I work as a childcare professional and one of the kids
I was taking care of had recently developed a keen
interest in hiking. Eager to encourage his new found
passion, I decided to take him to Salt Fork State Park for a
memorable hiking trip. The chosen trail for our
adventure was Hosak's Cave Trail, a route I was quite
familiar with. It was relatively short,
spanning about half a mile in total, making it ideal for our
daily hike. What drew me to this trail,
aside from its manageable length, was its popularity.
Whenever I had been on it before, it had always been
bustling with people and it felt like a safe and well trodden
path. However, this particular summer
had seen a series of severe storms that wreaked havoc on the
trail. To my surprise, it had become
more complex and oddly devoid of hikers.
Nevertheless, I wasn't too concerned about the solitude.
Since a small construction crew was working on a bridge, albeit
barely visible from the trailhead.
The child was excited about the hike even though the entire
width of the trail had been washed out, leaving only a
precarious foot wide path with a substantial 6 to 12 foot drop
into a Creek bed below, strewn with rocks and fallen trees.
His athleticism gave me confidence in his abilities, and
his enthusiasm for the adventure was infectious.
I couldn't bring myself to deny him this experience.
We eventually reached a platform that provided A breathtaking
view of Hosack's cave. Surrounding the platform were
numerous downed trees, and unfortunately The Cave itself
was closed off at this point. Nevertheless, we had come this
far and our determination LED us to maneuver around the barriers
and venture a few 100 feet into the caves opening.
Most of our time was spent in this area as it proved to be
quite challenging to get there. I vividly remember the
surroundings. Tree roots directly under the
platform, offering a climb down on either side.
Hosak's cave wasn't like the typical creepy confined cave.
It had an open, beautiful layout, with an overhanging rock
formation and a gentle waterfall trickling down the middle.
As we explore deeper into The Cave, I noticed a candle resting
on a large rock. It hadn't been lit recently, but
there was a heart carved into the stone beside it.
I shrugged it off, assuming it was just a spot for a romantic
date. However, my unease began to grow
when we reached the top of The Cave and spotted two more
candles neatly arranged in stacks of small rocks.
A sense of discomfort settled in, but it was at that moment
that the child's eyes lit up as he discovered a small puddle
teeming with baby salamanders. His joy was palpable, and I
couldn't bear to cut short his happiness.
We spent around an hour catching these tiny creatures, and I
watched him revel in the moment. Finally, we decided it was time
to leave, but as we returned to the platform, I couldn't ignore
the sight that now filled me with dread.
Hanging in the center of the tree roots was a wet washcloth,
a new addition that hadn't been there before.
The child noticed it too, but he didn't seem to grasp the gravity
of our situation. At that moment, I knew two
things for sure. First, someone had been watching
us all along, unseen. And second, they were now
possibly lurking in the woods, intentionally staying hidden but
leaving objects behind for us to find.
With no option to run back along the narrow, treacherous trail, I
decided to keep my fears to myself.
I urged the child to walk ahead of me, continuously, offering
words of encouragement to keep him moving briskly.
My eyes scanned the surroundings, but I saw no one.
However, the feeling of being watched persisted throughout our
hike back. We eventually reached the car
and I locked the doors. Immediately, as we drove out of
the park, a dishevelled man in his 30s emerged from the woods,
making a deliberate point to lock eyes with me.
His expression was vacant, like nothing I'd ever seen on a human
face before. He followed my car with his gaze
and head as we passed by him, his stare unbroken until he
faded from view. At that moment, the third fact
became chillingly clear. This man had intentionally made
himself known to me. The 1st 2 facts were confirmed.
Someone had been watching us and they wanted us to know it.
The memory of that stare haunted me for days, and I seriously
considered seeking counselling as the anxiety it triggered
lingered for weeks. I tried to rationalize the
encounter, telling myself that maybe we had unwittingly
disrupted the man's solitude or interrupted his bathing ritual.
But the timing, the stare, and the fact that he had all the
opportunity in the world to approach us during our
salamander hunt made it difficult to dismiss as mere
coincidence. Deep down, I couldn't escape the
chilling possibility that his actions had been a deliberate
attempt to terrify me. The child, blissfully unaware of
the danger we might have been in, still recalls that day as
one of his most exciting adventures.
For me, however, it remains one of my most disturbing and
unsettling experiences, a memory that continues to make me feel
sick and disturbed to this day. When I was much younger, I found
myself working for a local mining company that had recently
arrived from out of state. I was at the very bottom of the
totem pole, so to speak, relegated to the ranks of the
dirt crew. Our job was as basic as it gets.
We shuffled and moved dirt in this massive open pit mine.
This place was a behemoth of a site, a colossal pit filled with
boulders of all sizes. You see, mining operations
involved some seriously hefty machinery.
These colossal vehicles were not your run-of-the-mill trucks.
Their tires could reach a staggering 14 feet in height.
The one at the center of this eerie tail was no exception, and
it boasted a set of air brakes to help counter its immense
momentum. On that fateful day, I was just
wrapping up my brake when my boss approached me with a
peculiar request. He wanted me to inch this
colossal dump truck a few feet forward, closer to the gaping
maw of the enormous pit. My boss was the one who had
hired me, and he knew my capabilities on the job better
than anyone. So despite my initial surprise,
I figured he must have had faith in my abilities.
After all, he wouldn't ask me to do something I couldn't handle
right. Little did I know how wrong I
would be. As I climbed the ladder to the
driver's seat, I began to sense that perhaps I had bitten off
more than I could chew. Standing atop the ladder,
peering into the cab, I hesitated.
Doubts gnawed at me, but I still couldn't believe my boss would
assign me a task I couldn't handle.
I lowered myself into the driver's seat immediately,
taking note of the brand new pristine leather interior.
The scent of newness hung in the air.
