I went to Old Rag on a weekday because I wanted the mountain
mostly to myself. You have to buy a day use ticket
now and I picked a slot that would avoid the weekend rush.
I used to be an EMT and I still carry a small kit when I hike.
Rap tourniquet, trauma shears, Sam splint cut down to fit 2
Israeli bandages, and a handheld ham radio that has lived in my
pack since my volunteer days. I don't drink on trail, don't
smoke, don't wear earbuds. I log in at the board, check my
time and keep a simple plan up the Ridge trail, over the rock
scramble, down the Saddle Trail, pass the Bird's Nest shelter,
and out along Weekly Hollow Fire Rd.
It was late October in Shenandoah National Park.
Cold shade under the boulders, warm sun on the slabs, maples
flaring red. I've done Old Rag a dozen times.
I know the pace. I know where people bunch up.
I also know how quiet it gets between groups.
That quiet is why I go on weekdays.
I left the Old Rag parking area near Nathers a little after
sunrise and settled into a steady climb.
My goal was to take photos from the open granite near the top
before the crowds arrived. I moved fine through the
forested approach, hit the first views, and felt that familiar
shift when the trail turns from dirt to stone about an hour and
a half in. Still below the main scramble, I
saw a woman wave me down from a flat slab.
Gray hoodie, trail runners, short hair tucked into the hood,
a small runner's vest instead of a backpack.
She didn't look winded. Her hands were dirty to the
nails. Hey, she said, stepping close.
My partner twisted an ankle just off trail.
He's bleeding. Can you help?
I stopped a few feet away and let my eyes work before anything
else. Scene safety.
That habit never left me. I looked for another person,
looked for a pack, looked for where she had come from.
I didn't see anyone. I didn't see a pack.
I did see a cheap walkie-talkie clip peeking from under the hem
of her hoodie, the kind you get in a 2 pack at a big box store.
She noticed me notice it and tug the hem down.
What's his name? I asked Matt.
She said quickly. He slipped and cut himself.
Please, age conscious, any head strike.
I kept my voice even. Yeah, he's awake, he's fine,
just bleeding. We should hurry, she said.
It's quicker if we cut around this way.
The squeeze up there is jammed anyway.
She pointed off the main line toward a narrow break between
scrub and rock. It wasn't a trail.
There were faint scuffs, but nothing like the polished
granite on the usual route. I stepped to the side as if to
look where she indicated, and used the motion to scan the
ground around us. In a dusty patch on the rock, I
could see shoe prints pointing in.
I didn't see any pointing out. No drag marks, no skid where
someone would have gone down hard.
That alone wasn't proof of anything, but it was wrong for
what she was describing. Where exactly did he twist it?
I asked. Show me where you 2 walked.
She hesitated. It's right there.
She said, pointing again at the off route line.
Just follow me. We can't get a litter up here
anyway. It's faster if we go the back
way. I looked at the brush line and
saw a short piece of paracord tied low around a scrub stem. 8
inches, ends melted dark color against dark leaves.
It wasn't volunteer flagging tape, it was tucked where a
casual hiker wouldn't notice. I scanned farther and picked up
a second piece, same length, tied on the far side of the
opening. That pulled the picture together
in a way I didn't like. OK, I said, making a decision.
I'm going to call this in so we can meet Rangers at the Bird's
Nest shelter and get you 2 out clean.
What's the channel on your radio?
She pressed her lips together. It's fine, he's fine, let's just
go. I took my ham out and keyed it.
It wasn't connected to any park net, but it didn't matter.
I gave a loud, clear report as if I were on with dispatch. 2
hikers. Possible ankle injury with
bleeding on the Ridge Trail below the rock scramble.
Request contact and advise staging at Birds Nest on Saddle
Trail in 20. I read a set of fake coordinates
in a confident tone, like I had them from AGPS.
I said my name. I said I had a radio in first
aid. I made sure anyone within
earshot would hear the words dispatch and staging.
The woman's jaw tightened when I started talking.
The second I said staging, she made herself smile again, Too
wide and too fast. Let's hurry, she said.
He's bleeding. Then we're going to the sunny
slab over here, I said, angling us back toward the main line
where other hikers would appear, where I can assess him and keep
him warm. We're not going into a shaded
chute. She stared at me, then walked
toward the narrow break again and looked over her shoulder to
see if I was following. I didn't move.
I said, loud enough for anyone above or below to hear.
If you can walk, walk with me. If not, I'm calling for a litter
and we'll wait in the open. She came back a few steps and
said, lower. Come on, it's right there.
I took two steps to my left for a better angle on the space she
kept trying to steer me toward. From there I could see the mouth
of a chute, tight walls, shadowed, poor lines of sight,
the kind of place that makes you slow down and watch your
footing. There was a dead fall near the
entrance with something zip tied to it.
I zoomed with my phone and saw a small camouflaged game camera
pointed at the opening. The zip ties were clean and new
in a crack in the rock beside it, tucked out of the obvious
line, I could see a rolled green tarp with duct tape holding it
tight, and a small bundle of zip ties and gloves jammed next to
it. I kept my face still.
We're not going in there. It's faster, she said.
Her voice changed, less pleading, more command.
She pressed her hand to the bulge under her hoodie where the
walkie hung. He's scared.
He needs help. You can bring him to me, I said.
I have supplies. We'll meet the Rangers on the
Saddle Trail. I'm not leaving the main line.
Footsteps scuffed below us, 2 hikers I had passed earlier.
Bright jackets, a paper park map folded in a back pocket came up
through the slab section, 30 yards down.
I raised a hand. Hey, we've got an injury nearby.
I called. Hang tight a second.
They waved back and kept climbing.
The woman's smile fell away completely.
She looked at the chute, then at me, then down at the two hikers
coming up. She lifted her chin like she was
listening to something on the walkie.
Without another word, she stepped into the shaded line and
moved down it with complete confidence, feet set exactly
where they needed to go. No hesitation.
That told me it wasn't her first time through.
She disappeared around a corner that would take a normal person
a minute to solve. I waited.
I didn't chase. I took three fast photos.
