What I'm about to tell you is something I still go to therapy
for. It happened back during the
summer of 2009. I started going to therapy
around the start of 2010, and I've been going ever since.
It wasn't my idea, it was my parents.
In a way. The only reason I still go is to
keep them from worrying themselves sick over me.
Not that I don't derive some small benefit from it, but what
I tell my parents, my therapists and I talk about, and what we
actually talk about are two very different things around the
start of the holiday season. Back in 2008, I was a sophomore
earth sciences student at UCC Davis.
The university offers some summer placements to students
who want to gain a little work experience, and although they're
mostly dreary research assignments, I happened to cross
one that piqued my interest in a way the others didn't.
In short, I had the opportunity to spend the summer working as a
fire lookout in the Trinity National Forest.
It was a three month long placement, but I'd be paid for
my time, and completing a piece of long term field research
would look very good on my resume.
I applied, I was accepted and several months later I was told
that I'd be posted to the Tom Head Mountain Lookout, which was
about 30 miles West of the city of Red Bluff and about 130 miles
north of Sacramento. Since I didn't own a car back
then, I had to catch a bus all the way up to Red Bluff.
From there I hitchhiked along the 36 and then hiked up into
the hills until I reached the flat topped peak of Tom Head
Mountain where the old fire lookout tower stood.
The first thing that struck me was that the 20 foot tall
lookout tower was made of wood. I figured a fire lookout tower
would have been built with less flammable materials, but since
it had been constructed back in the 30s, I guess wood was all
they had at hand. It didn't make for the best
first impression. After all, that tower was
supposed to be my home for the next three months, but in the
end I managed to get myself settled in and the place started
to feel more cozy than decrepit. A big part of the assignment
involved what we call numerical weather predictions, or NWP.
I won't bore you with the exact science of it, but it's somewhat
similar to the kind of prediction models that allow
news channels to give long term weather forecasts.
In the context of being a fire lookout, we can use these same
models to predict the dry spells or heat waves that might result
in a wildfire. Because prevention is always
better than a cure, working on weather analysis kept me
occupied for a precious few hours each day, while hygiene
and hydration became important aspects of my daily routine.
But outside of maintaining myself and my equipment, I had
very little to keep me occupied. To kill time, I'd go for walks
in the woods surrounding the lookout tower.
Sometimes I'd visit the abandoned miners cabin,
sometimes the old campground that lay just beyond it.
I'd keep my bear spray with me just in case I had any close
encounters of the fur kind. Ha ha.
But I never ever saw any people around.
At first, the seclusion was a welcome escape from the hustle
and bustle of the big city, and by the end of the first week my
social battery had been thoroughly recharged.
But by the end of week two, once the boredom had really started
to set in, I found myself just pining for human contact in a
way that was very much surprising to me.
I had my old Samsung cell phone with me, along with a very
efficient solar powered cell phone charger, but the lack of
solid coverage meant it was more useful as a paperweight.
If I walked up to this one spot on the ridgeline, I could manage
to squeeze the odd text message through, but any sort of phone
call was out of the question and that was something I hadn't
anticipated. It sounds foolish to think about
it now, but I figured that since I was so high up on a mountain,
getting decent cell reception wouldn't be an issue, whereas in
actual fact it was all about your proximity to towers.
Communicating through the odd text message was all well and
good, but by the end of that first month, being the only
living soul for miles really started to grind on me when a
Trinity Forest Ranger showed up with my second month supplies, I
was so happy to see her that I almost hugged her when she
stepped out of her 4x4. She could tell how happy I was
to see her and she joked about me going a little stir crazy up
there all in my lonesome. She was nice enough to stay a
while and drink some of my bad coffee.
Then once I'd hauled my supplies from her trunk, she drove off
into the sunset. After that, knowing I wouldn't
see another person in the flesh for a whole month actually made
me kind of emotional. You don't realize what social
animals we are until you really cut yourself off from other
people. I once read that in prison,
solitary confinement is one of the cruelest punishments because
it can drive a person insane in a frighteningly short amount of
time. I'm not saying I started to go
crazy up there, but for a while it sure as hell felt like it.
It started towards the end of my second month.
I'd be out on one of my regular walks and I'd see something move
out of the corner of my eye. But then when I turned to look,
nothing. There's a lot of wildlife out
there in Trinity, so for the first half dozen times it
happened, I figured it was just a fox or a raccoon or something
skittering away from me, frightened.
But then, after a while, the shadows in the corners of my
eyes started getting larger and clearer, until eventually they
weren't just in my peripheries anymore.
I'd see something moving in the trees up ahead of me, too big to
be a bobcat or Mountain Lion, the wrong shape to be an elk or
deer. I'd stop, look, listen.
But nothing ever moved, nothing ever stirred.
And by the time I started to call out hello into the empty
woods ahead of me, I developed a genuine concern for my own
psychological well-being. I tried a dozen different things
to lessen the feelings of loneliness and isolation, and
although talking to myself might make it sound like I lost my
mind, I can assure you that it helped.
Pouring my thoughts out onto this page helped, too, as did
singing my favorite songs. After a day or two of
accentuating the positives and eliminating the negatives, I
began to feel considerably better.
But then came the day when, as I set off on one of my routine
walks through the woods, I caught the glimpse of a human
figure standing among the trees. I turned my head to look in
their direction, and unlike all the other things I'd seen moving
in the corner of my eyes, this person didn't dart off among the
trees. Quite the opposite of that, In
fact, they remained as still as a statue, limbs very rigid,
completely unmoving. In all honesty, the person's
sudden presence scared the crap out of me, and the odd,
unnatural way that they were standing did not help either.
But then the more I stared at this mysterious figure standing
stationary among the trees, the more I realized that it wasn't a
person at all. I took a few steps towards it,
consumed with curiosity, only to discover that what I was looking
at was some kind of wooden effigy.
Someone had constructed a sort of skeleton out of wooden
planks, then, after attaching what looked to be chicken wire
as a skull and a rib cage, had stuffed the cavities with a
variety of dead roots and leaves.
I remember being almost mesmerized by it, not because it
exuded any kind of eldritch power or anything crazy like
that, but because it was so exquisitely constructed.
I remained in this sort of blissful state of
thoughtlessness until a rather alarming thought occurred to me.
That effigy had been staked into the earth less than an entire
football field away from the lookout tower, and it almost
certainly hadn't been there the previous day.
That meant that someone had walked all the way up Tom Head
Mountain in the middle of the night after putting a ton of
work into their conscious art installation, only to stake it
just meters away from where I was laying my head each night.
I could think of a dozen innocent reasons why someone
might do such a thing, but still, there was something about
the effigy's presence that just didn't sit right with me.
This probably sounds incredibly juvenile to some, but as I stood
there face to wooden face with the mysterious effigy, I was
suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to knock it
over. I didn't like the idea of going
about my business and having this twig man just standing
there looking all creepy like he was.