This vehicle had a mere 19 miles on its odometer.
I started the engine and it roared to life, but I struggled
to shift it into gear initially. Eventually I got it rolling, and
as the massive dump truck gained momentum towards the precipice
of the pit, I attempted to use the regular brakes, the ones
we're all familiar with via the pedal on the floor.
Panic gripped me when it became evident that this wasn't
working. My heart raced and my mind
spiraled into a frantic search for a solution.
It dawned on me that this colossal beast must have two
braking systems and I had no clue how to operate the
auxiliary air brakes. With time running out, I found
myself praying for guidance. In a split second decision,
fuelled by sheer desperation, I yanked open the door and flung
myself from the towering cab, plummeting nearly 20 feet onto
the jagged rocks below. I landed with a bone jarring
thud, my knees absorbing the brunt of the impact.
My eyes were locked on the monstrous truck as it teetered
on the edge of the precipice. Time seemed to stretch into
eternity as I helplessly witness the giant machine somersaulting
end over end. Descending deeper into the
gaping pit. A colossal cloud of dust
billowed up in its wake. The massive dump truck must have
flipped a dozen times or more during its harrowing descent.
In a surreal moment, I watched one of its gigantic 14 ton tires
detach and go hurtling off, bouncing erratically across the
rocky terrain. Even more astonishing, the
truck's bed broke free, soaring high into the sky like some
bizarre UFO. It felt like Hours passed as I
remained rooted in shock, staring at the spectacle
unfolding before me. Finally, with a deafening crash,
the colossal vehicle came to rest at the pit's bottom.
A mangled and twisted wreck, it seemed to have melded with the
unforgiving rocks below. I sat there for a while, unable
to tear my eyes away from the grotesque scene, grappling with
the shock of what I had just witnessed.
Eventually, I mustered the strength to rise, dusting myself
off and making my way to face my furious boss.
Unsurprisingly, he was livid. He barked orders for me to March
straight to the company office, which lay on the far side of the
property. Apparently, hospital check UPS
were deemed unnecessary in his eyes.
As I entered the office, a whirlwind of anger and
frustration consumed me, but it was to no avail.
My pleas fell on deaf ears and I was summarily fired on the spot.
I tried to argue that my boss had assigned me a task I wasn't
qualified for in the 1st place, but my protests were met with
indifference. So on that traumatic day, I
walked away without a job, my final paycheck clutched in my
trembling hand, forever haunted by the terrifying spectacle of a
monstrous dump truck tumbling into the abyss in the thick of a
Texan summer. The heat can warp the air and
make a man think of cooler places.
That's where my mind wandered as I sat on the porch, watching the
kids play in the dwindling light of the day.
Courtney came out, her step slow but steady, a testament to her
recovery from the accident that had turned our lives upside
down. Alaska, she said the word,
hanging in the air like a promise or a threat.
We had talked about it for weeks, the idea of starting anew
in a place as foreign to us as the moon.
The company I worked for had offered me a position there, and
with our mounting debts, it wasn't an opportunity I could
easily dismiss. The kids, Kevin and Jamie, were
oblivious to the monumental change looming over them.
Kevin, at 10, had the boundless energy of a pup, chasing after
everything with a sense of wonder.
Jamie, 7, quieter and more thoughtful, watched her brother
with a mix of amusement and envy as I watched them.
The decision weighed on me like a lead blanket, but it was a
weight I had to carry. For all our sakes.
We needed a fresh start away from the memories of the
accident, the endless hospital visits, and the pitying looks of
our neighbors. We can do this, Courtney
whispered, her hand finding mine a gentle but firm grip.
It was all the assurance I needed.
Within months, we were uprooting our lives, from the familiarity
of Texas to the unknown wilderness of Alaska.
The journey was a blur, a whirlwind of packing long
flights and a seemingly endless Dr. Alaska greeted us with its
vast, untamed beauty, a stark contrast to the neat suburbs we
had left behind. The kids press their faces
against the car windows, eyes wide at the sight of mountains
that Pierce the clouds and stretches of forest that seemed
to go on forever. Our new home was a wooden
structure nestled in a clearing, surrounded by towering Pines.
It was larger than our place in Texas, but it felt smaller,
dwarfed by the enormity of the wilderness around it.
The first night, as the kids slept in their new rooms,
Courtney and I sat in the living room, the silence around us so
thick it was almost a physical presence.
I remember thinking how different the stars looked here,
brighter and more numerous, A glittering tapestry above us.
The next morning, as I stepped outside, the crisp air bit at my
skin. I had spent most of my life
outdoors, but the Alaskan wilderness was a different
beast. It was wild, untamed, and
utterly indifferent to the struggles of a family trying to
find their footing. Our neighbor Terry came by later
that day with a casserole dish in hand.
She was a sturdy woman with a warm smile and eyes that had
seen much of life. Her husband had passed away the
previous spring, leaving her alone in a house that had seen
better days. As we shared the meal, she told
us about the community, the quirks of living in such a
remote place, and the beauty of the Alaskan seasons.
She didn't mention the legends then.
Those would come later, but in her stories I sensed a depth, a
connection to the land that was both inspiring and intimidating.
That night, as I lay in bed, listening to the unfamiliar
sounds of the wilderness, I couldn't help but feel a mixture
of excitement and apprehension. We had stepped into a new
chapter of our lives, one filled with unknowns and challenges,
but I was determined to make it work For Courtney, For the kids,
For all of us, Alaska was a new beginning, a chance to rebuild
and to find something we didn't even know we were looking for.
The first light of dawn in Alaska is different.
It's not just the time it shows up, but the way it spreads
across the land like a slow, reluctant awakening.
That's what I thought as I stood on our new porch, coffee in
hand, watching the sun tease the horizon.