The paracord marker on the scrub stem, the camera on the
deadfall, the rolled tarp in the crack.
I noted a split boulder nearby with a distinctive vein of
quartz and a dead rhododendron beside it, so I could find the
spot again from above or below. Then I turned to the main route,
waved the two hikers up, and told them what I'd seen.
We decided to stay together up to the summit.
I kept scanning for more low tide paracord.
Once you know what to look for, it's hard to Unsee it.
We found another short piece far off to the side, where a person
hugging the right edge might drift.
Someone had put time into this. At the summit, I had a bar of
service. I called the park number for
Luray and left a clear message with everything I had.
Time, location, what I saw, where the photos were taken
from, what direction the woman left, my name and number, the
fact that I had made a loud radio call that other hikers
might have heard. I also called Madison County
non-emergency and asked that they documented in case the park
line didn't connect immediately. I told both that I would meet
Rangers at the Bird's Nest shelter on the Saddle Trail and
guide them back to the exact features.
We didn't waste time on the way down.
We kept our eyes open. Near a shaded bend above the
Bird's Nest, we found a second cache tucked behind a rock lip.
Protein bars, hand warmers, a cheap folding knife with the tip
snapped, a few pairs of nitrile gloves, and a small prepaid
phone sealed in a sandwich bag. I took one photo from a distance
and didn't touch it. 2 Rangers met us at the shelter.
They were calm and methodical. They took our statements one at
a time, bagged the phone and the cash items with gloved hands and
asked us to walk them back to the first spot near the shoot.
We did. They saw the camera, They saw
the tarp. They used their own gear to
collect and mark everything. While we were there, we heard
faint tones on a nearby walkie channel, short beeps, then
nothing. The Rangers made a note and
scanned through the cheap radio frequencies.
They didn't broadcast anything to the general public.
They kept it quiet and moved other hikers along with a
generic trail work line to avoid a scene.
They asked me not to post the photos until they had a chance
to sweep. That was fine with me.
The priority was catching whoever had set this up.
They walked us back to the Bird's Nest, thanked us and
asked us to finish out the loop like normal.
I did, but I stuck with the two hikers all the way to Weekly
Hollow Fire Rd. It felt wrong to separate after
that. Two days later, a Ranger called
me to follow up. They had run a targeted sweep
along the Ridge and Saddle trails and into a couple of
nearby drainages. They found more of the same.
Short paracord ties, low on brush, small cameras aimed at
places where people slow down, rolled tarps tucked into cracks,
and basic supplies that make a story sound real when you tell
it fast. Snacks, tape, gloves, a little
Med kit. They pulled cards from the
cameras. Some footage showed that same
woman in a Gray hoodie approaching solo hikers, talking
with her hands, guiding them towards shadowed lines that cut
away from the main flow. Sometimes you could hear a
second voice on a radio, prompting her.
Sometimes nothing happened because the hiker said no.
Sometimes the camera caught only the Crouch of someone passing
close to the lens. It was enough to work with, the
Ranger said. They had looped in Virginia
State Police and the County Sheriff between serial numbers
on a couple of the cameras, the store that sold them and a plate
caught near the trailhead. They got to a local woman with
outstanding warrants tied to trail robberies and an assault
in another county. They picked her up on those
charges first. When the park finished
processing what they'd seized, more charges followed.
There wasn't a dramatic chase or a news conference.
It was quiet but steady. Months later, I got a call from
the commonwealth's attorney's office asking me to confirm my
statement and be available if needed.
I didn't have to testify in front of a jury.
She took a plea. Shenandoah posted a safety
notice not long after. It was straight talk.
Don't follow anyone off trail. Report suspicious markers or
hidden equipment, Stay on the main line through the scramble.
Try to move with others when you can and call for help from open
areas. The Rangers also removed a
handful of similar caches along a couple of popular routes, not
just old Rag. None of that was dramatic.
It was the kind of work that keeps a bad situation from
turning into a headline. I deleted the summit selfies
from that day. I kept the photos of the markers
in the cache in case anyone ever questioned what I saw.
I went back the next fall with two friends and we did the loop
like always, up the Ridge trail, down the saddle, out the fire
Rd. But we kept a tighter spacing
and we talked through the narrow sections instead of going
silent. I still carry my little kit, I
still stop when someone needs help, but I won't step in to
brush for a stranger again. If someone says just off trail,
my answer is no and I make the call.
From where I stand, I'm not trying to scare anyone away from
Old Rag, it's a beautiful hike. The views are worth the work.
I'm saying that people use the same terrain we love for reasons
that aren't good, and they plan if anything about a request
feels rehearsed. Names that change, pressure to
avoid other hikers, equipment that doesn't match the story.
Take a minute, get to open ground, pull more people into
earshot and call it in. That day I trusted the little
things. Inbound only.
Tracks in dust. Dark cord tied low.
A cheap radio tucked under a hoodie.
A camera pointed at a choke point.
Those details are what saved me. The woman in the Gray hoodie is
off the mountain now because the park and the state did their
jobs, and because a couple of hikers came around a slab right
when I needed them to. I keep thinking about what would
have happened if they hadn't. That thought is enough.
I don't need a lesson bigger than that.
I'm the oldest of three cousins who grew up paddling out of Ely,
MN. Our dads ran deer camps together
and taught us the boundary waters the way some families
teach. Stick shift, step by step, no
drama, everything secured. Twice.
After our uncle died last winter, my younger brother and I
agreed to take our cousin on one last canoe trip that season.
In his memory. We picked mid-october for quiet
lakes. No biting insects and the chance
to hear loons at night. We rented from an outfitter in
Ely, checked the forecast and planned a simple loop Moose Lake
to Birch, then into Knife Lake and a base camp somewhere near
Thunder Point. The forecast called for clear
skies, north wind light to moderate nights at or just below
freezing. It sounded manageable.
We packed a four season tent, a small hot fire set up, and a
borrowed flare gun. Because shoulder season mistakes
don't give many second chances, we put in at Moose Lake After
lunch. The landing had a paper sign
about early skim ice. The parking lot felt drained of
people in a way it doesn't in July.
