This happened last October in Red River Gorge, Kentucky.
I wanted one quiet solo trip before winter, and I picked a
simple loop I knew on paper. Start at Coomer Ridge
Campground, walk sections of rough trail to Auxier Ridge,
drop toward the Red River. Sleep one night off trail, then
curve back out the next day. I brought a paper map and a
compass, a 20° bag, a small stove, and a knife I keep
clipped to my hip belt. I wrote the plan on a card and
left it on my dashboard. The forecast was clear, but
cold. Lows in the low 40s, dry leaves
everywhere with enough down on the ground that you could see
through the bare limbs. It was a weekday.
By mid afternoon, the parking lot was thinning out.
I didn't think much of that. I've done lonelier loops.
I noticed him as I shouldered my packet.
Coomer tan button up, stitched rectangle patch that said
volunteer without any agency logo.
I recognized a beat up day pack with no hip belt and no water
bottle insight. He walked by close enough to nod
but not close enough to say anything real.
No hello, no where you heading. The patch looked off, the shape
was wrong for the ones I've seen, and the letters were too
chunky like something from a craft store.
He clocked my pack in boots and then looked past me like I
wasn't the point. I chalked it up to the kind of
odd you get at trailheads and started walking.
The Ridge was dry and bright. Oxier Ridge gets you those
sudden views where the land drops away in clean sandstone
steps. You can see courthouse rock
clear as a diagram. I passed 2 day hikers coming out
and then nobody. By late afternoon, the air had
that still feeling you get when the wind isn't moving and every
footstep in leaves is its own announcement.
I found a saddle with a faint animal path sliding off the
Ridge toward a shallow drainage. It was far enough from the main
path to not be obvious, close enough to the Ridge that I could
climb back in the morning without guesswork.
Down in the trees I found a flat spot big enough for a tent and a
small fire. That was when I saw the first
thumbtack. Reflective head knee height on
the side of a sapling another 1-2 feet away at almost the same
height, then three in a loose arc at ground level, the heads
facing the center of the flat spot, like they wanted to shine
inward, not along a travel line the way hunters mark their
roots. Not spaced for finding your way
back. I crouched and found
monofilament tied ankle high between two saplings in the
leaves. A second run crossed the spot
where someone would step as they came from the Ridge.
It wasn't a trip wire that would drop you, more of a snag line
that would slow you and make noise.
I cut the line with my multi tool, pulled the tacks I could
see and put them in a zip bag. I told myself it could have been
a dumb prank. I still set up.
I kept my tent visible to the little circle of fire rocks and
I hung my food high between two trunks that would take weight.
I cooked fast and ate, then kept the fire small and clean.
I stayed seated with my back against my pack so I wouldn't
have open ground behind me. The light slid out of the trees
and the Ridge went dark in one move.
In a place like that, sound travels in clean lines, leaves
rub and you can place the direction because the ground is
even 1 foot. Scuff up on the Ridge and then
quiet again, like someone checking their footing and
stopping. I told myself there were deer.
There are always deer. The steps came later, when the
dark was full and the fire had burned down to a ring of coal
with one stick on top. Not running steps, not sneaking
either. Just a few careful footfalls and
a stop at the edge of the fire light where faces disappear but
outlines hang on. A normal male voice mid range
spoke from that line. Evening you out here?
Registered your site. I checked in at Coomer.
I said. My voice sounded steady.
I kept my eyes on the point where his body turned into
shadow. I could not see his hands.
I'm supposed to inspect, he said.
Fire ring safe. Any glass You got a trowel.
You're welcome to step into the light, I said.
I didn't raise my voice. I put another stick on the fire
so it brightened the ring and killed the gaps.
I set my knife on the stump to my right, where it could be
seen. I'll keep my night eyes, he
said. He didn't say his name.
He didn't say who he worked with.
He didn't ask me for mine. Then let's walk to the trail and
talk there, I said. I don't do inspections in the
dark out here. He took one slow step to the
side, as if he was trying to see my camp from a different angle.
I waited. Leaves shifted and then stilled.
No twig snaps, no show of authority, no radio.
After a few seconds the weight of his presence moved away and
out of range. It didn't feel like he'd left,
just that he'd stepped to a new position outside the light.
I added one more stick to the fire and stayed awake.
I didn't sleep much. I would doze and wake to the
same leaf bed smell and the same low orange at my feet.
Twice I heard a single shoe test ground somewhere beyond the
ring, like he was checking if I had changed anything.
He didn't come back to speak. He didn't try to push it.
It would have been easier if he had blown up.
Nothing happened except the fact that he was there and that he
stayed at first light. I stood and walked a slow
circle. The tacks I had pulled were
still in my pocket. The monofilament I'd cut was
still on the ground where I had tossed it.
What I hadn't done was look at my footprint pattern.
Someone else had. They had taken a stick and drawn
neat round marks around individual prints near my cook
area and near my tent door, like they were counting steps or
comparing size. On the Flat Rock that had served
as a seat, there was a damp smear, like someone had rubbed a
handful of wet leaves across it. It wasn't an accident.
It was a mark that said I was here.
I looked up at my bare hang. On top of the bag were two tiny
black domes. It took me a second to place
them because they looked like trash.
They were valve stem caps, the cheap kind you get with tires.
I had cheap ones on my truck. The cap on my rear passenger
tire was cracked and I remembered it because I'd been
meaning to replace it. The one on my bag had the same
crack he had been to my truck in the lot.
He had taken the caps off and then walked them in and set them
on my food like a trophy. I packed in minutes, No
breakfast, no coffee. I took down the hang, rolled the
tent wet, and pocketed every piece of line I could find.
I got out the paper map and traced a route that would keep
me off the main path. There was a shallow drainage
that would pull me downhill, and if I followed the logic of
water, I would hit roads sooner or later.
I wanted to be gone before anyone stepped onto the Ridge
behind me. I wanted to leave as little sign
as I could. I climbed back toward the Ridge
to get my bearings when I reached a low boulder where the
view opened for a moment. He was there ahead of me,
standing near a small overlook where the trail squeezes.
Same tan shirt, same build. He lifted one arm and waved me
over as if I was the one who had asked for help.
Trails washed out past courthouse, he said in a calm
tone. I got a shortcut flagged over
here. Saves you a mile.
Orange tape, you'll see it. There were strips of bright tape
tied along a brushy side cut I hadn't seen the day before.
Fresh tears, bright color, not faded by weather.