It had been a few weeks since we moved, and the novelty of our
new home was starting to wear off, revealing the hard edges of
reality. Courtney had set up a small
office in the corner of the living room.
Her job allowed her to work remotely, a blessing given her
ongoing battle with PTSD. Since the accident, I watched
her sometimes, her face illuminated by the screen, a mix
of concentration and discomfort etched on her features.
She was strong, my Courtney. But even the strongest have
their breaking points. Kevin and Jamie had started
school. They seem to be adjusting well,
making friends, embracing the Alaskan lifestyle better than
I'd hoped. Kids are resilient like that,
bouncing back in ways adults can't.
But I could see the longing in their eyes on the rare occasions
they talked about Texas, about the life and friends they left
behind In those early days. I learned quickly that living in
Alaska wasn't just about dealing with the cold.
It was about understanding how the cold changes things.
The way you dress, the way you plan your day, even the way you
think. It wasn't just a matter of
throwing on a heavier coat. It was a whole new way of
living. The cost of living hit us hard.
Everything was more expensive. Fuel, food, the basic
necessities. We had to be careful with every
penny plan, every trip to the store, like a strategic mission.
I remember thinking how ironic it was moving to Alaska to save
money and finding ourselves pinching pennies more than ever.
But there were moments, brief and fleeting, when the beauty of
this place would catch me off guard.
Like when I took the kids hiking and we saw a moose and her calf
at a distance. Or when the Northern Lights
danced across the night sky, painting it with colors I didn't
even know existed. Our neighbor Terry became a
regular presence in our lives. She would come over with baked
goods, share stories of her life with her late husband, and give
us tips on surviving the Alaskan winters.
There was a strength to her, a resilience that came from years
of living in this unforgiving land.
I respected her for it, even as her stories of the Alaskan
wilderness sent a shiver down my spine.
One evening, as the kids played in the living room and Terry
shared a cup of tea with us, I felt a sense of community,
albeit a small one. She spoke about the winters, how
they could be brutal and beautiful all at once.
Her words were a mixture of caution and admiration for the
land. It was during these talks that I
began to understand the complexity of life here.
This wasn't just a place. It was a living, breathing
entity that demanded respect and offered awe.
In return, Terry talked about the wildlife, the hidden
dangers, and the unspoken rules of living in such close
proximity to nature. Her stories were interspersed
with laughter and moments of silence that spoke volumes.
She didn't just live in Alaska, she was a part of it as much as
the mountains and the forests. As for Courtney and me, we found
solace in each other. Our conversations often drifted
back to Texas, to our families and the life we left behind.
But there was also a sense of purpose in what we were doing.
We were here for a reason, to build a better future for our
kids, to pay off our debts, to heal from the past.
The days turned into weeks, and slowly the initial shock of the
move began to fade, replaced by a routine that felt almost
normal. I would head out to work, the
kids to school, and Courtney to her corner of the living room.
In the evenings, we would gather for dinner, share our days
experiences, and slowly the unfamiliar became familiar.
But beneath the surface of our daily life, there was an
undercurrent of something else, a sense of unease that I
couldn't shake off. It was in the way the trees seem
to watch over our house, in the unfamiliar sounds that filled
the night, and in Terry stories that hinted at a world beyond
our understanding. As winter approached, that
feeling grew stronger. The days got shorter, the nights
longer, and the cold seeped into everything chilling.
Not just our bodies, but our spirits.
Alaska was testing us, challenging us to adapt, to
survive. And as I looked at my family, at
the life we were building, I knew that this was just the
beginning of our journey in this wild, beautiful, and unforgiving
land. The Alaskan winter settled in
like a long, uninvited guest, bringing with it a silence that
seemed to muffle the world. It was during one of those
silent evenings. As the kids played checkers by
the fireplace, that Terry began to share the legends of the
land. There's more to Alaska than just
the beauty and the wilderness, she said, her voice low, almost
reverent. There are stories here, tales
that have been passed down for generations.
Courtney and I listened, the warmth of the fire a stark
contrast to the chill that Terry's words brought.
She talked about the Alaskan Bermuda Triangle, a stretch of
land where people went missing more often than anywhere else in
the world. My rational mind scoffed at the
idea, but there was a part of me, a part that had begun to
respect the raw power of this place, that couldn't help but
listen. The Wendigo, Terry continued,
her eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
They're the ones you need to be careful of, Wendigo.
Jamie asked, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity.
Dear men, Terry explained. Creatures of legend.
They say they can take the shape of a man, lure you into the
woods, and then you're never seen again.
The kids were hooked, hanging on every word I could tell.
Courtney was less enthused, likely worried about nightmares.
But there was something captivating about the way Terry
spoke, a sincerity that made the stories come alive.
As she delved deeper into the legend, describing encounters
and near misses, I found myself looking out the window into the
dark forest that surrounded our home.
It was easy to imagine something lurking out there, something
ancient and unknowable. It's not just stories, Terry
said, a serious tone in her voice.
People go missing. You need to be careful,
especially with the kids. The evening ended with a sense
of unease, hanging in the air. The kids were quiet as they went
to bed, and even Courtney seemed lost in thought.
I lay awake that night, listening to the wind howl
outside, wondering about the truth that lay hidden in Terry's
tales. The next day, life went on as
usual, but the stories lingered in the back of my mind at work.
I mentioned them to a few colleagues.
Some laughed, others nodded solemnly, sharing their own
stories or experiences they'd heard of.
It seemed that in Alaska, the line between legend and reality
was often blurred. 1 evening, as I sat on the porch watching the
Northern Lights dance across the sky, I felt a deep connection to
this land. It was beautiful and terrifying
and equal measure filled with mysteries that I was only just
beginning to understand. I realized then that these
legends, whether true or not, were a part of the Alaskan
spirit. They were a way of understanding
and respecting the wilderness, a reminder that we were just small
pieces in a much larger ancient puzzle.
