I would say the most life threatening experience I ever
faced occurred during a solo camping trip in late June of
2012. For those of you who don't
remember or weren't in West Virginia at the time, the region
experiences intense summer storms every few years, known
locally as derechos. I'm not great at explaining
these things, so here's a definition from weather.gov.
A derecho is a widespread, long lived windstorm associated with
a band of rapidly moving showers or thunderstorms.
Although a derecho can produce destruction similar to that of
tornadoes, the damage is typically directed in One
Direction along a relatively straight swath.
By definition, if the wind includes gusts of at least 58
mph along most of its length, then the event may be classified
as a derecho. Considering that the mildest
hurricanes have wind speeds of about 70 mph, a derecho is
somewhat akin to a baby hurricane.
While they can be dangerous, most people view them as more of
an annoyance. However, imagine solo camping in
the middle of West Virginia, watching the skies darken and
realizing the wind is strong enough to uproot dead or dying
trees. You can start to understand why
I was so frightened. Luckily, as I searched for a
safe place to camp that night, I stumbled upon a man made
shelter. It was really no more than a
single walled concrete pavilion which did little to shield me
from the wind and rain. However, in the event of a
falling tree, it could mean the difference between life and
death. Unfortunately, and very
unfortunately for me, I wasn't the only creature in the forest
seeking refuge. About an hour before sundown,
with the wind still howling through the trees, I heard the
heavy thumping of something running towards the shelter.
Initially, I couldn't see what it was, nor could I hear it
clearly due to the wind and the shelter's position.
A moment later, I was barely on my feet when a black bear came
hurtling around the corner of the shelter.
The storm had terrified it, which was very bad news for me.
My initial reaction was to roar and wave my arms around, trying
to appear more intimidating than the storm.
Easier said than done. The bear saw me, jumped back in
fright, and appeared to continue in the direction it was
initially heading. However, it merely looped around
the blind side of the shelter and came tearing back around the
same side it had first seen. Essentially, it ran in a rough
circle. I repeated my previous actions,
jumping up and down and screaming like a madman until it
ran off again. Yet it looped back around, each
time getting closer. After several more loops, I
could hear its claws clacking on the concrete just a few feet in
front of me, and the huffs and puffs of anger and confusion it
made were equally terrifying. It was getting closer with each
loop. Eventually I had to back off to
avoid coming within clawing distance.
The more I backed off, the more ground I gave it, until suddenly
it darted into the shelter and took a swipe at me before
backing off for another loop. At that point I grabbed my
backpack to use as an improvised shield for the next time it
attacked, holding it by the straps.
It was still pretty heavy with most of my gear in it.
I plan to use it like a battering ram.
My heart was pounding as it came around for another pass.
When it did, it seemed poised to dash into the shelter again, but
the sight of me holding my pack in a defensive posture gave it
enough of a scare to back off altogether.
It roared a little, did a kind of 360 as if wondering what the
hell was happening, and then ran off in the direction from which
it had come. The sensible thing to do then
would have been to leave the shelter, since the bear was
likely to return. But where was I to go?
Every second I was out in those woods without any sort of
shelter, I risked being crushed by a falling tree.
Yet every minute I stayed in the shelter, I risked a bear attack.
If something happened to me in the woods that prevented me from
walking or running, the bear might catch up and inflict
serious damage. However, if I stayed in the
shelter and used the same tactic of using my backpack as a
shield, I might withstand another bear attack.
It might seem crazy to some, but I was fairly confident the bear
wouldn't come back. I was absolutely certain,
however, that at least a handful of trees would be uprooted by
the wind and crashed down on the forest floor, and there was no
way to scare one of those off by waving my pack around.
That's why I opted to stay in the shelter, even though it
meant a sleepless and thoroughly terrifying night in the storm.
One summer, my family and I decided that camping would help
us bond. Since my dad worked alone and
couldn't spend much time with me and my siblings, we chose
Tennessee for our destination. It was a crisp fall day when we
rented an old campsite next to a river, complete with pedal boats
docked at a small pier and plentiful fishing, my dad's
favorite pastime. This spot was particularly
important to him. On the other hand, my siblings
disliked the outdoors and were constantly glued to their phones
and tablets. Unlike them, I relished
exploring the woods, sketching animals that were still long
enough for me to draw. I planned to paint these
sketches later when I returned home.
We set up several tents my youngest sibling would share
with my brother while my parents had their own.
At 17 and already working, I could afford my own tent.
That night we all slept soundly in the tents and woke up early
the next morning. My dad went fishing and my mom
and I decided to hike. My siblings chose a different
trail so it was just the two of us.
About a mile in, we stopped to eat lunch, just two sandwiches,
and finished in about 12 minutes before hiking again.
The birds chirped and various insects buzzed around us.
However, at a certain point, the forest grew ominously quiet,
even though it was still early. My mom raised an eyebrow in
concern and checked her phone, which was dead.
Not a surprise since she often forgot to charge it.
Oddly, my phone was also dead. Despite this, we continued on
the trail, but an eerie feeling of being watched or followed
crept over us. My mom was spooked and wanted to
return to camp, but I convinced her it was probably just a storm
brewing, so we hiked for another two hours until we reached a
breathtaking waterfall. Even in the dim light, the sight
was stunning. A few deer drinking from the
river below the falls briefly lifted our spirits until the air
turned chilly, prompting our departure.
On our way back, about two hours down the trail, my mom stopped
suddenly. Did you hear that?
She asked. It sounded like a dog.
As animal lovers, we couldn't bear the thought of leaving it
out there, so we began calling here Doggy.
My mom yelled and I joined in. All we found was a collar on the
ground. As I called out again, a large,
imposing dog burst from the bushes.
I stumbled backwards, praying not to frighten it into
aggression. Fortunately, it just sat there,
looking at us blankly. My mom approached and gently
reached out to it. It sniffed her hand and wagged
its tail. Looking at the torn collar, she
asked. Is this yours boy?