Tied too low in a few spots, so low they would draw you down
more than forward. The ground didn't show boot
traffic. The direction wasn't right for
the loop I'd planned. Nothing about it matched the way
reroutes are posted on busy trails.
Appreciate it, I said. I kept my face plain and my
shoulders loose, like I was considering the gift.
I'm going to step off for a bathroom break and then I'll
check it. Take your time, he said, and let
his hand fall. He didn't move toward me, and he
didn't move away. I went left behind the boulder
like I said I would, and the second I lost his line of sight
I dropped off the far side of the Ridge.
I didn't stand and slide because the leaves would go out from
under me. I sat on my backside and lowered
myself by handholds and roots until the angle eased and the
brush grew thicker. Then I cut sideways into the
drainage and started following the shallow run of rock in a
Creek bed. You don't leave the same kind of
sign, and the stones cover your noise.
I held my map folded open to Orient the direction the
drainage wanted to run and let it lead.
Twice I heard a Pebble tick down slope somewhere behind me.
Not a big sound, not the kind you get from a branch snapping,
The kind you get from a boot dislodging a small rock near a
drop. I never saw him.
I never heard his voice again. The drainage gathered under a
tangle of roots and slid into a wider gully.
After a while the gully spat me out at a pull off near KY 77, a
short walk from Nata Tunnel. I stepped out onto the shoulder
into a world with engines again. There was a road crew truck
parked at a gravel turn out. Two guys in hard hats were
setting cones for something at the tunnel.
I kept my hands where they could see them and explained.
Fast. Solo camper, strange man posing
as a steward. Night visit with questions that
didn't fit. Monofilament and reflective
tacks around the site. Valve caps from my truck set on
my bare hang. Fresh tape flagged into brush
that didn't exist. Yesterday one of the guys said
they'd noticed a rust colored SUV hanging around the tunnel
area the last few days with the driver sleeping in it.
On and off they radioed the county without any drama.
We waited by the truck. The deputy who came out took it
seriously. He asked for the spots by name.
I gave him Coomer for the lot, Auxier Ridge for the line, a
saddle near where the drainage drops, the overlook with the
fake short cut, and the road pull off where we stood.
I handed him the baggie with the tacks and pieces of line.
He asked me to describe the man. I told him tan shirt patch with
the word volunteer but no agency logo that I could make out day
pack with no hip belt, normal speaking voice, no smell of
alcohol, stayed out of the light and never gave a name.
I signed the statement and asked for a call if they found
anything. 2 weeks later he called me back like he said he
would. They had located a suspect
living out of a rust colored SUV near Nada Tunnel and had charged
him with menacing and tampering at the trailhead.
The Forest Service came through and pulled the bright tape that
didn't belong and put a notice at Coomer that explained what
real volunteer identifiers look like.
According to the deputy, real volunteers introduced themselves
by name, tell you who they report to, and will not walk
into a solo camp at night asking to inspect anything.
If there's a reroute, there's a posted notice at a trailhead or
junction. Not a surprise, ribbon into
brush. He emailed a flyer with photos
of the actual patches and how to tell them apart from fake ones.
I printed it and folded it into my map.
I haven't camped solo in the gorge since that night.
I still hike there with friends. It's too good to give up and the
trails are what they are. Narrow ridges, clean rock views
that stack on forever. I park nose out.
I take a photo of my tires and lug nuts and valves for myself
before I lock up, and I don't share my loop plans in a lot
unless I'm the one asking for help from someone I trust.
If anyone approaches a camp after dark and won't step into
the light, my answer is set. We can talk on the trail or not
at all. The part that sticks with me
isn't the voice in the dark or the wave on the Ridge, It's the
two small plastic caps on top of my food bag.
In the morning. I didn't catch the man in the
act and I didn't have some last stand in the trees.
He was just close enough, twice, to measure me, my steps, my
supplies, my route, and to show me he could reach my truck too.
That was enough. Some people want you to follow
tape. Some people want you arguing
about rules. The only thing that matters is
where they are trying to put you.
I saw the line he wanted and I stepped off it.
I left, and because I left, I got the one ending you should
want out there, which is to go home with your name and your
face and your same number of pieces.
The charges stuck, the tape came down.
Patrols went up through November.
That's as clean as it gets in a place like that.
If you hike the Porcupine Mountains in early October,
listen to me and pack more respect and courage.
This wasn't told to me by a friend of a friend.
It happened to me and my cousin Nate on the big Carp River trail
below the Lake of the Clouds overlook.
We weren't new to the woods. We weren't chasing thrills.
We picked the first week of the cold shoulder season because the
crowds thin out and the bugs are gone.
Highs in the low fifties. Nights dropping into the 30s.
Northwest winds spilling off the escarpment.
Paper map, compass and a simple rule we shook hands on in the
parking lot. We do not move after dark.
We left the car in the paved lot near the overlook and started
down mid afternoon. The Ridge carried steady wind,
but 30 yards below it felt sealed and muffled like sound
stayed low near the ground. Color was coming in strong,
Maple and Birch going orange and gold with hemlock filling the
gaps. The trail pitched down through
roots and stone, then leveled along the river.
Our plan was clean. Reach a legal site by the big
carp before dusk, hang food on the bare pole, keep the fire
controlled, sleep tight, and climb back toward M107 in the
morning to finish a small loop. We noticed the first strange
thing before the river came into view.
Fresh deer sign pellets right on the tread, bark rubbed smooth on
saplings. Should have meant we'd see at
least one white tail ghosting the flats.
We never did. It wasn't the absence that
bothered me, it was how fresh everything looked without a
single movement to match it. I kept that to myself because
Nate was talking about football and it felt early to pick at a
thread. Half a mile later, the trail
crossed a shaded seep and turned to slick mud on the near side,
our tread on the far side. Not hooves, not boots, not bare.
2 long splayed toe impressions pressed clean into the muck with
a shallow narrow heel and strides that hit 4 feet apart
like it was an easy walking pace.
I crouched and measured with my trekking pole.
Crisp edges, no leaf blur. Nothing else had passed there
since it did. The air shifted and a smell rode
down in pulses, sweet then sour, like meat forgotten in a cooler.
It came and went with the wind never strong, just there enough
to register. We reached the campsite with
time to spare. It had the standard hardware,
flat tent pad, metal ring, a bare pole set back from the
clearing. The river was shoulder deep in
places but talking quiet over rocks.
We filtered water and built a small fire, careful to keep it
tight before we cooked. I walked the perimeter without
saying why. That's when I found the Birch.
The white bark was scraped high, well past my reach.
