The first blush of dawn was just coloring the sky when Jonah and
I loaded the last of our gear into the back of my dusty
pickup. The air was cool, promising a
hot day ahead, typical for a summer morning in the Wilds of
Wyoming. I remember feeling that familiar
thrill, the kind that only comes when you're about to shrug off
civilization for a few days and get lost in the wild.
Jonah, as usual, was all grins and energy, his lanky frame
almost vibrating with excitement.
He's been my best friend since high school, sharing my love for
the outdoors. Both of us students at the local
college, had been planning this trip since the snows melted.
A secluded lake hidden away a couple of hours drive from our
town was our destination, a perfect spot to unplug and
unwind. The drive was a quiet one,
filled with the hum of the engine and the occasional burst
of laughter as we shared inside jokes.
When the Dirt Rd. gave way to the trailhead, it felt like
crossing a threshold into another world.
The dense forest seemed to swallow us whole as we began our
hike. The trail was rough, more a
suggestion than a well worn path, but that's how we liked
it. Wildflowers dotted the
landscape, and the sound of hidden streams played a
constant, soothing background music.
We talked little, each of us lost in our thoughts, soaking in
the peace that only nature can provide.
It was a bit past midday when the trees opened up to reveal
the lake. It lay there serene and
untouched, a mirror reflecting the Azure sky and the green of
the surrounding hills. We both stopped taking a moment
to appreciate the beauty before us.
It was moments like these that made all the stress of college
life worth it. We decided to set up camp in the
tree line just outside of the beach area.
It offered both the seclusion we craved and a stunning view of
the lake. Tense up, we settled down to
rest our legs, grateful for the break.
I remember thinking how perfect everything was, how nothing
could ruin this idyllic escape. So when I went to gather
firewood later that afternoon, I wasn't prepared for what I'd
find. The forest, which had felt so
welcoming earlier. They now seem to close in around
me. As I bent to pick up a dry
branch, a sound caught my attention.
It was subtle, like the softest of footsteps, but in the quiet
of the woods it might as well have been a gunshot.
I straightened my heart pounding in my chest, and scanned the
tree line. There, in the shadows, was a
figure. It was too far to make out any
details, but it was unmistakably a person.
They seem to be just standing there, watching.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
This was our spot, our escape. Who else would be out here in
the middle of nowhere? I grabbed a few more sticks and
hurried back to the camp, every rustle in the underbrush
sounding like a warning. When I told Jonah, I saw the
light heartedness drain from his face.
He knew, just like I did, that out here, unexpected company
wasn't just unusual, it could be dangerous.
We tried to brush it off, joked about it even, but the seed of
unease had been planted. As the sun dipped below the
horizon, casting long shadows across our campsite, I couldn't
shake the feeling that we weren't alone in these woods.
The night had fallen like a thick blanket over the forest,
and the only light came from the flickering campfire before us.
Jonah and I sat there, our backs to the dark woods, trying to
recapture the sense of peace we'd felt earlier.
The crackling fire sent a warm, comforting glow across our
campsite, but the earlier encounter in the woods had left
its mark. We talked in low tones, our
voices barely rising above the whispers of the wilderness
around us. I poked at the fire, sending a
shower of sparks into the night sky.
It was a clear night, the kind where the stars seem close
enough to touch. In any other circumstance I'd
have been lost in the beauty of it, but not tonight.
Tonight every shadow seemed to hide A threat, every rustle of
leaves a potential danger. That's when he appeared.
At first I thought it was a trick of the light, a shadow
cast by the fire, but as he stepped into the circle of
light, I realized we were no longer alone.
He was a rugged looking man, probably in his 30s, with a
beard and shoulder length hair that looked like it hadn't seen
a comb in weeks. There was something about him
that set my nerves on edge. It wasn't just his sudden
appearance, it was the way he carried himself, confident yet
slightly off. He smiled at us across the
campfire, but it wasn't a friendly smile.
It was the kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes, the kind
that makes you instinctively wary.
Evening, he said, his voice rough, like gravel.
You guys know the way to Pine Ridge Trail?
Jonah and I exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.
Pine Ridge Trail. I'd never heard of it, and by
the look on Jonah's face, neither had he.
Sorry, I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
Can't say I do. You sure you're in the right
area? He maintained his smile, but
there was a flicker of something in his eyes.
Irritation, maybe, Or something more calculating.
No problem, he said, still with that unsettling smile.
Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared back into
the darkness. Jonah and I sat in stunned
silence for a moment. The crackling fire, the only
sound. Was that the same guy you saw
earlier? Jonah asked, his voice low.
I don't know, I admitted. But it doesn't feel right, does
it? We spent the rest of the night
by the fire, talking in hushed tones about who he might be and
what he wanted. The wilderness has a way of
making you feel small and vulnerable, and that night it
felt like the trees themselves were closing in on us.
Every sound seemed magnified, every shadow a potential hiding
place for our mysterious visitor.
As the fire died down to embers, we let the conversation drift
off. The chill in the air wasn't just
from the night, it was fear to the primal kind that tells you
you're not at the top of the food chain.
We let the fire burn out, retreating to the safety of our
tents, but sleep was elusive. I lay there listening to the
sounds of the night, wondering if every crack and rustle was
him coming back. And that's when I heard it.
Footsteps unmistakable in the quiet of the night, creeping
toward our campsite. My heart raced, every sense on
high alert. This was no longer just a
camping trip. It was a fight for survival.
The inky blackness of the night was absolute, the kind that
envelops you, making you feel like you're the only person in
the world. Lying in my tent, I could hear
the forest breathing around us, the gentle rustle of leaves, the
distant call of a night bird. But underneath that natural
rhythm, there was something else, a sense of being watched,
of not being alone. I tried to tell myself it was
just the aftermath of the stranger's visit, that my mind
was playing tricks on me, but deep down, I knew better.
I've spent enough time in the wild to trust my instincts, and
right now they were screaming that something wasn't right.
It must have been around midnight when I heard it, the
faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps outside My heart
kicked into OverDrive, thudding loudly in my ears.
I lay there, frozen, listening. The steps were slow, deliberate,
like someone trying not to be heard.
Jonah, I whispered, my voice barely audible.
No response. He was either asleep or like me,
pretending to be. I reached for my flashlight, my
fingers trembling slightly. I unzip the tent, the sound
deafening in the silence, and peered out.
There, in the dim light of my flashlights, stood a figure just
a few feet from my tent, close enough that I could see the
whites of their eyes. It was him, the stranger from
before. He stood there motionless, just
staring at me for a moment. Neither of us moved.
It was like one of those standoffs you see in the movies,
where time seems to stop. Then suddenly, he turned and
bolted into the forest. His footsteps were loud,
crashing through the underbrush, as if he no longer cared about
being silent. Jonah, I yelled louder.
