There is a ghost town high up in the Montana mountains, not far
from Yellowstone. Few people know about it.
The only Rd. in and out fell into disrepair long ago.
To get there requires an intermediate climbing skill set.
It can only be attempted when conditions are warm and dry,
which around here amounts to a window of a couple of months
each year. My grandfather spoke of it once.
The story lacked detail, The particulars lost in the fog of
memory and pop was never one to embellish.
Once his recollection failed, it was a story he heard as a boy of
a silver mine up in the mountains of a creature that
called the forest home. It was no bear.
It was no wolf. Whatever it was refused to share
the land with the miners in the fledgling town built to support
them. What followed was a massacre.
The survivors abandoned the town and never returned.
Last summer, Taylor and I hiked and camped for a week within
Yellowstone National Park. We lucked out with the weather.
We went off grid and loved every minute.
The last night, beside a whispering fire, we promised we
would do it again. As the firmament above turned
about the North Star, I told her about the ghost town.
She breathed the story in. That's where we would go.
A harsh winter is rendered tolerable by the promise of
spring. It was the summer, though, that
held my attention. A long break from school and a
week in the mountains. It is a rare treat to do
precisely what you most desire. The warmth of the sun brought
with it an unbridled giddiness. The wait was almost over.
We drove as far as we could, winding our way up between
mountains, stripped of the white caps of winter and smeared with
green and blue and brown. Taylor rolled the car to a stop
on the shoulder of a lonely dirt track.
The crisp mountain air tempered the warmth of the sun.
We shouldered our packs and climbed.
What is left of the ghost town, As far as we knew, did not
amount to much. The Rangers fingered it on a
map, though none had been up there.
The location was an inherited knowledge.
My grandfather could only guess as to the whereabouts.
It's up there somewhere, he had said.
When I told him our plans and that it was his story that
inspired our destination, a smile gave way to pensiveness.
He told me to be careful. I told him not to worry, the
spruce trees thin the higher we climbed.
We scrambled up a rocky shoulder and Taylor checked the map.
We were making good ground. If luck fell on our side, we
would get there by sunset. An impassable chunk of vertical
rock face led to a detour that cost us a couple of hours.
It would have to be tomorrow. We camped in a clearing with a
view of our destination across the plain.
In the distance, the trees huddled together as if against
the cool night air and obscured thicks on the map.
I wondered what we would find. There was a good chance little
remained, perhaps a few stumps where a rudimentary wooden house
once stood. We turned our attention to the
sky and watched for shooting stars and agreed it didn't
matter. Taylor woke me in the dead of
the night. The Half Moon hung low over the
mountains. Her whispered words came out in
bursts. My groggy brain took its time
assembling them into something coherent.
She had heard something the crack of a tree branch, sharp
and loud, as if it had been snapped like a twig.
And now there was a light in the pale silver glow of the moon.
I followed her outstretched hand hanging just above the horizon.
A yellow light flickered. It gave the impression of a
candle burning in a window. Except out here there were no
windows and no one to burn a candle.
I could only offer vague solutions.
An optical trick played by some atmospheric anomaly, a hunting
group around a campfire. Though this was not a usual
place for such things. Whatever it was, it lay far
enough away to pose no danger. What neither of us said is that
it lay in the direction of our travel.
We lay back down for a time. I opened my right eye at
intervals to check if the light remained.
It did, and then I slept. We barely spoke in the morning
and set off in the direction of the ghost town.
I was anxious to uncover a mundane explanation for the
light. We saw the night before, the
remains of a campfire or some hermit living alone up in the
mountains. The way Taylor kept her eyes on
the trees ahead told me she was thinking the same.
We entered into the thick patch of forest.
The trees grew close and blocked the sun.
Stray branches scratched at our bare legs.
The ground undulated, and I found myself instinctively
following it down, and soon I was disoriented.
Taylor took out the map and the GPS.
Inexplicably, the GPS gave no signal and she turned her
attention to the map. I ventured forward until my boot
stubbed against something solid. After a glance down, I jumped
back. A wooden stake driven into the
hard earth. It had cracked about a foot
above the ground, and whatever once had been above I could only
guess at. But then more emerged from
between the trees to my left, a clearing full of them, Wooden
Crosses arranged haphazardly, dozens of them.
I called out to Taylor, my voice thin and small.
I stepped through the cemetery, careful not to step on the
ground directly in front of any cross, an old superstition,
difficult to kick. The crucifixes were rudimentary,
simple planks of wood. Some were overtaken by rot,
others preserved well enough to read an inscription across the
horizontal member names and dates.
The congregation in the back corner contain no less than six,
all with the same date. December 7th, 1891.
The massacre of my grandfather's story, I thought.
Probably cholera, Taylor said, voicing her own explanation.
If there is anything left of that town, we must be close
beyond the cemetery. The spruce thinned and the
ground rose. We crested the slope, and there
it was. The remains of the town stood on
a plateau of hard earth. A few of the wooden houses
remained as complete structures. The timber warped and cracked
and bleached the color of the ground.
A few more were relieved of roofs and parts of walls,
leaving a fragile relic of what had been My eyes swept up the
sloping mountain beyond, where a rusted red limb of mining
equipment poked above the rocks. Taylor approached the closest
house and pushed the door. The gentle force tore the door
from its hinge and it slapped against the dirt interior of the
house. Needles from the surrounding
spruce littered the floor. She ventured inside.
I lingered on the outside and examined a pair of grooves in
the timber siding. Weather had worn the edges.
I ran my fingers down them and wondered what could have made
such marks. This is cool, Taylor said.