The dog appeared sick and skinny, so we did what any
sensible person would do. We took it back with us and it
stayed for the remainder of our trip.
Dad even agreed to keep it at the vet.
We learned it was a mix of Great Dane and Husky.
Besides being underweight, it was healthy with no parasites.
A relief to us all. We took it home and for a few
days everything was fine, but I noticed it becoming overly
attached to me, following me like a lost puppy, which I
suppose it was. It soon began to snap at people
becoming aggressively protective of me.
It got so bad that we had to enroll it in a training program,
but it eventually improved. While still very protective, I
didn't mind. It made me feel safe.
However, leaving it for school was hard.
My mom said it would become territorial over my room, not
letting anyone in and refusing to leave.
What was odd was that even after four months, it never left my
side. It hardly ate or went to the
bathroom on its own and would often just stare at me, as if
trying to communicate the emotional trauma it had endured.
It pained me because I loved him, but it was heartbreaking.
One night, there was a break in while I was home alone.
My parents were away that night. I discovered the name.
I would call him Killer. His eyes had a deep menacing
look as he protected me like a German Shepherd would its
handler. The intruder ended up in the
hospital. We later found out he was a
single father working two jobs to support 4 kids, so we chose
not to call the police. Killer would have attacked the
man if I hadn't ordered him to stop.
When he released the man, his eyes almost appeared red.
If he weren't my dog, I might have thought he was something
else entirely. But I know he loves me.
Even if I suspect he might be a hellhound of sorts, At least
he's chosen to protect me. We've been in Arkansas for three
days when it happened. Ellie and I had picked a remote
spot by the lake, figuring the seclusion would be good for us.
She was flipping burgers on the grill and I was stocking the
fire, enjoying the calm before the mosquitoes decided to join
us. The evening was shaping up
nicely, with a warm breeze stirring the air, the kind of
summer night that made you wish you could freeze time.
Then came the yelling. At first it was faint, like a
bad memory trying to surface, but it got louder, more
desperate. I looked at Ellie and without
saying a word, we knew we had to check it out.
We followed the sound, hearts hammering in our chests as we
rounded a bend and saw him. A guy in his 40s by the looks of
it, slumped against a picnic table, his face ashen.
The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, and a gutting
knife lay by his side. From the looks of the wound
across his belly, he'd had a real bad accident.
Help me, please. He gasped as we approached.
His voice was weak, strained through the pain.
Ellie stayed calm, more composed than I'd ever seen her.
Lay him down. She instructed.
I did as she said, gently easing him onto the ground.
She grabbed a towel from our pack and pressed it hard against
his stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood.
I need to call for help. I said, pulling out my phone
only to see no service. Panic set in for a moment, but
Ellie was already thinking a step ahead.
Ask him where his keys are. We need to drive him to the
hospital. His hand trembled as he pointed
towards a nearby Bush in my jacket pocket.
He stammered. I sprinted over, grabbed the
keys and we managed to haul him into the back of his truck.
Ellie insisted I drive. Normally she'd take the wheel.
She loved driving more than I did.
But tonight was different. Blood made her queasy.
She'd fainted once just from cutting her finger while
chopping vegetables. As I turned the ignition, I
glanced back at Ellie. She was pale, her lips pressed
tightly together. She was scared, sure, but there
was a determination in her eyes I hadn't seen before.
You OK? I asked as we started down the
dirt Rd. Just drive.
She said, keeping her gaze fixed on the man, applying pressure to
his wound. If I look away, I'll think about
it too much. The drive was a blur, trees and
shadows melded into the darkness as I pushed the truck as fast as
it would go on the winding forest roads.
Every bump made my heart skip, worrying it might jostle the
makeshift bandage loose. Ellie didn't say much, just gave
directions and kept her hand steady.
The fear of what might happen if we didn't make it in time hung
in the air, thick and unspoken. But beneath that fear was
something else, a thread of strength that connected us,
pulled taut by the crisis. When we finally saw the lights
of the hospital, relief washed over me like rain.
We'd done everything we could, and now it was up to the
doctors. As we pulled up, Ellie finally
looked at me, her eyes glossy with unshed tears.
We made it. She whispered, and I knew she
wasn't just talking about the hospital.
The wheels of the truck crunched against the gravel of the
emergency room drop off. As I slammed the vehicle to a
stop, the hospital doors burst open with medical staff ready
with a stretcher. We'd made it, but just barely.
Hang on, helps here, I said to the man, though I wasn't sure he
could hear me anymore. His breathing was shallow, his
face pale and slick with sweat. Ellie didn't wait for the
nurses. She helped lift him, her hands
firm and sure, guiding his limp body onto the stretcher.
He's lost a lot of blood. She explained quickly to the
nurse who had started firing questions at us as they wheeled
him inside. Ellie followed, her steps
faltering just a bit as she crossed the threshold into the
bright fluorescent light of the hospital.
I caught up to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
You did good. I murmured, though it felt like
an understatement. She done more than good.
She'd held it together when every instinct she had must have
been screaming for her to get away from the blood, the risk,
the responsibility. She nodded, her eyes tracking
the stretcher until it disappeared behind a set of
swinging doors. Let's hope it was enough.
She said quietly. We walked back to the truck,
neither of us ready to leave just yet.
Not until we knew he was going to make it.
The adrenaline that had fueled us on the drive here was ebbing
now, leaving behind a bone deep exhaustion and a stark
realization of just how badly things could have ended.
Sitting on the hood of the truck, we watched the sunrise,
painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
It was beautiful, but the serenity of the dawn felt at
odds with the night we just lived through.
Ellie's hand found mine, her grip tight.
I was so scared, she admitted. Not just of the blood of making
a mistake, of crashing the car, of not doing enough.
You were amazing. I said, squeezing her hand.
You saved his life, Ellie. You did everything right.
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
We did it together. It was a while later when a
doctor finally came out to speak with us.
The man was stable, expected to recover.