Four straight gouges raked upward in parallel, as if
something taller than me had dragged a hand along it while
moving. The hair on my neck did that
thing it does when a pattern snaps into place.
I called Nate over. He stared too long and said
bears climb, and we both stood there a few seconds longer than
that answer deserved. Dusk thinned fast.
Once the sun slid behind the Ridge, the temperature dropped
like a switch flipped. We filed our rule under common
sense and stayed put. We fed the fire.
We talked. We kept our boots on and our
headlamps handy, but low, because bright beams and smoke
can blind you to everything. Past 10 yards.
The river was the only moving sound until something heavy
moved outside the light. It didn't crash.
It didn't stop and start the way deer do.
It made a broad circle on steady feet that pushed leaf litter
without wasting a footstep. I hate how exact that is, but
that's what I remember. No stumbling, no hurry, weight
placed with the kind of control that comes from practice.
It passed behind us and upwind, paused, resumed, widened the
circle, narrowed it, The smell drifted with it in thin drafts
that lifted and thinned and we're gone.
We didn't argue about it, because argument is a kind of
panic, and panic gets you loud. We didn't go after it with
knives or burning sticks because we weren't in a movie and we
weren't looking to get flanked. We stayed inside the fire's
edge. We ate, we cleaned up, we hung
the line high and tight, and we kept our voices steady on small,
ordinary topics. This sounds silly on paper, but
it matters. Predators notice erratic changes
more than anything. A calm camp is harder to read.
Somewhere near midnight, the Ridge gave 2 clean clacks.
Stone on stone. Not a toss, not a rock rolling.
2 firm taps, then nothing. We went still because that sound
doesn't belong to the wind or the river. 15 minutes past 20,
another two clacks from a little farther along.
Nate said. What is that?
And I didn't answer because he already knew the shape of it.
Someone or something was mapping us in the dark, using sound that
would carry without spooking anything that knew better.
A shape eased into the edge of our light between 2 trees.
Tall, narrow head, hunched shoulders, arms that hung lower
than felt right. Hands relaxed at the ends.
It didn't posture. It didn't test us with a rush.
It stood in the one place where the wind hit our faces first.
It stood there to smell what we were.
When I shifted my weight, it shifted.
When I spoke, it changed stance, like it was listening for
cadence rather than words. The night was cold enough that
our breath showed. I looked for the same cloud at
its mouth and didn't see any. That's a small thing.
Until it isn't. We kept the fire hot.
We didn't raise our headlamps and blind our own vision.
We let it take the wind it wanted and moved slow so we were
never a sudden shape. After a time, it stepped across
the slope with that same economy of motion and was gone uphill.
The smell passed last, then thinned out.
We didn't chase a thing we couldn't outpace uphill in the
dark. We fed the fire, topped off
water, packed most of our gear, and agreed in one sentence that
when the sky showed first blue, we would move.
I didn't sleep. Nate didn't either.
We traded 10 minute sits with our backs to each other while
the fire ticked low and steady. The woods weren't silent in the
dramatic sense. They were factual.
No owls, no rustle that wasn't ours, no change in breeze.
Just us, the river and the memory of stone on stone from
the Ridge. At first light, Frost filmed the
tent fly and bit the backs of my hands when I coiled the guy
lines. We doused the ashes and stirred
the pit until it was cold. Our packs were ready in under 5
minutes. The smell from the night was
gone, which meant nothing. Silence stayed.
We moved along the river in a pace you could call fast if you
didn't know what fast cost you in the woods.
We didn't talk. We used eyes more than ears and
picked our footing to keep from breaking rhythm.
On a flat stretch of wet sand. We saw the same splayed print
again, deeper and angled like whatever made it lowered itself
close to the ground to sniff the trail.
The stride length didn't change. That hurt my stomach more than
anything it suggested the speed we used to call running wasn't
what it needed to use yet a side stream cut the tread in a slow
black channel. Rocks looked slick and
untrustworthy. We backed down a few yards to a
fallen trunk and crossed one at a time on the far bank.
I looked back along the Ridge and saw nothing, which is
different from being alone. A single rock clack sounded
ahead of us now, not from the Ridge we'd left, but from the
bend we were about to enter. A tight squeeze where the trail
pinched between a drop and thorn brush.
We stepped off the path into quiet Duff and looped a wide arc
through open trees so we could keep sight lines.
It cost us time and bought us choice.
When we rejoined the tread on the far side, I felt the air
shift in a way you learn to trust.
A faint iron smell, A far off hum, the kind of taste that
comes from pavement and engine heat.
Rd. We climbed a sandy rise, came
out of the cover and saw a green state truck idling at a small
pull off. A middle-aged Ranger stood
beside it with a paper cup in his hand.
He didn't wave, he didn't square his shoulders.
He looked at us, then passed us at the Ridge like he'd heard our
morning before we got there. He had us talk one at a time at
the truck. No drama.
He asked for the details in plain language and wrote them
down in the notebook he tucked into his chest pocket.
He didn't want a scary story. He wanted behavior.
The two clean rock taps with a long pause.
The broad circle beyond the fire.
The splayed toes with the shallow heel and long stride.
The height of the Birch gouges. The way it kept our wind, the
absence of visible breath in the cold.
We handed him our paper map and he sketched the prints and the
gouge tree locations on it with a ballpoint so he could remember
the spacing later. Then he keyed the radio in his
truck and used phrases that sounded like forms.
Aggressive wildlife pattern. Predator comfort near camp
avoidance with observation. He called in a temporary closure
on the Backcountry sight cluster along that stretch of the river,
pending investigation. We didn't ask him to walk back
with us. He didn't ask us to walk back
with him. He told us to head to the
visitor center to report our exit and to leave our contact
information in case someone had follow up questions.
His face never changed. That helped more than I can
explain. We drove to Ontonagon and sat on
the curb outside the center drinking warm sports drinks with
salt crusted on our hats inside. A younger staffer took our
permit, wrote complete on it, and told us we'd get our deposit
back in a couple days. While we were looking at the
board with the closure notice, she mentioned in a normal voice
that a poached deer carcass had been found less than a mile from
where we camped. Stripped fast, she said, and
then stopped talking like someone had nudged her under the
counter. The same Ranger came through the
side door while we were there. He saw us, nodded once, then
stood with us in front of the big relief map of the park.
He didn't spin tails, and he didn't make us feel small.
He tapped a finger near the lines that marked the escarpment
and said some folks around here have a word for the ones that
don't get cold and take their time.