She was right. Some of the houses contained old
tables and chairs and bed frames left behind before the move.
Back down the mountain, we found little else save a lone glass
bottle half buried in the ground.
We dumped our gear beside the house closest to the cemetery
and set about scaling the rock in the direction of the mining
equipment beyond. We found a crude staircase cut
into the rock and powered to the top.
What remained of the mining equipment amounted to an A-frame
with a bucket on rails to extract the dirt and a few
abandoned picks. A shaft cut into the earth and
was soon swallowed by darkness. We could only guess at the
depth. I scrambled up a slope beyond
and sat on a small rock platform with a lookout over the valley
below my legs dangling over the side.
In the distance, the mountains looked blue.
We lingered there for a time until the sun kissed the peaks
to the West. Tonight we would camp at the
ghost town and we would stay a few days.
The first sign of trouble was my red windbreaker lying on the
ground beside 1/2 collapsed house at the back of the ghost
town. When we left, the windbreaker
was packed tightly into my backpack.
Something had messed with my bag.
It wouldn't be the first time squirrels or birds had done it
before, but I was sure the windbreaker was deep down in my
bag. It would take a persistent
squirrel to get to it. A second option had my heart
thumping a bear. Our gear was a mess.
Our clothes and sleeping bags were strewn across the ground.
The small gas burner was upturned.
My backpack had two parallel tears running top to bottom.
I ran my hand over them like I had the two grooves in the
siding on the House. This was no squirrel.
Taylor picked up her black pan and turned it in her hand.
She showed me one side, buckled inwards.
Taylor gripped it and pulled at the metal to bring it back into
shape. It did not budget a bear, I
said. It had to be.
I fumble in my bag for the canister of bear Mace.
My muscles tensed and my hands worked frantically until I found
it stored where I had left it. At least we still had that.
We searched the ground and looked for bear tracks, the tell
tale, wide paws and grouping of front and back legs together.
I found a depression in the ground.
I hovered my foot above the footprint.
My shoe dwarfed in comparison and no second print.
Whatever came into our camp did so on two legs, and at the base
of those two legs were extraordinary feet.
It can't be true. Someone is messing with us.
Taylor inspected the print. Neither of us had ever seen
anything like it. I looked West and the sun was
already gone, the sky turning a shade of orange at the horizon.
Light would fade fast. We had few options.
Whatever it was that had been here was not here now.
We had planned to camp outside, under the stars, but with
something stalking the forest. We rolled our sleeping bags and
mats inside one of the houses. At least it provided some
semblance of security. We did not risk a fire.
Darkness overwhelmed the light quickly and completely.
Clouds rolled in from the West at nightfall.
A light breeze carried A faint hint of moisture.
The forecast had warned of possible storms.
I stuck my head out one of the windows, and aside from a
blurred smudge of the moon through the clouds, the sky gave
no light. We were on edge inside the
house, it was a deep pitch black.
I set the canister of Bear Mace beside my pillow, periodically
palming it to make sure it was still there.
Every crack and rustle from the forest had us twitching and
turning our ears to the sound. I buried my head between my
knees and wondered how I could tolerate the hours left until
morning. I apologize to Taylor for
suggesting we come out here. She laughed it off.
We'd get through it and have an amazing story to tell.
Her voice trembled. I don't know what time I fell
asleep. When I woke, it was still dark
and my pillow was wet. Light rain made a gentle
wrapping on the roof. A hole in the roof let through a
small drip. I dragged my sleeping bag over
to a dry section of floor. In the distance, Thunder rumbled
low and ominous. Then something else closer.
A crack from the forest. Not a twig, but something more
substantial and then a growl, low and deep.
I shook Taylor awake. In the darkness.
We listened. Nothing.
Had I dreamed it? No, I couldn't have.
There was something out there. Should we risk turning on the
torch? No, We had to be quiet.
I closed my hands around the bear Mace.
The drumming on the roof intensified.
The drip, drip of the leak in the roof turned to a constant
dribble. A flash lit up the sky and on
its heels a clap of Thunder that shook the flimsy structure we
had chosen as our protector. The door flew open.
I let out an involuntary scream in the strengthening wind.
The door flapped back and forth, wrapping on the wall.
I froze in place, fear rendering my muscles useless.
Taylor made a rustling beside me, and I guessed she was moving
for the door. Another flash of lightning
confirmed my guess, the silhouette of Taylor fumbling in
the dark for the door. She used the brief moment of
light to gather her bearings and grip the door.
A second flash followed the 1st, and through the doorway a figure
emerged, big and black. It was no bear.
In the moment of light it looks stationary, but my imagination
soon put it in motion, lumbering for the open door.
Shut the door, I yelled. Taylor clap shut the door and a
deep growl mixed with the Thunder.
Help me, Taylor screamed. Her voice shifted my brain into
gear. I jumped up, scrambled forward,
and fell into the door. I braced my legs and pressed my
shoulder against the old cracked timber.
Did you see it? I asked.
Yes. What was that?
I don't know. Guilt flooded my brain.
It had been my idea to come out here.
I had pushed for a second summer in the mountains.
Taylor could have joined her college friends in Mexico.
This trip had been, at least in part, a sense of duty for her.
I thought of the cemetery and the dozens of graves, 6 on a
single day, and the scratch marks on the House made by a
powerful hand. The stories were true, at least
in the important details. Something lived up here,
something that did not care to share its home with humans.
Taylor's voice cut through my thoughts.
Should we run? No.
Run where we had to stay together.