This time he emerged from his tent, his eyes wide, a baseball
bat in hand. What happened?
He asked, his voice tense. He was here, I said, my own
voice shaking right outside my tent.
We didn't need to discuss it. We both knew we couldn't stay
here, not with him lurking in the woods.
We quickly, but quietly started packing up our gear.
Our movements hurried and frantic.
Every noise made us jump, every shadow a potential threat.
As we worked, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being
watched, that he was out there in the darkness, just waiting.
It was a feeling I'd never experienced before, a primal
fear, the kind that hits you in the gut and doesn't let go.
We didn't talk much. As we packed, there was an
unspoken understanding between us.
This was about survival now. The thrill of the adventure had
long since faded, replaced by a cold, hard determination to get
out of these woods. By the time we were ready to
leave, the first faint light of dawn was beginning to creep over
the horizon. We shouldered our packs and set
off, not following the trail but cutting through the woods,
taking the most direct route back to civilization.
We didn't stop, didn't look back.
We just kept moving, driven by the need to put as much distance
between US and the stranger as possible.
The forest, once a place of peace and beauty, now felt like
a maze, with danger lurking around every corner.
It was a long, tense hike back to the truck, every sound a
potential threat, but we made it.
We drove back in silence. The events of the night were
playing over and over in our minds.
We had come looking for adventure, but what we found was
a reminder of how quickly things can turn in the wilderness.
A reminder that sometimes the biggest danger out there is the
one you don't see coming. Dawn was breaking it's light,
weak and watery. As Jonah and I finally reached
the truck, our bodies were weary, muscles aching from the
tense, hurried trek back through the woods.
We threw our gear into the back with little care for order or
neatness. The relief of being back in
familiar territory, back within the embrace of civilization was
palpable, yet it didn't quite erase the shadow of fear that
had clung to us through the night.
The drive back was quiet, the kind of silence that comes after
a storm. The sun rose higher, casting
golden beams through the trees, a stark contrast to the darkness
that had enveloped us just hours before.
But the beauty of the morning couldn't quite touch us.
We were still trapped in the memory of the night, in the
feeling of being haunted, watched.
When we finally reached town, the normalcy of it all felt
surreal. People going about their daily
lives, oblivious to the drama that had unfolded in the quiet
of the wilderness. We stopped at a diner, the
clatter and chatter inside a stark contrast to the silent
tension we had left behind. Over coffee and eggs, we finally
began to talk, to process what had happened.
We spun theories about the man in the woods, each one more
unlikely than the last. Was he a hermit living off the
grid? A hunter?
Or maybe a hiker like us who had lost his way?
Or something more sinister, a predator waiting for the
opportunity to strike. The not knowing was the worst
part. The unanswered questions left a
void that our imaginations filled with dark possibilities.
The waitress refilled our cups, her smile a reminder of the
simple, mundane aspects of life that we'd taken for granted.
We tried to return the smile, but it felt forced, Unnatural.
We were changed. No longer the carefree college
students who had set out for a weekend of camping, we had
stared into the unknown, into the face of danger, and it had
left its mark on us. As we drove back to campus, the
landscape passing by in a blur, I couldn't shake the feeling of
unease. The woods had always been my
sanctuary, a place to escape the pressures of life.
But now they felt different, no longer a refuge, but a place
where unknown dangers lurked. In the days that followed, the
trip became a story we shared with friends, each retelling a
little more dramatic than the last.
But no matter how many times we shared it, it never lost its
edge. The raw fear we had felt.
It was a reminder that the wilderness, for all its beauty,
was not a place to be underestimated.
The experience stayed with us, a shadow in the back of our minds.
We continue to hike, to explore, but we were more cautious, more
aware of our surroundings. We learn to respect the wild in
a way we hadn't before, to understand that it was a place
of beauty and danger, and that sometimes the greatest threat
was the one you didn't see coming.
That trip, that encounter, it didn't deter us from our
adventures, but it taught us an invaluable lesson to always be
prepared to always be aware. Because in the wilderness,
you're not always at the top of the food chain.
The first light of dawn was creeping over the peaks of the
Rocky Mountains as I loaded up my old, reliable Jeep with
camping gear. There's something about the
crisp, cool air of the Northwest that always brings back a rush
of memories. I'm not the spry young camper I
used to be, but the call of the wild, those majestic mountains
and sprawling forests still tugs at my heartstrings.
I've always had a penchant for solitude, a trait that's grown
more pronounced with age. The thought of spending time in
the backyard, watching the sunset with a cold beer in hand,
had become more appealing over the years.
Yet here I was, setting off for my annual pilgrimage to the
wilderness, driven by a mixture of nostalgia and an unquenchable
thirst for nature's quietude. Driving to the trailhead, I
found myself lost in thought, reflecting on the countless
trips I'd made in my younger days.
Times were simpler then. Or perhaps it's just the Rose
tinted glasses of nostalgia. The road was familiar, each turn
bringing me closer to a world away from the humdrum of daily
life. Upon arrival, I parked the Jeep
in a small secluded dirt lot. Stepping out, I took a deep
breath, filling my lungs with the pure pine scented air.
The trail was just as I remembered, a narrow path
weaving through thickets and towering trees, with the
occasional glimpse of the vast, rugged landscape that makes the
Rockies so awe inspiring. I shouldered my backpack,
feeling its familiar weight, and set off the path.
Under foot was a mix of soft earth and scattered stones, a
testament to the untamed nature of the land.
Birds chirped in the canopy above, their melodies, a welcome
contrast to the silence I'd grown accustomed to at home.
The walk to the campsite was shorter than I remembered, or
maybe I was just more eager. It was a quaint spot, an open
clearing surrounded by a natural fortress of Pines and firs.
I set up my tent with practiced ease, though my joints protested
more than they used to. There was a sense of absolute
peace in that little clearing, the kind you can't find anywhere
else. It was just me, the trees and
the sky. I sat down on a fallen log,
taking a moment to appreciate the solitude.
This was what I came for. The chance to disconnect, to be
alone with my thoughts, surrounded by the raw beauty of
nature. With the sun still high,
curiosity nudged me toward a side path I had heard about, an
overlook that promised a breathtaking view of the
mountains. I grabbed my water bottle and a
basic backpack. Essentials.
Only the path was narrower, more rugged, a ribbon of dirt cutting
through the dense foliage. Reaching the overlook, I was
greeted by a sight that made the walk worth every step.
The mountains stretched out before me, an endless canvas of
greens and Grays with peaks that pierced the sky.
I sat there on the edge of the world, lost in the grandeur of
it all. Time slipped away as I sat, the
sun tracing its arc across the sky.