And as I looked out into the dark snow covered forest, I
couldn't help but wonder what secrets it held.
The Alaskan winter was a relentless beast.
It's cold, gnawing at every inch of exposed skin.
That particular day, the job was the same as always out in the
wild, where the land was as harsh as it was beautiful.
As the evening approached, the light began to fade, painting
the sky in shades of pink and purple.
It was then that I realized I'd left my phone back at the work
site. Damn it, I muttered to myself.
In any other place I might have left it until the next day.
But out here, a phone was more than a luxury.
It was a lifeline. I told the crew I'd catch up
with them and headed back alone. The path was familiar, a trail I
had walked countless times, but as the light waned, it took on a
different character. The trees seem to lean in
closer, and the shadows grew longer, darker.
The cold was biting, seeping through my jacket and numbing my
fingers. I cursed myself for not being
better prepared, but there was no going back now.
The thought of the phone lying there, possibly getting snowed
over or taken by wildlife, spurred me on as I walked.
The silence of the forest was absolute, broken only by the
crunch of my boots on the snow. It was eerie, this quiet, and it
made me feel like an intruder in a world that was not my own.
Finally, I reached the site. My phone was there, just where
I'd left it, propped against a tree.
Relief washed over me as I picked it up, but it was short
lived. A howl, distant yet chilling,
cut through the silence and I froze.
It was probably just a fox, I told myself.
Or some other small creature, But Terry's stories echoed in my
mind, and I couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched.
I hurried back, my pace quickening with every step.
The forest seemed to close in around me, and the howl sounded
again, closer this time. My heart pounded in my chest,
and I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The path, so familiar in the daylight, was now a labyrinth in
the fading light. Every tree looked the same,
every shadow a hiding place for whatever was out there.
I was lost, disoriented, and the realization hit me like a
physical blow. Panic set in and I started to
run. The phone clutch tightly in my
hand. Branches reached out, snagging
my clothes, scratching my face. I stumbled, fell, and got back
up, driven by a primal fear. Then, as suddenly as it had
begun, the forest opened up and I saw the lights of the truck.
I had never been so grateful for the sight of anything in my
life. I didn't stop running until I
reached the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind me.
As I sat there panting, my heart still racing, I knew that
Terry's stories had burrowed deeper into my mind than I'd
realized. The wilderness around me wasn't
just a backdrop for our new life.
It was a living, breathing entity with its own rules and
dangers. I had underestimated it, and
that mistake had nearly cost me dearly.
Driving back, the warmth of the truck's heater slowly thawed my
chilled bones, but the cold inside me lingered.
It was a cold born of fear, a realization of how vulnerable I
was in this vast, untamed land. When I got home, Courtney
noticed the scratches on my face and the wild look in my eyes.
I brushed off her concerns, not wanting to worry her or the
kids. But that night, as I lay in bed,
the sounds of the forest seemed louder, more ominous.
I thought about the legends, about the Wendigo and the other
tales Terry had shared. In the light of day, they were
just stories. But out there, in the dark heart
of the Alaskan wilderness, they felt uncomfortably real.
The experience changed something in me.
It was a reminder that no matter how much we try to control our
environment, there are forces out there beyond our
understanding, beyond our control.
And in Alaska, those forces were right outside our door, hidden
in the shadows of the trees and the howling of the wind.
I resolved to be more careful to respect the land and its
mysteries. But as I drifted off to sleep, a
part of me knew that the wilderness had already left its
mark on me. It was a mark that I would carry
with me, a constant reminder of the fine line between the known
and the unknown in this rugged, beautiful and terrifying place
called Alaska. The Alaskan wilderness in winter
is a Kingdom of ice and shadow, where every step could be your
last. That reality never hit me harder
than it did on that late February day.
The job was straightforward. Get to the site, do the work,
and get home. But nature has a way of laughing
at our plans. I remember leaving the site as
the sky dimmed, the twilight hours in Alaska being more
suggestion than certainty. The cold was a living thing,
clawing at my skin, seeping into my bones.
My crew and I packed up the camaraderie of shared labor,
keeping our spirits high despite the biting cold.
They headed back, but I stayed behind for a moment, lost in
thought, watching the darkness swallow the landscape.
That's when I heard it, a voice faint but unmistakable, calling
my name. It was distorted, carried by the
wind. Brian, I called back, thinking
it was my boss maybe coming back for some forgotten tool, but
there was no reply, just the echo of my voice in the still
air. I followed the sound, my
rational mind screaming that this was a bad idea, but
curiosity and concern for my friend pushing me forward.
The darkness deepened, the trees becoming menacing silhouettes
against the night sky. The voice called again, closer
this time, and I quicken my pace.
Then, abruptly, it stopped. The silence was deafening, the
sudden absence of sound more terrifying than any noise.
My heart pounded in my chest, my breath forming clouds of vapor
in the cold air. I realized then that I was lost.
The familiar trail was gone, replaced by a sea of white that
stretched endlessly in every direction.
Panic set in a primal fear that gripped me and wouldn't let go.
I thought about the Wendigo, about Terry's stories, and a
cold sweat broke out despite the freezing air.
Had I been lured into a trap? Was this how I would meet my
end, not in a blaze of glory, but lost and alone in the
Alaskan wilderness? I turned to head back, but the
landscape had changed, or my sense of direction had betrayed
me. Every tree looked the same,
every shadow a potential threat. I stumbled through the snow, my
thoughts a jumble of fear and regret.
Then I saw it. A figure, tall and dark, moving
between the trees. It was no human, that much was
clear. Its movements were too fluid,
too silent. It was the Wendigo, I was sure
of it, the creature from the Legends come to claim another
victim. I ran, my breath ragged, my legs
burning with the effort. The creature followed, always
just out of sight, but I could feel its presence, A malevolent
force that filled the night with terror.