Relief washed over me and I could feel Ellie relax beside
me. We drove back to the campsite in
silence, the earlier panic replaced by a deep, satisfying
exhaustion. When we arrived, the man's dog,
a big, friendly Labrador, came bounding up to us.
We'd almost forgotten about him. He nudged Ellie with his nose
and she laughed, a sound so light and free it made my heart
ache a little. We spent the rest of the day
trying to find normal again. We went for a walk, played fetch
with the dog and talked about everything but what had
happened. It wasn't until the man's
brother arrived to pick up his things and his dog that the
reality of the night came crashing back.
He hugged us both, his eyes wet with tears.
Thank you, he kept saying. You save my brother's life.
It was a moment of pure, raw humanity.
Gratitude, relief, the bond of shared crisis.
It marked us, changed us in ways I'm still trying to understand.
As he drove away, Ellie looked at me, a new resolve in her
gaze. We did good, didn't we?
Yeah, I replied, feeling the weight of the night lift just a
bit. We did good.
I've always felt at home in the wild.
The sounds of distant wildlife, the rustle of leaves under foot
and the crisp, fresh air. It's where I feel most alive.
I live in Kelowna, BC, just a stone's throw from the mountains
that have become like a second home to me.
Today, like many days before, I was prepping for a solo trip
into those familiar woods. Winter had laid a thick blanket
of snow over the landscape, turning the rugged terrain into
a white paradise. I plan to do some fishing and
camping, a perfect way to spend the weekend away from the bustle
of everyday life. Before heading out, I packed my
old trusty truck with the essentials, fishing gear, a
tent, sleeping bag, and enough food to last me a couple of
days. I've always had this habit of
leaving my keys in the ignition. My truck was more than just a
vehicle, it was a part of my wilderness adventures, and up
here I never worried about anyone taking it.
There's a sort of unspoken trust among those few who venture out
this far. The drive to my favorite spot
wasn't long, about 30 minutes or so.
As I drove, I watched the city slowly disappear behind me,
replaced by towering trees and untouched snow.
Pulling off the main road, I followed a narrow snow covered
trail that led to a familiar clearing.
It had the best view, a sweeping Vista overlooking the city
below, now just a cluster of tiny lights.
I stepped out into the cold, taking a deep breath of the icy
air, feeling it sting my lungs in a strangely comforting way.
Setting up camp was second nature to me.
I unfolded my tent and set it up with practiced ease.
The ground was hard and frozen, but I managed to secure it
firmly. Next, I gathered some wood for a
fire. Even with gloves on, my fingers
felt numb As I arranged the logs in a neat pile and struck a
match. The fire crackled to life, its
warm glow a stark contrast against the encroaching
darkness. I turned off my bright
flashlight, letting the firelight cast dancing shadows
around the clearing. With the city lights twinkling
in the distance and the stars beginning to peek out from the
sky, the scene was almost magical.
I pulled out my old radio, a companion on many such trips,
and tuned into a station playing classic country music.
The familiar tunes floated through the air, mixing with the
sound of the crackling fire. I found myself humming along,
lost in the tranquillity of it all.
It was these moments I cherish the most, away from the noise
and rush of daily life, where I could just be.
Here in the wilderness, I was free from worries and schedules.
Time seemed to slow down, and for a while I could forget the
world beyond the mountains. As the night deepened, I lay
back in my chair, staring up at the vast star filled sky,
feeling a profound peace settle over me.
This was more than just a getaway, it was a return to
something ancient and elemental within me.
Here, surrounded by the vastness of nature, I felt small yet
infinitely connected to the world around me.
Little did I know, the night was about to take a turn that would
challenge everything I thought I knew about these woods I called
home. The fire had dwindled to glowing
embers, and the chill of the night began to seep through my
jacket. I added a few more logs to the
fire, coaxing the flames back to life.
The crackle of the fire and the soft music from the radio were
the only sounds in the quiet of the mountain.
I felt completely at ease, my mind wandering freely as I sat
there, lost in the rhythm of the music and the mesmerizing dance
of the flames. A sudden chill that wasn't from
the cold night air swept over me.
My neck hairs prickled and an uneasy feeling settled in my
stomach. I paused, turning down the
music, straining my ears against the silence of the night.
The usual night sound seemed to have hushed, as if the forest
itself was holding its breath. I tried to shake off the
feeling, telling myself it was nothing.
Maybe the isolation was finally getting to me.
But then out of the corner of my eye I saw it.
At first I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but when I
turned my head there was no denying what was in front of me.
Two glowing blood red eyes peered at me from about 100
yards away in the darkness. They were unlike anything I had
ever seen in these woods. My heart pounded in my chest as
a wave of dread washed over me. This wasn't a bear, a cougar, or
any of the usual suspects. This was something different,
something wrong. I fumble for my flashlight, my
hands shaking when the beam of light cut through the darkness.
The eyes disappeared, leaving me to wonder if I had imagined
them, but the heavy feeling of being watched persisted.
Instinct kicked in. I grabbed my keys, pressing the
panic button to trigger the alarm on my truck.
The loud beeping echoed through the stillness, and I used the
sound to guide me. As I hastily packed up my
essentials, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever those eyes
belonged to was still out there, watching.
With my axe in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I made
a break for my truck. The beam of my flashlights swept
from side to side, piercing the darkness.
Every little sound made me jump, every shadow a potential hiding
spot for whatever had been watching me.
The forest, once a place of peace, now felt like a maze of
threats. I reached my truck, the panic
alarm still blaring. I threw my gear into the back
and jumped into the driver seat, locking the doors behind me.
My hands trembled as I turned the key in the ignition, the
engine coming to life with a roar.
I didn't look back as I drove down the mountain, the sense of
dread clinging to me like a cold shadow.
When I finally got home, the safety of four solid walls
around me did little to ease my rattled nerves.
I lay in bed, replaying the night over in my mind, trying to
make sense of what I had seen. The image of those haunting red
eyes burned into my memory. The next morning, my curiosity
got the better of my fear. I drove back to the mountain, to
the spot where I had seen the eyes.