There was a profound stillness, a sense of being, the only soul
for miles. It was a feeling I chased all my
life, the complete surrender to nature's embrace.
But as I made my way back to the campsite, A subtle shift in the
air made me pause. Something felt different.
My footsteps slowed as I approached the clearing.
The tent flap, which I was certain I had zipped up, hung
open. A chill ran down my spine.
Not from the cold, but from the sudden realization that I might
not be as alone as I thought. The sun was starting to dip
lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the campsite as I
returned from the Overlook. There's a particular kind of
silence that settles in the woods at dusk, a hush that feels
almost reverent. I've always found comfort in it,
but that evening something felt off.
As I approached my tent, a sense of unease wormed its way into my
thoughts. It looked the same, yet subtly
different. The flap of the tent, which I
remembered zipping up meticulously, was now slightly
ajar. I paused, scanning the clearing.
No signs of disturbance, no footprints or broken twigs, just
a whisper of doubt hanging in the air like a mist.
I tried to shake off the feeling, telling myself I was
just being paranoid. Maybe I had forgotten to zip the
tent. After all, getting older does
funny things to your memory, but deep down I couldn't shake the
feeling that something was amiss.
It's like that moment in the wilderness when the birds stop
singing and you know a storm is coming.
I busied myself with setting up for the evening, trying to focus
on the mundane tasks, gathering stones for a fire pit.
I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder, half expecting to
see someone or something watching from the trees.
The rustling leaves and the occasional snap of a twig under
foot sounded louder, more ominous than usual.
With the fire crackling and the sky turning a deep shade of
indigo, I settled into my camping chair.
The warmth of the flames was comforting, but it did little to
ease the chill that had settled in my bones.
I brewed some tea, the steam rising in the cool air, and let
my mind wander. I thought about the solitude.
I had always saw it in these mountains, the peace I found in
being alone with nature. But that night solitude felt
more like isolation, vulnerability.
The darkness beyond the fire lights seem deeper, more
impenetrable. Then, as if summoned by my
brooding thoughts, I heard it. The soft crunch of footsteps on
the forest floor. My head snapped up, eyes
straining to Pierce the darkness.
The sound was distant but unmistakably human.
I listened, holding my breath as the footsteps grew closer, then
stopped. A heavy silence fell over the
campsite. I stared into the woods, trying
to make sense of what I was hearing.
Who could it be out here at this hour?
A lost hiker, maybe, Or something more sinister?
The possibilities churned in my mind, each more unsettling than
the last. The footsteps started again, but
they didn't come closer. Instead, they moved parallel to
the campsite, just beyond the reach of the fire light.
My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and frustration.
I wanted to call out to demand an explanation, but my voice was
a prisoner in my throat. As the minutes dragged on, the
footsteps faded, replaced by the natural sounds of the night.
But the damage was done. The sanctuary I had found in
these woods felt tainted, corrupted by the unknown.
I sat there long into the night, watching the flames dance and
listening to the whispers of the forest.
The unease I felt was a foreign intruder in a place I once
considered my refuge. And as the fire died down to
embers, I realized that the wilderness I loved could harbor
secrets darker than any night. The night had deepened, wrapping
the campsite in a cloak of darkness that seemed thicker
than usual. The fire had dwindled to a mere
flicker, its warmth barely reaching the edges of my unease.
The forest, a place I had always found solace in, now felt like
an impenetrable barrier, hiding secrets in its shadows.
That's when I heard it again, the soft, almost cautious tread
of footsteps. This time they were closer, more
deliberate. Every instinct I had honed over
years of traversing these woods scream that this was no ordinary
animal or lost hiker. My hand instinctively went to
the handgun I had brought along, a reluctant companion I had
hoped never to use. The steps seem to come from two
different directions now, one set approaching from the trail,
the other from the opposite side of the clearing.
I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I was being watched, sized up by unseen eyes in the darkness.
I rose slowly from my chair, my movements deliberate but tense.
The gun felt heavy, cold in my hand, a stark reminder of the
gravity of the situation. I didn't want to use it, but the
primal part of me, the part that knew the harsh realities of the
wild, was ready to do whatever it took to survive.
The footsteps paused, and a suffocating silence descended
upon the campsite. My eyes darted around, straining
to catch a glimpse of anything, any hint of movement in the inky
blackness. But there was nothing, just the
oppressive weight of unseen watchers in the night.
I remember thinking how strange it was, the way fear can sharpen
your senses and dull them all at once.
My ears were filled with the sound of my own heartbeat, loud
and erratic, drowning out the softer sounds of the night.
And yet, every crackle of a twig, every rustle of leaves
seemed amplified, a potential threat lurking in the shadows.
I don't know how long I stood there, gun raised, scanning the
darkness. It could have been minutes or
hours. Time seemed to stretch and
contract, leaving me disoriented on edge.
The only certainty was the presence of those hidden
observers, their intentions as obscure as the night itself.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the silence was broken.
A branch snapped loud and clear, somewhere off to my right.
My head whipped around, gun pointing in the direction of the
sound. But there was nothing, no shape
or shadow to confirm my fears. In that moment, I made a
decision. I wasn't going to wait for
whatever was out there to make its move.
I began to pack up my gear, keeping one hand on the gun at
all times. My movements were quick, fueled
by adrenaline, but I was careful not to let my guard down.
The forest watched me, silent and unyielding, as I hurriedly
stowed my belongings. I didn't bother with the tent.
It was a small sacrifice to make for a hasty retreat.
With one last look at the campsite, now empty except for
the abandoned tent, I turned and made my way back to the trail.
As I walked, the darkness seemed to press in on me from all
sides, but the footsteps didn't follow.
Whatever or whoever had been out there had let me go.
Or perhaps they had never intended to do anything more
than watch. The relief that washed over me
as I emerged from the trail was tinged with a deep, seated
unease. I had escaped unscathed, but the
experience had left a mark. The woods I loved, The solitude
I cherished had shown me a darker side, a reminder that
even in the most familiar places danger can lurk just beyond the
reach of the campfires. Light.
The trail back to my Jeep felt longer than I remembered.
Each step was heavy with a mixture of relief and unease.
The familiar path, once a welcome route to solitude, now
seemed like a gauntlet I had to endure to reach safety.
My flashlights beam cut through the darkness, a feeble barrier
against the unknown threats lurking in the shadows.
The forest around me was alive with the sounds of the night,
but my mind was preoccupied with what had just transpired.
The reality of my situation was stark.
I had been stalked, watched by unseen figures with unknown
intentions. The sense of vulnerability was
overwhelming, a stark contrast to the confidence I usually felt
in these woods. I kept glancing over my
shoulder, half expecting to see a figure emerging from the
darkness. But there was nothing, only the
dense thicket of trees and the occasional rustle of leaves in
the wind. The silence of the unseen
watchers was more unnerving than any noise would have been.