On the water we passed one tandem canoe heading the other
way. They waved and said simply cold
coming. The portages were empty, the
paths dry with a crust of frost under spruce shade.
We moved efficiently, packs canoe back for odds and ends,
and reached Knife in late afternoon under a pale sun with
the temperature already falling. We found a small island with a
narrow landing and a stand of spruce that broke the wind from
the northwest. It had a fire grate, a decent
bench log, and flat ground high enough to drain if a surprise
squaw came through. We set the tent in the Lee,
stretched A tarp over the kitchen, and ran a food line
between 2 stout trunks. The canoe was flipped and tied
bow and stern with painters. We staged a neat stack of split
wood fed from a larger pile of deadfall we dragged up.
Everything was squared away in the way our uncle used to insist
on before dark. That mattered.
Later, while collecting kindling along the island's narrow
shoreline, I noticed something I couldn't parse.
The mud there was thin, like pudding over rock, and it held
shapes cleanly. Cutting straight through it were
long, ovoid impressions, heel heavy, each separated by a
stride too big for deer and too consistent for a bear.
Shuffling around a shallow furrow connected several of
them, like something dragged lightly.
The trail went arrow straight from scrub, over the mud and
into water deep enough to erase it.
No splay, no broken brush, no side to side wobble.
My brother crouched and scraped the edge of one print.
The crust lifted like a pie shell.
He said it could be a moose stepping along the edge, but
there were no wide dewlap drags or the messy churn moose usually
leave. I kept the observation to
myself. The pattern looked like a person
testing thin ground. Heal first, wait forward.
But the spacing didn't make sense for a human frame, and the
edges were too deep. We cooked a simple dinner pasta
with oil and salt. The air had that flat, metallic
feel it gets before the first hard freeze.
Around dusk, I smelled something that didn't fit.
If you've ever left venison too long in a deep freezer, you know
the odor. Sweet at the front and stale
underneath, like meat dried out and then thawed.
It came in short waves with no wind shift To explain it.
The three of us checked our garbage and food bags.
Everything was clean and hung. We shrugged and pinned it on
some carcass nearby we couldn't see.
At full dark, the lake went from ruffled to mirror.
A loon called once, answered from far off and went quiet.
We sat by the fire and traded small stories about our uncle.
The cousin talked about his cough, how you could tell it was
him from 100 yards at camp. He smiled but kept glancing at
the margin where the fire light slipped away.
I try not to make anything mystical out of what happened
after midnight. Sound carries on cold water,
Every canoeist knows that. But it wasn't the usual scrape
of paddle ferals from another camp or the mutter of voices out
on a drift. I woke to my cousin's hand
gripping my jacket and his eyes locked on the black water.
He said he heard our uncle call his childhood nickname.
Not loud, just clear and even, like 3 words carried level
across the Bay. The nicknames in our family are
strange and specific. We don't use them around other
people. There were no other people.
He asked me to say he'd imagined it.
I told him that sound travels in a straight line here and plays
tricks, which is true, and I pulled my boots on.
My brother Rose without a word, fed the fire, and then we stayed
awake, the three of us not talking much.
We kept the flames low and steady.
The smell came again, brief, then faded.
Morning laid a thin film of ice in the stagnant corners.
That sweet, wrong odor hung low around the boulders on the east
shore. When we went to lower the food
line for breakfast, we found a rib bone, gnawed and smooth at
one end, wedged into the braided rope where it looped over the
trunk. It had been pressed in hard
enough to deform the fibers. It did not fall there.
The rope was a good 10 feet up. We searched for a second rope or
a prank. There was nothing.
We took the bone down with a stick, dropped it in the fire
and re baited the hang with a fresh length looped over a
higher branch. We double bagged anything that
gave off scent and burned bacon grease to ash rather than dump
it. The cousin didn't speak much and
when he did it was practical. Where to store the pot, how much
wood to cut, Like holding on to simple tasks.
We agreed to treat the day like a wait out and leave at first
light. Next morning the wind had
shifted and the bays were already glazing over.
Paddling after dark with new ice is a stupid way to get wet.
We fished within sight of camp and stopped early.
The smell came and went, even when the air was still like it
wasn't connected to wind. On the far shore, parallel to
our island, I could see small Oval breaks in the fresh skim,
evenly spaced, not where rocks would be.
It looked like something heavy had stepped along the edge.
Testing. I let that go.
We dug firing lanes, moved deadfall that blocked a clean
view to water, and placed the flare gun within reach by the
kitchen box. We stacked enough wood to keep
flame all night without gaps. The rule was simple, 2 on the
fire, 1 minding the boats, and the margins rotate every hour.
We've done variations of that plenty of times, mostly to keep
pots unfrozen and to stay ahead of wind.
This felt different. It wasn't panic.
It was like preparing for a visitor we didn't want.
The steps started after dusk, not hurrying, not sneaking.
A slow, sober pace through brush at a distance that never
changed, wide and patient. When it moved, sticks didn't
snap so much as press and release, like a careful Walker
who knew how to spread weight. Every once in a while it stopped
and the stillness sat there. My brother and I both heard our
uncle's cough cut through the quiet once. 2 short huffs he
always had from too many winters in dry, smoky cabins.
The cousin went stiff. He said nothing for a long time.
I wanted to call out. I did not.
We kept the fire tight and bright so the light threw clean
edges. The canoe bumped the rock twice
without any wind to push it. On the second bump, I heard the
scrape of hull on stone and the slide of something under the
thin ice, like the slow push of a shoulder or a hand.
We dragged the boat fully onto rock, flipped it, and lashed the
painters around the base of a spruce.
After that, the bumping stopped. I saw it a little after
moonrise. I say it because that's safer
than any label. Half hidden between trunks,
beyond the reach of firelights, stood a shape too tall for a
person, narrow and wrong in its joints, with points like antlers
snarled in strips of hide that hung in a way I don't know how
to describe without getting dramatic.
Its breath showed in long, even pulses, not quick.
It did not stamp. It did not reach or posture.
It just watched my cousin, like the rest of us weren't there.
I said his name and told him to look down at the fire ring, not
out. He obeyed.