He didn't say the word, he didn't need to.
I'd heard it since I was a kid in the Upper Peninsula, from
uncles who didn't smile when they said it.
Wendigo. That was the end of it.
We cancelled our second night, booked a cheap motel by the
highway and ate a bad pizza that tasted like cardboard.
The baseboard heater ticked when it cycled.
I slept 2 hours and woke at 3:00 because my head turned the sound
of the ice machine into a rock clack.
The next morning we drove home. We told our families we cut it
short because the weather looked rough and because a closure went
up. Both things were true.
If you want a wild explanation, you'll have to take that
somewhere else. We didn't see fangs.
We didn't chase shapes into the trees.
We didn't bring back a claw. We brought back a map with pen
marks that match our memory and a notice on a board with a date.
A poacher put meat in a place where it shouldn't have been,
and something smart and strong got comfortable moving the
ridgeline in the dark. That is enough.
You can make your own choices. If you go to the Porky's in
October, don't move after dark. Don't chase sounds uphill.
Keep your fire hot and your voice level.
If rock taps carry down from the Ridge, leave at first light.
If you see gouges higher than your reach, understand what
higher than your reach means. The ground in that park belongs
to you during daylight and by permit.
Some ground does not belong to you at all.
We learned to tell the difference and went home.
That's the whole story. No mystery left, only a boundary
you can respect or cross. We chose respect.
You should too. I'm not new to the desert.
I grew up in New Mexico and learned early that the high
country and Badlands don't forgive dumb choices.
You bring more water than you think you'll drink.
You stake tents with rocks when the ground is crusted.
You don't chase lights or voices if they come from the wrong
direction. In mid-october last year, my
friend Nate and I went out to Angel Peak Scenic Area, 15 miles
South of Bloomfield, off US 550, because we wanted a quiet night
to sit under cold stars. Legal BLM sites, big open views,
easy to find. We planned for one night.
No fire, just a small stove and a couple packets of ramen.
I'm writing this because I wish I'd read something just like it
before we went. I'm not trying to scare anyone.
I'm trying to say plainly what happened and how we handled it,
because there's a name people in San Juan County use for what we
crossed paths with, and I believe them now.
We turned off the highway late afternoon and rattled down the
Washboard Rd. toward the overlook.
The Badlands opened under a flat blue sky, all Gray white ridges
and hoodoos cutting toward the San Juan River.
The wind sat in that steady W pattern that dries your lips
without you noticing. We picked a legal tent site near
a lone juniper 20 yards off the rim.
The ground was caliche over powder.
The tent stakes laughed at us, so we ringed everything with
flat rocks, two small freestanding tents, our pads and
bags, a butane stove, 2 gallons of water, headlamps, a first aid
kit. Nothing fancy.
I parked the car uphill at the start of the switch back that
climbs to the lot, close enough to see from camp if I squinted.
We did what you do, walked the rim before dark to learn the
edges. A narrow sandstone finger stuck
out from the rim to a little spur.
I pointed it out because the wind made a weird Eddy there.
It didn't throw dust downwind like you'd expect.
It kind of rolled it in place, and then nothing.
We ate around six. The temperature slid out of the
60s and kept going. Sound carried farther as the
light dropped. You could barely hear traffic on
550 if you stop talking. Just a thin hiss.
Once the sunset, the sky turned black quick and the stars came
hard. We sat in camp chairs and let
the cold get into our sleeves. Around 7:30, something padded by
upwind of us. We both turned our heads at the
same time. It was coyote shaped, lean, low
tail, scruffy. That part didn't bother me.
What bothered me was the way it moved on uneven ground.
Animals put a little more weight in their front feet or their
hind feet depending on the slope.
This thing put the same weight on each step, like it was
walking on a treadmill. No toe heel, no slight
adjustment at the joints when it hit a patch of loose grit.
It didn't veer When it hit our scent, it kept climbing against
the wind in a straight line that ignored easier ground at the
rim. It stopped.
The head turned, but not like an animal checks a sound.
It rotated slow, just enough to show that it registered us.
Then it slipped behind the sandstone spur.
Nate said huh, and left it there.
I told myself I'd seen a lot of desert coyotes do odd things,
and that was true, but I hadn't seen that.
We sat a while longer. The wind eased and the
temperature kept falling. Around 9:00 we heard running up
on the rim, light footfalls moving way faster than made
sense on that loose surface. It would dash, then stop with no
gravel roll after. If you've ever walked that kind
of slope at night, you know how the pebbles keep shifting under
your boots even after you stand still.
This was bursts of speed and then nothing.
No settling noise. Twice we swung our headlamps in
the direction of the sound and caught only the spur and some
stiff grass. The grass leaned wrong for what
I felt on my face. Not by much, enough to notice.
We talked it through because that's what keeps your head
straight. Maybe someone was up there
playing around. Maybe they were running the rim
for a workout. Except there had been only one
other car at the overlook when we arrived, and we hadn't seen
anyone on foot. We decided to walk up to the rim
and look. If we saw shoe prints, we'd
relax. We moved slow with the lights
down to our feet. On the path we found fresh dog
prints, medium size with claw marks.
They ran north in a clean line. 10 feet later we found a
barefoot set, not small clear heel and toe, then shallow
patches where dust should have taken a better impression.
The dog in the foot crossed each other in a way that didn't make
sense for a few yards. They overlapped and then they
pointed in different directions. Like 2 trails that traded
places. I've followed tracks for years.
I'm not an expert, but I know enough to tell when something's
routine. This wasn't.
We didn't find any shoe treads at all.
No lug, no flat edge, no nothing.
We didn't freak out, we had a workable plan.
We'd sleep in the car up by the lot and break camp in the
morning. I've always kept that as an
option and it has saved me from a few long nights.
We stuffed our jackets, water, wallets and keys in our pockets
and started up the switch back. The path cuts across the slope,
turns hard once and then rises to the lot.
You lose sight of the car for most of it because the rim
blocks the view halfway up. I got that pressure between the
shoulders you get when someone watches you and doesn't talk.
I said nothing because there was nothing helpful to say.
The sandstone spur came level with us at the second bend, and
that's where the figure stood. It was on the tip of the spur,
looking down, not far, 30 yards. Maybe.
It had a wrap around it. That could have been a hide or a
blanket with rough edges. The wrap didn't pull right with
the wind. The fabric or whatever it was
hung too steady while my jacket tugged and flapped more than I
liked. The shoulders under the wrap
were squared off in a way that looked like there was some kind
of rigid board across them. The body faced us, squared on.
