Transcript
Kristen (0:00)
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Brian (0:15)
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Kristen (0:16)
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Brian (0:27)
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Kristen (0:32)
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Brian (0:35)
Run, you're a runner, however you choose to do it. Because when you're not worried about doing.
Kristen (0:42)
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Brian (0:52)
And that's what running's all about.
Kristen (0:54)
Run your way@newbalance.com Running Some scars tell stories of accidents. Others speak of battles fought and won. But what happens when the marks on your flesh become proof of something beyond human understanding? For one man in the Canadian wilderness, a chance encounter left him with mysterious scars that time can't erase. Because sometimes the most terrifying thing isn't that the unknown is out there. It's the evidence it leaves behind. Welcome to Sightings, the series that takes you inside the world's most mysterious supernatural events. Each week, we bring you a thrilling story that puts you at the center of the action, followed by a discussion that dives into the accounts that inspired the story and our takes on them. I'm McLeod.
Brian (1:53)
And I am Brian. And today we're diving into Canada's best documented UFO encounter, the incident at Falcon Lake.
Kristen (2:02)
When one man encounters an otherworldly craft in the wilderness, he doesn't simply end up with one incredible story. He bears the scars to prove it. Find out how on this episode of Sightings. My name is Stefan Michalak, and I never meant to become part of Canadian history. All I wanted that day in 1967 was to find some silver. Instead, I found something that nearly killed me and left me with brutal scars, both psychological and physical. I know a good bit about survival. I was born in Poland, where I spent the first half of my life watching my homeland crumble under the Nazi war machine. When they invaded, I worked as an intelligence officer, gathering what information I could about their movements, their plans. But they caught me. And my year and a half in Gross Rosen concentration camp taught me just how cruel humans can be to one another. I watched friends die, saw things no person should ever have to see. But I survived. When the war finally ended, I joined the American forces occupying Germany. I worked as a translator while they dismantled the camps, helping document the horrors we found there. The work was grim, but necessary. And When I finally got the chance to move my family to Canada in 1949, I took it without a second thought. It was a fresh start, far from the horrors I'd witnessed. Or that was the idea. Anyway. By 1967, I'd built what most would call a good life in Winnipeg. I had a home, a loving wife, three wonderful kids who'd never known the fear of air raid sirens or the gnawing pain of hunger. I worked as an industrial mechanic at a cement company. Honest work that let me use my hands and my mind. But my real hobby, passion even, was prospecting. There's something about rocks and minerals that's always fascinated me. Maybe it's their permanence in a world where everything else seems so fragile. Or maybe it was just being outside, in the freedom of the vast forests and mountains. That May, I decided to spend Victoria Day weekend prospecting near Falcon Lake. The area was part of the Canadian Shield, this massive plateau of ancient rock that I'd heard good things about. Local prospectors had been pulling interesting samples from the area, mostly silver with occasional traces of gold. So on May 19, I caught a Greyhound bus out there, watching the city fade into wilderness through the window. I checked into a small motel, spread my maps across the bed, and planned my route for the next day before turning in early. The morning of May 20 was clear and cool, perfect weather for hiking. I packed light my prospecting tools, a lunch, some water, and a small notebook for sketching any interesting geological formations I might find. I was in high spirits as I set out, feeling that familiar sense of anticipation. Maybe today would be the day I'd find something extraordinary. And you know what? I had no idea how right I was. By 9am I'd found my way to a promising clearing overlooking the lake. A huge quartz vein ran down the hillside, exactly the kind of formation that often held silver deposits. So I got out my pickaxe and goggles and set to work, carefully examining and sampling the crystalline rock. The familiar rhythm of the work soothed me. Check the rock face, swing the pick, examine the fresh surface, and, if I was lucky, find something valuable. The next few hours passed in peaceful concentration. As I worked my way along the vein. Birds called from the surrounding trees, chickadees and warblers mostly, with the occasional cry of a hawk riding the thermals high above. I was so focused on my work that I almost missed the first sign that something was wrong. The sound of geese taking flight behind me, honking frantically. And that sound. It was alarm and distress, pure and simple. So I dropped My pickaxe lifted my safety goggles and looked towards the lake. And what I saw there changed the rest of my life forever. Two shiny objects hovered over the water. Two flying saucers. I know how that sounds, but there's no other way to describe them. Each one about 30 to 40ft wide, oval shaped, with a raised bump