I searched the area for any sign of what I had encountered.
Tracks, broken branches, anything.
But there was nothing. The forest offered no clues,
only the echoing silence of unanswered questions.
As I stood there, I knew one thing for sure.
I wouldn't be coming back here at night again.
Whatever mystery those red eyes held, it was one I was content
to leave unsolved. Jack sat at his small kitchen
table, the dim light from the bulb above casting long shadows
across the room. The bright light from his laptop
screen hurt his tired eyes as he scrolled through the endless
pages of the essay he was struggling to finish before the
deadline. The cursor blinked persistently,
a stark reminder of his lack of punctuality.
Jack's hand moved through his dishevelled hair, suppressing a
yawn. Concurrently, pursuing 2
master's degrees while managing a demanding workload and
maintaining a semblance of personal life had left him
feeling frayed and exhausted. The daily routine was taking its
toll, and he longed for something to rekindle the
enthusiasm he once held for his academic pursuits.
Sighing, Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over
his head. He glanced around the cluttered
kitchen littered with coffee mugs and half eaten meals piled
high in the sink. As he refocused on his laptop
screen, an unexpected pop up ad caught his attention.
Vibrant images of lush forests and rugged mountains filled the
small window, accompanied by bold text.
Explore the untouched wilderness of Oregon.
Guided hikes through state parks available now.
Jack's heart skipped a beat. The thought of escaping his
monotonous routine for the serene beauty of Oregon's
wilderness seemed too good to be true.
He could practically smell the fresh pine air, feel the crunch
of leaves under his boots, and hear the calls of wildlife
echoing through the trees. It was a chance for him to take
the day to slow down, to unwind and enjoy the beauty of Mother
Nature. The following morning, Jack
awoke with a renewed sense of determination.
As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds of
his apartment, illuminating the cluttered kitchen, he reflected
on the previous night's research.
Although guided by enthusiasm rather than comprehensive
knowledge, he diligently packed the necessary supplies for his
upcoming hiking expedition. A couple of changes of clothes,
a flashlight with almost dead batteries, a Swiss Army knife
his dad had given him years ago, and a large bag of trail mix he
hoped would suffice for sustenance.
He threw in a water bottle and a first aid kit he found buried in
a drawer, its contents mostly expired.
All right, Max. Jack called out to his little
Jack Russell terrier, who had been watching him with curious
eyes from the comfort of his dog bed.
Time for an adventure. Max bounded up eagerly, his tail
wagging furiously as Jack attached his leash.
We're going hiking, buddy. Jack said with a grin scratching
behind Max's ears. You're going to love it.
With the backpack slung over one shoulder and Max happily
trotting beside him, Jack locked the door to his apartment behind
him and headed towards the parking lot where his beat up
old sedan was waiting. Loading his gear into the trunk,
Jack couldn't suppress the surge of excitement bubbling inside
him. This spontaneous decision felt
like a breath of fresh air compared to the suffocating
routine he had grown accustomed to.
As he drove, Jack couldn't help but feel a mix of nervousness
and exhilaration. He glanced over at Max, who was
sitting proudly in the passenger seat with his head out the
window, tongue lolling happily in the breeze.
The road stretched out before them, winding through rolling
hills and dense forests. Jack's mind raced with thoughts
of the adventure ahead, the mysteries waiting to be
uncovered in Oregon's untouched wilderness.
Jack and Max arrived at the trailhead just after noon, the
sun hanging high in the sky and casting waves of heat down onto
the lush green forest below. Jack parked his car in the
crowded lot, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation.
He glanced at Max, who was already eager to explore,
bouncing on his paws as Jack opened the car door.
All right, Max, let's go see what we can find.
Jack said, grabbing his backpack and making sure Max's leash was
secure. The parking lot buzzed with
activity, hikers and families preparing for their own
adventures, but Jack was focused on the tree line ahead, eager to
escape into the solitude of the woods.
As they approach the edge of the woodland, a large wooden sign
displaying a detailed map of the available trails came into view.
The sign used a color-coded system, with each trail
designated by a different color. Jack meticulously studied the
map, trying to understand the intricacies of the various
routes. Although the specific meaning of
the colors escaped him, he guessed that they probably
indicated varying degrees of difficulty.
Jack traced his finger along a black trail which seemed to loop
deep into the forest before circling back.
This one looks interesting. He said to Max, who barked in
agreement. Without giving it much more
thought, Jack set off down the trail, eager for the adventure.
The trail started out wide and well trodden, winding gently
through the trees. The sounds of the parking lot
quickly faded away, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the
occasional chirp of a bird. Jack took a deep breath,
savouring the fresh, pine scented air.
This was exactly what he had been craving, a break from the
suffocating routine of his daily life.
As they venture deeper, the trail began to narrow, the
terrain becoming more rugged. Rocks and roots jutted out from
the ground, making the path uneven and difficult to
navigate. Jack stumbled a few times,
cursing under his breath, but his determination didn't waver.
Max, on the other hand, seemed to thrive in the challenging
environment, darting ahead and sniffing at everything with
boundless energy. A few hours had passed since
Jack and Max had set off on the trail.
The once wide and well trodden path had completely disappeared,
swallowed by a tangled mess of roots, rocks, and dense shrubs.
Jack's initial enthusiasm had given way to a growing sense of
unease. His water bottle was almost
empty, and his muscles ached from the relentless hiking.
Come on, Max, Jack muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
We have to find a marker or something, we can't be that far
off track. Max, sensing Jack's anxiety,
stayed closer than usual. His ears perked and eyes darting
around nervously. The forest, which had seemed so
inviting and serene earlier, now felt oppressive and alien.
The shadows lengthened as the afternoon wore on, and the air
grew cooler, bringing with it an eerie silence.
Jack pushed forward, his eyes scanning desperately for any
sign of the trail. Every direction looked the same,
and the forest seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions.