It's never something I do now, but I obviously can't speak for
the much younger college age me, who raised a hand, reached out
and prepared to knock the thing off its little stubby feet.
But I also remember this feeling of intense hesitation as I
reached out to touch it, how it almost felt like I was
desecrating some sacred sculpture.
The sensation halted me in one second, but in the next it felt
like a challenge. Then, with one heavy stone, I
sent the effigy falling back into the dirt with a little dry
thud. In the moments that followed, I
felt the hairs of my arm standing on end as I was struck
by the sudden cognizance that whoever planted that twig man
might still actually be close by.
I looked around, then over both shoulders, making sure the coast
was clear. I don't believe in any kind of
6th sense, but if there ever was a time in my life where I felt
like I was being watched, it was then.
I decided not to finish my walk that day, and headed back to the
tower to make sure that I had that second can of Bear Mace
handy. I wouldn't say that I was
scared, more apprehensive of what the Effigy's sudden
presence might actually mean. I later considered the
possibility that some renegade artist with a little penchant
for hiking might have mocked that thing up on the fly.
At first I had this irrational image in my head of some
unhinged redneck hauling the completed effigy up to the
mountain like a character from an unwritten Thomas Harris
novel. But the alternative, that it was
a spur of the moment creative thing, was a considerably less
unnerving explanation. No one had put that thing there
to spook me. They probably didn't even know
that I was in the area to begin with.
The more I thought on that, the more I felt strangely guilty for
having shoved it over the next morning.
I decided to head out on one of my morning routines, and while I
was at it, I'd stake that twig man back into the earth and just
leave him upright just as I'd found him.
I completed that morning routine, jotted down a few early
morning weather observations, and then set off in the
direction of Tom Head Springs with some soap and a washcloth.
When I reached the spot where the Twig Man had been lying in
the dirt, I was startled to find him standing upright again.
Someone had returned, possibly in the middle of the night, and
had returned that Twig man to his vertical position.
Again, I wasn't outright frightened by this, just more
unnerved. I also figured that if it was me
who made the Twig Man this silent companion, I could go
visit on hike so often, I'd also be kind of bummed if some jerk
came along and just pushed him over.
Besides, if he was someone else's silent but stoic
companion, maybe he could be mine too.
I gave myself a scrub down at the springs, made my way back to
the lookout, passing the Twig Man as I went, and then spent
the rest of the day making weather observations and reading
the books that I brought with me.
Then, once the sun went down and my very early bedtime
approached, I climbed into my sleeping bag and attempted to
catch some shut eye. I think I might have just been
on the cusp of drifting off when a deeply alarming scent began to
drift into my nostrils. It was the smell of smoke.
I leapt out of my sleeping bag, threw on my shorts and boots,
then was about to radio the Ranger office over in Redding
when a flicker of flame in the woods below caught my eye.
The fire was close, very close, and by the look of things it was
still small enough for me to fight.
I grabbed the towers, small fire extinguisher, rushed down the
stairs and then bolted towards the source of the fire.
If I could put it out there and then I'd not only save the state
of California hundreds of thousands of dollars, but I also
saved acres upon acres worth of protected forest.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me and then when I saw
what was burning, I experienced one of the strangest sensations
of my entire life. It was the twig man, that's what
was burning. And although I carried on
hurtling towards it, I'd never seen anything so repellent in
all my life. The desire to put the damn thing
out and prevent a potentially massive forest fire that thought
alone kept propelling me through the woods.
But upon considering the dual questions of who set the twig
Man on Fire to begin with and why that was the first moment of
fear. After putting out the fire, I
got to thinking about who or what might be to blame.
I couldn't rule out vandalism as being the motivator, but even
the most thoughtless of vandals would think twice before setting
a wildfire in a National Forest. I also couldn't rule out the
possibility that the person who had set the twig Man on Fire was
the same person who put him there in the 1st place.
I doubted very much that someone who'd taken the time to create
such a sculpture would also be willing to burn the entire
forest down. The very nature of the Twig Man
suggested its creator felt a reverence for nature, not a
contempt for it. But in turn, that raised another
question. What if Twig Man's creator set
him on fire because they knew I'd come running to put him out?
Since I was just a few days from my second and final resupply,
the same Ranger that had visited me the previous month decided to
head up to the mountain a little early, both to drop off my
supplies and check out the remains of the Twig Man.
When she got there and I walked her out into the woods, there
wasn't much left of him to look at, but the sight of him
provoked a very familiar reaction from the Ranger.
She had all the same questions I did, but all that mattered was
that I dealt with the fire both quickly and professionally.
In her words, I should have been very proud of myself.
For the next few days, I felt perfectly content to be alone.
It was like the fire and the praise I'd gotten for my
decisive action had topped up my social gas tank, so to speak,
satisfying that crucial third layer in Maslow's hierarchy of
needs. When I went on my regular walks,
I didn't see any shadows moving in the corners of my eyes.
I wasn't overcome by that creeping feeling that I was
being watched. I felt at peace, both within and
without, and that was the start of my third and final month up
on the mountain. But towards the end of it, that
same dread inducing feeling that I was losing my mind returned
with a vengeance. Having finished all of the books
that I brought with me, and having grown sick of journaling
my own depressingly repetitive stream of consciousness, I was
even more plagued by tedium than ever.
And on the surface this seemed to lead to a drastic decline in
my mental health. I started seeing things again,
like people moving in the woods, and the encroaching sense of
paranoia resulted in a handful of completely sleepless nights.
The exhaustion I began to feel exacerbated every other symptom
until at one stage I started to wonder if I could complete the
full three month term. I tried as best I could to power
through taking things a day and a night at a time, until finally
I had just seven more nights to go.
I tried to mark the occasion with a minor celebration and
opened up a can of warm soda that I had been saving for a
very metaphorical rainy day. Then, after an evening spent
trying to keep my spirits high, I settled down to sleep.
One down, 6 to go, I told myself, but I couldn't have been
more wrong. Hours later, I think maybe
around one or two in the morning, I opened my eyes and
heard what sounded like something moving among the trees
below my tower. It was a very heavy sound, like
something large and bipedal was stomping through the underbrush.
Seeing as that was a zoological impossibility, I decided to
climb out of my sleeping bag and go take a look.
Having picked up my flashlight on the way out, I aimed its beam
down into the darkness below me, and in an instant I saw them.
To my horrified astonishment, I discovered that the tower I was
in was surrounded by at least a dozen hooded figures beneath me.
Just out of sight. At the base of the tower was the
source of the noise that I'd been hearing.
As alarming as the encounter was, I didn't immediately
understand the significance of the strangers presence.