As I neared my vehicle, the tension began to ease slightly.
The sight of the Jeep bathed in the moonlight was like a beacon
of safety. I unlocked it, quickly throwing
my pack into the back seat before climbing in and locking
the doors behind me. The familiar interior of the
Jeep was a small comfort, a reminder of the normal world I
had temporarily left behind. I sat there for a moment,
letting the events of the night wash over me.
My hands were still shaking, a physical testament to the fear
and adrenaline that had course through me.
I started the engine, the sound breaking the oppressive silence
of the night, and drove away from the campsite, leaving the
darkness and its secrets behind. The drive home was a blur.
My mind replayed the night's events in a loop, each iteration
bringing a new wave of questions and what ifs.
Who were they? What did they want?
The lack of answers was frustrating, but perhaps it was
for the best. Some mysteries are better left
unsolved. I reported the incident to the
local police once I was back in civilization.
Their response was, as expected, sympathetic, but ultimately
unhelpful. Without a clear threat or any
evidence, there was little they could do.
I appreciated their efforts, but I knew that the experience was
something I would have to come to terms with on my own.
In the days that followed, I found myself reflecting on the
encounter. The wilderness had always been a
sanctuary for me, a place of peace and solitude.
But that night had shown me a different face of nature.
Unpredictable, menacing and wild.
It was a reminder that no matter how familiar we are with the
natural world, we are still just visitors in a land governed by
its own ancient and unfathomable rules.
The experience changed me in ways I'm still trying to
understand. I haven't been back to that
campsite since, and I'm not sure if I ever will.
The joy of solo camping, once a cherished escape, now feels
tainted with the memory of that night.
Perhaps with time, I'll return to those mountains that I love
so much. But for now, I'm content to
enjoy the wilderness from a distance, respecting its power
and the mysteries it holds close to its heart.
I ain't scared of nothing, that's what I yelled to my
brother, slamming the door to my car with a defiance that felt
more like a challenge to myself than to him.
The cold morning air bit at my cheeks as I stood there, half
turning back to see his worried expression.
He stood on the porch, my jacket in his hands, a smirk playing at
the corner of his mouth. But his eyes, they were serious,
almost pleading. Remember Skinwalkers, witches,
werewolves, all the things you should be scared of, he called
out, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm but underlined by
genuine concern. I rolled my eyes and snatched
the jacket from him. I'm not some kid, Alex.
I can handle a few nights in the Rockies.
I tried to sound confident, but even to my own ears it rang
hollow. I slid into my car, a beat up
old Ford that had seen better days and yelled I'm not scared
before speeding away. In the rear view mirror, the
mountains loomed, their darkening outline stark against
the setting sun like ominous teeth ready to bite down.
As I drove, the familiar scenery of home faded into a blur of
greens and Browns. I was out of my mind.
Depressed lately. The kind where you can barely
drag yourself out of bed. Thoughts of jumping in front of
cars off bridges, constantly circled in my head like
vultures. I needed an escape, a drastic
change, anything to jolt me out of this suffocating loop of
despair. Solo camping?
That was Mark's suggestion, he said.
It might clear my mind that the wilderness, the silence, the
solitude would do me good. He gave me a list of spots, each
more isolated than the last. I chose the most remote one, a
three hour hike from the last known campsite deep in the Rocky
Mountain National Forest. It sounded perfect.
No people, no noise. Just me in the wilderness.
I remember Mark's reaction when I told him my choice.
You sure? His voice cracked, betraying his
surprise. I just nodded, saying nothing.
OK, Just remember it's pretty secluded, especially for a first
time camper. He shrugged, trying to sound
nonchalant. But it's beautiful out there.
Just be careful, OK? The drive was strangely
soothing. The roads snaked through the
trees, curving gently up the mountain side.
It felt like an adventure, a step into the unknown.
I had decided to ditch all electronics for this trip, even
locking my phone in the glove box.
I wanted to detach completely, to immerse myself in the now,
not in the past or the future. My plan was simple. 5 days and
four nights in the wild. Hopefully that would be enough
to recuperate, to reassess what I was doing with my life.
I descended into Estes Park, the town serving as a gateway to my
adventure. I resisted the temptation to
check into the Stanley Hotel, a cozy escape from what lay ahead.
Instead, I found the entrance to the park and continued to the
lot closest to my campsite. It was getting dark, and I
silently cursed myself for leaving so late.
The last rays of the sun disappeared as I sat in my car
contemplating hiking. 3 hours in near pitch black seem too risky.
There were four other tents in the lot with space for one more.
Soon I had my own tents set up among the chattering families
and playful children. They offered me hot dogs,
s'mores, beers. I accepted gratefully, feeling
an unexpected sense of community.
I smiled, rolling into my sleeping bag as the last light
from the campfires faded into the mountain night.
In those moments, there was No Fear, no dread, just the
comforting sounds of laughter and the gentle crackling of
fires. But as I lay there, staring into
the darkness, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just
the calm before the storm. Morning in the Rockies has a way
of making you forget your troubles, if only for a moment.
The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and earth, and
as I emerged from my tent, the sun was just beginning to peek
over the mountain tops, casting a golden glow on the world.
The campsite was already stirring, kids laughing, parents
cooking breakfast over open fires.
It was a comforting slice of normalcy.
I packed up my gear, feeling a bit more at ease.
Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.
The hike ahead would be long, but the promise of true solitude
in the wilderness beckoned me with an almost mystical allure.
The idea of being completely alone, away from the constant
noise of life, seemed like exactly what I needed.
The trail to my intended campsite was well marked at
first. Winding through towering Pines
and over small, bubbling streams, I passed a few other
hikers, exchanging brief nods and smiles.
But as I ventured deeper into the forest, the trail became
less defined. The sounds of civilization faded
away, and I was enveloped by the vast, untouched wilderness of
the Rockies. There's a certain kind of
silence that you only find in places like this, a heavy,
all-encompassing quiet that makes you keenly aware of your
own existence. I could hear every breath, every
heartbeat, every step as I made my way deeper into the forest.
The solitude was both exhilarating and intimidating.
By the time I reached my campsite, it was late afternoon.
The site was nestled in a small clearing, surrounded by dense
forest. It was as isolated as I had
hoped, Not another soul insight. I set up my tent and gathered
wood for a fire, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that had
settled over me. I told myself it was just the
unfamiliarity of being so alone, so far from anything I knew.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, I lit my fire and sat
back, trying to relax. The darkness in the mountains is
different. It's deeper, more complete.
The only light came from the flickering flames of my fire,
casting dancing shadows all around me.