He stumbled again, this time catching his foot on an exposed
route and crashing to the ground.
Max barked, rushing over to his side.
Damn it. Jack cursed, pulling himself up
and brushing dirt off his clothes.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic building
in his chest. He tried to remember the map he
had seen at the trailhead, but it was a blur in his mind.
Jack pressed on, his steps growing slower and more
cautious. The underbrush was thick, and he
had to push branches aside to forge a path.
The deeper they went, the darker and more claustrophobic the
forest became. Jack glanced at the sky through
the dense canopy, noting the sun's rapid descent.
The threat of darkness was closing in, and with it came a
growing sense of dread. Damn it.
The voice came, warped and distorted, as if the forest
itself was trying to mimic him. Jack's blood ran cold.
He stopped dead in his tracks, straining to listen.
Damn it, the voice echoed again, warbled and wrong, sending
chills down his spine. Max, sensing the danger,
suddenly bolted, disappearing into the thick underbrush with a
frightened Yelp. Max, Max, come back.
Jack shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the oppressive
silence. Panic surged through him as he
realized he was now completely alone.
He stumbled forward, trying to follow the sound of Max's
frantic barking, but it quickly faded into the distance.
Max, come back. The voice mocked, closer and
more insistent. Jack's heart pounded in his
chest as he spun around, desperately trying to pinpoint
its source. The forest seemed to twist and
contort around him, every tree looking the same, every shadow
hiding potential threats. Stay calm, Jack muttered to
himself, his voice trembling. Just stay calm.
He took a deep breath and tried to focus.
He had to find Max and get out of these woods before nightfall.
Jack's flashlight flickered weakly as he trudged forward,
casting eerie, dancing shadows on the trees.
Max. Jack called, his voice swallowed
by the forest. The nod of anxiety that had
formed in Jack's stomach tightened as the battery to his
flashlight flickered several times before giving out,
plunging him Into Darkness. Max.
The voice echoed, unnervingly close.
Jack's breath hitched. He turned in circles, trying to
catch any sign of movement, any hint of where the voice was
coming from. The forest was now a maze of
shadows, each one hiding potential danger.
Who's there? Jack shouted, his voice breaking
with fear. What do you want?
Silence, Then a low, guttural laugh echoed through the trees,
sending shivers down Jack's spine.
He backed away, his eyes wide, straining to see anything in the
encroaching darkness. The laughter chased him deeper
into the forest. Jack turned and ran, ignoring
the branches that whipped at his face and the roots that tried to
trip him. He had to find Max.
He had to get out of these woods.
But as he ran, the forest grew darker, the trail more
indistinguishable. Jack's footsteps echoed in the
silence, each one a reminder of how alone he was.
His heart pounded in his ears, his breath coming in desperate
gasps. Suddenly, he stumbled into a
small clearing, the last light of the setting sun casting a dim
glow over the area. Jack collapsed to his knees,
panting heavily. He looked around, hoping to see
Max, but the clearing was empty. Max.
He whispered, his voice breaking.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized the full extent of
his situation. He was lost, alone and being
hunted by something that could mimic his own voice.
Jack. The voice came again, softer
now, almost a whisper. Jack looked up, his vision
blurred with tears, and saw a figure standing at the edge of
the clearing. It was tall and emaciated, it's
pale flesh almost glowing in the fading light.
Hollow black eyes stared back at him, and a twisted smile played
on its lips. Jack backed away, his mind
racing for a plan, any plan. But the forest had turned into a
labyrinth, and every path seemed to lead deeper Into Darkness.
He knew he couldn't outrun the creature, but he had to try.
Gathering the last of his strength, Jack turned and bolted
into the woods, the creatures laughter echoing behind him.
He ran blindly, branches slashing at his face, roots
tangling his feet. The forest seemed to close in
around him, and Jack knew he was running out of time.
Jack stumbled, falling to the ground.
He scrambled to his feet, but it was too late.
The creature loomed over him, its hollow eyes boring into his
soul. Jack's scream echoed through the
forest, but there was no one to hear it.
A few years back I decided to go camping with about 10 other
friends at Snivelly Hot Springs in Eastern Oregon on Friday the
13th, which also just so happened to be a full moon.
The drive out there took a little over an hour, and since I
had work the next day, I decided I wasn't going to drink much so
I wouldn't be hungover in the morning.
We arrived, set up camp in a nice spot away from the majority
of other campers and then started cracking open the beers.
After that we took a dip in the nearby springs and then after
sundown we went on a night walk to enjoy the mountains
illuminated by the full moon and the stars.
It was really dark at this point and people dipped out so only a
few of us ended up actually going on this night walk.
Side note, the three of us that went had all been micro dosing
mushrooms pretty much the majority of the night.
Things were slightly trippy but I don't like to get super gonky
and unaware of my surroundings. So it's the four of us, myself,
two friends and one of my friends dogs.
We were walking uphill for about 10 minutes, flashlights lighting
the way before us, when we suddenly took a right onto a
trail. We didn't even make it 3 minutes
before hearing some very loud and very close rustling in front
of us. We stopped in our tracks and my
friend in the front of the line started scanning the area with
his flashlight. Have you ever seen a big cat's
eyes in the dark? The way they glow is chilling,
especially when the cat is bigger than you.
So when I tell you I have never been so scared in my life, I
mean it with all my heart and soul.
We were face to face with a big old Mountain Lion.
It was not more than a few yards in front of us.
An instinct kicked in for all of us as we just backed away
slowly. My friend's dog on the other
hand, had an instinct of its own and ran off to the right of us
into the woods. But the Mountain Lion didn't
cash in on her. It kept those glowing eyes glued
directly on us. We continued to back away until
we couldn't back away anymore, and sure enough, we saw the dog
right next to us. In which case, what had we heard
running up behind us? We shine the flashlight and holy
crap, another freaking Mountain Lion.
Only this one, we figured was her baby.