I picked up the flare gun, the urge to aim at center mass was
there and I ignored it. My dad taught us that light is
medicine in the Backcountry. Steady flame, clear beam, sudden
flare, all of it turned situations.
So I lifted above the trees and fired high and wide.
The flare hissed up and burned white.
The thing flinched, not like from pain, more like it hated
sudden illumination and moved out of sight with speed I've
never seen from any living thing on 2 legs.
It didn't Sprint exactly, it just wasn't where it had been
anymore and the brush reaction lagged behind it.
We heard the sharp crack of new ice breaking along the shore in
a string of spaced pops. When we checked those spots in
the morning, there were heel first impressions punched
through the skim in straight intervals, as if someone had
jogged along and tested each step before committing weight.
After the flare, the circling widened.
The smell came strong for a minute and then was gone, like a
valve closing. The cough happened once more
from farther out. The cousin cried a little,
sitting next to the fire. He kept passing wood and
checking the kitchen line. We stayed until a band of grey
opened in the east and the spruce tops came back into shape
against the sky. We left at first light through
slush. Cutting a channel with paddle
blades makes a sound like cloth tearing under a sheet of glass.
We kept the canoe steady, 3 strokes and switch, no talking,
no breaks until open water portages that took 15 minutes on
the way in. Took twice that.
With frost on every rock. We reached Moose Lake by mid
morning and the outfitter before noon.
The owner listened and went quiet in the way old hands go
quiet. He made a call to the county.
A sheriff's truck, a trapper in a stained canvas coat and a
tribal conservation officer from Bois Fort met us back at the
landing and rode out with us to the site that afternoon.
That part matters to me. It wasn't just three guys
telling a camp story. We had other eyes on the island.
The trapper crouched by the shoreline and walked, the line
of impressions counting under his breath the way trappers do.
He said the stride wasn't right for anything he knew.
He pointed out how a deer breaks thin ice with the front of the
hoof and leaves chips like pedals.
While these had a deep clean heel punch and a narrow toe that
didn't show much. He said a bear's messier than
this and a moose would have destroyed the margin.
The sheriff took notes for his report and looked at the food
line where the fibers were still flattened around the spot where
the rib had been pressed in. He said a person could have
staged it. My brother asked how from a
canoe at night without wet prints up the trunk and across
the landing. The sheriff didn't push it, he
just wrote. The conservation officer sniffed
once and said the odor matched a disturbed winter kill cash.
He didn't say it was anything more.
He did say that there are stories meant to keep people out
of trouble and that shoulder season is when old hungry things
move easiest and people move slowest.
He closed the area for the season that made sense.
It's not about proving anything, it's about keeping the next
group from making our same calculation and getting it
wrong. A few weeks later, when I
brought back a rented map case, the outfitter told me the
trapper found a wolf killed deer hung high in a spruce crotch not
far from that island tendon stretched like a handle.
Wolves don't do that, the trapper told the sheriff, and
the sheriff mentioned it back to the shop.
Nobody filed that in a paper you can read.
It's just the kind of fact old timers share across a counter
because it confirms a pattern and nudges you toward better
choices. The three of us didn't break in
the same place. The cousin quit winter trips
altogether and started honoring his dad by fixing duck decoys
and teaching his nephew to cast in a City Park.
My brother still camps, just not on small islands in that chain
of lakes when the air is dropping below freezing.
As for me, I go back most years and I keep my rules simple.
No shoulder season, nights on knife, no late returns when skim
can form. Keep a flare gun and the fuel to
run a bright steady fire till dawn.
If you hear your name from across water out there, treat it
like you would thin ice. Assume it's unsafe.
Move with a plan and put light where it matters.
We got out because we didn't run blind in the dark.
We chose daylight and clean steps, and we put light over
fear. I don't need a name for what
watched us to know. Those are the habits that saved
us. When I fall asleep now, I line
up small practical decisions in my head.
Rope height, wind direction, fuel stacked close, fire tight,
and I count them the way a person might count laps in a
pool. It settles me.
It reminds me that what kept its distance up there did so for two
reasons I can live with. The fire made a line and the
morning gave us a way out. I fish the San Juan River
tailwater below Navajo Dam every fall.
Early November is my window. I time it for the nights when
the big Browns move and I work short sink tips and heavy
streamers in the slow seams where the current turns glassy
under thin cloud. I learned the pull outs years
ago. Texas whole when I want company,
lower flats when I want space, and the bend below Cottonwood
campground when I want to hear the river without trucks or
voices. The routine is the same every
trip. Tank full in Aztec, a stop at
the bait shop in the little village by the dam for extra
tippet and streamer wire. One quick joke with the clerk
about talking trash to the big Browns and then rigging with the
tailgate as my bench. Locals have always told me two
things that stuck. Pack out every scrap you bring
and after dark, respect what you don't understand.
I treated the first like law and the second like good manners.
That week taught me there's more to it than that.
It was clear and cold. The release from the dam was
steady, not roaring, and the moon kept fading in and out of a
thin lid of cloud. I parked nose out at a small
dirt pull out just downstream of Cottonwood Campground.
The idea was to swing A4 inch olive streamer on a short
sinking head across the far seam and let it walk into the softer
inside water. I wore rubber soles because the
Round Rock there is slick and rolls under you, and I keep my
headlamp off unless I'm tying a knot.
I stepped into the water around 7:30 and let my eyes settle into
the Gray. The river has a sound here that
I know, as well as traffic on my street.
At home, a low even hiss with the occasional clink when a rock
rolls under. Most nights a coyote group
starts up near the cottonwoods. When the light is almost gone,
it carries like a yard full of dogs down the river.
That night the dog started, then stopped in the middle like
someone pinched a radio cord. Not quieted.
Cut. I stood still with the line
hanging from my rod tip and waited for them to start again.
Nothing. The water felt wider.
When they went quiet, like the banks moved out, a smell rolled
in. I didn't expect dust, wet dog
and the old sweetness of fish scales.
Maybe it was a gut pile from someone's Stringer, I thought.