I tried to focus on the beauty of it, the piece of it, but a
nagging sense of unease crept into my mind.
The sounds of the night were unfamiliar.
Rustling leaves, distant animal calls, the occasional snap of a
twig. I told myself it was just the
forest settling, just wildlife going about their business.
But as the hours passed, every sound seemed amplified, every
shadow a potential threat. I couldn't shake the feeling of
being watched, of not being alone.
I crawled into my tent, trying to convince myself that I was
just being paranoid, but sleep was elusive, every sound outside
sending a jolt of adrenaline through my body.
I lay there in the darkness, trying to calm my racing heart,
wondering if I had made a mistake coming out here alone.
The wilderness was supposed to be my escape, my chance to find
some peace. But as I lay there, listening to
the sounds of the night, I couldn't help but feel that I
had ventured into something much deeper and more unsettling than
I had ever anticipated. The first light of dawn was a
relief, but it brought with it the stark realization of my
vulnerability. I was deep in the belly of the
Rockies, surrounded by nothing but untamed wilderness.
The night had been long, every sound of potential threat
lurking just beyond the thin fabric of my tent.
With a sense of urgency, I packed up my camp.
The isolation I had sought now felt oppressive, a weight on my
chest that I couldn't shake off. I tried to focus on the task at
hand, to prepare myself for the day's hike, but my mind kept
replaying the eerie sounds of the night.
The feeling of being watched. The trail ahead was less
forgiving than before. It twisted and turned, leading
me deeper into a labyrinth of ancient trees and rugged
terrain. The deeper I went, the more I
felt like an intruder in a world that wasn't mine to disturb.
The forest seemed alive, aware of my every move.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed, that
eyes were upon me from the shadows.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, I realized I was lost.
The trail had become indistinguishable, swallowed up
by the dense forest. Panic set in as I tried to
retrace my steps, but everything looked the same, an endless sea
of trees and underbrush. It was almost dark when I
finally stumbled upon the campsite.
It was a small clearing, barely visible under the creeping
shadows of the trees. I set up my tent with shaking
hands, my heart pounding in my chest.
The darkness was no longer just an absence of light.
It felt like a living, breathing entity enveloping me and it's
cold embrace. I built a fire more for comfort
than warmth. The flames cast an eerie glow on
the surrounding trees, creating grotesque shapes that dance just
beyond the lights reach. I sat there, my back to the
fire, staring out into the darkness, jumping at every crack
and rustle. As the night wore on, the forest
sounds grew louder, more aggressive.
It was as if the darkness itself was alive, with unseen creatures
watching me, circling me. I tried to convince myself that
it was just my imagination, that I was letting fear get the best
of me, but deep down I knew it was something more.
I crawled into my tent, but sleep was a distant dream.
Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig sent waves of
fear crashing over me. I lay there, wide eyed,
clutching my flashlight like a lifeline.
Then I heard it, the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Not the light tread of an animal, but the heavy,
deliberate steps of something or someone.
My heart stopped as I listened, the footsteps growing closer,
then stopping just outside my tent.
I was frozen in fear, every instinct screaming at me to run.
But I couldn't move. I lay there, holding my breath
as the unseen presence linger just beyond the thin canvas.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, leaving me
alone in the suffocating darkness.
I don't know when I finally fell asleep, but when I woke, the sun
was high in the sky and the forest was once again just a
forest. But the terror of the night
lingered, a dark shadow that I couldn't shake off.
I knew I had to leave to get out of this place that had turned
from a refuge into a nightmare. But as I packed up my camp, I
couldn't escape the feeling that it wasn't over, that the forest
wasn't done with me yet. The morning light did little to
ease the terror that had taken root in my soul.
I was a city dweller, a stranger to the raw, unforgiving nature
of the wild. And now, as I hurriedly
dismantled my camp, every rustle in the underbrush felt like a
harbinger of unseen horrors. I had to get out to leave this
cursed place behind. My hands trembled as I packed
the memories of last night's terror fresh in my mind.
The footsteps, the oppressive feeling of being watched.
It was too much. I wasn't cut out for this.
I was a fool to think I could be.
I set off at a brisk pace, the map my only guide back to
civilization. But the forest had other plans.
The trees seem to close in around me, the path narrowing,
as if the wilderness itself was conspiring to keep me there.
Every noise was a potential threat, every shadow a lurking
danger. Hours passed, and the forest
showed no mercy. I stumbled over roots scratched
by branches, my mind racing with panic.
Then, as the sun began to set, a chilling sound pierced the
silence, a distant scream, human and filled with terror.
Help me. Please, oh God, help me.
Instinctively, I ran towards the sound, my own fears momentarily
forgotten. Where are you?
I yelled, my voice echoing through the trees.
The screams turned to laughter, deep and unsettling, bouncing
off the trees. I froze, the realization hitting
me like a cold wave. It was a trap, a trick of the
forest. I turned and ran back the way I
came, my heart pounding in my chest.
The laughter followed me, a constant reminder of the unseen
terror that lurked in the shadows.
By some miracle, I found my way back to the campsite.
I grabbed my gear, not bothering to pack it properly.
The mountains loomed over me, their peaks like jagged teeth
ready to swallow me whole. As I dismantled the tent, a
horrifying sight stopped me in my tracks.
Inside, sitting in the corner, was a figure.
Me. But it wasn't me.
This other self was gaunt, its eyes black voids, A grotesque
grin stretching across its face. Blood trickled from its eyes, a
macabre mockery of tears. I recoiled in horror, stumbling
backward. The laughter rose again,
surrounding me, closing in. I didn't hesitate.
I ran, leaving everything behind.
Driven by pure, primal fear, I ran without direction, the
forest a blur around me. Branches tore at my skin.
Roots tripped me, but I didn't stop.
I couldn't. The laughter was everywhere,
echoing in my head a relentless torment.
Then suddenly, a light blinded me.
I collided with something solid, a wall of black arms wrapped
around me, a voice trying to call me.
It's OK. You just scared me.
What's wrong? I looked up into the face of a
man, middle-aged, concern etched on his features.
He was dressed incongruously in a black suit, out of place in
the wilderness. He claimed to be a park Ranger,
but something was off his car. A matte black SUV idled nearby,
its engine a low growl in the quiet forest.
He offered to drive me back to my car.
I hesitated, but the forest laughter was still in my ears,
urging me to escape. I climbed into the passenger
seat, exhaustion and fear overwhelming me as we drove.
The Ranger offered me corn nuts from a bag.
His casual demeanor was at odds with the situation.
I asked if he was really a Ranger, but before he could
answer, the SUV jerk to a stop in the road ahead was the other
me, the grotesque doppelganger waving with its broken limbs.