On the other side of the fence was someone else's campsite, and
we had no choice but to turn around and jump it.
We got the dog over first and then jumped it, ripping all of
our clothing in the process, with my friend cutting his leg
pretty badly. So we're in someone else's
campsite on Friday the 13th, under a full moon in the
mountains, tripping on some shrooms, completely lost.
We didn't know where the people were, but we didn't care.
We got into their unlocked car and honked the horn for about a
minute to scare off the Cougars. We made sure to clearly yell and
let anybody around us know that we weren't robbers and that
there were Cougars close by. We got out after a couple of
minutes and we're pretty weirded out that nobody came out to
check on their campsite. My friend swore that she could
hear someone screaming or trying to scream, but her boyfriend
insisted that we needed to leave the campsite.
Part of me believed her though. I didn't hear any noises but I
was also ready to just GTFO away from that area.
We found the exit of their campsite and on the way back to
ours I said my final prayers and I'm not even religious.
We got back to camp and every rustling noise around me had me
convinced that we were being stalked by these Cougars.
I had a full-fledged panic attack in the car for about an
hour and was absolutely covered in knots because of the sunroof
being cracked. Everyone else was having fun
around the campfire, even the other two who had just gone
through the same experience I had.
I was hungover as all hell the next morning, no showed my job
and got fired when I got back into town, which sucked, but I
didn't give a single FI, was just happy to be alive.
The drive to Lake Umbagog was a silent agreement between me and
Rob that we needed this trip more than we cared to admit.
The past few months had been a grind, the kind that wears you
down to a nub. Rob had his struggles at the
office, and I, well, I had my own battles with the new
management at the plant. This trip, a retreat into the
wilderness of Maine and New Hampshire, was not just about
fishing. It was about breathing again,
without the chokehold of daily life.
We arrived late in the afternoon, our truck growling
softly as we pulled up to the cabin we'd rented for the
weekend. It was a sturdy little thing,
hugged on all sides by trees that were just starting to turn,
a riot of oranges and yellows against the deep greens of the
Pines. Rob hopped out and stretched,
his face splitting into a grin. This is perfect, he declared,
and I couldn't have agreed more. The cabin was simple, one room,
2 beds, a wood stove for heat, and a front porch that faced the
lake. The water was a mirror
reflecting the changing leaves and the air was crisp, carrying
the promise of a cold night. We unpacked, settled in and
decided to spend the rest of the evening fishing off the dock.
As we cast our lines into the cooling water, the troubles of
the city seemed to melt away. The lake was calm, its surface
barely disturbed by our bobbers. Rob caught the first fish, a
decent sized brook trout, and I followed soon after.
By the time the sun dipped below the tree line, we had a Stringer
full enough to feel proud of. The night called for a
celebration. We built a fire in the pit by
the cabin, the flames flickering against the growing darkness.
Rob pulled out a bottle of bourbon, a good one, and we
toasted to the simple pleasures of fire, whiskey, and
friendship. As the bourbon warmed our
bellies, we swapped stories. The taller the tail, the louder
our laughter. It wasn't just the alcohol that
loosened our tongues. It was the wilderness, the
isolation. Out here, you could speak your
fears into the night and the darkness would swallow them up.
Rob talked about his kid, about how fast he was growing up and
how little he saw him because of the job.
I listened, nodding, throwing in my bits about the factory, the
layoffs looming like storm clouds.
Later, as the fire died down to embers, a local who'd been
fishing further down the shore wandered over.
He was a wiry guy with a face carved from the harsh New
England winters. You folks should try the North
End of the lake, he said, pointing to a spot that was
hidden from view by a bend in the shoreline.
There's a honey hole up there. Big Lake trout.
His eyes twinkled with the knowingness of a seasoned
fisherman. Rob and I exchanged a look.
We'll give it a shot, I replied, the prospect of tomorrow's
adventure already kindling a spark of excitement in my chest.
That night, as I lay in my bunk, the last of the bourbon humming
through my veins, I felt a peace I hadn't known in months.
Outside, the lake whispered in the dark, lapping gently at the
shore, and I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of what lay
beneath those waters, the giant lake trout, the secret spots.
Tomorrow held the promise of something big, and I was ready
for it. Morning at Lake Umbagog broke
with a mist hovering above the water, the sun struggling to
assert itself against the stubborn remnants of night.
Rob was already up, coffee in hand, staring out at the lake
with that quiet anticipation that fishing breeds.
After a quick breakfast of eggs and last night's leftover trout,
we loaded our gear into the canoe.
The locals tip about the honey hole in the north playing on
repeat in our minds. The paddle up the lake was
tougher than expected. The water was calm, sure, but
there was a resistance about it, as if the lake knew we were
intruding on something sacred and wasn't eager to let us pass.
The trees loom tall and tight around us, their reflections in
the dark water doubling their guard.
The farther we paddled, the quieter it became.
The only sounds are paddles stirring the water and our
breaths growing heavier with each stroke.
By the time we reached the spot, the eerie quiet had settled deep
in my bones. We cast our lines into the lake,
the plop of our lures breaking the surface, sounding
unnaturally loud in the hush. Fishing started slow and the
sense of isolation grew with each passing minute, the hills
around us like the walls of some ancient fortress.
Then the fog began to roll in. It came softly at first, a
gentle whisper across the water, then thickened until it's
swallowed up the far shore. It was then, in that shrouded
world, that my line went tight with a ferocity that startled
me. The fish on the other end fought
like the devil, pulling with a wild, desperate strength that
was almost personal. Got a monster here?
I grunted, struggling to keep my balance in the rocking canoe.
Rob, net in hand, watched with wide eyes as the battle dragged
on, minutes stretching like hours.
When the fish finally surfaced, it was indeed a monster, a lake
trout that had to weigh at least 20 lbs.
But it wasn't just its size that took our breath away.