The head was turned away, angled down rim.
No shifting of weight, no obvious breathing, no phone
glow, no cigarette ember. I kept walking, because stopping
would have felt like waiting for it to do something.
We crested the rise and our car sat alone in the lot under the
overlook sign. As we got within 20 feet, the
car chirped once, the same single beep it makes if you tap
the lock. Neither of us had touched a
button. Nate froze and showed me his
hands. I had my keys in my right
pocket. I hadn't bumped them.
I turned to look back at the spur.
From that direction came a short laugh, one syllable flat.
If you've heard a coyote Yip close, you know the difference.
This lacked the throat sound. It was a practiced human tone,
but too clipped, like someone had learned the shape of a laugh
and gave only the outline. I didn't move my eyes around to
find the source. I got into the car.
Nate got in the other side. I locked the doors out of habit
and turned the key, and the engine caught without a
struggle. I swung the headlights in a
clean arc over the spur as we turned.
Nothing stood there. Nothing ran.
The rock tip and the rim behind it waited the same as they
always look in high beams. We drove out slow to keep from
hitting a washout, and then faster once the gravel
straightened. I watched the mirror.
Nothing followed. There was nothing to follow us
anyway. We hit 550 and headed north into
Bloomfield. The gas station with the bright
canopy was open. We slid into a spot under the
lights and stepped into the small square world where people
pump fuel, buy coffee and don't ask you why your hands shake.
We sat in the car and watched normal life move around us until
the sky turned Gray. In the morning we went to the
BLM Farmington field office. If you work with Land Management
long enough, you learn most of the staff are practical.
They deal with broken picnic tables, toilet paper problems
and bad maps. We checked in at the front and
told the man at the counter we wanted to report something odd
at Angel Peak. He took us to a desk.
We gave him a clean timeline. Legal site near the overlook.
mid-october. 2 tents, no fire. Coyote shaped animal walking up,
wind controlled, running on the rim.
Barefoot prints crossing dog prints and pointing different
ways. A figure in a rap at the
sandstone spur. The car chirp without a button.
The short laugh toward the spur. He asked good questions.
Any other camps nearby? Any signs of a party?
Did we notice shoe prints anywhere?
We answered no on all of it, he wrote as we talked.
When we finished, he didn't smile or tell us we were jumpy.
He thanked us for reporting. Then he said evenly, don't camp
off the rim up there right now. If you do, don't answer anything
you hear and don't look it in the eyes.
He marked a different campground on a paper map closer to the
highway and said to stick near other people for the rest of the
season. He didn't offer folklore, He
didn't try to sell us a story. He spoke like someone who had
heard versions of ours and preferred not to be dealing with
a missing persons report later. We drove back out in full
daylight to pack our gear. The site looked boring under the
sun. Our tents were where we left
them. A film of dust had settled on
the flies. The zippers were clean.
The ground around the doors showed no new tracks.
We moved quickly. I checked the rim one last time
out of habit. The dog's prints had softened.
The barefoot impressions were still there in a couple of
sheltered spots, toe and heel clear enough to identify but cut
by wind scours in between. There were still no shoe treads.
I didn't spend long looking. We camped again weeks later at
the spot the staffer marked. It was close enough to hear the
highway. A few RV's glowed at night.
I slept because there were other people around and because white
noise from the road pinned my thoughts to ordinary things.
That's the part I keep coming back to.
How fast my brain calmed down once there were neighbors.
I won't camp alone on that rim. I won't camp off it at all
without other tents. Insight.
I don't care if you think that's superstition.
The desert has rules and they aren't written on a signboard.
If you're reading this looking for a clean explanation.
Prankster Drifter misread tracks.
I get it. I tried on each of those and
they don't fit me. The even footfalls.
The uphill line against scent and wind.
The way the movement stopped without the ground settling.
The overlapped tracks pointing different ways.
The squared shoulders under the wrap.
The single car chirp without a button.
The flat laugh and the man at the BLM office telling us not to
look it in the eyes. Put together they make a picture
that has existed here longer than my comfort.
People who live near Angel Peak have a name for it.
The word I grew up hearing was skinwalker.
I don't need to argue what that means to believe the warning
that came with it. If you go out there, do it
legal. Pack out your trash and pay
attention. Don't camp off the rim right
now. If you hear something, call your
name. Keep walking.
If you see something that faces you without turning its head,
keep moving. If your car chirps when your
hands are in your pockets, get in and go.
We left the site as clean as we found it and drove home.
We were lucky that all we had to do to learn the rule was leave.
That's my whole point. Sometimes the smart thing isn't
to figure it out. Sometimes the smart thing is to
get back to where the lights are bright and wait for the sun.
I grew up about an hour from Hocking Hills.
I'm not a hardcore backpacker, just a weekend person who knows
the easy loops and how to pitch a cheap tent without cussing.
Late October felt perfect for a quick overnight, one legal
primitive site on the state forest side near Old Man's Cave,
then Cedar Falls and Ash Cave. In the morning.
My girlfriend and I packed light like we were running errands. 2
day packs, a borrowed green tarp, a budget two person tent,
foam pads and older 40° bags. We printed the permit and hit
state Route 664 with a thermos of coffee, planning to eat ramen
in camp and be asleep before 9. The lot by Old Man's Cave was
half full when we pulled in. Families were coming off the
stone bridges and boardwalks, kids laughing, a few dogs towing
their owners toward the bathrooms.
What stuck out wasn't the crowd. It was a white pickup 2 rows
back, backed into the spot with a blue tarp stretched tight over
the bed and tied down at the corners.
No front plate. A man in a dark hoodie stood
with his arms folded like he was waiting for someone.
I gave him a quick wave. Because that's what you do in
trail lots. He watched my hand and didn't
move. We shrugged it off and
shouldered our packs. The first stretch was the
tourist heavy part, the sandstone paths and wide steps.
We broke off onto a spur that cuts toward the state forest
boundary, where primitive sites are allowed.
The air had that wet leaf smell that always means your socks
will find a way to get damp no matter what.
Leaves covered the tread in a clean layer, almost like someone
had raked them. The blue blazes for the Buckeye
overlap were easy to see, and the trail narrowed to something
quiet enough that we stopped hearing the lot behind us.
Our sight wasn't fancy, just a flat bench above a shallow
drainage with two skinny saplings spaced just right for a
tarp ridgeline. We set the tent under the tarp
as an A-frame and staked the corners with those short
aluminum steaks that bend if you glare at them.