The Ranger muttered under his breath, a mix of disbelief and
resignation, then accelerated, hitting the figure with a
sickening thud. We drove in silence, the
laughter finally fading away. As we reach the parking lot.
The first light of dawn was breaking.
The Ranger handed me my bag and offered his card, a black piece
of paper with a single number. He drove off before I could ask
more. I stood there alone, the card in
my hand. The forest was behind me, but
the terror remained, a lingering shadow in my mind.
I climbed into my car, my escape from the nightmare, and drove
away, leaving the Rockies and their dark secrets behind.
But I knew deep down that some part of me would always be
there, lost in the wilderness, a prisoner of my own fear, driving
away from the Rockies, the first rays of dawn washing over me.
I felt like a man, reborn yet haunted.
The rear view mirror reflected a face I barely recognized, pale
drawn eyes that had seen too much.
The mountains receded in the distance, but their shadow
lingered in my mind, an indelible mark on my soul.
The drive back to civilization was a blur, my thoughts a
whirlwind of confusion and fear. The encounter with my
doppelganger, the mysterious man in the black suit, the laughter
that seemed to echo from the very trees.
It all melded into a nightmare that I couldn't wake up from.
I reached home, but it no longer felt like a sanctuary.
My brother was there, relief flooding his face when he saw
me. I wanted to tell him everything,
to pour out the terror and madness I had experienced, but
the words wouldn't come. How could I explain the
unexplainable? So I just shrugged and told him
the trip wasn't for me, that I preferred the city's noise and
lights to the oppressive silence of the wilderness.
Life went on, but something inside me had changed.
I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, the sense of an
unseen presence lurking just out of sight.
The laughter would sometimes whisper in my dreams, a chilling
reminder of the forest's unseen horrors.
I tried to bury the memories, to lose myself in the mundane
routines of daily life, But every so often my hand would
unconsciously drift to my pocket, fingering the black card
the Ranger had given me. It was just a piece of paper,
but it felt like a lifeline, a connection to someone who might
understand what I had gone through.
I often thought about calling the number, about seeking
answers to the questions that plagued me.
Who was that man? What had I encountered in the
forest? Was it all just a figment of my
over wrought imagination or something more?
Something real and terrifying? But fear held me back.
I was afraid of what I might learn of opening a door that
could never be closed again. So the card remained unused, a
silent testament to my encounter with the unknown.
And yet there was a part of me that yearned for understanding
foreclosure. I knew that one day curiosity
would overcome fear and I would make that call.
I needed to know, to confront the demons that lurked in the
shadows of my mind. But until then I would try to
move on, to rebuild the fragile sense of normalcy that the
forest had shattered. The Rockies were behind me, but
their legacy was a part of me now, a dark chapter in the story
of my life. I had sought solitude in the
wilderness, a refuge from my inner demons.
But I had found something else, a deeper, more primal fear that
would forever haunt the edges of my consciousness.
It was a lesson learned in the harshest way possible.
Some places are better left unexplored, some mysteries
better left unsolved. For in the heart of the
wilderness, there are things that defy explanation, things
that dwell in the shadows and laugh at our attempts to
understand them. My brother owns a really nice
RV, and he's always been generous enough to let me borrow
it from time to time. We live just 15 minutes apart,
in a state known for its camping, hiking, and outdoor
activities. It was the crisp autumn season
when I asked him if I could borrow the RV for a camping trip
by a small fishing pond. The weather was getting too
chilly for tent camping, so the RV seemed like the perfect
choice. My plan was simple, a few days
of fishing and some much needed solitude.
I drove over to my brother's place to pick up the RV and then
I set out for the remote fishing spot.
The trail leading to the pond was more of a dirt path than a
proper Rd. but I'd seen tire marks before, so I knew other
people had ventured down this way as well.
This time though, the path was deserted and when I arrived at
the pond there wasn't a soul insight.
I parked the RV off to the side just in case someone else
decided to show up. After getting everything ready,
I wasted no time and went straight to the pond to fish.
I had a couple of beers relaxed and enjoyed the tranquillity of
the surroundings. As the clock neared, 5 PMI began
cleaning up and gathering my gear, all while keeping an eye
on the surroundings. That's when a pickup truck
suddenly appeared from the trail.
It was an old, rusty truck that had clearly seen better days.
Strangely, there was no camper attached to it, It was just the
truck itself. The windows were tinted, which
led me to believe that whoever was inside was probably using it
as a makeshift sleeping spot, which wasn't uncommon in these
parts. They parked on the other side of
the field and turned off their headlights, staying inside.
With everything packed up, I headed into the RV for the
night. I glanced out a few times to see
if the truck was still there, thinking I could introduce
myself and avoid any awkwardness.
However, nothing seemed to change.
It felt a bit odd not to exchange greetings when you're
both out in the middle of nowhere, but I decided to go
about my night. I climbed into bed and soon
drifted off to sleep. Sometime during the night I woke
up briefly after hearing a car door open and then close.
I peered out the window but didn't spot anyone, so I
shrugged it off and went back to sleep.
In the morning I woke up, made breakfast, and returned to the
pond for another day of fishing. To my surprise, the truck was
still in the exact same spot as before.
It seemed as though they hadn't moved at all.
I sat there fishing for well over 3 hours, the eerie
stillness surrounding the truck beginning to unsettle me.
Either someone was inside that truck and had no intention of
leaving, or they had quietly slipped away in the middle of
the night after I heard the door.
Neither scenario seemed normal, and I couldn't shake the feeling
of being watched from inside that truck.
As the day wore on, I grew increasingly uncomfortable.
I decided to retreat into the RV, where I constantly glanced
out of the windows, hoping for any sign of change.
Then, around 7:00 PM, the engine of the truck roared to life.
My heart pounded as I watched them slowly maneuver it toward
the trail, as if they were preparing to leave.
However, they abruptly stopped right in the middle of the path,
blocking my way. A sense of dread washed over me
as a man jumped out of the truck in a rush, sprinting to the bed
and grabbing something from the back.
Then he turned to face the RV. Panic set in as I locked the
door and I could hear his footsteps approaching.
The man began violently shaking the door, trying to pry it open.
My mind was a fog of confusion and fear, and I had no idea what
to do. I rushed to the driver's seat
and started the R VS engine just as the man continued his
relentless efforts to break in. I pressed on, the gas inching
closer to their truck, the man chasing after me.
In a desperate move, I pushed the RV against the truck,
causing it to slide off the trail and create an opening for
me to escape. As I drove away, I didn't dare
look back until I was safely on the road.
Several miles down the road, I finally gathered my wits and
called the police to report the harrowing encounter.
By the time they arrived at the fishing spot, the truck and the
mysterious man were nowhere to be found.
I couldn't be certain of the man's intentions that night.