There was always the possibility that they were simply a group of
late night hikers who happened across the tower and were merely
curious. But when I called out to them
and asked them to identify themselves, I didn't hear a word
in reply. I took a few steps out and then
headed down the stairs a little so I could see what was
occurring at the base of the tower, which if you remember was
only around 10 to 15 feet down. More hooded figures stood below
me and the sound that they were making came from the fact that
they were staking large bales of twigs underneath the tower.
It was kindling. They were going to set the tower
on fire with me inside of it. The first thing I thought to do
was rush back into the cabin to report what was happening via my
radio. While I was doing that, I threw
on my clothes and boots, grabbed my flashlight and my survival
knife, then walked out onto the balcony just in time for the
fire to start. I didn't waste a second.
I ran along to where the stairs were, then went down two or
three flights so that the fall wouldn't break my legs.
I figured I'd have to jump, as whoever was surrounding the
lookout would probably be expecting me to head down the
stairs once they set the fire to it.
Since they seemed perfectly content to roast me alive in
what amounted to a very serious crime, I figured that they
wouldn't be too excited about me escaping the scene.
I remember jumping, knocking the wind out of myself, then being
almost certain that I had just sprained an ankle until I put
weight on it. Somehow.
I was fine, and I also took the nearest hooded figure to me by
surprise, which in turn gave me this brief but golden
opportunity to slip past him if I moved at speed.
I honestly thought that I was about to get shot or stabbed or
whatever, and I guess the person I ran at nearly did get me with
something, but it was a stun gun.
As I ran past them, they lunged at me and I saw this little tiny
bolt of lightning dancing in the air for a split second before I
slipped past them and made my escape.
I remember hearing this furious scream from someone screaming
about me getting away, but by then I was long gone, half
running and half sliding down the mountain as fast as I could
in complete darkness. I was lucky not to fall and
accidentally off myself, but there was no catching me.
I made it all the way down the mountain without seeing so much
as a flashlight. Behind me, I ran and ran until I
was too tired to run anymore. Then, after what seemed like
hours upon hours of rummaging through the brush, I came across
a little place calling itself the Rocky Ridge Hunting Club,
along with a small group of hunters preparing to take
advantage of the dawn's calm. By that point, the sky was so
light that I could point out the plume of smoke rising from Tom
Head Mountain, and within the hour, choppers were making
passes over the lookout. Creating artificial rain while
the ground based fire crews rushed to the scene.
I should have felt exhausted, I should have been dead on my
feet. But when I saw that first
chopper fly over us, heading in the direction of Tom Head, I
felt 10 feet tall. I'd made it to that hunting club
just in time to avert a major ecological disaster and I felt
like a hero. But I was not treated like 1,
even after I explained everything that had happened
with the twig man, with the hooded figures, with the fires.
It was me who got the blame for burning down the Tom Head
Mountain Lookout. According to the fire crews,
there was no evidence of an accelerant being used, but it
was impossible to tell if the source of the fire had been
inside or outside the cabin. I guess it was my preposterous
explanation that swayed the opinions of the Forest Service.
But on their command, I was arrested on charges of arson,
endangerment, and destruction of government property.
My defense attorney told me that I dodged being charged with a
serious environmental crime by the skin of my teeth, the kind
that's only one step down from outright terrorism.
She also told me that my best option by far was to basically
plead temporary insanity at my trial.
She made it out like I was some upstanding citizen who'd merely
been unfortunate enough to have suffered a kind of psychiatric
crisis as a result of severe and prolonged isolation.
I pleaded guilty, got 100 hours of Hwy. trash picking and a
mandatory psychiatric evaluation at the behest of the state of
California. I tried to get my parents to
believe me, but unfortunately they took my attorneys arguments
as gospel and instead of the truth, chose to believe that I'd
gone temporarily crazy. But unlike my attorney whose
interest ended once the money dried up, mom and dad wouldn't
let it go. They hounded me and hounded me,
until eventually I gave in and agreed to go to regular
counseling sessions. I didn't want to take pills for
something I knew that I didn't have, so to them, therapy was
the next best thing. But these days I don't talk to
my therapist about how I'm scared to lose my mind again, or
how it might be a symptom of a much more frightening form of
disease. I talked to him about how
painful it can be when you tell someone the absolute truth and
they choose not to believe you for the sake of their own
sanity. Way back in 2014, I first saw
that photo, the one that changed my life.
There she was, a young woman sitting on a bed with the most
breathtaking view of pine dotted mountains behind her.
I remember thinking, if that's her home, what do I have to do
to live in that kind of coniferous paradise?
I did some research and found out that the woman wasn't living
there permanently. She was a fire lookout.
She stayed up there for months at a time and got paid for it.
From that moment I was obsessed. Living the life of a fire
lookout for a summer seemed like the adventure of a lifetime.
I thought it would be easy to get into.
But I was wrong on both counts. When I first applied in 2014, I
was way under qualified and got rejected within days.
That stung, but it also ignited a fire in me.
I did volunteer work, built up my resume with stints at
community gardens, and even spent some time at the National
Arboretum. By the time 2015 rolled around,
I thought I had a fighting chance, but after weeks of
hoping and praying, I got another rejection.
This one hurt twice as much. I'd put in the work, but it
still wasn't enough. It took two more years of
grinding, applying, and getting rejected.
By the time I applied for the 2018 season, just before the
2017 holidays, I was so jaded that I made alternative plans
for the summer. That way the rejection would be
like water off a duck's back. And then the only time I
actually planned not to be accepted was the year I finally
was. I remember opening the e-mail
with shaking hands when I read the words.
Congratulations, you've been assigned to Gold Mountain
Lookout. I felt a mix of disbelief and
elation. I'd waited four years for this
and it was finally happening. Gold Mountain, the tallest live
in tower in Washington state, would be my home for the next
three months. I caught a red eye from Portland
to Spokane, landed in the early morning, and drove 170 miles out
to Gold Mountain with my truck rental.
The place was surprisingly easy to locate with its own access.
Rd. Gold Mountain Lookout Dr. When I
arrived mid morning, a friendly forest Ranger met me.
We went over a few final details and he handed me the keys.
His big warm smile and the way he asked if I had any second
thoughts made me laugh. I was too excited to back out
now. Once he left, I was alone.
The isolation was both thrilling and daunting.
I danced a little jig as I went to retrieve my stuff, feeling on
top of the world. The only downsides were having
to use a nearby Creek to wash myself and walking down to the
bottom of the tower to use the chemical toilet.
But the pros outweighed the cons by a mile.
For the first few days, everything was perfect.
I loved the solitude, the peace and the spectacular views.
It was everything I dreamed of. But there was this nagging
feeling in the back of my mind. Be careful what you wish for.
The nights were the hardest. I didn't scare easily, but the
noises in the woods at night were unnerving.
The wind howled around the tower, making a creak like an
old ship. I told myself it was just the
wind, but the fear of something more sinister lingered.