I made three casting cycles down and across, stepping a yard each
time. On the 4th, when the fly swung
into the seam and should have bent down with the current, the
line drew the other way. It didn't jerk or bounce like a
fish. It slid upstream, steady, as if
someone were walking up the bank and taking it along.
I strip set and leaned. It kept moving the wrong
direction, hand over hand, smooth.
I eased back a step. The line followed.
The smell got thicker. 2 soft whistles answered each other
across the water. They came four heartbeats apart,
same pitch, same length, one from the far trees and one
behind me up in the brush. It was too clean to be wind or
an owl, and too even to be coincidence.
I kept my light off. I didn't say a word.
I let the rod tip drop and focused on breathing steady.
The river hissed. The line hummed faintly through
my fingers, like monofilament being plucked.
Then a voice from the far bank said my first name in a flat,
matter of fact way, and repeated the exact joke I said to the
clerk three hours earlier. Same words, same rhythm.
There was no greeting attached to it, and no laugh.
Just my own words coming back to me from across the water.
Every part of me wanted to shine the light.
I didn't. Another sound came from the
brush behind me, close maybe 20 feet back in the tamarisk.
It wasn't a voice talking. It was my sister's laugh, the
way it actually sounds. Short inhale up front, clipped.
Stop at the end with the tiniest snort when she's trying to hold
it in. It is something you don't notice
until you hear it out of place. I've fished alone enough to know
when I've made a mistake and when I've got a problem.
I told myself this was the second one.
A lot of people fish here at night, and I hadn't seen a
single headlamp since I parked. I kept my shoulders to the water
and backed up toward the bank. I was taught if you feel watched
in the dark, you don't turn your spine to it and you don't run
unless there's no other choice. My boots found the first Ridge
of gravel. I said out loud and plain to the
far bank. You're trespassing.
I'm calling this in. The line suddenly went slack,
like a hand let go. My fly swung free and slapped
the surface. I took another step and my back
foot slid into a print I could feel before I looked.
My heel sat in a coyote track and the ball of my foot pressed
into a human boot tread that had been stamped inside it.
It wasn't an overlap from crossing paths.
The boot had been set into the animal print on purpose.
I pulled my foot free and stepped to the side.
Across the seam, something the size of a man stood still at the
edge of the trees. It wore a dark coat or a blanket
or something with a heavy collar, and it rocked once at
the knees like it was setting its feet on the cobble.
It didn't raise its arms or wave.
It didn't light a lamp. It stood there the way a post
stands. The smell of dust and dog and
fish got stronger in a way that felt wrong for the breeze that
night. The second whistle blew from the
brush behind me, same pitch and same spacing as the first.
I realized that what made the whistle so uncomfortable wasn't
just the planning, it was that they didn't touch anything
around them. No rustle before or after, no
footfall. Just a tone sent into the open
and the answer coming back from the other side.
I took the last five steps to the truck in a line that kept my
chest to the river. I opened the door, slid in,
locked it, and turned the key. I didn't floor it.
I eased off the pull out and let the tires grab.
As I rolled past the cottonwoods, a short bark came
from the far bank and broke into that same even whistle again,
like someone trying out different sounds on a call.
I drove straight to the Marina at Sims Mesa because it has
lights and people and a phone. The after hours person at the
Marina desk didn't look surprised.
I told her someone is messing with anglers at night on the
bend below Cottonwood, and I gave her my name and number.
She said there had been a couple of similar calls in the last few
weeks. She called Navajo Nation police.
She also reached a New Mexico game warden who had been
checking the Quality waters in the evenings because of reports
about voices, strange whistles, and someone trying to snag
lines. They asked me to wait. 2 patrol
units in the warden rolled in with their light bars dark and
their spotlights turned way down.
They asked me to ride back and point out the exact pull out and
where I was standing. When we got there they told me
to stay by the vehicles while they swept with lights.
They were careful about how they talked.
They did not mock me and they did not get theatrical.
They moved slow and took notes. Under a Cottonwood root, they
pulled out a cheap Bluetooth speaker, wrapped in tape and
half buried in sand. In the grass by the side channel
they found a dark coat with some kind of hide lining, stiff with
dried slime and dotted with fish scales like it had been dragged
over a cleaning table. Hooked on a branch was an
electronic predator call, caked in grit.
The warden found a short hook tied to heavy cord looped around
a rock at the far seam, enough to catch a leader and let
someone walk your line upstream by hand or with a stick while
they kept distance. Along the side channel were more
prints. Some were coyote, some were
human, some were human Treads pressed inside the animal tracks
again. Back at the trucks, one of the
officers told me they'd had multiple complaints along that
stretch. Voices using people's names.
Laughter matched a little too well.
Whistles that seem to come from more than one place.
They had been trying to catch whoever was doing it.
He said I did right by leaving and reporting 1st instead of
going looking. He also said something I
remember clearly. There are teachings tied to this
land and these stories that deserve respect and people using
those stories as a costume can put themselves in danger too.
He told me to fish daylight only for a bit and to call if I saw a
gear that didn't belong. I went back to my cabin at the
State Park and kept the lamp on. My hands smelled like river and
wet nylon. I rinsed them and couldn't shake
that dust and dog scent that had crept into my clothes.
I didn't fish at night again that week.
I walked the Cottonwood bend the next afternoon and found one
more piece of taped plastic near where I had been standing.
I brought it to the Marina office and left my number again.
The water looked normal in daylight.
It always does. A few days later, an officer
called me back. They had detained a local
drifter near Texas hole in his truck.
They found a phone with recorded voices from the bait shop, a
small audio recorder, the same model predator call.
We saw extra cord already snelled with short hooks and a
roll of tape. He admitted to playing around to
scare people and to trying to snag flies to resell.
He was facing harassment and unlawful take.
His gear was seized and he was barred from the area pending a
hearing. The warden thanked me for being
specific about the pull out and the timing.
It helped them tie my statement to two other nights when I
stopped by the Marina to say thanks in person.
A staffer who lives nearby pulled me aside and reminded me
in a steady voice that some stories out here aren't mine to
tell. Turning them into a prank is
crossing a line, whether you believe in them or not.