I don't know how long I ran, time losing all meaning in my
flight. But eventually, against all
odds, I saw lights. The lights of our camp, a beacon
of hope in the darkness. I burst into the clearing, my
crew looking up in surprise. There's something out there, I
gasped, collapsing into their arms.
They didn't question me, their faces telling me they believed
every word. That night I learned the true
meaning of fear and the respect that the Alaskan wilderness
demands. It was a lesson I would never
forget, a reminder that some legends are rooted in truth and
some truths are better left unexplored.
The aftermath of that night in the Alaskan wilderness lingered
in my mind like a haunting melody lying in a hospital bed,
staring at the sterile white ceiling.
I had time to reflect on the harrowing events that had
brought me here, the doctor said.
I was lucky to have only minor frostbite, but the chill that
had settled in my bones wasn't from the cold, it was from the
fear. Courtney sat beside me, her hand
a constant comforting presence. The worry in her eyes was clear,
but so was the relief. She didn't ask many questions
about that night, and I wasn't sure if I could have answered
them. If she did, how do you explain
an encounter with a legend, A myth?
A creature from a story meant to scare children?
I knew what I had seen, what I had felt the terror of being
chased, the sense of an otherworldly presence.
It was all too real. But admitting it, even to
myself, felt like opening a door to a world I wasn't sure I
wanted to be a part of. The kids visited, bringing
drawings and stories to cheer me up.
I tried to be present for them, to laugh and smile, but my mind
was elsewhere, lost in the endless white of the Alaskan
wilderness. When I was finally discharged,
the journey home was a quiet one.
The landscape, once a source of awe and wonder, now seemed
foreboding, filled with hidden dangers and secrets.
As we passed the dense forests and snow covered fields, I
couldn't help but feel a sense of unease.
Back home, Courtney and I talked long into the night.
The move to Alaska, which had seemed like such a promising
start now felt like a mistake. The cost of living, the
isolation, the harsh weather, it was all bearable when weighed
against the chance for a better life.
But this, the fear that now hung over us, was something else
entirely. We discussed our options, the
possibility of moving back to the lower 48 states.
It wouldn't be easy, but perhaps it was necessary.
The kids, still blissfully unaware of the depth of our
concerns, deserved a chance at a normal life, one not
overshadowed by the legends and dangers of the Alaskan
wilderness. The decision wasn't made that
night, but the seed was planted in the days that followed.
As I returned to work and the kids to school, the thought of
leaving grew stronger. Alaska, with all its beauty and
mystery, had shown us a side we weren't prepared for.
I continued to work, but the joy I once found in the wilderness
was gone, replaced by a constant vigilance.
Every rustle in the trees, every unexpected sound made me tense.
The legends of the land, once just stories now, felt like
warnings as winter gave way to spring, the snow melting and the
days growing longer. Courtney and I made our
decision. We would leave Alaska, return to
a life more familiar, more predictable.
It was a difficult choice, but one that felt right for our
family. Alaska had changed us in ways we
never expected. It had shown us the beauty of
the wild, the strength that comes from facing challenges,
and the importance of respecting the mysteries of nature.
But it had also shown us our limits, the boundaries we
weren't willing to cross. As we packed our belongings
preparing for the journey back to Texas, I took one last look
at the wilderness that had been our home.
I felt a twinge of sadness, a sense of loss for what might
have been. But there was also relief, a
lifting of the weight that had been pressing down on us since
that fateful night. Alaska would remain a part of
us, a chapter in our lives that we would never forget.
But it was time to move on, to seek a new beginning, a new
adventure. And as we drove away, leaving
the land of legends behind, I knew that no matter where life
took us, we would be ready for whatever came next.
I need to start by saying, yes, this really did happen.
I also have to say that this kind of ghostly incident was
one-of-a-kind. I worked in healthcare at the
time in a local emergency department dealing with life and
death daily, including my days off and vacations.
There's a lot that changes how you perceive your world.
I feel as if I grew up being sensitive to these kinds of
events. One year a Co worker and I went
to Keystone Co for an emergency medicine conference.
We drove up together and split a room.
The lodge we were at was very cozy and comfortable, but I had
a feeling of being watched from the very moment we parked.
We went to the room and dropped off all our stuff.
There were two queen beds there and I took the one closest to
the window. I put all the throw pillows on
the right side of the bed so that I could be by the window
and hear the babbling brook when we went to bed.
My Co worker was fine with that decision after all.
She said she was a light sleeper and the sound of the water would
probably keep her up all night. We then went to the pre
conference walkthrough to look for the best swag from the
vendors. While at the swag convention we
ran into a few friends who worked at the local fire
department. We finished our day off by going
to dinner, having a few drinks and dancing.
By then we were both so tired that we called it a night around
midnight. When we made it back to our
hotel room, everything appeared to be in the same place as we
left it. The temperature was so perfect
that we slept with the window open.
We were on the 2nd floor so it felt safe to us and I slept like
a rock. I woke up when I felt someone
crawling into the bed with me. It began at the right side foot
of my bed. At the time I was lying on my
stomach with a bit of a pillow Fort on my right side.
I thought, what is my friend doing climbing into bed with me?
I guess if she needs to cuddle, that's fine.
I chuckled softly to myself. The bed was still moving as it
felt like someone was crawling right up to me.
Then suddenly I felt as if someone just laid right on top
of me. I instantly became so cold and I
found it very hard to breathe. I opened my eyes and saw the
hairs on my arms standing up, huge goosebumps present on my
skin. With my eyes now open, I noticed
there was no other person in the room.
So who was on top of me? The window was open and the sun
was coming up. Once this eerie feeling went
away, I shot straight up in bed and looked over at my friend.