Every Creek and groan felt like a footstep, every rustle of
leaves like a whisper. One night, as I lay in bed with
my heart racing, I realized that this dream of mine wasn't going
to be all about peace and solitude.
There was something out there, something watching, and I wasn't
sure if I was ready to face it. The isolation grew on me faster
than I expected. Each day was a new adventure,
and I quickly fell into a routine wake up, check for
fires, maintain the equipment, log the weather, and enjoy the
vast expanse of wilderness that stretched out before me.
It was everything I'd imagined and more, but there was always
that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, a sense of unease
that I couldn't quite shake. The Creek was my lifeline for
washing up, and it was about 100 meters from the lookout tower.
The first few times I was apprehensive, constantly looking
over my shoulder, It felt like someone or something was
watching me, but I convinced myself it was just my nerves
getting the better of me. I'd come here for solitude,
after all, and I wasn't about to let my imagination ruin it.
Then one day, as I made my way down to the Creek, I saw him.
A man crouched on the opposite side, dressed like a typical
hiker but built like a linebacker.
He had dark hair and glasses that gave him a nerdy look, but
there was something off about him.
My first instinct was to turn back, but I forced myself to
keep going. After all, he might just be
another hiker passing through. Hey there.
Nice day for a hike, I said, trying to keep my voice steady
as I approached the Creek. He looked up, startled, and then
stood up slowly. Yeah, it is, he replied, but his
eyes lingered on me longer than I liked.
I stepped into the water, pretending to wash my hands, all
the while keeping an eye on him. He seemed curious, asking what I
was doing out here all alone. I'm a fire lookout, I explained,
trying to sound casual. I stay up in the tower and
monitor for fires all by yourself?
He asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.
Yes, but I have a radio in bear Mace, I said, holding up the
canister as if to prove a point. I'm perfectly safe.
He didn't seem convinced, but he nodded and eventually walked
away. I watched him go, a cold knot of
fear tightening in my stomach. There was something about his
demeanor that unsettled me. I finished washing up quickly
and hurried back to the tower. For the next few days I couldn't
shake The feeling of being watched.
Every rustle in the bushes, every snap of a twig sent my
heart racing. I told myself it was just
paranoia, but I couldn't help but feel like I wasn't alone.
My nights became more restless, each Creek of the tower and howl
of the wind making it harder to sleep.
Then a week later, I saw him again.
I was down at the Creek, and there he was, sitting on a rock,
as if waiting for me. My heart sank.
This time. His presence wasn't a
coincidence. He was there for me.
Hello again, he said with a smile that didn't reach his
eyes. I was hoping I'd run into you.
What do you want? I asked, trying to keep the
tremor out of my voice. I just think it's dangerous for
someone to be out here all alone, he replied, standing up
and taking a step towards me. You should have someone to watch
your back. I don't need anyone to watch my
back, I said, stepping away from him.
I'm fine on my own. His smile faded, replaced by a
look of frustration. You're not safe out here,
Jessica. Anything could happen.
The way he said my name sent chills down my spine.
I backed away, gripping my bear Mace tightly.
Stay away from me, I warned. He didn't listen.
Instead, he took another step towards me, his eyes dark with
determination. I'm just trying to help.
I didn't wait to see what he would do next.
I turned and ran back to the tower, my heart pounding in my
chest as I climbed the steps. I glanced back and saw him
watching me, his expression unreadable.
Back in the safety of the tower, I locked the door and sank to
the floor, my hands shaking. The dream of solitude and peace
had turned into a nightmare. I wasn't alone out here, and I
wasn't safe. A week passed after that second
encounter, but I never felt at ease.
My once peaceful sanctuary now felt like a prison, every shadow
and rustle outside a potential threat.
I tried to focus on my duties, keeping a watchful eye on the
horizon for signs of fire, but my mind kept drifting back to
Tony. His words haunted me.
You're not safe out here, Jessica.
It was late one night when it happened.
The crickets had been singing their usual chorus, and I was
beginning to drift off when I heard it, a sound that didn't
belong a footstep on the steel stairs below.
My eyes flew open and my heart pounded in my chest.
I lay there listening, hoping it was just my imagination.
But then I heard it again, the distinct clink of a boot on
metal. Someone was climbing the stairs.
I scrambled out of my sleeping bag, pulling on my boots and
grabbing the bear Mace and Taser.
My breath was coming in shallow gasps, and I tried to steady
myself. I know someone's out there, I
called out, my voice trembling but loud.
I've got a gun, and I'm about to call the Rangers.
There was a moment of silence, and then I heard his voice.
You're not safe out here, Jessica.
That same flat, scolding tone. It was Tony.
Fear surged through me, but I forced myself to stay calm.
If you try to come in here, I'll push you off the tower, I
shouted. Get out of here now.
His footsteps continued. Slowly, methodically.
He was getting closer. I could see his shadow moving up
the stairs, through the gaps in the floor.
My hands shook, but I held the bear Mace ready, my thumb on the
trigger. When Tony's face appeared at the
window, illuminated by the faint moonlight, I saw his twisted
expression of anger and determination.
He didn't say anything this time.
He just stared at me, his eyes dark and cold.
He reached for the door handle. Don't you dare, I screamed, and
without hesitation I sprayed the bear Mace directly at his face.
He recoiled, howling in pain, but he didn't back down.
Instead, he lunged forward, trying to push his way into the
cabin. I dodged his grasp, my heart
racing. He was strong, and I knew I
couldn't let him get his hands on me.
I grabbed the Taser and jabbed it into his side.
He screamed again, a horrible guttural sound, and fell back
against the wall. Get out, I shouted, my voice
breaking. Leave me alone.
Tony staggered, trying to regain his balance.
I hit him with the Taser again, and he collapsed to the floor,
writhing in agony. For a moment I thought he might
pass out, but he managed to drag himself towards the stairs.
I followed him, my heart still pounding.
I gave him one last blast of bear Mace as he descended the
stairs, making sure he wouldn't turn back.
He stumbled down the steps, cursing and groaning until he
disappeared into the darkness below.
I ran back into the cabin, slamming the door shut and
locking it. My hands were shaking so badly I
could barely hold the radio. I called the Rangers, my voice
trembling as I reported the attack.
By the time they arrived, Tony was long gone.
They searched the area but found no sign of him.
The Rangers were sympathetic, but their reassurances did
little to calm my nerves. The police were called and they
questioned me extensively, but without solid evidence there
wasn't much they could do. Tony had vanished into the
night, leaving me with nothing but fear and the gnawing dread
that he might come back. The once serene and beautiful
lookout tower now felt like a fortress under siege, and I was
its lone defender. Always waiting, always watching,
never truly at peace. The days that followed felt like
an eternity. Every noise, every movement in
the forest below set my nerves on edge.
I barely slept. The Crickets song, which once
lulled me to sleep now kept me awake.