A Navajo officer, separate from that conversation, told me the
same thing in his own words. I put that in my notes because
it matters. I didn't and won't repeat
details people shared with me in confidence.
My part is the practical part, what I saw, what I smelled, what
my line did and what was found. I still fish the San Juan.
I go in daylight now. I pick the Cottonwood bend when
the sun is on it and the river looks like a long piece of
glass. I keep my head on a swivel for
anything that doesn't fit. A taped speaker in roots, a loop
of cord wrapped around a rock, boot treads pressed where they
shouldn't be. If I see something, I bring it
to the Marina or I call Navajo Nation police or the park
office. The advice I was given is the
same advice I'll pass along. Respect the posted guidance.
Don't fish alone after dark in that zone and report anything
that's off as soon as you can. It's a river with big fish and a
lot of quiet. Some of that quiet is just water
and stone. Some of it belongs to people and
teachings that were here before me and it isn't mine to
challenge. What sticks with me is small and
plain. It isn't the figure by the trees
or the line moving the wrong way.
It's the way the dog stopped mid Yip and never started again.
It's the smell that got thicker instead of fading with the
breeze. It's my sister's laugh, perfect
and empty of her in a place she's never stood.
The rest has answers you can hold in your hand.
A speaker, a call, a hook on a cord, and a man in a truck.
That's good. Cases should close when they
can. But I learned my lesson the way
I should have known it all along.
Take care with the stories and the places they live.
Leave room for what isn't yours. And when the cottonwoods go
black and the dogs don't start up, that's when I hang the fly
on the hook keeper, break down the rod and drive back to the
light. I'm not the jumpy type.
I grew up camping with my dad and still go a few weekends a
year. Late last October, my friend
Evan and I planned an easy trip to Red River Gorge.
Nothing big, just a car sight at Coomer Ridge, a couple of day
hikes to Hidden Arch and Sky Bridge, Camp Chile and cards
under headlamps. We drove down from Lexington
after work, took the Nada Tunnel, grabbed ice at Sky
Bridge Station, and rolled into the campground.
Before the gate closed, the host checked our reservation,
reminded us about food storage and raccoons, and mentioned
there'd been some petty theft from coolers.
The forecast said clear and cold, mid 30s at night.
The loop looked half full, mostly leaf peepers with tidy
sights. It felt normal.
We raked a ring of leaves back from the tent area to bare dirt
and set the tent near the picnic table at the entrance to our
site. Someone had stacked 5 flat Creek
rocks like a doorstop in the middle of the footpath.
It wasn't in the way of the car or the fire ring.
It was centered with the clean edges lined up.
I moved it aside without thinking much about it.
We cooked chili on the single burner, 8 cleaned up and slid
the cooler under the bench with the latches engaged.
We kept trash in the trunk. A car door shut 2 sites down.
Someone split kindling somewhere behind the loop.
It felt like every other fall night I've had outdoors.
At first light the next morning I reached for the seven gallon
water cube on the table and found it was empty.
The cap was on tight along 1 seam close to a corner.
There was a clean puncture the size of a nail.
No tearing, no tooth marks. The table under it was dry.
Evan tilted it and sniffed. It smelled like plastic and
Creek water. Nothing odd.
We swapped to bottled water and tossed the cube in the trunk to
deal with at home. On the walk to the vault
toilets, I noticed little pebbles along our parking pad,
placed at even gaps like short markers.
No one else seemed bothered. We wrote it off as a bored kid
passing time. We hiked Hidden Arch that
afternoon and came back before dark.
On the trail, we passed a tall guy in a camo jacket.
He had a shaved head and no pack.
He moved slow, eyes on the ground, and he was barefoot.
In late October, the leaves were dry and the air had that bite in
it, and this guy stepped aside to let us by without a word.
His feet were Gray with dust. I've seen barefoot hikers in
summer on soft trails. I hadn't seen one out there that
time of year. When we made it back to camp,
the family 2 sites over was breaking down their tent in a
hurry. One of the adults walked over
like they were going to ask for the time, lowered their voice
and said there's a guy pacing the loop.
Weird vibe. We're heading to a motel.
They didn't linger for questions.
They were on the road in 10 minutes.
We ate brats, scrubbed pans, and set 2 chairs facing the site
entrance. We parked nose out with the keys
on the dash. I balanced a metal cup on the
cooler lid so it would clatter if the lid moved.
We hung a little bell by the tent zipper to make a tiny chime
if someone tugged it. We raked the leaf ring wider so
anything stepping inside would crunch.
I wasn't scared, I just didn't like the feeling that we were
being sized up after quiet hours.
The loop settled. I could hear a radio far off for
a minute, then nothing. When we killed our headlamps and
lay down, I heard steps in the leaves beyond the fire ring.
Not animal steps, a person. The rhythm had weight to it and
the pause of someone shifting their stance.
The steps moved around the edge of our sight and stopped at the
line where the leaves met the bare dirt we'd raked back.
They didn't cross when I cleared my throat or unzipped a jacket
pocket. The sound stopped when we were
quiet for half a minute. It started again a few feet
over. Evan and I didn't whisper about
it. We didn't say much at all.
He had the camp hatchet in his sleeping bag.
I said, steady and loud. You're on our sight.
Move along. It went quiet for a full minute,
then the steps resumed outside the line.
At some point after 2 the steps faded.
I stepped out to pee and saw the firewood.
Loose splits we'd left in a pile by the table had been re stacked
into a tight cube. All the ends face the same way
and a single tent stake had been hammered into the top center.
There were toe shaped impressions at the leaf edge
where the ring began, like someone had leaned in to reach
the wood but kept their feet on the crunchy side.
No boot prints in the bare dirt, no stray bark, no scuffs.
We didn't take a lap or try to tail anyone.
We sat in the car with the doors locked, seats reclined just
enough to see the table through the windshield.
We left the keys in the cup holder and the Dome lights
disabled. The cup still sat on the cooler
lid like a tiny alarm. Around 3A figure came in from
the road cut. It was the same guy from the
trail. Shaved head, camo jacket, bare
feet. He didn't act like a thief.
