving him forward. A makeshift garland of autumn leaves was placed around his massive shoulders, and he was seated at the head of the table—a position of honor he accepted with a shy, rumbling laugh.

That day marked not only the colony’s first true Thanksgiving but also the beginning of a tradition that would endure for generations. Though time and retellings would strip the tale of its wilder details, leaving behind only vague notions of gratitude and fellowship, the settlers knew the truth. Thanksgiving was not merely a celebration of survival or harvest but a testament to the power of understanding, the folly of fear, and the wisdom of learning from those who walk a different path—even if that path is marked by footprints larger than any man’s.

Thus concludes this humble account, penned by Nathaniel Quill, clerk of Plymouth Colony, in the hope that future generations might remember the true origins of Thanksgiving and the gentle giant who taught us the ways of the forest.

May God bless Bigge Foot and all those who feast in fellowship.