Each chirp felt like a countdown to another terrifying encounter
with Tony. I kept the bear Mace and Taser
within arm's reach, constantly reminding myself of their
presence, A flimsy barrier against the relentless dread.
One night, as I sat by the window, scanning the dark tree
line, I saw a shadow move. My heart leapt into my throat.
I grabbed the flashlight and shone it into the darkness, but
there was nothing, just the wind rustling through the trees.
I tried to calm myself, but my mind was a whirlwind of fear and
anxiety. The Rangers were kind, but there
was only so much they could do. They patrolled the area more
frequently and reassured me that Tony had likely moved on, but
their words were hollow. I knew better.
Tony wasn't just a passerby. He was a predator and I was his
prey. I kept my radio close, checking
in with the Rangers more often than necessary.
They didn't mind. They understood my fear Each
time I pressed the button and heard their voices.
A small measure of calm washed over me, but it never lasted
long. One particularly cold and windy
night, I was jolted awake by a sound I had come to dread, the
creak of the stairs. I sat up, my heart pounding in
my chest, and listened. The wind howled around the
tower, making it difficult to discern any specific noises.
I strained my ears, hoping, praying that it was just my
imagination. Then I heard it again, a
distinct, deliberate footstep on the metal stairs.
I grabbed the bear, Mace and Taser, my hands, trembling.
This time I didn't call out. I waited, my breath shallow, my
pulse racing. The footsteps grew louder,
Closer. I could see a shadow moving up
the stairs. As the shadow reached the top of
the stairs, I shown my flashlight directly at it,
illuminating Tony's twisted, furious face.
His eyes were bloodshot, his expression one of pure rage.
You're not safe out here, Jessica, he hissed, echoing his
previous threat. Before he could take another
step, I sprayed the bear Mace directly into his face.
He screamed, A guttural, animalistic sound, and stumbled
back. I didn't wait for him to
recover. I jab the Taser into his side,
sending volts of electricity through his body.
He convulsed, collapsing onto the stairs.
Get out, I screamed, my voice raw with fear and anger.
Get out and never come back. Tony managed to crawl down the
stairs, his screams of pain echoing through the night.
I watched him go, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.
When he was finally out of sight, I ran back into the cabin
and locked the door. I called the Rangers, my voice
trembling as I recounted the attack.
They arrived quickly this time, but once again Tony had
disappeared into the night. The Rangers searched the area,
but found no trace of him. The police were involved again,
but there was little they could do.
Without solid evidence or a clear threat, they couldn't take
action. They warned Tony to stay away,
but it did nothing to ease my fear.
The remaining weeks of my stay were a living nightmare.
Every moment was filled with dread, every shadow a potential
threat. I barely slept, barely ate,
constantly on edge, waiting for Tony to return.
When the time finally came to leave, I felt a mix of relief
and sorrow. I had come here seeking peace
and solitude, but Tony had tainted it, turning my dream
into a nightmare. As I drove away from Gold
Mountain, I couldn't help but cry, not because I was leaving,
but because I was finally free from the terror that had haunted
my every moment. But even as I left, a part of me
knew the fear would follow. Tony's words, his twisted face,
his relentless pursuit. They would haunt me forever.
The dream I had once cherished was now a ghost, a reminder of
the darkness that can lurk even in the most beautiful places.
Between February of 1983 and November of 1985.
I was employed by the United States Forest Service.
Back then, the Forest Service ran a kind of Earn As You Learn
program where you could spend a couple of years as a paid
intern, learn the ropes, and then graduate as a fully fledged
forest Ranger if you proved yourself capable.
I signed up, was selected for induction, and then was sent up
to the Wamet National Forest as a trainee Ranger.
I spent the next six months realizing I was just about born
for that kind of work. I'm not saying it couldn't be
hard. It was exhausting at times, but
the sense of duty, the feeling that you were doing something
good and honorable, was more valuable to me than any sized
paycheck. Those first six months were some
of the happiest of my life, and at the time I could see myself
walking trails and working on restoration projects for the
rest of my career. But then, towards the end of 83,
I was offered a very different kind of assignment, having
proven myself capable of working unsupervised and having already
confessed to enjoying all the solitude the job had to offer.
My district Ranger, basically the area chief, asked if I
wanted to spend the summer of 84 working as a seasonal fire
lookout over on Waldo Mountain. Waldo Mountain is around 50
miles east of Eugene, OR and it overlooks Waldo Lake as well as
the Waldo Wilderness Area to its N The lookout is no longer
functioning as such today and operates as a kind of public
shelter on a first come first served basis, but back then it
was a fully stocked live in fire lookout that was occupied by
either a forest Ranger or a trained volunteer all summer
long. The usual arrangement was that
three different Rangers would each do a month long stretch up
at the lookout, but when it came to delegating fire lookout
duties for the following summer, staffing problems meant that
there was only me and one other member of park staff available
for the job. If I did a six week long stretch
up in the Lookout from early June until mid-july, my district
Ranger would make sure it reflected very favorably on me
when it came to offering me a full time position.
And so about six months after the offer, I was headed out to
Waldo Mountain with my first two weeks worth of supplies.
Now, a lot of you might be picturing the Waldo Mountain
Lookout as being your typical sort of tower and cabin
structure, and that's exactly what I was picturing too, before
I actually saw the thing. But when I got there, I found it
was basically just a small cabin built atop a rocky outcrop.
As you can imagine, being so high up on top of a mountain,
the views from inside the lookout were nothing short of
spectacular, but boy was it cramped in there.
It was maybe 12 by 12 feet, with a cooking and sleeping area
crammed into one corner, a small map table in the center, and
some cabinets and the ham radio crammed in the other.
That was to be my home for the next six weeks, and I'd be a
liar if I said that I didn't find the prospect just a little
daunting. Once I was actually faced with
it. I thought being alone up there
would be easy. The only thing I didn't really
consider was the sense of boredom that would set in once
my regular duties were out of the way.
Being a fire lookout isn't all just sitting on your butt and
waiting for a fire, since weather conditions hugely
influence wildfire behavior. Lookouts monitor things like
temperature, humidity, and wind speed in order to assess danger
levels and potentially even predict a fire's source and
behavior based on those previously mentioned
observations. This can actually take up a
surprising amount of time, and outside of that, lookouts are
entirely responsible for maintaining and repairing their
shelter and equipment, which again can swallow up a
surprising amount of time once you realize the summer rains can
make your lookout leak like a sieve.
But then, once all those observation and maintenance
tasks were over and done with, life up on Waldo Mountain was
actually kind of boring. I started out by hiking up and
down the Ridge to get a really good look at the area, and then
sometimes I'd head down to one of the lakes nearby to take a
bath. I also plan to make the two
books I brought with me last the whole six weeks, but I finished
The Sicilian by Mario Puzo in about a week and discovered I
could only read The Hunt for Red October for about an hour at a
time before all the technical stuff made my head hurt.