He didn't look around. He walked in a line and stood
over the cooler. He turned it so the brand logo
faced the loop Rd. squared it to the table edge and adjusted the
cup so it sat centered. Then he lowered his head and
pressed his ear to the lid like he was listening for a hum.
He held his breath. He stayed like that for a count
of five. He straightened and looked
straight at the car. Not a quick glance.
He looked through the windshield like he knew we were there.
He gave a small, closed mouth smile and stepped backward
toward the road. He didn't break into a run or
try to hide. He left the site with the same
slow, neat gait. I called 911 from the driver's
seat and gave the loop letter and site number.
I said we had a barefoot man walking laps around our site,
handling our things and avoiding the raked ring.
I described his jacket in height and that he just left.
The dispatcher said to stay in the car, keep the doors locked
and wait for a unit. We could hear our own breathing
in the cabin for about 10 minutes.
He came back twice. He didn't cross the leaf line
both times. He stopped at the entrance and
faced the car like he was checking that we were still
there. The night was so still that even
shifting in the seat sounded loud.
Then it got quiet again. A Forest Service law enforcement
Ranger and a county deputy rolled through with their lights
off and parked 2 sites down. The Ranger walked up to the car
window, asked if either of us was hurt, and told us to stay
put while they checked the loop. They were back in a few minutes
with a third patrol and said they had someone detained 2
loops over. They asked if we were missing
anything. I checked the table and the
bench. My multi tool was gone.
So was a small camp towel I'd left to dry on the seat back.
I hadn't even noticed until they asked.
They took us over to a solo site laid out under a blue tarp.
There wasn't a tent. There was a rolled foam pad, a
knife roll, a composition notebook, and a handful of small
items that didn't match. A patched glove, an enamel mug
with a chip, a floral headband, a spoon with tape on the handle.
The man stood by the tarp with his hands visible.
His feet were cracked and stained.
He wasn't agitated or high. If anything, he looked pleased.
In the notebook there were columns of loop letters and site
numbers, dates and top down sketches of campsites.
In the margins were single words, stack, align, listen,
ring, signal. There were quick drawings of
coolers and little boxes that look like wood piles.
The deputy said they'd be charging him with trespassing
and stalking and a weapons violation for a fixed blade on
his belt. There might be more.
After they talked to other campers, the Ranger lined up the
small items on the tarp and had people come by to identify what
was theirs. We got the towel and the multi
tool back. I saw the Gray Subaru family
drive through and stop. They picked up a small stuffed
bear. The mother hugged it and didn't
let go. Back at our site, the Ranger
took our statement time. We arrived.
The stacked rocks, the punctured water cube with the cap still
on, the pebbles spacing along the pad, the footsteps that
stopped when we made noise and resumed when we went quiet.
The wood cube with the stake, the cooler thing, the smile at
the car. He said we handled it right.
Don't confront, don't chase, don't patrol the loop trying to
be heroes. Lock the car, make simple noise
tells, call early and give clear directions.
He told us to pack up in daylight, grab breakfast in
Slade and expect a follow up by e-mail.
We broke camp after the sun cleared the trees.
Packing was fast. I didn't like touching the
cooler. I wiped it down.
Anyway. We were home before noon on
Thursday. I got a short e-mail from the
Ranger with a case number. It said the man pled out to a
mix of charges, was barred from the campground and had to return
property they could match to owners.
The recovered items were logged at Gladi Visitor Center for pick
up. It was public record.
There wasn't anything in the message that made the story
bigger than it was. It was a person who decided
other people's camps were puzzles to fix.
I still camp. I'll go back to Coomer Ridge.
I'll rake a ring, park nose out and put the cooler in the trunk
where no one can fuss with it. I'll say hello to the sites near
me before dark and make a plan to watch out for each other.
When I think about that night, what sticks with me isn't fear.
It's the neatness. The stone wedge at the entrance,
the puncture with the cap still on, the steps stopping and
starting on cue, the wood cube with the stake, the ear to the
lid. None of it was random.
It was someone testing whether we would notice.
We did. We stayed calm.
We called daylight and two trucks idling on the loop cut
the spell. The woods weren't the problem, A
single person was. I sleep fine now, mostly.
When I don't, I get up and put a cup on the kitchen counter and
set it just so to remind myself that order at my place is my
choice and not an invitation. I'm a retired lineman out of
Marquette. For 30 years I climbed poles
through sleet and black flies, and I learned to keep tools
simple and plans simpler. Every fall, after the color
drops and the cabins thin out, I take a few days alone on the Two
Hearted River to swing streamers for late steelhead.
I rent a small one room place off County Road 412 between Deer
Park and Grand Marais. It has propane heat, a hand pump
outside and a stack of seasoned hardwood.
I usually rebuild out of habit. I fish early, keep to short
drives and stay off the beach when the lake is running big.
I don't drink, I don't push weather, I don't post much.
I do this because the river is quiet and the traffic is gone.
That's the whole point. I got up well before daylight
and parked at a sandy pull off near the state Forest
campground. I walked in without my headlamp
because my eyes work better that way if the sky is clear.
There were no voices from other camps and no tires on the road.
The wind off Superior was steady but not strong.
The river showed as a darker band and then the gravel came
up. I rigged a sink tip and a black
streamer about 3 inches long. The water felt in the 30s
through fingerless wool. I expected to hear Jays or a
Raven somewhere out over the estuary.
I didn't hear anything except wind in the water.
Downstream of a cedar bend, I caught a smell like a cross
between a butcher counter, an old freezer burn.
I followed it up into a stand of Birch and saw a fresh deer
carcass hoisted in a fork well above my head.
No rope, no drag marks leading in, no chew marks on the trunk
like you see when a bear climbs or sits and feeds.
It looked placed. The legs were broken clean at
the Hawks. The ribs were open and neat.
Not the mess you get when coyotes pull at it.
I did a circle with my eyes. Nothing, I told myself a poacher
could have lifted it with a winch from a side by side and
then hauled the line back to keep it hidden, which isn't
unheard of, even if it's stupid. I didn't take a closer look.