Dinner was water boiled in a cheap pot ramen plus a pouch of
tuna eaten sitting cross legged while we watched the light go
softer through the trees. It was one of those setups that
feels good not because it's nice, but because you did it
yourself and it works. I went to toss our food bag on a
low branch for the raccoons and walked a lazy half circle around
the tent, dragging my boots through the leaves.
That's when my toe flicked something that moved different
than a stick. It gave, then snapped back
tight. I looked down and had to squint
to see it. A thin monofilament line, ankle
height, strung between two saplings about 6 feet from our
tent wall. No bells, no bag, nothing at
either end except simple knots with the tag ends melted.
It was tight enough to bite if you tripped.
I called my girlfriend over and pressed it flat with a gloved
finger so she could see it. We both had the same first
thought, maybe someone did a sloppy food hang or tried a low
clothesline but there was nothing attached.
I took out my multi tool and cut it, then wound the piece around
2 fingers like thread so I wouldn't drop it.
When we followed the path it would have forced your feet.
We found a second line a little deeper in the brush, roughly
parallel to the first, tied at the same height.
Same knots, same clean, tight feel when you plucked it.
That feeling you get on trail when something isn't right.
It's not dramatic. It's a steady pressure behind
your eyes while your hands do normal things.
We weren't in trouble, but we were not staying there.
We were talking in the soft voices you use when you don't
want to hear your words bounce back.
I suggested we kill the stove, pack the small stuff, and shift
camp closer to the main trail. She nodded.
While we moved, we heard steps in the leaves.
A person, steps circling, keeping a fair distance, never
closing, never fading. I could put a number on it,
maybe 20 to 30 yards, always in a slow arc, as if they were
tracing the edge of our little circle of light.
I didn't want to sound scared or challenge whoever it was, so I
went with the most boring thing I could think of.
Hey, I called like I just remembered something.
Our friends should be here any minute.
I said it like that, as if I'd told them to meet us and they
were just late. The steps stopped.
No scramble, no Sprint off into the brush.
Just a clean stop, like someone standing in place and making a
choice. We kept packing boots, stayed
on, headlamps down on low. We weren't hunting for the
mystery person, and we weren't going to stake our pride in the
dirt. The plan was simple.
Get back to the wider path, keep moving until we could see the
buildings. If nothing else, we could sit on
a picnic table near the visitor center and wait for a Ranger
truck to swing past on patrol. We were almost ready when the
beam hit us. It washed through the site from
downslope, full bright, like someone slashed a paint roller
across the trees from right to left.
It blinked twice, quick. When it came back, it was lower,
like whoever held it had dropped to a knee or was aiming under
branches. I don't know if the blink meant
anything, but it felt like an answer to what I'd said about
friends. We clipped our chest straps and
moved. The spur trail was narrow and
covered in leaves. We were careful center tread,
hands out for balance. Maybe 30 yards out, something
snapped behind my ankle and a branch whipped forward and
smacked me in the side of the head hard enough to knock my
hat. I caught myself on a trunk.
The sting was sharp and weirdly embarrassing.
When I looked down, I saw it. Another run of line across the
path, tied back to a bent sapling so the branch would
spring if you tripped it. Not enough to hurt you badly,
but enough to make you fall. Twist an ankle, drop your pack
enough to make you slow down. We didn't cut that one.
We stepped over it and kept going.
The flashlight clicked off the steps in the leaves came back on
our 10:00. Even with us not closing, not
falling behind, we said nothing. The only times I looked at my
girlfriend were to check how she was stepping and whether the
strap of her pack was twisted. I kept our pace brisk but
steady, because running in dry leaves on a narrow trail at
night is a fast way to find out how slippery sandstone is.
When the spur hit the wider tread of the Grandma Gatewood
Trail, it felt like stepping onto a sidewalk.
We turned toward the visitor center and made distance.
The blue blazes were right there.
Every few trunks. My hat was hooked by a finger
through the vent so I wouldn't stop to reseed it for a few
seconds. The flashlight behind us came
back, but this time it wasn't a big wash.
It was a narrow streak that danced across the ground like
the holder was sweeping at foot level searching for lines or
trying to mark where we were stepping.
We stayed dead center on the path where there was nothing to
tie off to except the open air. Our breath fogged and my back
went clammy under the pack. Every time I wanted to turn and
check our six, I didn't. The first sight of the visitor
center lights wasn't some movie moment.
It was a dull haze through the trees that sharpened into real
light only at the last bend. That was enough.
We crossed the final bridge and walked straight into the paved
area without looking left or right.
The doors were locked, but there was shelter by the wall and a
bench. We banged on the glass, not like
we were panicked, just enough to make noise.
A Ranger truck rolled in a minute later, like that was the
plan all along. We told him everything fast.
I handed over the length of line I'd cut and described where we
found the second piece. He didn't act surprised.
He radioed dispatch and had us stay by the Building 2.
Hocking County deputies started a sweep of the loop and the turn
offs, moving slow with spotlights.
We stood where anyone driving by could see us, next to actual
people and the kind of light you can trust. 10 or 15 minutes
later, the Rangers radio crackled.
They'd found a white pickup tucked into a service turn in
off the loop engine. Cold man inside in a dark hoodie
on the dash, thin gloves on the passenger floor, a spool of line
behind the seat bolt cutters. They ran his name.
There were prior complaints in the system, things that hadn't
stuck yet. That night they trespass, warned
him off the property and documented the gear.
We went home. Nobody tried to talk us into
finishing our trip, and we didn't ask for a lecture on how
to be brave. We drove back to Columbus with
the heat on full and the windows cracked for the smell of wet
leaves that had hitched a ride in our boots.
The next morning, the Ranger called me.
Without getting into his private mess, they'd confirmed a
probation issue that gave them 'cause to pick him up.
He was arrested. We came back the following week
to give a statement. There was a short notice posted
by the visitor center about unauthorized lines found near
primitive sites and a reminder to report setups like that.
It read like a safety bulletin. Because that's what it was.
No mystery, no folklore, just this happened.
Here's what to do. Here's what I know from that
night. Those lines were not for
animals. They were made to slow a person,
to make you stumble and hesitate so you'd be easier to steer or
corner. The pacing in the leaves wasn't
random. The light wasn't a good faith.
Hey, you OK? It was someone marking distance
and seeing if we challenge them or stay put.
The trap that whipped my hat off would have worked better on
someone running or on kids jogging ahead of their parents.
I'm not saying he planned to do more than scare us, and I'm not
saying he didn't. I'm saying there are people who
like setting up the field so you move where they want.