She was sound asleep in her bed. I just stayed there sitting and
hugging my pillow until she woke up about half an hour later.
I must have looked like a sight because she looked at me and
said what happened? I told her what had happened.
Dang it, she said. Why can't the cool stuff happen
to me? I'm not going to lie.
I kind of became excited about the experience, but would have
been OK if it had happened to her.
Instead, Living on our 18 acre property in the Pacific
Northwest, my wife and I resided in a camping trailer about 100
yards away from the main house owned by my mother-in-law.
The land, once a site for logging a century ago, hid
numerous untold stories and mysteries of generations past.
One such story I've uncovered involves the early inhabitants,
Mr. John Graham Senior and Missus Mona Smith.
Their son, John Graham Junior, an architect, left his mark on
Seattle designing iconic structures like the Space
Needle. The lake nearby was named Lake
Money Smith in honor of John Senior's wife.
In this wooded haven, home to our ducks, chickens, sheep and
goats, the wilderness teamed with life.
Bald Eagles soared overhead. Black bears roamed freely, Deer
and their young found refuge, while possums, raccoons and
Bobcats called this place home. There was even a sighting of a
cougar about 5 miles away. But one night an encounter shook
me to my core. It was a moonless night, and I
found myself outside the trailer wearing a headlamp, tending to
the mundane task of emptying the black water tank.
The beam of my headlamp barely penetrated the surrounding
darkness, illuminating only what was directly in front of me.
As I stood there, waiting for the tank to empty, I saw two
reflective orbs staring back at me from the impenetrable void of
the woods on this land I'd encountered and startled bears
been surprised by them, named the deer, been dive bombed by
bats, and even sprinted after a bobcat, eyeing our ducks.
But these eyes were different. They were tall enough to be a
bear, yet not spaced apart like a deer's.
My attempts to scare it off with shouts, mock charges, and
furious yells proved to be futile.
It stood unwavering, unblinking, and motionless.
The unnerving silence hung heavy as those eyes pierced through
the darkness fixated on me. For an eternity I waged A1 sided
battle against this unseen entity, It's unwavering gaze
chilling me to the bone. I mustered all my courage,
bellowing and stamping my feet, but those eyes, unmoving,
remained fixated on me. A sense of foreboding crept in.
I realized this wasn't like anything I had encountered
before. The eyes, glowing and intense,
never wavered. They were there, stubborn and
unyielding, until suddenly they turned away.
They vanished into the darkness without a sound rustle or twig
break, leaving me with a chilling void of confusion.
It's been a decade since that haunting encounter, and still
the mystery lingers. Despite the passing years, the
night's events remain etched vividly in my memory.
I've often contemplated the inexplicable nature of that
presence, the enigmatic pair of eyes that seem to defy the
natural world, leaving me with an eerie sense of wonder and
curiosity that endures to this day.
Yet every time I venture out to tend to the black water tank, a
lingering thought nags at me. What else might be looking in
those creepy woods? It was another early spring
morning when I decided to head out to my favorite trailhead in
Washington. I always loved how secluded it
was, how it felt like my own private escape into nature.
Hardly anyone ever parked there, just my trusty Mini Cooper most
times. But today was different.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a big white Ford
pickup already there. It was so much bigger than my
car and it immediately made me feel uneasy.
There's something about seeing another vehicle in a usually
deserted spot that sets your nerves on edge.
Like walking into your house and realizing someone's moved your
furniture just an inch to the left.
Shaking off the feeling, I grabbed my backpack filled with
water, snacks, and hiking essentials.
I double checked my hiking boots, making sure they were
tied tight. The air was crisp and fresh,
filled with the promise of spring.
I took a deep breath, trying to let the beauty of the day wash
away my lingering unease about the pickup.
The trail starts right in the thick of the woods.
For the first few minutes, you can still hear the hum of cars
on Hwy. 2, a comforting reminder of the civilized world just a
stone's throw away. But as you walk further, that
sound fades, replaced by the Symphony of the forest.
It's like stepping into another world.
Tall trees tower above their leaves, whispering secrets to
each other. The sunlight pierces through the
branches, casting dancing shadows on the ground.
It's mesmerizing, almost magical.
I've always loved this part of the hike where the forest feels
like it's embracing you. The path is a straight shot
through this dense green Wonderland.
Today, the beauty of it all was heightened by the clear, bright
day. The sunbeams broke through the
canopy and spots, creating a collage of light and shadow on
the forest floor. It was like walking through a
living piece of art, a masterpiece of light, shadow and
greenery. But as I ventured further, the
comforting signs of civilization faded away.
The only sounds were my own footsteps, the occasional chirp
of birds, and the distant rustle of animals in the underbrush.
It's funny how the absence of human noise can make you feel so
isolated, so vulnerable. I've hiked this trail so many
times before, but today it felt different.
The silence was heavier, filled with an unspoken warning.
As the trail began to climb, I found myself drinking more water
than usual. Maybe it was the unease about
the pickup, or maybe the beauty of the day was making me more
adventurous. I've always carried A purifier
pump with me. There are a bunch of streams
along the way and there's nothing like fresh mountain
water to quench your thirst. I was about an hour into the
hike when the trees started to thin out more sky than canopy.
The air grew colder with the elevation, but the sun felt
warmer on my skin. I stopped for a moment, catching
my breath and taking in the view.
It was then, in that moment of peaceful solitude, that I heard
it, a muffled bang. It sounded distant, muffled by
the Ridge ahead of me, but I could hear its echo bouncing
back a few seconds later from a Cliff across the valley.
My first thought was a gunshot, but that didn't make sense.
There weren't supposed to be hunters here.
I stood there for a moment, considering turning back, but
curiosity got the better of me. I kept walking, unaware of the
nightmare that was about to unfold.