The obvious conclusion was that he intended to rob me, taking
both the RV and everything inside it.
But why did he spend so much time watching me and setting up
such an elaborate trap? Why not block the trail right
away and execute his plan swiftly?
It felt like he had been observing me, waiting to see if
I was alone, as if he had something more sinister in mind.
If circumstances had unfolded differently, I might never have
been seen again after that night.
Ever since Jess and I moved to the southeastern part of
Australia, the vast expanse of nature had always beckoned us.
There's something about the rugged terrain, the untamed
wilderness that just gets under your skin, you know.
That's why when we decided to head out to Wangaratta Valley in
Victoria's high country for a camping trip, it felt like we
were answering a primal call. As I loaded up our 4 wheel
drive, I felt a surge of excitement.
The high country is no joke. It's a place where you're
reminded of how small you really are in the grand scheme of
things. I double checked our list.
Food. Water, tent, rifle for
protection, and, most importantly, extra fuel on the
roof racks. We were about to immerse
ourselves in a land where mobile phones are rendered useless and
the only tweets come from the birds overhead.
Ready, Ryan? Jess called out, her voice laced
with anticipation. She's always been the more
adventurous one between us. Almost, I replied, securing the
last of our gear. I took a moment to inform the
local police station of our trip, a safety measure you don't
skip when you're venturing into the unknown.
The drive to the high country was a journey in itself.
Jess played DJ, her playlist a mix of classic rock and new
indie tracks. The music a stark contrast to
the ancient land we traversed. The terrain grew more
challenging, the civilization we left behind becoming a distant
memory. Our conversation dwindled as we
both became absorbed in the raw beauty around us.
As we descended into Wangaratta Valley, I couldn't help but feel
a sense of awe. It's an amphitheater of nature,
Alpine mountains rising imposingly on all sides, a river
meandering through the valley floor.
It was like stepping into another world, a world that
hadn't changed for millennia. Finding a secluded spot by the
riverbank nestled among eucalyptus trees, we set up
camp. The air was crisp, filled with
the scent of eucalyptus and the faint murmur of the river.
It was midweek offseason, and the solitude was palpable.
We were alone, or so we thought as the sun dipped below the
mountains, casting long shadows across the valley.
We sat by the fire. Jess broke out some
marshmallows, and we toasted them, the simple act bringing an
inexplicable joy. You know this is perfect, Jess
said, her eyes reflecting the flames.
I nodded, feeling a contentment I hadn't known in a long time.
Out here, away from the relentless pace of the world, I
felt like we could breathe again.
But as the darkness enveloped us and the stars began to dot the
sky, I couldn't shake off a creeping sense of unease.
Maybe it was the vastness of the wilderness, or the stories I'd
heard about the high country, tales of people getting lost,
never to be found again. I pushed those thoughts aside,
not wanting to spoil the moment. We were here to escape, to be
free from worries and fears. But as I would soon find out,
the high country had other plans for us, plans that would test
our resolve, our courage, and our very understanding of what
it means to be truly alone. The first night in Wangaratta
Valley was like living a dream under the stars.
Jess and I sat by the fire, our conversation meandering like the
river beside us. But as the embers died down and
we crawled into our sleeping bags, the dream began to warp
subtly into something else. I woke up sometime in the night
to a sound that didn't quite belong.
It was a soft thud, like something being knocked over.
I lay there, listening to the silence that followed, my heart
beating, a rhythm of mild alarm. Was it just a possum or a
wombat? We were in their territory after
all. I convinced myself it was
nothing and drifted back to sleep.
The light of dawn brought a serene calm, but it was quickly
shattered by the sight that greeted us.
Our campsite was subtly altered, the chairs we had left by the
fire, one was now oddly positioned by the table and
there it was, a loaf of bread, half eaten, clearly showing a
bite mark. I could swear I had packed it
away the night before. Did you get up for a midnight
snack? I asked Jess, half joking.
Her puzzled look was answer enough.
We both knew something wasn't right.
As we scoured the campsite. My eyes fell on the ground near
our vehicle footprints, and they weren't ours.
They circled the car as if someone had been inspecting it,
maybe trying to get in. My mind raced.
Could they have been here before us?
But the clarity of the prints in the soft dirt suggested
otherwise. I could feel the unease
building. And Jess?
She's tough, but she's also got a keen sense for when things are
off. And things were definitely off.
Should we leave? She asked, voicing the question
that had been nagging at me since dawn.
I pondered, weighing our safety against the effort to pack up
and find a new spot. Let's stay.
It's probably just wildlife or a curious hiker, I said, trying to
sound more convinced than I felt.
As the day progressed, we tried to shake off the morning's
discoveries. We hiked, explored the
surrounding area, and tried to reclaim the sense of peace we'd
felt when we first arrived. But the serenity was tainted
now, the solitude not as comforting as it once seemed.
That night, as we sat by the fire, the silence of the valley
felt heavier, charged with a latent tension, every crackle of
the firewood, every rustle in the bushes.
Set my nerves on edge. Jess felt it too.
I could tell by the way she kept glancing into the darkness,
beyond the fire light. Just when I thought my
imagination was getting the better of me, it happened again.
A noise in the night, more distinct this time.
The unmistakable sound of something being moved at our
campsite. I grabbed the flashlight, my
heart hammering in my chest as I scanned the darkness.
Nothing. No sign of any animal or person,
just the trees and the river in the night.
But the sense of being watched, of not being alone, was
palpable. I didn't voice my fears to Jess.
Not wanting to alarm her further, we retreated to our
tent. The false sense of security, it
offered little comfort. Sleep was elusive that night.
Every sound was magnified, every shadow a potential threat in the
vast, wild expanse of the high country.
I realized just how vulnerable we were, and I couldn't shake
the feeling that our presence in the valley wasn't as unnoticed
as we had thought. The next day dawned clear and
bright, the sun casting a golden hue over the valley.
Jess and I tried to shake off the unease from the previous
night. I decided to explore the old
homestead, a relic steeped in the Valley's history.
Jess preferred to stay back at the camp, immersing herself in a
book she'd brought. Along the homestead, a crumbling
structure of times long past sat solemnly against the backdrop of
the mountains. Its walls held secrets,
including the unsolved murder from 1917.
I felt like I was stepping into a chapter of history, the air
around me heavy with stories untold.
I took my time reading the plaque, capturing photos with my
camera, letting the mystery of the place seep into me.
Halfway back to camp, my mind buzzing with thoughts of the
past, I saw Jess walking briskly across the field towards me.
Something in her gate told me this wasn't a casual stroll.
As she drew closer, I could see the panic etched on her face.
She blurted out her story before I could even ask.
Down by the riverbank while washing the dishes, she had
looked up to see a man on the other side of the river.