So then one day, with nothing else to do but twiddle my
thumbs, I decided to familiarize myself with the ham radio.
I'd been left instructions on how to use it, as well as what
frequencies to dial it into if I ever needed to get in touch with
anyone. But I figured that instead of
trying to learn on the fly while panicking after spotting a
forest fire, I should probably mess around with it a little, if
only to test if it was properly functioning.
I'd been told that I needed to do weekly radio tests anyways,
but all that involved was squeezing the little receiver,
saying radio check, radio check over, and then waiting for the
response. But then I wanted to see if the
rumors were true and that on a good day I'd be able to use that
little old ham radio to talk to folks as far away as Hawaii.
And so like I said, one day I just sat down at the little desk
it was mounted on and decided to start playing around with it.
You have to remember this was way before cell phones were as
common as they are today. Back in the early 80s, things
like ham radios were a much more popular form of long range
communication, especially among a small band of dedicated
hobbyists. That being the case, I figured
that there was a pretty good chance of me finding a voice
among the static. I didn't even really plan on
talking at first, I was simply content to find an active
frequency and listen in on whatever was being said.
But then, since I didn't hear anything, I decided to start
talking. I remember cycling through the
frequencies, listening 1st and then repeating something along
the lines of this is Waldo Mountain Fire lookout calling.
You read me over. I'd talk wait about 10 to 15
seconds for a response, then when I didn't get one, I'd move
on to the next. I did this maybe 20 or 30 times
just out of pure boredom, really.
When on one particular frequency, around the 14
megahertz high frequency mark, I suddenly heard a man's voice
coming back at me through the buzz of white noise.
W Mountain, this is Pelican Butte Fire Lookout.
I heard the voice say receiving you loud and clear.
How? Copy Over.
I didn't really know how to talk over a radio.
I was just told to say over when I was done saying something,
then over and out when I was finished talking altogether.
So in reply, I just tried to wing it as best I could.
Copy loud and clear. Pelican Butte.
Good to hear you. Then I asked exactly where they
were located. The guy said that he was down
near Klamath, almost 80 miles South and not too far from Mount
McLaughlin and the California State line.
I guess that's not all that far for a ham radio on a good day,
but I was still impressed at how clear it sounded, despite the
guy being almost 100 miles away. I was also rather pleased to
have someone to talk to. I know I talked about how
content with my own company I was, but after going two weeks
with only one solitary face to face encounter with another
human being, I was surprised at how much I appreciated hearing
another person's voice. The guy said his name was Jim
and that he was a forest Ranger with the team down in Klamath,
and that it was his fifth season in a row acting as a live in
fire lookout. He sounded very experienced and
gave me lots of advice, with the most appreciated being his tips
on how to keep the cabin fever at Bay.
For those unfamiliar with the term, cabin fever is when people
start to feel restless or irritable because they've been
indoors or in the same place for too long.
Some folks say it can drive you crazy, and although there's no
real danger of that up in a fire lookout, that sense of being
trapped with your own thoughts can wear on even the strongest
of people. I very jokingly ask Jim if he
ever knew any lookouts who went crazy, either from the isolation
or just being stuck in one place for all that time.
He reassured me by saying no. He'd never known anyone to lose
their mind or anything. He'd known plenty to quit,
especially the civilian volunteers that were drafted
whenever staffing levels weren't ideal, but he'd never known
anyone to go crazy. But then Jim did mention how he
thought that I was very brave for taking the Waldo Mountain
look out this season, especially in light of what happened to the
Last Volunteer. Obviously, those are just about
the most ominous words a person in my position could ever wish
to hear. So right away I asked Jim what
he was talking about. He gave me this almost
theatrical kind of oh, you didn't know?
And then started saying how he didn't think that he should be
the one to tell me. But luckily, it only took a
little polite cajoling to get him to tell me.
As a matter of fact, I never actually asked what happened to
the previous year's lookout. I just took it for granted that
a Ranger or volunteer completed the season without any sort of
event. It didn't even occur to me to
ask about previous lookouts or their experiences.
I just blindly accepted the position, thinking it'd be a
paid camping vacation. There was obviously the slight
danger of animal attacks if you strayed too far from the
lookout, and I had heard rumors of a tower up in Washington
getting struck by lightning, but aside from that, what else was
there to go wrong up here? Well, Jim was nice enough to
fill me in. The last Waldo Mountain fire
lookout who had volunteered the previous year had vanished
during the final few weeks of their assignment.
One day a Ranger went up to the lookout with some pallets of
canned food and water, only to find the place completely
deserted. They looked around a little,
thinking the volunteer lookout was off taking a wash or
something of that nature, and then decided to wait for them.
An hour or so passed, so instead of waiting any further, the
Ranger headed back to HQ and figured they'd check in via
radio to make sure the volunteer was doing OK 24 hours passed and
no one had heard a single thing from the volunteer lookout, so
another Ranger headed up Waldo Mountain to check on them, only
to find the place still deserted.
The Ranger team figured the volunteer had simply had enough
and called it quits. But if that was the case, why
was all their stuff still up in the lookout?
All their clothes and their food were still there.
Hell, even their boots were just lying inside the door, meaning
that wherever they went they did so in bare feet or maybe
sandals. Jim said he and the team down in
Klamath followed the volunteers disappearance as best they
could. Losing a lookout like that felt
personal, and Jim said the Klamath team even sent a few
Rangers up to Wammet so they could help out with the search
and rescue effort. But the volunteer was never
found, and as far as Jim knew, they were still officially a
missing person. I asked him what he thought had
happened to the missing volunteer, and he said it was
difficult to say. It wasn't out of the question
that they'd taken a nasty fall someplace, maybe even down a
ravine or into a hidden cave system, which might explain why
they were never found. But then again, Jim said that
you also couldn't rule out some kind of foul play.
Maybe it was a personal thing. The Volunteer had an enemy,
someone they'd made very angry, who was devious enough to
realize that hitting them someplace secluded like that
might make for the perfect murder.
Or maybe, just maybe, this poor soul got themselves selected
almost at random by a killer who saw an opportunity and just took
it. I remember listening to all of
that and feeling the hairs on my arms and neck standing on end.
Jim said he didn't mean to scare me and offered up some final
theory involving the volunteer just voluntarily leaving, having
gotten sick and tired of the lookout lifestyle that they
couldn't even bring themselves to carry their stuff home.
You did indeed get the occasional rich kid heading up
there to find themselves or something for those three
months, only to realize that they were wasting their entire
summer vacation by week two or three.
So if he had to put his money where his mouth was, Jim said
that he'd have gone with that. Granted, that final theory was
probably the most likely outcome, but I'm also not scared
to admit that the stuff that he'd said first had me pretty
shaken up. I kept a 38 with me just in case
I ran into an overly friendly Mountain Lion, and that would
obviously work at keeping a person at Bay too.