The creature pushed at the door with such force I felt about as
big and strong as a toddler. We pushed back and the door
slammed back into place. The timber pinched at my
shoulder. I felt with my hands and found a
split in the wood. The door would not hold much
longer. Through the torrent of rain, the
creature snorted and spat its hot breath, penetrating the
crack in the door and blowing over my neck.
It pushed a second time, and that was enough.
We fell to the ground, fragments of the splinter door clattering
to the floor around us. I landed heavily on my right
side, the canister of Bear May spilling from my grasp and
rolling away into the darkness. I crawled after it, feeling in
the dark and expecting at any moment to be lifted in the air
by my ankles behind me. Taylor screamed.
It had her. Finally, the edge of my index
finger hit the cold steel of the canister.
I fumble it into my hands and stood.
I saw nothing in the darkness. The rain beat on the roof, the
wind howled, the creature snarled, and in among it all I
found no compass. I prepared to fire the Mace in
random hope and hesitated a second enough for a jagged fork
of lightning to illuminate the sky.
The animal held Taylor close to its chest in the corner of the
room. I jumped a single step, and as
the world went dark again, I sprayed and hoped.
The creature wailed in pain, and Taylor thudded to the ground at
my feet. Heavy footsteps sloshed on the
sodden ground outside the house and then stopped.
He wasn't gone yet. I stepped out into the rain.
The waterlogged ground saturated my woollen socks.
The rain fell thick and cold. A freezing wind sucked the
warmth from my body. I listened.
I waited. I shivered.
The first dose may not have sent it fleeing to the forest, but a
second might. Where was the lightning?
Was the storm spent? A hand gripped my bicep and
pulled me close. Lightning lit up the sky.
My face was inches from his eyes, eerily human, a thick mat
of black hair soaked from the rain.
With my free hand, I pushed the canister to his flat nose and
sprayed. He threw his hands in the air
and lifted me clean off the ground.
For a moment I felt weightless and then came crashing back
down. Soggy footfalls faded into the
distance. It was gone.
We huddled in the back corner of the house until Daybreak.
With the rising of the sun, the rain turned to drizzle and
finally stopped. We kicked at the fragments of
the splintered door outside, several vague footprints pressed
into the mud, partially destroyed by the rain.
We gathered our things and began the walk home.
The crosses standing in the cemetery hammered home that we
had been lucky before commencing our descent down the shoulder of
rock. I turned and looked back up the
slope. In the gloom a lone light shone
on the hill where the ghost town and the cemetery stood.
Not a welcome light, but a warning.
Around three years ago I was pretty down in the dumps.
My long term girlfriend had just left me.
I was back to living in my parents basement and to top it
all off, apparently the world was supposed to end in a few
months according to some old calendar.
Who knows what sort of stuff could happen?
I'd rather be safe than sorry. Anyway, I had been doing some
pretty heavy research into Bigfoot sightings.
Gigantopithecus dude in an ape suit?
Some other undiscovered primate? Nobody knows, but I know it's
out there somewhere. I looked through page after page
trying to gather as much information as I possibly could.
I was determined it didn't take me long to decide I was going to
head out into the wilderness on my own and search for this
elusive thing. I figured we all only had a few
months to live. Anyway, what did I have to lose?
I saved up some cash and went to a sporting goods store to pick
up some gear, a good tent and sleeping bag, as well as some
other assorted camping supplies. I even nabbed some night vision
goggles from eBay. I was prepared.
I got a plane ticket to Washington State.
I'd read that's where a lot of the sightings were, and flew out
there within the week. The plane ride was uneventful,
except for one very strange occurrence after polishing off
quite a few rum and Cokes. Hell, the world's ending soon.
Right as I stumbled my way down the aisle, I suddenly felt every
single passengers eyes on me, even the ones who had been
sleeping. I mean every single one,
children included. I think I saw a friggin baby
giving me the evil eye. It was dead silent, even though
moments before the plane sounded like Mardi Gras.
I kept looking back at the passengers.
When my hands found the bathroom door, they all had their heads
turned around, still pointing their dark gazes at me.
I slowly turned my head around to find an old woman inches from
my face. Her eyes were all white.
Blood trickled from her nose. She grabbed me by face and
pulled me closer. Still, her rancid breath
whispered something to me. Find us, we're waiting, the hag
whispered. I practically threw myself into
the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind me.
What the hell was going on? Did I fall asleep on the plane
and I'm now dreaming? Did somebody spike my drink and
I'm now tripping out? Were the conspiracy nuts right?
And the world is ending. It took me about 5 minutes to
calm myself down. I wasn't a huge fan of flying to
begin with, let alone flying straight into a Twilight Zone
episode. I decided to peek my head out of
the bathroom to see if Old Demon Eyes was still there.
She wasn't. It actually looked normal again.
I stepped out of the bathroom and walked back to my seat.
Nobody was staring at me anymore.
Had I imagined all that? I wish I could say that I had,
in fact, imagined it all. But unfortunately, as I sat
down, I noticed there was a small piece of paper in my seat.
It was a business card. It was all white, plain, with
nothing but an address on it. 237 Highway 12 E Packwood, WA.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.
At this time, we'd like to ask you all to please return to your
seats and buckle up as we'll be preparing to make our touchdown
in the beautiful emerald city of Seattle.
The plane taxied to a halt and I got off, eager to get the hell
out of there. I opened the map app on my phone
and typed in the address from the business card.
The app couldn't find the address typical of that buggy
piece of crap, but it did show me where Packwood was.
I knew I'd heard of it before. It was a little town deep in the
wilderness between Mount Rainier and Mount Saint Helens, Prime
territory for Bigfoot sightings. I'd planned on going through
there anyway, on my way South so I could stop off for supplies
before heading into the forest. I turned the card over in my
hands and I shrugged. I figured the hell with it.