in the center, like someone had placed a dome on top of a plate. As I watched, they started changing colors, Bright red to orange to gray, pulsing almost as if they were communicating through their colors. I was so mesmerized that it took me a moment to realize they weren't just hovering in place. They were descending, coming straight down toward me. I stood frozen, pickaxe forgotten in my hand as one of the objects paused directly overhead. It hung there for what felt like minutes, but was probably only seconds. Close enough that I could see that its surface was entirely smooth. Impossibly smooth. Then, without warning, it shot straight up and vanished into the sky, moving faster than any aircraft I'd ever seen. But the other one stayed, then landed on a flat rock about 150ft away from where I stood. It kept changing colors until it settled on a bright silver with this eerie purple light shining from the top. And in the silence of that clearing, I could hear a faint humming, like an electrical transformer coming from the craft. Then there was the smell. Sulfurous, like. Like rotten eggs mixed with burning metal. The odor made my eyes water, even from that distance. But even with the otherworldly sight before me, my first thought wasn't aliens. Working around machinery all my life, plus having a son in the Royal Canadian Air Force Youth program, I figured this had to be some kind of experimental aircraft. American, probably, given how advanced it looked. So I did what any curious mechanic would do. I started inching closer, trying to spot any familiar markings or insignia, but there was nothing there. No writing or flags or anything. I did see, though, that the craftsmanship was incredible, with the entire hull seeming to have been machined from a single piece of steel, completely seamless. Honestly, it reminded me of Mercury, the way it seemed to flow and shift in the sunlight. Then suddenly, a section of the craft's side seemed to dissolve away, creating an opening that flooded eerie purple light onto the rock below. And I stood there, frozen, until I started hearing voices. They sounded human. At least I think they did. But over the engine noise, I couldn't make out what they were saying, just that there were two of them, seemingly having a conversation. Their tone didn't sound alarmed or hurried. They sounded professional, methodical, like technicians Going through a checklist. So I called out, asking if they needed help. When no answer came, I tried again in Russian, Then German, Italian, French, Polish, Every language I knew. But no reply came. Looking back, I know I should have run, should have gotten as far from that thing as possible. But I'd survived a Nazi concentration camp. What was one strange aircraft. So I put my goggles back on, walked right up to the ship, and stuck my head into that purple opening. There were no pilots inside, no people at all. And the interior was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Beams of light crisscrossed in different directions. Others blinked on and off in strange patterns. It wasn't chaotic. There was a mathematical precision to it, a purpose I couldn't fathom. Banks of what might have been instruments lined the walls, but they bore no resemblance to any control panel I'd ever seen in an airplane. There were no gauges, no dials, Just these pulsing blinking lights arranged in intricate patterns. And it was all so intense, so bright, even through my goggles, that I had to jerk my head back outside. The moment I did, panels slid out of nowhere, sealing the opening as if it never existed. Now the craft appeared completely seamless again. But I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A section of metal covered in a checkered grid of circular holes, almost like some kind of exhaust port. The pattern was too precise to be random, arranged in perfect rows and columns. Possessed by an engineer's curiosity, I reached out to touch the hull. Near that strange pattern, the metal was blazing hot. I could feel it even through my heavy work glove. Before I could snatch my hand away, the entire craft rotated counterclockwise, tilting up toward the sky. The movement was completely silent, defying everything I knew about mechanics. Then came the pain. White hot agony as some kind of energy burst from those holes, hitting me square in the chest and stomach. The heat was so intense, my shirt caught fire immediately. I tore it off and dropped to the ground. But it was too late. I could already feel severe burns forming across my abdomen. Perfect circular shapes that matched the pattern of that exhaust port. And the pain. It wasn't like a normal burn. This felt like it was cooking me from the inside out. As I desperately tried to put out the flames, the craft lifted up and zoomed away into the sky. And the last thing I remember was that thing disappearing from view. And then the pain overwhelmed me and I passed out right there on that quartz covered hillside. This episode is brought to you by State Farm. You might say all kinds of stuff when things go wrong, but these are the words you really need to remember. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there. They've got options to fit your unique insurance needs, meaning you can talk to your agent to choose the coverage you need. Have coverage options to protect the things you value most, File a claim right on the State Farm mobile app, and even reach a real person when you need to talk to someone. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.