I went back to the water. Fishing was slow, but not dead.
I covered a likely run and kept moving.
After an hour, the sky lightened enough to see detail on a long
straight where the river widens into a shallow glide.
I saw a shape standing still on the far bank in the edge of
cedar shade, tall, narrow through the shoulders.
The head tipped like something testing the air across the
current. The elbows looked lower than
they should. I watched without moving.
It turned and was gone into the trees without a sound.
No branch snap, no brush noise. I stood there long enough for
the backing to bite into my fingertips.
Then I crossed at a rifle to look for prints on the far side.
The stone still held cold. I found long splayed impressions
with deep toe pits that angled forward in a way I didn't know
how to read. Not side by side like a human
gait, not a heel and ball pattern from wading boots.
Not moose or elk, which you don't get there anyway.
A sapling had smooth wet bark at a height over my shoulder, like
something big had brushed it on the way through.
I didn't push any farther into cedar.
The wind shifted and I caught the same freezer smell again,
faint. I backed out to the gravel.
On my way upstream, I passed the Birch with the deer and noticed
the angle of the body had changed.
Not by much, just enough to look higher in the fork like it had
been adjusted. I fished another hour without
getting touched. By late morning I decided I had
enough for one day. I drove back to the cabin, lit
the stove and boiled coffee. I set the splitting mall inside
against the wall, not because I believed in it as a solution,
but because it's what you do when you want an option.
Around six, I called my neighbor Rick, who traps Beaver along the
muscalange outflow and doesn't talk nonsense.
I told him what I'd seen without adding extra.
He said he'd swing over after dinner and sit a while.
Not as a hunting thing, just as a pair of eyes.
We kept it normal. Rifles stayed cased by the door.
We left the yard light on and 1 Lantern inside.
We talked about the price of heating fuel this winter and who
got drawn for late season tags. Around 11 the wind eased.
With the quiet came a sound I hadn't heard before from that
building, weight travelling down the outside wall.
Not a scratch, not a branch, a steady drag from roofline to
ground, like a hand sliding over rough boards with control.
It paused near the window and moved on.
We held still and listened. The stove popped and then it was
silent again. Through a narrow gap in the
curtain we both saw a thin silhouette cross the yard at an
angle toward the woodpile. It stopped and turned its head
too far to one side, past what a neck joint likes to do.
The yard light washed over it without showing features.
The height read wrong at the timberline behind it.
Something reflected back at us from higher than a door frame.
The way eyes will pick up a little shine from artificial
light. Rick mouthed the word deer and I
shook my head. He stepped to the threshold and
spoke loud and even, like you do to move a black bear.
Then he put one warning shot into open ground in a safe
direction. No buildings, no Rd. no water.
What moved in response didn't veer around the deadfall.
It went through it. We heard a dry stump snap at
about shoulder height, a clean crack, and two impacts on frozen
dirt. After that there was nothing.
We sat with the lights on and didn't chase it.
At 2:00 we made coffee. At 3:00 we heard nothing else.
At 4:00 we decided we were done waiting for something to return
and that daylight was the better tool.
After sunrise, I called Schoolcraft County Dispatch and
asked them to pass a message to ADNR Conservation officer.
We weren't making a bear complaint or a trespass call.
I said we had unusual sign and a broken stump at height.
Officer Mark Hykinen met us afternoon.
He was quiet and direct. He asked us to show him
everything in the order we saw it and to keep opinions to
ourselves until after he took a look.
We walked in from the pull off. The deer was still hoisted in
the Birch, fresh as before. He scanned the tree in the
ground and took photographs. He measured the height of the
fork and the clearance under the body.
He noted there were no claw marks on the trunk, no rope
fibers, no scuff where a ladder might have stood.
We took him to the long straight where I had seen the shape.
He found the same long splayed impressions and the smooth bark
smear on the sapling and measured those two.
Then we pushed into the cover where the night break had
happened. The broken stump lay in two
clean pieces. The shear point was higher than
I could reach without a step. The fiber tear looked more like
a sudden load than a slow push. Farther in, tucked in shade, we
found a cache bone stripped down and stacked with the skull set
upright like a marker. No scatter the way coyotes leave
it. No tool marks like you see with
a sloppy poacher. The smell was the same cold, fat
stink from the day before. The officer put on a glove
before he touched anything. He didn't speculate.
He photographed logged coordinates on his unit without
sharing them and asked us to secure the cabin, keep our
rifles put away unless legally a field and clear out for the
season. He said he would issue an
advisory for unusual predator activity and notify other
officers in the District. We stopped at the store in Deer
Park for coffee and salt. The owner already knew we had
fired a warning shot. Sound travels on nights like
that. He said a heavy lake storm was
due in a few days and folks were closing their places early.
We drove back to the cabin. I shut off the gas, drained the
waterline, closed the shutters and left a short note for myself
on the table. Don't push shoulder months
alone. Rick and I rolled out on H58
toward Grand Marais with a clean windshield and a simple plan to
go home. I wrote everything up that
evening for a regional outdoors forum.
I didn't use big talk. I posted the officers advisory
once it went live on the state site and thanked him by name.
I listed times and places and what we measured, not what I
thought it meant. For anyone who makes that trip,
I added the simple things. Go with a partner once the
leaves are down, keep lights and noise handy around a cabin yard,
report caches and high bark smears to DNR, and if weight
runs down your wall at night, don't go outside to prove
anything. There was the usual mix of
comments, some helpful, some not, and then the thread calmed
down and sat there. A week later the lake dropped
heavy snow on the east side and the camps went quiet for real.
Whatever tracks were there got covered and crusted.
The river moved under shelf ice and the wind lines on the big
water smoothed out. I read back through my post and
didn't add or subtract a word. I don't have a theory that helps
anyone. I have measurements and a
sequence and a date. I'll fish the two harded again
when winter breaks and the birds talk over the Cedars.
I won't go alone in early November anymore.
That isn't a dramatic promise. It's a simple correction.
In my life, the quiet has usually meant safety because you
can hear what matters. On that trip, the quiet meant I
couldn't. I'm going to listen to that and
to the birds and work inside those limits.