I'm out here for adventure, aren't I?
Might as well check the place out.
I got my bag, haggled with the rent, a I listened to the radio,
the station selection slowly dying out the further I got from
Seattle. For the last 20 minutes, the
only thing coming in was a single station playing old timey
music on an endless loop. The same strange tune over and
over, fuzzed with little bursts of static now and again.
By the time I reached Packwood, it was starting to get to me.
I thought I could hear someone whispering in the static.
It was the middle of the night when I reached the town.
I drove down Hwy. 12 Noting the address signs as I went looking
for the address on the card. All the numbers were in the 13
thousands. Whoever wrote down 237 must have
made a mistake. I pulled into the Packwood Inn
and went into the office. No one was there, just a few
keys laid out on the counter and a handwritten note that said pay
up in the morning. I grabbed one and opened up a
room. I was exhausted from the long
trip and I plopped down on the bed.
I messed around on my phone for a bit, thought about texting my
ex-girlfriend. You said I should have more
ambition. Well, how about Bigfoot hunting?
I typed before deleting it and I fell asleep.
I woke up a couple of hours later, it was still dark out.
I have trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places, so I decided
to just get an early start on the day.
I went into the bathroom and pulled my shirt off to take a
shower. I froze.
I stared into the bathroom mirror, unable to process what I
was seeing. The number 237 had been written
on my chest in Crimson red paint.
I freaked, instantly jumping in the shower and soaking my
bottoms in the process. The red numbers melted slowly
into formless pink and red shapes.
I fought down the panic as the shower warmed from its biting
cold, and I scrubbed the last remnants of the numbers off of
my chest. Someone had been in my room and
somehow painted numbers on my chest, all without waking me up.
I had no idea what this meant, but I knew it wasn't safe to
hang around my room any longer. I hadn't unpacked much at all,
and I grabbed everything that I had brought with me and hurried
down the empty hallways. I passed the desk again, still
empty, but the sign had been pulled down off of it, the only
sign of another human I had seen.
As I saw the lobby doors, my hurried walk turned into a jog
and I stepped into the surprisingly crisp night air.
I turned the rental car onto the same old timey music.
Screw that noise. I growled to no one but myself,
turning the radio off with comforting decisiveness.
Despite the lack of people, or maybe because of it, I felt
watched. There was a full moon out, and
the clock in my car told me that I should be getting the benefits
of dawn soon. So I kept the headlights off
until I eased out of the parking lot and was back on the Main
Town Rd. Back on Hwy. 12, I drove N
Although the technical area of Packwood was large, most of the
buildings were clustered in the center near the inn and tourism
centers. As I drove, with a slowly
growing sense of tension, I passed a church.
Then, the only sign that I was still in Packwood were paths
that cut into the trees and disappeared, and side roads that
led to nestled houses in the forest.
I should have just kept going and left the entire town behind.
I didn't. Something red flashed in the dim
edges of my headlights and I stopped, mind whirling towards
the numbers that had been painted on my chest.
I suppose one thing all Bigfoot hunters have in common is
undying curiosity and placing personal comfort and safety
below the thrill of the chase. I gathered all of my survival
gear that I had thrown in the back seat and put it on just in
case. I shown the flashlight around,
looking for what I had seen. The trees were marked marked
with Crimson paint. Unlike what had been on my
chest, this paint was faded, worn away on the bark save for
the well preserved. You could still make out the
shapes of the markings through the paint that was preserved in
the cracks. With a little effort, I knew
from both my research on Bigfoot sidings and the brief search on
pack what I had done after receiving the address that the
town had for most of its history been a lumber town.
The industry had collapsed in the late 1990s, and the town's
big lumber mill had closed down suddenly.
These trees had been marked for harvesting, but it never made
it. Most were marked with simple XS,
but my flashlight fell on red lettering. 134 Not the number I
had been given, but there were other trees.
Not very many were marked with numbers.
There were several 130 fours, but I saw 222 and swallowed.
My heart was racing now, and I jumped as the handheld radio in
my pack suddenly crackled to life.
The music nothing but broken words fighting to cut through
static now find us. The words echoed and I felt
compelled. I broke into the trees,
abandoning the highway as I panned my flashlight tree to
tree, searching and working deeper into the Swatch of trees
that had been marked in my head, I went over everything I knew
about Packwood. Unfortunately, my knowledge of
its actual history mostly ended at the lumber mill, and most of
what I knew revolved around Bigfoot sightings.
Packwood wasn't exactly a mainstream destination for
Bigfoot sightings. It had only really started
getting any amount of significant sightings around 10
years ago, and even then, nothing conclusive really.
You would only know to look for Bigfoot at Packwood if you were
the kind of obsessive hunter that had already exhausted the
mainstream spots, the kind that went into further and further
remote regions, trusting success to slimmer and slimmer chances.
The more underground the better. I personally had even considered
Packwood. Nothing serious.
Not until the hag on the plane, the kind of hunters who no one
was surprised, went missing, The thought crossing my mind the
same moment my light crossed a hulking pitch, Black Pine 237
scrawled across its trunk and fresh Crimson letters.
The radio was hissing, static like whispers and the phrase
We're waiting, we're waiting, we're waiting.
Droned through my mind. Once my light had found the one
tree, I saw another. There was a whole scattering of
black Pines, trunks twice as thick as the ones around them, a
dense, sleek, black, only marred by the bright red numbers on
each of their trunks. Find us.
We're waiting. And then silence.
The radio stopped. The whispers ended.