As I pushed further along the trail, the dense forest gave way
to a more open landscape. The path, still clearly marked,
wound its way up the mountain, the trees standing tall and
majestic on either side. The further I hiked, the more I
felt enveloped by the wilderness, a tiny speck in the
vastness of nature. The first bang I'd heard earlier
was still nagging at the back of my mind.
It was probably nothing, I told myself, just some distant noise,
maybe a car backfiring on the highway or some construction
work. But deep down I couldn't shake
off a sense of unease. The forest, usually so
comforting and familiar, now seemed to whisper secrets I
wasn't Privy to. I focused on the physical effort
of the hike to distract myself. The trail began to ascend more
steeply, and I could feel the burn in my legs and lungs as I
pushed myself. I've always carried A purifier
pump on these hikes. The mountain streams, crisp and
cold, were a natural source of refreshment.
I stopped at one of these streams, the water babbling over
rocks, and filled my bottle. The water was so clear, so pure,
it felt like drinking in the essence of the mountain itself.
About an hour into the hike, the trees started to thin, offering
glimpses of the sky above. The air was cooler here, but the
sun's rays felt more intense, warming my skin as I moved
through patches of light and shade.
I was drinking in the beauty of it all when it happened again,
another bang, louder, this time unmistakably close.
It wasn't muffled like the first one.
It was sharp, clear, and it echoed off the surrounding
mountains, setting my heart racing.
My first thought was a gunshot. Could there be hunters in the
area? But that didn't make sense.
This was protected land. Hunting wasn't allowed.
The sound made me jump, and for a moment I lost my footing,
stumbling slightly before regaining my balance.
My heart was pounding, not just from the hike, but from a
growing sense of fear. And then I saw it, smoke rising
between 2 red Cedars ahead. It wasn't just a wisp of smoke,
it was substantial. Billowing up into the clear sky.
Birds took flight in a flurry, their peaceful chirping replaced
by alarmed calls. I instinctively ducked, even
though the source of the smoke was still some distance away.
My mind raced with possibilities.
Could it be a campfire? But no campfires were banned in
this area. My overactive imagination
conjured images of minors using dynamite.
Ridiculous. I know this wasn't the 19th
century. Curiosity and a sense of
responsibility propelled me forward.
I veered off the main trail, making my way through the
underbrush towards the source of the smoke.
My heart pounded with every step, a mix of fear and
adrenaline driving me. I had to know what was going on
as I approached. The smell hit me first.
It was a stench, an acrid mix of burning and something else,
something foul. And then I saw it.
The deer. It was a gruesome sight.
It's was mangled and torn, still steaming in the cool mountain
air. It's rib cage was exposed, A
grotesque display of violence. Crimson was scattered around,
painting the high grass and shades of red.
I felt a wave of nausea wash over me.
The deer's remaining eye was lifeless, staring into
nothingness. The wounds were chaotic, as if
inflicted in a frenzy. A landmine here.
The thought was absurd, but my mind struggled to make sense of
the scene before me. And then I heard it.
A buzzing, faint at first, like a distant power tool.
But it grew louder, more insistent, until I could no
longer ignore it. It was a drone.
Within seconds, it was hovering above the clearing, it's
mechanical hum filling the air. I waved at it, a feudal gesture.
I was angry, confused, horrified.
What was this, some kind of sick game?
I yelled at the drone, not even sure if it could hear me.
I screamed into the wilderness, my voice echoing off the
mountains. The drone just hovered there, an
impersonal observer to the carnage below.
I felt a surge of helplessness, a sense of violation.
This wasn't just a peaceful hike anymore.
It was a scene from a horror movie, and I was the unwilling
protagonist. Standing there in the middle of
the clearing, I felt a shiver run down my spine.
The sight of the mutilated deer was horrifying enough, but the
sudden appearance of the drone added a whole new level of
terror to the situation. For a few seconds, I was frozen,
my eyes locked on the mechanical intruder that buzzed menacingly
above me. I couldn't understand what was
happening. Was someone watching me, playing
some sick joke? The drone seemed like a sinister
eye in the sky, cold and unfeeling.
It hovered there, its presence invasive and ominous.
I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I'd never experienced
before. This was supposed to be my
sanctuary, my escape from the world, but now it felt like a
trap. Anger bubbled up inside me,
mixing with fear and confusion. I shouted at the drone, my voice
echoing through the trees. What do you want?
I demanded, knowing full well I wouldn't get an answer.
The drone just hovered, its camera lens fixed on me, making
me feel like a specimen under a microscope.
I took out my phone, thinking to document this bizarre encounter.
I snapped pictures of the drone zooming in as best I could.
That's when I noticed something even more alarming.
Hanging from the drones underside was a small, round
object. My heart skipped a beat as it
dawned on me what it could be. It was no bigger than a
baseball, but it's implications were terrifying.
Was that a grenade? Panic surged through me.
This wasn't just some voyeuristic prank, it was
something far more dangerous. I didn't have time to process
the thought fully before I heard a faint click followed by a
clinking sound. Instinctively, I dived to the
ground just as a loud bang erupted behind me.
The force of the explosion sent dirt and debris flying.
For a moment I was deafened by the blast, my ears ringing.
I lay there on the ground, disoriented, my heart racing.
I could taste metal in the air and feel the sting of smoke in
my eyes. Slowly, I sat up, checking
myself for injuries. Miraculously, I was unharmed.
The drone had missed, but the message was clear.
I was being targeted. I scrambled to my feet, my mind
racing with fear and adrenaline. I needed to get out of there, to
put as much distance between myself and the drone as
possible. I glanced up, searching the sky,
but the drone was gone. I didn't stop to think.
I just ran, stumbling back toward the trail.
My thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear and confusion.
Who was controlling the drone? Why were they targeting me?