We got out because we didn't argue with the woods or the
person in it. We didn't try to reclaim the
site, we didn't shout threats and we didn't do a tough guy lap
to prove anything. We walked to the widest path and
then to the building with lights.
That's all. We didn't see Cedar Falls or Ash
Cave. The next day we ate breakfast at
a diner where the coffee tasted like old metal, and it was the
best thing I had in a month. At home, I put the short piece
of line in our junk drawer, not as a trophy, but as a reminder
to trust boring choices. If you go out there this fall
and stumble a toe on something that feels wrong, don't spend an
hour trying to solve the puzzle. Pack up, get to the main trail,
pick the lights. If you see a white pickup with a
tarp pulled tight over the bed and a man in a hoodie who won't
wave back, keep your notes to yourself and move on to the man
who strung lines near the primitive sites at Hocking
Hills. Let's not meet.
I'm the planner in my group. I bring paper maps, mark
portages with a pencil, and count hours by wind and
daylight, not by what I want. Early October, 1st frost already
done, we pushed E out of Ely toward Knife Lake to get one
last quiet island camp before the real cold set in.
There were three of us in two canoes, me and the bough most of
the time because I read water well, my cousin Evan, all muscle
and few words, happy under a Kevlar hull, and Jess, calm and
efficient, the one who never forgets the repair tape or the
dry matches. Tamarack needles had gone gold
along the boggy edges, Birch trunks shone pale against dark
spruce and the air had that clean smell you get when dead
leaves are wet and the water has started to feel heavier.
The plan was a short carry into Knife Lake, a quick push across
a narrow channel and an island with a fire grate and just
enough flat ground for the tent. We were tired but on time and
the sun still sat above the trees when we hit the landing
for the last Portage. The landing was slick, thin mud
over smooth rock, a place you step with care.
We slid the bows up, braced with paddles, and fell into our
routine. Evan shouldered his canoe in one
move that looked careless but wasn't.
I took the food pack and paddles, just clipped the tent
and a pile of smaller bags together.
We went up the path in single file, breath showing in the
cooler air, boots finding old grooves from years of other
feet. 10 yards in, we saw the first thing that put a knot in
the middle of the plan. A snowshoe hare lay pulled open
on the trail. It hadn't been eaten.
Fur clumped and dark, the belly cleanly split back legs twisted
at angles that didn't match a wheel rut or a fall.
We all looked at it for one beat and then stepped off the trail
to get around it. No speech about it, no guesses.
We kept the carry moving Farther on.
The trail passed a spruce with claw scores cut into the bark,
higher than I could reach. Even if I stood a paddle on end,
SAP was still wet in the grooves.
Evan said bear out of habit, but the lines ran long and parallel
in a way that didn't fit a bear's swipe.
I lifted the paddle to see for sure and still came up short.
We didn't linger. The light was flattening out
into that dull silver you get before the sun drops behind the
trees, and we still had to shuttle the second load near a
seep where the mud stayed glossy and cold.
Jess put a hand up and I almost walked into her.
The mud held a set of prints, bare feet, not small, long and
narrow. The steps weren't random, they
went from Fern clump to rock to Fern again with clean spacing,
like the person or whatever didn't care about the cold or
the texture, only about clear placements, no toe splay you'd
expect from soft ground. The gaps between steps were
longer than I could do without running, which would have left a
different kind of tear in the mud.
I know how this sounds typed out, but you don't stand there
and argue over a footprint when the light is going and there's a
lake you still need to cross. We finished the carry, dropped
our loads at the far shore, and turned back for the rest without
a talk. The plan stayed.
The plan? Get to the island.
On the way back to the start of the trail, the woods changed in
a way you only notice if you've been outside enough.
It wasn't quiet in the normal way, it was the absence of the
small noises that usually stacked together.
No branch fuss from red squirrels, no small birds
moving, no little water sounds where the trail dips.
Our steps sounded padded, like snow that hasn't crested yet,
and each footfall carried farther than it should have.
We lifted the second load. Evan took the canoe again.
I got the big pack over my shoulders.
Jess gathered the dry bags in a neat bundle somewhere parallel
to us, uphill on the right. Something matched our pace.
It wasn't heavy, not thumping. It was measured.
We would stop to rest and the sound would stop.
We would start again and it would start.
Not like it was trying to be sneaky, more like it didn't need
to rush at 1 kink in the trail around a blow down.
Something up on the slope shifted weight in a way you feel
more than here, A slow, careful placement that told me whoever
it was had long legs and patience.
We came out at the landing to a lake that looked like dull
metal, no wind, temperature sliding down.
We loaded by muscle memory packs centered, paddles placed, bow
steadied. I shoved the lead canoe forward
and it glided, then hit a resistance that didn't make
sense. It wasn't the scrape of hull on
rock. It felt like pushing through a
soft hand, not a figure of speech.
The canoe slowed. The stern pulled right for half
a second like someone had a grip under it, and then it was free
again with a little jerk that made me catch my balance.
I looked down at the water and saw nothing but my own face and
the form of the hull. Jess came in behind with the
second canoe and as she did an arm length branch that had been
angled up on the shoreline rolled off the rocks and slid
into the water in a straight line.
No wave moved it. It didn't Bob off like a normal
branch. It sank a little and then
drifted down at an angle, as if someone guided it under.
We didn't do a group huddle. We didn't shout into the trees.
I pointed to the nearest small island, a knob of rock with
Birch and cedar, a fire ring I'd seen marked on the map, and we
all nodded. Islands aren't a magic trick,
but they cut the number of directions you need to worry
about. We paddled tight and quiet.
The sound of water off the blades felt too loud for the
rest of the woods. I kept my eyes forward and
counted strokes to keep my breathing under control.
When we rounded the point of land, the feeling of being paced
held for a few more seconds and then fell away because the trees
weren't in line with us anymore. I didn't like that it took the
trees, not our speed or noise, to break it.
We hit the island at real dusk. The fire grate was right where
it should have been, a circle of blackened rock tucked in a spot
with a clean view of the channel.
We just crossed camp. Didn't take long.
The tent went up on the Lee side where the wind couldn't push
cold through the fabric. The tarp came down just off the
rock to cover the packs. We ran the throw line and got
the food up as high as we could reach in case a bear came by.
Water boiled while the fire built a low, steady bed of
coals. The temperature kept dropping
and a thin haze sat over the shallows on the island's
backside, where the water was a touch warmer than the air.