But the idea of someone creeping up on the lookout in the middle
of the night while I was fast asleep?
That was most definitely enough to give me the heebie jeebies.
I thank Jim for passing on the info.
Then, at the next available opportunity, I asked one of the
Walnut Rangers about the missing volunteer from the previous
year. They said they had no idea what
I was talking about and that the Ranger who had served as lookout
the previous summer was one of the same ones who couldn't do it
this year. I'd actually worked with this
Ranger on several different occasions, so I had known from
personal experience that they hadn't gone missing, or that if
they did, they'd sure turned up again.
I mentioned this to Jim the next time I got in touch with him,
and he basically gave it the old Oh, that's what they told you,
is it? And I suppose they had folks
just jumping at the chance to serve as lookouts this year,
huh? Hearing him say that prompted a
moment of terrified revelation, so much so that I literally felt
the color draining from my face as I listened.
It was possible that Jim knew that the wommet Ranger had
trouble finding lookouts for that season, so much so that
I've been asked to complete an extended stay.
But even if he didn't know and it was just pure guesswork on
his part, he was right. Once again.
I got in touch with the wommet HQ using my ham radio and asked
them if the whole missing volunteer thing was true.
My district Ranger denied the whole thing and told me that I
must have been getting some bad info from some place.
He said that he'd never heard of any gym down there and that he'd
be in touch with Klamath's District Ranger.
All the same, he claimed that it wasn't very professional of one
of the Rangers to be spreading rumors like that, and that I was
to disregard anything I'd been told.
Now I know I should have just listened to my superiors there
at Wyomit, but you also need to appreciate the unusual position
that I was in back then. There just wasn't any Google or
smartphones to go fact checking things at the drop of a hat.
All I had with me there was my radio and I couldn't simply
abandoned my post to go off investigating all the stuff I'd
been told. The only thing I really had to
go on was this. Unlike other years when the
Rangers were inundated with hundreds of volunteer lookout
applications, it had been almost impossible to properly staff the
lookout for the 85 season. That's the thing that played on
my mind until, in the end, I had no idea who to believe.
As crazy as this might sound, I chose not to confront Jim
regarding what he told me about the missing volunteer in my
head. I rationalized it by telling
myself how Jim might have been mistaken somehow.
Maybe he was confusing Waldo Mountain with another Oregon
lookout, or maybe even one up in Washington.
He might have also gotten mixed up regarding what year this
person went missing. And either way, I didn't want to
alienate the only other person I could talk to for prolonged
periods who knew what it was like living at a fire lookout.
I guess that really does sound kind of pathetic now that I
think about it. So I'm just talking you through
what I was thinking at the time and why I didn't just outright
accuse Jim of being a liar and go back to talking to no one but
myself. Anyway, about a week later, Jim
and I are talking one evening when he asked if Waldo Mountain
is anywhere near Deschutes County.
I had to check my map table, but lo and behold, Wyomit National
Forest was right on the border of Deschutes County.
Jim goes on to tell me that he had an old high school buddy who
lived out near a place called Lapine, which when I checked was
only around 25 miles from Waldo Mountain.
This high school buddy just so happened to be a ham radio
operator in his spare time, and he and Jim would talk every so
often, including that very same day.
Jim's high school buddy had checked in to say hi, but also
to tell him a troubling story about a break in that had
occurred in his neighborhood just the previous night.
Someone had broken into a family home completely silently, then
crept up the stairs. But then, instead of robbing or
hurting anyone, the intruder crept into the husband and
wife's bedroom and just watch them sleep.
The wife said she woke up, saw some shadowy figure looming over
her and screamed her scream, then woke up her husband, which
prompted the intruder to hightail it out of there.
No one was hurt, but the whole neighborhood was spooked, and
after the news hit the airwaves, the whole of Lapine and
Deschutes County seemed to be on edge.
I didn't need to ask why. Jim told me all of that, and as
I listened, I felt this icy chill run through me.
I know I was 25 miles away from where the break in had happened,
but I couldn't help but picture the intruder creeping up to my
lookout before watching me sleep.
I had my 38 with me, which made me feel a lot safer.
But all the way out there, miles away from just about anything,
no one would come running at the sound of my screams, because
there would be no one there to hear them.
I think he could tell how spooked I was, because good old
Jim seemed quick to reassure me. He didn't think that I was in
any real danger. But in light of the incident's
proximity to Waldo Mountain, as well as what had supposedly
happened there a year before, he figured it was worth giving me
the heads up, just in case I didn't sleep much that night.
I kept the radio dialed into Jim's frequency, and he did the
same with me. He checked in once or twice just
to make sure that I was all right, and each time I only had
good news to share. But on more than one occasion, I
heard something from outside the lookout that had me clutching
that 38, shining my flashlight through The Dirty glass windows
and praying that I wouldn't see anyone approaching through the
darkness. Thankfully, I never did see
anybody that night. I heard a bunch of things that
scared me just about out of my wits, but never anything that I
felt might threaten my life. That same fear wasn't quite as
strong the next night, and Jim reassured me that there hadn't
been any more of those creepy break insurance over in La Pine.
But still, it weighed on my mind for quite a few nights after,
and I don't think I got more than three or four hours of
solid sleep during each one. Then came the day when I finally
got to talk to my district Ranger over the ham radio and
got the opportunity to ask him some follow up questions
regarding that missing volunteer from the year before.
My district Ranger, who had been in touch with the folks down in
Klamath, said that there had been no record of anyone named
Jim staffing any of their lookouts.
This wasn't something that I could let go of though, so I
confronted Jim on it and this is what he told me.
He swore on his grandchildren's lives that he really was in an
old fire lookout tower down in Klamath County and it just
wasn't in service anymore and neither was he.
Jim told me that he'd spent 30 years in the Forest Service and
for his final five, had indeed spent every summer up in a fire
lookout. Now he was retired, but since
his wife had passed, he found that he missed being out in
nature during those long Oregon summers.
With his old lookout being permanently freed up, he decided
to head out there, fix it up a little, and then spend the
summer steeped in nostalgia. Jim figured that he'd come off
as some lonely old coot if he told me the truth.
So instead, he told me a little white lie without ever imagining
that he'd be eventually found out.
He swore that everything else he told me was the truth,
especially all the stuff about the volunteer going missing.
And truthfully, I believed him. It made perfect sense to me, as
much as I needed it to anyway. I just didn't want to lose that
voice in the static, the one that I was counting on more and
more to keep me sane. The first few weeks had been a
breeze, and although the addition of Jim had been
welcome, it had not been entirely necessary.
But then, towards my final week, on week six, I realized that I
had just about reached the limits of my endurance for
isolation, and I had actually started to consider Jim a good
friend. With that in mind, you can
imagine the fear that I felt one night when Jim got in touch over
the radio with a distinct sound of terror in his voice.