My peaceful hike had turned into a nightmare, and I was the prey
in a deadly game. As I ran, the reality of the
situation hit me. This wasn't an accident.
Someone had intentionally sent that drone after me.
The thought sent chills down my spine.
I was in real danger and I had to get back to my car to safety.
I pushed myself harder, running as fast as my legs would carry
me. The forest, once a place of
tranquillity, now felt like a maze of shadows and threats.
Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig made me jump.
I was no longer just a hiker. I was a survivor, running for my
life. Panting heavily, I hurtled down
the trail, the once familiar path now a blur as I raced for
my life. My mind was a whirlwind of
terror and disbelief. How could a simple hike turn
into this nightmare? The buzzing of the drone, like a
relentless predator, haunted me, echoing through the trees.
I couldn't shake the image of the grenade dangling menacingly
from the drone. It was surreal, like something
out of a twisted movie. But this was no movie.
This was real, and I was the unwilling star.
Every step I took was fueled by a mix of adrenaline and fear.
The peacefulness of the forest was gone, replaced by the
chilling realization that I was being haunted.
I tried to rationalize the situation, to make some sense of
it. Why me?
Was it random, or was I specifically targeted?
My thoughts were cut short by the faint yet unmistakable buzz
of the drone. My heart sank.
It was back. I looked up to see a gliding
effortlessly above the tree tops, it's dark silhouette a
stark contrast against the sky. In that moment, I felt a surge
of anger. I was tired of running, tired of
being scared. I stopped and screamed at the
drone. My voice filled with rage and
desperation. Leave me alone, But it was
pointless. The drone was unyielding, its
mechanical hum a constant reminder of my peril.
I started running again, my lungs burning with each breath.
I had to keep moving to outpace this mechanical menace.
I stumbled over roots and rocks, my legs aching with the effort.
The terrain was rough, uneven, but I couldn't afford to slow
down. The drone was always there, just
behind me, a relentless pursuer. I remembered the way the drone
had dropped the grenade, how it had hovered with calculated
precision. It was playing a game, and I was
the unwilling participant. The thought filled me with a
cold dread. What if I couldn't escape?
What if the next grenade didn't miss?
I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the trail ahead.
I had to survive. I had to get back to my car to
civilization. The canopy of trees offered some
cover, but it was only a matter of time before the drone adapted
before it found a way to reach me.
Even here, I ran and ran my body screaming in protest.
I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up.
My mind kept going back to the white Ford pickup in the parking
lot. Was the driver of that truck
controlling the drone? Was this some sick form of
entertainment for them? The buzzing grew louder and I
glanced over my shoulder. The drone was closing in, its
presence a constant threat. I knew I couldn't outrun it
forever. My only hope was to reach the
trailhead before it was too late.
As I neared the end of the trail, my legs felt like lead,
my breath ragged. But I couldn't stop.
Not now. I was so close to safety, so
close to escaping this nightmare.
The trailhead was just ahead, my car a beacon of hope in this
madness. With one last burst of energy, I
sprinted towards the parking lot, the drone hot on my heels.
I reached my car, fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking
uncontrollably. I threw myself inside, locking
the doors behind me. I was safe, at least for now.
But as I sat there, catching my breath, I knew that this ordeal
was far from over. Whoever was behind this drone,
they were still out there, and I had to find out why they had
targeted me. I sat there in my car, my chest
heaving with each breath, trying to process what had just
happened. The once comforting rhythm of my
heartbeat now sounded like Thunder in my ears, a constant
reminder of the terror I had just endured.
The forest around me, once a sanctuary of peace and solitude,
now felt like a cage. I was safe inside my car, but
the feeling of being haunted still lingered.
I felt like a shadow I couldn't shake off the drone.
That relentless machine of terror, was gone, but it's
presence had left a deep scar. I stared out of the windshield,
my eyes scanning the trees for any sign of movement.
Every rustle of leaves, every Creek of a branch set my nerves
on edge. I wanted to drive away, to leave
this nightmare behind, but my hands were shaking too much to
even start the car. The trailhead was deserted.
The white Ford pickup that had been there earlier was gone.
A wave of relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by a
sinking feeling in my stomach. Who was driving that truck?
Were they watching me the whole time?
The question spun in my head, but I had no answers.
I forced myself to take deep breaths to calm the racing
thoughts. I needed to think clearly to
figure out my next move. I couldn't just drive away and
pretend nothing had happened. I had to report this.
Someone had tried to kill me, and they could be out there
planning to do the same to someone else.
Slowly, I started the car and drove away from the trailhead.
The drive back to civilization felt surreal.
The road was familiar, but everything felt different now.
I kept glancing in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see
the drone following me. But there was nothing, just the
empty Rd. stretching out behind me.
When I finally reached a town, I went straight to the police
station. My story sounded unbelievable,
even to my own ears. But I had the photos of the
drone on my phone, the evidence of what had happened.
The officers took my statement, their expressions a mix of
concern and disbelief. They promised to investigate, to
send a team to the trailhead, but I could tell they were
skeptical. I left the station feeling
drained, the adrenaline that had fueled me through the escape,
now replaced by a deep exhaustion.
But there was no relief, no sense of closure.
The drone, the person controlling it, they were still
out there. The next day I saw the news
about a missing girl. Her car had been found at a
different trailhead, not far from where I had been.
My heart sank as I read the article.
They were looking for a white Ford F-150 in connection with
her disappearance. The same kind of truck I had
seen at the trailhead. I knew then that I couldn't just
let this go. I had to do something.
I had to find out who was behind the drone, who had tried to kill
me and was now possibly involved in this girl's disappearance.
I couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness, of being a pawn in
someone else's game, but I was determined to fight back, to
uncover the truth and bring them to justice.
This was no longer just about survival.
It was about standing up against a faceless threat that had
shattered my world.