We didn't say much. There was nothing helpful to
say. We ate fast and made a watch
plan because it gave us something to do that wasn't
reacting. Evan would sit first, then me,
then Jess. No one goes off alone.
No wandering to look for anything.
Lights only for hands, not for scanning the trees.
Bright beams can make you miss what's just outside the circle
and can put you off balance on rock.
The fire wasn't for comfort, it was a boundary we could maintain
without drawing a lot of attention.
We kept it at a level where it lit our side and left the far
side honest. Either something stepped into it
or it didn't. That was the line.
Sometime around midnight, Jess touched my sleeve and I sat up
before she said my name. Across the channel, just at the
edge of what the fire reached, a tall shape stood between 2
spruce. The way it held itself didn't
fit a tree. Trees don't stand with shoulders
forward. This thing did.
The proportions at that distance were wrong for a person.
The arms hung longer than they should have.
The head tilted. Not quick, just a slow angle
like someone tuning a radio by hand.
I waited for the eyeshine you sometimes see at night from deer
or smaller animals. Nothing reflected.
It didn't step into the open rock.
It didn't test the water. It stayed behind the first line
of trunks, 1 foot back and 1 foot forward in a stance that
meant it could step either way. We didn't pick up rocks.
We didn't yell. I felt a strong urge to do both
and didn't because neither would have helped.
We kept the fire steady and low, added a split log when it burned
down so the edge of light stayed the same.
I put the handle of my paddle within reach because it's solid
in a hand, and habits matter, even if the thing that matters
is the habit. We talked the way people talk in
a hospital room when someone is asleep.
Regular tone, simple words. I said we'd move at first light,
island to island, and look for other boats to join.
Jess agreed. Evan kept his eyes on the tree
line and said nothing. The shape across the way tilted
its head the other direction and then set it straight, like a
clock being placed back on a shelf.
It stood there long enough that I started to wonder if my eyes
were adding things, but both Jess and Evan described the same
tilt when I asked later, and none of us were trying to
impress the others. The rest of the night stretched
cold, found fingers and toes that weren't moving when the
moon slid behind cloud, the shape blended into the first
rank of trees so well I lost it and then found it by using the
gap between two trunks as a reference.
It never stepped forward. It never tested the channel.
If I had to say what it did, I'd say it measured us and the fire
and how often we added wood. It's not romantic, to put it
that way, but this is not a romantic story.
It didn't need a mood, it needed a boundary and the water in the
flame gave us one for a few hours.
First light on the lake was that slate color that doesn't
photograph well but tells you the night is done.
Frost had dusted the tent fly in the canoe seats.
When I bent the throw line to lower the food, the rope felt
stiff. Fingers ached in a clean way
that said the day would be cold but clear.
We broke camp like people trying not to make a mistake.
Check for steaks, sweep for trash, pull the last coals out
thin and drown them. On the near shoreline to our
right, a small aluminum boat appeared, moving slow, 2
anglers, locals by the look of layered jackets and the old
motor sound. We raised paddles and got their
attention with the blade. Not shouting.
They idled close enough that we could talk without making it a
scene. I told them the short version
prints on the Portage claw marks higher than a paddle, something
pacing out of sight. A branch that didn't move like a
branch, A stall at the landing, A shape across the channel that
never crossed. The one in the stern.
Looked at the opposite shore for a long 2nd and said we were
smart to pick an island in shoulder season.
He told us they were headed toward the main body and if we
wanted to follow their line we were welcome.
We went behind them. Not like a rescue, more like
cover. Their engine gave off a steady
sound that cut the thin quiet left from the night.
We hugged shore brakes and made the turns without cutting across
open water where we didn't have to.
My shoulders felt the kind of tired that comes with a stress
line finally dropping. I kept waiting for a head to
show on a point of land. None did.
The feeling didn't leave right away.
It just had nothing to hold on to without trees crowding us
from both sides. By late morning we were back
near the Ely side and we went straight to the Kawashiwi Ranger
station. I don't tell stories like this
to be believed on the Internet. I told this one to the person
whose job it is to listen and make decisions.
We gave them everything. The torn hair, the claw cuts too
high for comfort. The barefoot prints in cold mud
placed from Fern to rock. The pacing that matched our
steps on the second carry. The way the canoe felt held for
a second and then freed, the Long Branch that entered the
water like a guided object. The tall shape that stood in the
last reach of our fires, light with its head tilted and never
crossing. I told the Ranger how far the
prints were spaced by measuring the gaps against my paddle shaft
and then stepping them out on the floor to be sure I wasn't
dramatizing anything. The number I got was longer than
any of us could do without running, and the mud would have
shown a run. The Ranger didn't laugh.
He said he's seen plenty of people try to go barefoot for
toughness and end up with hypothermia.
He said sometimes claw marks lie to the eye.
Then he asked me to repeat the stride in the order of the
placements across the mud and the temperature at dusk.
When he had those, he went quiet for a moment, wrote a short
notice and pinned it to the board.
The Portage we'd used was closed for a week due to predator
activity. He told us what we already knew.
Now, after first frost, cold sinks fast in the late day, and
islands reduce surprises because at least one side is water
instead of cover. He told us to keep our travel
days short in shoulder seasons and be off the water by late
afternoon unless we had a guaranteed sight insight.
We scrubbed the rest of the trip.
That wasn't a defeat. We got a hot meal in town and
drove home while it was still light.
Nobody argued. Back at my apartment, I set the
maps on the table and stared at our pencil line into Knife Lake.
I tried to make it about a bear or a person trying to scare
campers, or a moose standing just wrong across the way.
Any of those would be fine. I can't make the prints.
The branch and the stall fit a clean story that keeps
everything ordinary. I also don't need to.
The measure I care about is what kept three people intact in a
place where help is far. We didn't win anything.
We avoided losing. Call it whatever helps you file
it. I'm not arguing folklore.
I'm telling you that in early October, after the first frost,
something with a long stride and patience used that last stretch
of trees like cover and treated our boat at the landing like a
test. It didn't cross the water.
The fire gave it a line. It didn't step over.
We left at first light with other humans and put our backs
to it. The Ranger closed that Portage
for the week. That's the part I hold on to
when I start to second guess details.
If you're set on Knife Lake this season, aim for islands when you
can and keep your day short. Trust the habits that make you
feel boring. Quiet voices, steady fire, no
wandering, no stunts. You don't have to outsmart
anything that lives in the tree line at dusk.
You only have to not be there when it wants to check what you
are. We chose that and we're home
because of it.