It was nothing but me and the sound of the night that
all-encompassing quiet, that steals all that you are into its
own blackness until it was disturbed.
I hardly noticed it at first. It grew slowly into my
consciousness, a sound that I was familiar with but somehow
didn't know. A droning, wispy sound, but not
one I should have been hearing there.
There was something behind the pine.
From where I was standing it was hard to make out.
Its shape was near the tree, but it was bigger, longer, man made.
I moved toward it and suddenly the sound made sense to me.
There crashed and dilapidated into the middle of the trees was
an airplane, and suddenly the sound made sense to me.
I was hearing an engine. It was torn and broken, but it's
somehow still seemed to be ready for flight.
Its doors gleamed out like an invitation, and one that I
wasn't going to dismiss. Curiosity, as it always does,
got the best of me. I wrenched the door ajar, orange
rust, preventing it from moving any smoother.
It was impossible to get in with all of my gear, so I left it by
the door to retrieve it, just in case.
The moment I entered, I knew something was wrong.
I couldn't see or hear anything, but every other sense just felt
wrong. The ground was wrong, the smell
was wrong. Even the very air of it was
wrong. I reached back through the door
to grab my flashlight. I shone it around me, my
immediate area at 1st and then at the preceding aisles before
me, and it was wrong. I was not alone.
On the airplane, every seat was full of crumbling skin and slack
jawed bones buckled in as if it were just now making the
descent. The strange thing was they were
all in different levels of decay.
The remains of a dressed up woman cradled a swaddle of death
in her arms while a fairly intact man with glasses studied
an in flight magazine and near the back an old woman with a
toothy blood stained grin stared at me.
They all stared at me, Every single one.
They all watched me with dark gazes from eyes they didn't have
judged me with sneers of faceless expressions.
Every face. Every aisle.
Every seat. Every seat save one.
It was empty on the aisle and strangely familiar.
I walked to it slowly, the empty eyes of every passenger watching
me pass. It was labeled 37, but beside
it, someone had painted a Crimson two 237.
And then I knew. I knew why it all felt so
familiar, why the plane was like a distant memory and the seat
deja vu. This was my seat on the plane.
This was my seat and this was my seat now.
I sat down and it was right, just right.
I buckled myself in because safety first, my tray table was
secure, But I was sure that any minute now the pilot would
announce refreshments and I would get a rum and coke and
maybe take a nap. And their eyes weren't on me
anymore because we were ready. Up, up and away.
They were waiting and I had found them.
And then, 17 hours later, she found me.
Her name was Deanna. She was a hunter, just like me.
She pulled me from the plane and from the brink of insanity.
She'd been out camping and found the numbers followed them just
as I had. When she heard the droning of
the plane engine, curiosity got the better of her.
That's when she found me, still in the seat, still mindlessly
staring into blissful nothingness.
She brought me to her camp and then back into town.
She left me at the bus station, and I never saw her again in the
dim light of early dawn. The third call came in, rousing
me from the shallow sleep of a restless night.
Each call, each voice on the line, told the same unnerving
tale. A solitary figure in a black
jacket, a presence felt more than seen, trailing hikers
through the dense forest with a persistence that turned the
stomach. No words exchanged, just the
silent, oppressive weight of being followed.
My gut churned, Trouble was brewing in the woods, and it was
our mess. To clean up the forest in its
vast silence, has a way of playing tricks on the mind.
Shadows twist into figures, and the isolation weighs heavy on
the soul. But these calls were different.
The fear in those voices was palpable.
Real 3 sightings all up over the Ridge to the West of our
station, A place where the trees stand a little closer and the
shadows linger a bit longer. Jim and I, we've handled our
share of oddities reported by hikers and campers, lost folks,
injured wildlife, even the occasional poacher.
But this was something else. With a resigned sigh, we knew it
was time to face whatever was out there.
Rock, paper, scissors, our go to for the undesirable tasks.
As luck would have it, the man seemed to read my mind and I
lost a tight nod from Jim and I was strapping on my belt,
clipping my radio in place, the weight of the situation settling
in. Driving up the slope, the
truck's engine strained against the incline, the wilderness
enveloping me with each mile. I couldn't help but wonder why
here. This part of the Ridge wasn't
known for scenic views or easy trails.
It was remote, challenging, and frankly, unsettling.
The thought nagged at me, an unwelcome companion, as I pushed
further into the unknown. Parking the truck at the end of
the Navigable Rd. I stepped out into the morning
air, crisp and laced with the scent of pine and damp earth.
The worst of the Ridge lay ahead, its steep inclines a
physical echo of my growing apprehension.
I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a sensation that
crawled under my skin as I made my way through the dense
underbrush. And then I saw him, a silhouette
against the Gray light of dawn. Standing among the birches.
His black jacket was unmistakable, the hood drawn
tight around his face, a void where his features should be.
Even from a distance, the air around him felt charged heavy
with an unspoken threat. I paused, considering my
approach. The rational part of my brain
reasoned that he was just a man, lost, or perhaps up to no good,
but nothing beyond the scope of our usual dealings.
Yet as he turned, half facing me, something in his posture
suggested he was anything but ordinary.
Closing the distance, I raised my hand in greeting, a feeble
attempt at normalcy. Hello.
My voice sounded too loud in the quiet of the forest, the single
word hanging between us. He didn't respond, just turned
and began to walk away, disappearing into the trees with
a grace that belied his ominous appearance.
The chase was brief. Curiosity propelled me forward,
each step drawing me deeper into his world.
As I reached out to grab him, a shock ran through me, a jolt
that set my nerves alight. In that moment, everything
changed. The forest around me seemed to
shift the ground under foot a mere afterthought.