As I said, we had been keeping our radios tuned into one
another's frequencies at night, just in case anything bad had
happened. It had been a quiet evening, But
then. At around midnight, my radio
suddenly burst to life with the sound of Jim's voice.
Jake, it's Jim, he said in a slow, shaky voice before asking
Are you there? How copy?
Over. Hearing the urgency in his
voice, I rushed over to the radio and began asking him what
was up. He then told me in this frantic,
fractured style of speech, that he'd heard someone moving around
in the darkness outside his lookout tower.
Then, after grabbing his flashlight and heading out onto
the walkway outside his cabin, he realized that there were
several dark figures in the woods which surrounded him on
three sides right away. I told Jim to get the hell off
the frequency so he could call for help, but Jim then tells me
that he'd already tried to contact his HQ down in Klamath,
but that no one seemed to be manning the radio.
He needed me to contact my Ranger HQ so that they could
call the cops down in Klamath. I told him I'd do that right
away, but before I could twist the frequency dial, I heard him
shouting. Wait.
Jim then started to explain in the same terrified voice that
the cops needed to know which Pelican Butte to drive out to.
Apparently there was already a Pelican Butte campground down in
Klamath County, and the cops needed to head to the old
lookout tower Jim was manning, which was off Falls Hwy. near
the Four M flat quarry. If I didn't pass along this
crucial piece of information, Jim would be screwed.
I remember frantically scribbling all that information
down and asking Jim to repeat the name of the Forest Rd. he
mentioned at one point, and then after waiting for his response,
this is what I heard. Jim's voice suddenly broke
through the static and said, oh God, they're coming up the
stairs. I told him to lock and load the
rifle he'd mentioned having with him and to shoot anyone who came
through the door to his cabin. I then heard Jim screaming.
Oh my God, Oh my God, what the hell are you people?
And the next thing I heard was a loud bang, then another and
another. Jim let out a scream.
Then once his own had sort of petered out, something else
unleashed, an ear splitting inhuman roar before the
transmission suddenly went quiet.
I faced some pretty terrifying moments in my life, but that
right there might just take the cake.
I thought I just heard Jim, a man who I'd grown remarkably
close to over the previous five weeks, being shot to death in a
lookout tower almost 100 miles from where I was SAT.
I flew into a full blown panic, trying desperately to dial into
the frequency of the Wommat HQ. Once I had one of the Rangers on
the other end, I began to frantically relay everything I'd
heard, including all the stuff about going to the correct
location. Then, once they had promised to
contact the Klamath County Sheriff, I switched back to
Jim's frequency and began calling out to him across those
airwaves. Jim, I said, Jim, are you there,
buddy? And the airwaves stayed silent.
Nothing but the cold buzz of static.
I begged him, begged him to say something, say anything.
I told him the cops were on their way, that he just needed
to hang on and everything would be OK.
But deep down, I knew things most probably were not.
Jim had mentioned spotting several people circling his
tower in the woods below him, which meant the odds were not in
his favor. So when he set the radio's
handset down, it hit me that the man I'd gotten to know so well
over the previous five weeks had just been brutally murdered
before my very ears. But then, just as my head sank
down in my hands, the radio buzzed to life and someone began
to speak. Hello.
Someone asked. The voice sounded like it
belonged to a younger man. Is anyone there?
I rushed over to the radio, announced my presence, and then
asked where Jim was and if he was OK.
In reply, and in a way that I could almost hear him grinning.
He tells me sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Jim is
dead. I heard laughter before the
transmission cut out. In reply, I started yelling
about how they wouldn't get away with what they just did.
I told them the authorities were already on their way, that they
were all going to rot in jail. Then, when I figured whoever was
on the end probably wasn't listening anymore, I ceased my
rant and let go of the push to talk button, only to hear
laughter coming from the other end.
It was maniacal, gloating and satisfied.
Just as I was leaning forward to change the frequency and rid
myself of the taunting howls of a murderous stranger, they spoke
once more. You're so stupid.
I heard them laughing. I can't believe you sent the
cops out there. The voice had changed almost
completely, but in my confusion I didn't quite realize what was
going on yet. I reached over, picked up the
handset, and once again asked where Jim was.
There is no Jim, you moron, I heard in reply.
It was me. Me this whole time, and you ate
it up. What kind of sad, lonely piece
of human trash are you? You ate up every word.
I was speechless, stunned into a dumb silence, and all I could do
was listen. God damn, the young man said.
I knew I was good, but I didn't think I was that good.
He let out another long, wheezing laugh.
Then, once he pulled himself together a little, he asked if I
was still there. I didn't know what else to say.
I picked up the handset, and the first thing that came to mind
was the first thing out of my mouth.
You should be ashamed of yourself, I said.
And you should off yourself, Came the reply instantly with
the man screaming. Those last two words, so loud
they were almost lost in distortion.
As I leaned over to the radio set to change the frequency,
more of that same warped maniacal laughter poured out
from the small, tinny speakers, only to be suddenly silenced
with the twist of the dial. To say I felt foolish would be
the understatement of the century.
That guy dangled a little bait in the water, and not only did I
bite, but I swallowed hook, line, and sinker too.
There was no gym. There was no missing volunteer
lookout from the year before, But then again, I bet some of
you figured that one out long way back.
I also bet that that guy knew so much about being a fire lookout
because he talked to one a whole bunch, most likely using the
same ham radio he used to talk to me then.
I don't know, maybe what was intended as a one time prank
just snowballed. It wouldn't be too hard to fake
all those sounds either. The gunshots and the screams, I
mean. But what must have been
difficult for anyone in their right mind was having the
patience to drag me through a five week long con before
delivering that horrifying final performance.
That's what, for me at least, makes this all seem a lot more
than just a playful prank. He didn't just string me along
for a day or two, call me a sucker and then disappear from
the airwaves to waste some other radio operators time.
He kept things going for more than a month.
He put hours into talking to me, into building his character and
earning my trust. He put on the gravelly smokers
voice of a man in his 60s, and he did so for hours upon hours
upon hours. Then in the end, the kid, I
guess, who ended up screaming at me through the airwaves sounded
like his balls had only just dropped.
He made me believe in a person who didn't exist, and as much as
that speaks to the sheer magnitude of my own idiocy, I
think it says a lot about his being a psycho too.
I spent the rest of my final week in a kind of semi depressed
days. I felt like the single stupidest
person on the face of the earth, a weak minded, pathetic excuse
for a man who got so lonely that he fell for the dumb prank of a
bored psychopathic teenager. And that's the thing too.
I didn't just fall for it one time, I fell for it again.
And again and again. Every time I picked up that
handset and started talking to Jim, I let that black hearted
little brat take me for a ride all over again.
I'd been humiliated, stripped of any and all pride, and when the
time came to leave the lookout, I was only too happy to put the
whole thing behind me.