Tangled in its mouth was an amulet, silver, tarnished to
nearly black, etched with symbols that neither of us
recognized. I reached for it, my fingers
brushing the cold metal, when the trout gave a sudden, violent
thrash. The line snapped, sending the
creature and its mysterious cargo back into the depths,
leaving us staring at each other, our hearts pounding.
We should head back, Rob said after a moment, his voice low,
almost shaken. But neither of us moved, the
weight of what had just happened anchoring us there.
It was the sight of the other canoe that finally spurred us
into action, materializing from the fog.
It was an old, weathered thing, floating eerily still about 30
yards off. A lone figure sat in it, facing
away from us, unmoving, unresponsive to our calls.
The air grew colder, the back of my neck prickling as we paddled
closer. That's not possible.
Rob whispered, his voice hoarse with fear.
I didn't ask what he meant. I didn't need to.
The figure in the canoe was ghostly translucent, its
presence an impossible thing in the daylight world.
Panic, raw and powerful. Grip me, then.
We paddled hard for the shore, not daring to look back, the fog
closing in like a curtain behind us.
By the time we reached the safety of our cabin, the figure
and its canoe had vanished, swallowed by the mist.
That night we spoke little, each lost in our own thoughts about
the apparition and the amulet, lost to the lake.
When dawn broke, we packed up without a word, the thrill of
fishing forgotten, replaced by an urgent need to leave the
mysteries of Lake Umbagog behind us.
As we drove away, the lake disappeared into the rear view
mirror, a shiver running down my spine as I wondered if perhaps
some places are better left unexplored.
We always thought we knew everything about the Bayou near
our hometown in southern Louisiana.
My cousin Jed and I grew up here, spending most of our days
and even some nights out on the water fishing and exploring.
But one night about five years ago, something happened that
made me swear off night time fishing forever.
It was a warm, muggy July evening when Jed and I decided
to go gigging for frogs. We had done this 1000 times
before. We loaded up our old John boat
with all the necessary gear, gigs, headlamps and some snacks.
I remember tying the boat to the back of Jed's truck, the metal
clinking softly as we secured it.
As we headed out to Bayou Marmot, the sun had just set,
painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
By the time we reached our usual spot, darkness had settled over
the swamp. We launched the boat into the
water with a gentle splash and climbed in, ready for another
night of adventure. The Bayou was alive with sounds.
Crickets chirped loudly from the banks, and every so often a frog
would croak, breaking the steady hum of nature.
We turned on our headlamps, the beams of light cutting through
the darkness as we started scanning the banks for the
telltale glint of frog eyes. We had been at it for about an
hour when suddenly Jed grabbed my arm.
Luke cut the engine. He whispered, his voice tense.
I immediately turned off the motor and the sudden silence
seemed louder than all the noises just a moment before.
You see that? Jed pointed towards a narrow
side channel we had never explored.
About 50 yards ahead there was a dim light.
It looked like an old kerosene Lantern just floating there in
the dark. Now we knew there shouldn't be
anyone else out here this late, and we were pretty sure lanterns
couldn't float by themselves. It's probably just some
reflection, maybe from someone's campsite.
I suggested, trying to make sense of it, but Jed shook his
head. No campsites out here, Luke, and
that ain't no reflection. He was always the brave one, or
maybe just foolhardy. Let's check it out, he said with
that mischievous grin I knew too well.
Against my better judgement, I agreed.
As we slowly approached the light, I noticed something
really strange. The air was getting colder.
That didn't make any sense, not in July in Louisiana.
And the sounds of the Bayou, the crickets and frogs had all gone
silent too. It was like everything was
holding its breath. When we got about 20 feet from
the Lantern, I could see it clearly.
It was one of those old timey lanterns, the kind you see in
old movies, hanging there as if held by an invisible hand.
It's flame cast eerie shadows on the Cypress trees around us.
Jed reached out to grab it, and I swear that thing moved.
It drifted just out of his reach and started to Bob slowly down
the channel, like it was leading us somewhere.
Jed, of course, started to follow it.
I hissed at him to come back, but he was transfixed.
I had no choice but to trail after him, my heart pounding in
my chest. Whatever this light was, it was
leading us deeper into the Bayou, into parts unknown.
And as we followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were
not supposed to be there. As Jed and I followed the
mysterious Lantern deeper into the swamp, the trees seem to
close in around us. The light from our headlamps
barely pierced the darkness that swallowed up the path ahead.
Everything was quiet, too quiet. It felt like we were stepping
into another world, one that didn't quite welcome us.
The Lantern continued to float just out of reach, bobbing
gently as if it was being carried by a soft breeze, though
the air around us was still and heavy.
I tried to keep my voice steady, but it shook as I whispered.
Jed, maybe we should go back. He didn't respond, just kept his
eyes fixed on that eerie light leading us onward.
After what felt like forever, the Lantern stopped at a small
clearing. There, right in the middle of
this circle of space, stood an old shack.
It looked like something straight out of a horror movie.
Rotten wood, sagging roof and all, surrounded by dense, dark
trees that seem to lean in curiously.
The Lantern floated right up to the shack's door and then
flicked out as if someone had blown out the flame.
Jed stood frozen for a moment, staring at the dark doorway.
Then, as if pulled by some unseen force, he began walking
towards it. Jed, wait.
I called out, but he didn't seem to hear me.
My stomach churned with fear, but I couldn't let him go into
that creepy place alone. We reached the door, and Jed
pushed it open without hesitation.
The hinges groaned, sending a shiver down my spine.
Inside, it was pitch black except for a single candle
burning on a table in the center of the room.
That tiny light through grotesque shadows onto the
walls. Then I saw it.
A figure was hunched over the table, dressed all in black with
a wide brimmed hat. It slowly lifted its head, and
my heart nearly stopped. Where its face should have been,
there was nothing, just a smooth, blank stretch of skin.
Jed gasped, a sound of terror I'd never heard from him before.
That seemed to break the spell. He turned and ran, almost
knocking me over as he bolted for the door.
I followed close behind, my legs trembling so badly I could
barely run. We rushed through the swamp,
tripping over roots and splashing through muddy water.
Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made me jump, thinking
that faceless figure was right behind us.
We didn't stop running until we reached our boat.
Panting and sweating, we pushed off from the bank and didn't
look back until we were far away from that haunted place.
Back at the landing, as we loaded the boat onto the
trailer, Jed finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper.
Luke, what the heck was that? I shook my head, unable to find
the words to explain the horror we just escaped.
Even now, years later, I still think about that night.
What was that faceless figure and what would have happened if
Jed had taken one step further into that shack?
I don't know, and I don't want to know.
That night taught me some places are best left unexplored.
It's why I only fish during the day now.
The swamp has its secrets, and some are too dark to ever bring
into the light. Living in the middle of the
Siaslaw National Forest sounds like a dream, doesn't it?
Well, for me, it's real life. My name's Sam, and I've got a
small cabin near a place called Toketee Falls.
This spot, with all its trees and the waterfall nearby, is my
slice of paradise. Just me, my dog Buck, and the
great outdoors. It doesn't get much better than
that. Each morning I wake up to the
chirping of birds and the gentle whisper of the wind through the
Pines. The air is always fresh and
cool, and the smell of the forest after a rain is my
favorite scent in the world. Buck usually wakes up before I
do, wagging his tail and ready to start the day.
He's not just a pet, he's my fishing buddy and the best
friend I could ask for out here. Our cabin is simple, nothing
fancy, but it's cozy. There's a fireplace that keeps
us warm during the chilly nights and a small porch where I like
to sit and watch the sunset. I spend my days doing what I
love most, hiking through the forest and fishing in the North
Umpqua River. I learned how to fish from my
dad. He used to take me fishing when
I was just a little kid and I've loved it ever since.
He taught me everything from tying hooks to knowing the best
times to catch fish. Even though he's not around
anymore, I feel like he's with me every time I cast my line.
Fishing here is amazing. The river is full of life,
especially during the fall when the Chinook salmon run starts.
These fish are huge and strong and catching them is a real
adventure. They swim up river to the same
spot they were born to lay their eggs and let me tell you, they
put up quite a fight when you hook one.
Today, like most days, Buck and I headed out early.
The sky was just starting to light up with colors of pink and
orange as the sun peeked over the mountains.
I grabbed my fishing gear, a couple of sandwiches for lunch
and we were off. Our favorite spot is right at
the base of Tokatee Falls. The water crashes down into a
big pool before flowing down the river.
It's the perfect spot for salmon because they rest there before
moving upstream. And for me, standing in the
middle of the rushing water, surrounded by towering trees and
the sound of the falls, it's exhilarating.
I waded into the river, the cold water rushing around my legs.
Buck stayed on the shore, watching closely as I prepared
my rod and cast the line into the swirling waters.
Fishing requires patience, something I've gotten better at
over the years. You have to wait for the right
moment, feel the slightest tug, and then react fast.
As the sun climbed higher, I lost track of time.
It was just me, the river, and the peacefulness of nature.
Every so often a fish would bite and my heart would race as I
reeled it in. Buck would bark excitedly every
time I caught one, his tail wagging as if he was just as
proud of the catch as I was. Days like this, I wouldn't trade
for anything in the world. Sure, life out here can be
lonely sometimes, but I've got Buck, the river and a whole
forest to keep me company. This is my paradise, my perfect
escape from the world. That evening was one I'll never
forget. I had already caught a few good
sized salmon and was thinking about heading back when I
decided to make just a few more casts.
The sun was setting, painting the sky with strokes of orange
and purple, and the river seemed extra calm.
It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, or so I thought.
I cast my line into the deepest part of the pool below the
falls, where the water swirled mysteriously.
The air was cool, and the river sounded like it was whispering
secrets. Buck sat next to me, his ears
perked up as if he sensed something unusual.
Suddenly, I felt a tug on my line.
It wasn't like the usual pull of a salmon, this was something
much stronger. Before I could even brace
myself, it yanked so hard I nearly lost my footing.
Whoa, Buck. I shouted, gripping the rod with
both hands as Buck barked loudly, sensing the excitement.
The creature on the other end of the line was powerful.
My reel screamed as the line peeled off and my rod bent so
much I thought it might snap in half.
I dug my heels into the riverbed, fighting to stay
upright. Come on, I muttered, my arms
straining against the weight. Whatever was on the other end
was unlike anything I'd ever hooked before.
The battle went on for what felt like hours.
The creature would swim furiously, dragging me along,
and then I'd reel it back in, slowly gaining inch by inch.
My arms ached and my back was sore, but I couldn't give up.
This was the fight of a lifetime.
Finally, as the last light of day lingered in the sky, I
started to see something in the water.
At first I thought it was just a big log or a shadow, but then I
saw it clearly. A tail fin, massive and
powerful, thrashing back and forth.
My heart raced. What in the world?
I gasped. The creature came closer into
the shallow water, and I could finally see it clearly.
It was long, easily the length of a small car and as thick as a
tree trunk. Its scales weren't the shiny
silver of a salmon, but a weird mottled Gray green that blended
with the river rocks. But the eyes, those were the
scariest part. They were huge, black and shiny,
like polished stones, and they looked right at me, like they
knew me. I stood there, frozen, staring
back at those eyes. There was something about them,
something almost human, or like they'd been here long before any
of us. A chill ran down my spine.
This wasn't just some fish. It was something ancient,
something mysterious. Then, with a sudden thrash that
sent water splashing all over, the line snapped.
The creature gave one last look at me and Buck, and then it
slipped back into the deep, dark water, disappearing from sight.
I stood by the river for a long time after that, too shocked to
move. Buck nudged me gently, whining a
little as if telling me it was time to go home.
We walked back in silence, the excitement of the day replaced
by a haunting feeling of wonder and a bit of fear.
I knew one thing for sure, I would never look at this river
the same way again. That night, I didn't just lose a
fish, I encountered a mystery that would stay with me forever.