When I opened my eyes, the world had transformed.
A clearing, sunlit and serene, lay before me, and at its heart
an old stone. Well, the man in black stood on
the other side, an invitation in his gesture.
As I approached, the sense of foreboding grew.
This was no ordinary encounter, no simple task of a forest
Ranger. I was on the brink of something
profound, something terrifying, and there was no turning back.
The clearing was an Oasis of sunlight, a stark contrast to
the dense forest that seemed to press in from all sides.
The old stone well sat like a relic in the center, its
presence both comforting and incongruous.
The man in the black jacket, a silent Sentinel on the far side,
motioned me closer. Each step towards the well felt
like wading through a current, my heart pounding in my ears,
adrenaline sharp in my veins. I paused a few feet away from
the edge, the air between us charged with an unspoken
warning. The sun was warm on my back, but
it did nothing to ease the chill that had settled deep in my
bones. The man pointed to the well
again, a silent command that brooked no argument.
The old stones were cool and rough under my fingertips, Moss
and lichen clinging to them like memories carved into the inner
wall, nearly obscured by time and growth, were words that sent
a shiver down my spine. Truth lies at the bottom of a
well, an ominous promise or a threat I couldn't decide.
Drawn by a force I couldn't name, I peered into the
darkness. The well was deeper than I had
anticipated, its secrets cloaked in shadow.
But then a glimmer of light at the bottom caught my eye, a
reflection that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Squinting, I leaned closer, the image at the bottom coming into
focus. It was the forest, but not as I
knew it. The trees were shrouded in mist,
bathed in the ethereal light of a full moon.
The scene shifted and I was looking at a road I recognized,
one that led back towards civilization, back towards
responsibility and reality. And there he was, the man in the
black jacket. Not a ghost or a spectre, but
flesh and blood, thumb outstretched in the universal
sign of a traveller in need. Headlights cut through the
night, a car careening down the road with reckless abandoned.
My breath caught in my throat as I watched a silent observer to
the inevitable tragedy unfolding at the bottom of the well.
The car. Jim's car veered, and in that
moment I knew. The scene shifted again, now to
the aftermath. Jim panicked and breathing hard,
searching the darkness for any sign of the hitchhiker.
And then the unthinkable act of dragging a body into the
shadows, an attempt to erase a mistake that could never be
undone. I stumbled back from the well,
the weight of what I had seen pressing down on me.
The man in the black jacket watched, his face still hidden
in shadow. But I could feel his gaze, heavy
with a sadness that was almost tangible.
I turned to run, to escape the revelation and the clearing, but
his voice stopped me, not spoken aloud, but clear in my mind.
You must look. My legs carried me back to the
well, despite every instinct screaming at me to flee.
The images had faded, leaving only the dark water at the
bottom, but the message was clear.
The truth had been revealed, and with it a burden I wasn't sure I
was strong enough to bear. The journey back to the truck
was a blur, my mind reeling with the implications of what I had
witnessed. The forest, once a place of
solace and solitude, now felt oppressive, each tree a silent
witness to the secrets it concealed.
I drove back in a daze. The weight of the truth.
I carried a heavy shackle. What had started as a routine
investigation had become a descent into a nightmare, one
from which I feared there would be no waking.
The morning was crisp, the kind that hinted at the end of
summer, with a bite in the air that told you fall wasn't far
behind. I sat in the truck, engine
idling, waiting for Jim. The plan was simple, but my mind
was anything but the image of the hitchhiker.
The truth at the bottom of the well haunted me.
It was a spectre that clung closer than my own shadow.
Jim slid into the passenger seat, his greeting terse.
The air between us was thick, heavy with unspoken words and
secrets. I put the truck in gear, the
road ahead, familiar yet foreboding.
We were retracing the steps of a ghost, and the closer we got to
that curve, the tighter the knot in my stomach grew.
We're taking a shortcut, I said, the lie bitter on my tongue.
Jim's confusion was palpable, a mirror to my own inner turmoil.
But as we neared the spot, his nervousness became unmistakable.
His hands trembled, and he couldn't sit still.
Guilt, I realized, wears many masks.
I stopped the truck, the silence between us stretching out.
We're here, I said, stepping out into the cold morning air.
Jim followed reluctantly, his eyes darting around as if
looking for an escape. The walk to the gully was a
descent into the past, each step a reminder of the vision that
had been seared into my mind. The forest seemed to close in
around us, whispering secrets I wished I could unhear.
And then we were there, standing at the edge of the world.
Below us, hidden beneath branches and leaves, lay the
hitchhiker. The scene was exactly as the
well had shown me. I felt Jim's eyes on me, his
fear a tangible thing. I found something, I called out,
my voice steady despite the chaos within.
Jim's plea for me to stop, to turn back, went unheeded.
I had to see, had to know. The call to the authorities was
a blur, the words tumbling out. Jim stood beside me, a statue of
denial and despair. When the officers arrived, the
forest held its breath. The hitchhiker's body was
retrieved, a silent testament to a night gone horribly wrong.
The interrogation that followed was a dance of shadows.
I spoke of Jim's truck, of coincidences too pointed to
ignore. But the truth, the whole truth
remained locked away. The well, the vision.
Those were mine, alone to bear. Jim's truck vanished, sold or
hidden. It didn't matter.
The investigation concluded with more questions than answers.
The death ruled an accident. But Jim and I, we knew the
truth. It hung between us, an
unbreakable bond forged in the darkest of nights.
I returned to my desk to a life forever altered, the note I left
in Jim's letterbox. A whisper in the night went
unacknowledged, but it didn't matter.
We both knew. The dreams came relentless, The
hitchhiker, his final moments illuminated by headlights, a
life extinguished too soon. And in the quiet moments, I
would find myself drawn back to the forest, searching for a well
that remained elusive, a truth just out of reach.
Sometimes I think the well was never meant to be found again.
It's secrets too heavy for the light of day.
And as I sit at my desk, the forest stretching out beyond the
window, I can't help but wonder if some truths are better left
buried deep in the heart of the woods.
I've always thought of Alaska as a land of contrasts.
Where else can you find such breathtaking beauty that in the
next moment could turn into a scene straight out of a survival
handbook? Anchorage, my hometown, is the
perfect example. One look out the window and
you're faced with landscape so stunning they seem painted by
the grandest artist of all. But as I've learned over the
years, with beauty comes danger. Living in Alaska is like being
part of a select group who understand what it really means
to coexist with nature. It's not just about the cold,
which can freeze your lungs if you're not careful, or the moose
that might decide your car looks like a perfect target for a
charge. It's about understanding and
respecting the land and its creatures, and knowing that at
any moment, nature could remind you of your place within it.
My parents, in their own ways, have always been embodiments of
this respect and resilience. My stepdad, with his long hauls
as a trucker, would be away for weeks, braving the vast and
lonely roads of Alaska. My mom, working night shifts as
a respiratory therapist, often found herself driving through
the eerie quiet of Anchorage's streets long after most had
settled in against the cold night.
Despite their demanding jobs, my parents made a point to
reconnect with me through our shared love of the outdoors.
Alaska might not be teeming with people, but it's rich with state
and national parks, each offering its own unique slice of
wilderness. Whenever both managed to get
some time off together, we'd pack up our camping gear and set
off to explore these natural wonders.
One of our most memorable trips was to Denali National Park.
It's a place of raw beauty, a sprawling expanse of wilderness
that captures the heart of what it means to be Alaskan.
The park itself is massive, stretching over thousands of
square miles of untouched land. Half of it is cloaked in dense
pine forests, home to a network of streams and lakes, while the
other half boasts the imposing presence of Mount Denali.
With its snow capped peak and glacier covered slopes, the
mountain stands as a silent guardian over the land.
Denali is a paradise for wildlife too.
Bears, wolves, elk, moose and even the more elusive creatures
like foxes and raccoons roam freely.
It's like stepping into a world where nature still reigns
supreme, a reminder of how vast and wild our world can be.
The dangers of such a place are real, of course.
Everyone knows to be cautious of bears and to keep food stored
securely. The cold, too, is a constant
companion, one that demands respect and preparation.
But for all its challenges, Alaska fosters a spirit of
community and resilience. Here, offering a helping hand
isn't just a courtesy, it's a necessity.
You never know when you might be the one in need.
As we set out for Denali, I couldn't help but feel a mix of
excitement and apprehension. The park, with its rugged
terrain and abundant wildlife, promised an adventure like no
other, but it also posed challenges and dangers that we
would need to navigate carefully.
Little did I know, our trip would become a testament to the
unpredictable nature of the Alaskan wilderness and an
encounter that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
As our car wound its way through the last stretch of Rd. leading
to Denali National Park, I pressed my face against the cold
window, trying to soak in every detail of the landscape rolling
by. The park's entrance loomed
ahead, a gateway to an adventure that felt both thrilling and a
bit daunting. My step dad's excited chatter
about the fish he hoped to catch mixed with my mom's plans to
spot as much wildlife as possible, filling the car with a
sense of anticipation. Setting up camp was a familiar
routine. Our movements practiced and
efficient, yet the backdrop of Denali's towering forests and
distant mountains made it feel like a new experience.
Our tent, a cozy haven of fabric and poles, stood proudly among
the whispering Pines, our temporary home in the wild.
The first day in Denali was like living in one of those nature
documentaries I used to watch. With wide eyed wonder, my step
dad and I headed to a nearby stream, rumored to be a prime
spot for fishing. The water was crystal clear,
flowing with a gentle hum that spoke of the untamed wilderness
surrounding us. Each cast of the line was a
moment of hope, the anticipation of what might bite an exciting
mystery. To my amazement, the fish seem
to love our bait. One after another, I reeled them
in, feeling like a seasoned fisherman.
Despite my limited experience, my step dad's proud chuckles and
the cool fresh air made for a perfect morning.
We decided to keep a couple of our catches for dinner,
releasing the rest back into the stream with a sense of gratitude
for the park's generosity. While we fished, my mom took her
binoculars and went in search of wildlife.
Her excitement was palpable when she returned, recounting how she
had watched a herd of elk gracefully navigate the forest's
edge to drink from a stream. It was moments like these, she
said, that made all the stresses of her job fade away as the sun
began its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and
pink, we gathered around our campfire.
The crackling flames offered warmth against the evening
chill, a cozy Center for our little family.
We cooked the fish. We had caught the smell of it
roasting over the fire, filling the air with a rustic aroma.
Dinner was a feast not just of food but of stories.
My parents shared tales from their childhoods, stories of
Alaska that seemed to blend the lines between reality and
legend. Under the vast star filled sky
their voices wove a tapestry of life in this beautiful, rugged
place. Feeling full and content, I
announced that I was heading to bed, the day's adventures having
taken their toll. The night air was cool and crisp
as I made my way to the tent. The sounds of the night forest a
soothing lullaby. I snuggled into my sleeping bag,
the excitement of the day giving way to the peaceful embrace of
sleep. But the peace was short lived.
I was jolted awake in the deep, silent hours of the night by a
sound that was out of place in the calm wilderness, a soft,
rhythmic scratching just outside my tent.
My heart raced as I lay frozen, trying to make sense of the
noise in the pitch black night. The tranquil wilderness of
Denali had suddenly taken on a more menacing character, and I
was about to discover that its beauty was matched only by its
mysteries. In the absolute silence of the
Alaskan night, every sound feels amplified, like the world is
holding its breath. That scratching noise just
outside my tent was so unexpected.
It cut through the quiet like a knife.
I lay there frozen, my heart thumping loud enough to betray
my presence to whatever lurked beyond the thin fabric of my
shelter. At first I tried to convince
myself it was nothing, maybe just the wind playing tricks or
a small animal curiously sniffing around, but the logical
part of my brain struggled to find a rational explanation.
We hadn't set up camp near any trees specifically to avoid the
risk of pine cones tearing the tent.
So what could be making that sound?
The minutes stretched out each second, ticking by with
excruciating slowness as the scratching continued.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
The silence that followed was even more terrifying.
My imagination ran wild with images of what might be lurking
just a few inches from where I lay.
The stories of bears and wolves that roamed these parks echoed
through my mind, turning my blood to ice.
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I heard it a soft
footstep right outside the entrance.
The fear that had been a cold stone in my stomach now surged
through my veins with icy certainty.
This was no small animal. My mind scrambled for any
reasonable explanation. Maybe it was my step, dad coming
to check on me. Clinging to that shred of hope,
I mustered the courage to move, my hands shaking as I reached
for the tent zipper. That's when I heard the
breathing, a deep, guttural sound that seemed too close.
My hand froze on the zipper, every muscle in my body locking
up again. I was a statue, barely daring to
breathe as the creature outside sniffed the air.
I could almost feel its presence, a heavyweight of
menace just beyond the tent wall.
Then a laugh, a sound so unexpected and chilling it sent
shivers down my spine. For a moment, relief washed over
me. It had to be my dad, right?
Trying to scare me as a joke. But the relief was fleeting,
replaced by a deep, instinctual fear.
Whatever was outside, it wasn't human.
Gathering every ounce of bravery I didn't know I had.
I yanked the zipper down, the metal teeth sounding impossibly
loud in the silence. What I saw in the dim light of
the moon left me petrified. Crouched at the entrance of my
tent was a creature out of a nightmare.
It stood on 2 legs, covered in fur with eyes that glowed with
an otherworldly amber light. Its snarl revealed sharp fangs
and its ears flattened in aggression.
This was no bear or wolf, but something far more ancient and
terrifying. I couldn't scream, I couldn't
move. All I could do was stare,
transfixed by the horror in front of me.
Then, as the creature reached towards me with a clawed hand, a
gunshot shattered the night. The creature turned, moving with
a speed that seemed impossible, and disappeared into the
darkness. My step dad rushed to my side,
revolver in hand, his face etched with fear.
Are you OK? He asked, his voice shaking.
I couldn't answer. Words failed me as I tried to
process what had just happened. The wilderness of Alaska, with
all its beauty and majesty, had shown us its hidden face, a
reminder that some things in this world are beyond
understanding. The night air hung heavy with a
silence that felt charged, as if the very atmosphere was holding
its breath. After the gunshot, my step dad
stood guard, his eyes scanning the darkness where the creature
had vanished. I was still trembling, the
adrenaline making my heart race. I had so many questions, but the
words wouldn't come out. Everything that just happened
seemed surreal, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
As dawn broke, painting the sky with streaks of pink and orange,
we packed up our camp in silence.
The beauty of Denali that had so captivated us now seemed
overshadowed by the terror of the night.
The drive home was quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts,
trying to make sense of the encounter.
My parents tried to rationalize it as a bear, but I knew what I
saw. Bears don't stand on two legs
and laugh. Bears don't have eyes that glow
with an amber light. What I saw was something
different, something that didn't belong in the world as I knew
it. But trying to explain it felt
impossible. How do you describe a nightmare
to someone who hasn't seen it? Back in Anchorage, life resumed
its normal pace, but I couldn't shake the feeling of unease.
The wilderness had always been a place of adventure and wonder
for me, a vast playground to explore.
Now, it felt like a reminder of how small and vulnerable we
really are in the face of the unknown.
I spent hours researching, trying to find anything that
matched what I saw. Legends of creatures that roam
the Alaskan wilderness stories passed down through generations,
but nothing fit exactly. It seemed like the creature from
that night didn't want to be found, existing in the shadows
just beyond the reach of explanation.
As time passed, the sharp edges of fear dulled, but the
curiosity remained. That encounter in Denali changed
how I saw the world. It was a reminder that there are
mysteries out there, secrets hidden in the deep forests and
mountain shadows. Alaska, with all its beauty and
danger, was more complex and mysterious than I had ever
imagined. Reflecting on that night, I
realize it wasn't just about the terror or the unanswered
questions. It was a lesson in humility, a
reminder that despite all our advancements and knowledge,
there are still things beyond our understanding.
It taught me respect for the wilderness, not just for its
beauty, but for the unknowns it harbors.
The Wilderness of Alaska is like a book with pages that can never
be fully read. Each visit reveals a new story,
a new mystery. And while part of me is still
frightened by what I saw that night, another part is drawn to
the mystery, eager to explore the unknown.
Maybe one day I'll return to Denali, to the vast wilderness
that holds so many secrets. But until then, I'll carry the
memory of that encounter as a reminder of the wild heart of
Alaska, a place where beauty and mystery walk hand in hand, and
where the wild things roam free in the shadows.