An old man, she said with a weathered face and tattered
clothes. As soon as their eyes met, he
turned and vanished into the Bush.
My mind raced with questions. Who was he?
How did he get there? The valley was remote, difficult
to access without a four wheel drive or some serious hiking.
And why the secrecy? His disappearance into the Bush
seemed more like the act of someone wanting to avoid being
seen. We hopped into our vehicle,
driven by a need to understand what was happening.
We drove along the valley, scanning for any sign of the man
or other campers. But the valley remains
stubbornly empty, no trace of human presence other than our
own. As the sun began its descent, a
sense of vulnerability washed over me.
The vastness of the high country, its isolation, seemed
more ominous now. The mysterious man's presence,
real or imagined, had intruded into our sanctuary, tainting it
with an undercurrent of threat. Back at our campsite as we
prepared dinner, the day's events hung heavily between us.
The rifle, which I'd brought along more for a sense of
security against wildlife than anything else, now felt like a
necessary precaution. Jess and I talked in hushed
tones, our conversation a mix of speculation and attempts to
reassure each other. Maybe he was just a hermit,
living off the grid, we reasoned, or a bushwalker like
us, albeit a bit more rugged. But as the darkness enveloped
the valley once more, every sound seemed like a harbinger of
something sinister. The crackling of the fire, the
rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl.
They all seem to whisper secrets of the high country, secrets
that we were not Privy to. That night sleep was elusive
again. The fabric of our tent felt
paper thin, a flimsy barrier against the unknown.
The wilderness around us, once a source of wonder, now felt like
a vast, unfathomable entity watching us with unseen eyes.
And in the back of my mind, the image of the old man lingered, A
ghostly presence in the wilderness of the High country.
As the new day broke, a sense of foreboding hung over our camp.
The memories of the previous day's strange encounter were
like dark clouds on a clear morning.
Jess and I moved around in silence, our actions mechanical
as we prepared for the day. The valley, with its majestic
beauty, now seem to harbor a lurking menace.
I couldn't shake the image of the old man from my mind.
Who was he? What did he want?
The more I pondered, the more questions surfaced with no
answers. Insight just seemed lost in her
thoughts. To her usual spark, dimmed by
uncertainty. The decision to leave, which we
had been postponing now, felt urgent, inevitable.
But as we began to pack, a strange reluctance held us back.
It was as if leaving meant admitting that we were scared
that the wilderness we loved had defeated us.
Our departure was interrupted by Jess's need to use the portable
toilet we had set up a little distance from the camp.
Given the recent events, she asked me to accompany her.
The short walk through the trees, once a pleasant stroll,
now felt like a cautious venture into unknown territory.
As we returned, the sight that met our eyes froze us in our
tracks. There, standing by our campsite
a mere meter from where I had carelessly left the rifle, was
the old man. The same ragged appearance, the
same weathered face that Jess had described.
Jess gripped my arm tightly, her fear palpable.
The man didn't seem surprised to see us, as if our arrival was an
expected part of his day. His presence, so close to our
belongings into the rifle, sent a chill down my spine.
Good day, mate, he greeted his voice gravely.
But not unfriendly. I responded, my voice steadier
than I felt. You gave us a heck of a scare
there, mate. Where did you come from?
He gestured vaguely towards the valley just over Yonder.
You lot aren't hunting around here, are you?
His eyes flicked to the rifle. The conversation that followed
was surreal. He spoke of his attachment to
the valley, his visit spanning over 40 years.
He talked about the scarcity of deer, his words hinting at a
life spent in harmony with the wilderness as he turned to
leave, disappearing into the twilight with the ease of a
shadow. A part of me wanted to call out,
to ask him to stay, to explain himself, But I remain silent,
the questions burning unanswered in my throat.
That night, as we sat around the fire, our conversation was
sparse. The encounter had left us
shaken, the veneer of normalcy too thin to mask our anxiety.
We were no longer just visitors in the high country.
We were intruders in a world that belonged to others, to the
old man, to the wilderness. The decision to leave was no
longer a choice, but a necessity.
We packed up, the darkness around us, feeling heavier than
before as we drove out of the valley.
The sense of being watched never left us.
The high country had revealed its true face, beautiful but
untamed, inviting yet unforgiving.
And as we left it behind, I couldn't help but feel a sense
of loss, of leaving a part of ourselves behind.
In the wild heart of Victoria, the drive back from the high
country was a silent affair. Jess and I were both lost in our
thoughts, the events of the past days replaying in our minds like
a movie on loop. The comfort of civilization,
once taken for granted, now felt like a sanctuary.
The familiar sights and sounds of the town were a stark
contrast to the untamed wilderness we had left behind
once home. The urge to share our experience
was overwhelming. We recounted our story to
friends and family, their reactions a mix of disbelief and
concern. But it was a conversation with a
friend's father and experienced bushman that turned our unease
into outright fear. Oh, you met the button man, he
said nonchalantly, as if mentioning an old acquaintance.
The what now? I asked, a chill running down my
spine. The button man, He repeated.
He's an old bushman who's been living out in the high country
for years, hunts with a spear, keeps to himself.
But every now and then he turns up in Camper's stories.
A bit of a legend in these parts, his casual tone did
little to ease the sense of dread that was slowly creeping
over me. He went on to tell us about the
Button Man's reputation, the mysterious disappearances the
campsites found abandoned, the lack of evidence.
It was as if the man was a ghost, leaving no trace except
for the stories that circulated in hushed tones among the
locals. A quick search on the Internet
confirmed what he had told us. There were articles about
missing campers, hikers who had vanished without a trace, and
police searches that turned up nothing.
And amidst all these stories, the name of the Button Man
surfaced repeatedly, shrouded in mystery and unease.
Jess and I looked at each other, the realization dawning on us.
We had come face to face with a legend, a figure who was as much
a part of the high country as the mountains and the rivers.
Our encounter, which had seemed so personal, so isolated, was
part of a larger tapestry of tales and mysteries that wove
through the fabric of the high country.
In the days that followed, our adventure in the Wangaratta
Valley took on a different hue. It was no longer just a camping
trip gone awry. It was a brush with the unknown,
a confrontation with the legends and fears that lurked in the
wilderness. Our resolve to never return to
that part of the high country was firm.
The wild beauty of the place, once so inviting, now felt
forbidding, a reminder of our vulnerability and the mysteries
that lay beyond the reach of civilization.
As I look back on that trip, I realize it was a turning point
for us. We had sought adventure, a break
from the mundanities of everyday life.
But what we found was a deeper understanding of the world
around us, a world that was not just beautiful and wild, but
also mysterious and at times unsettling.
The high country, with its vast expanses and hidden secrets, had
left its mark on us. It was a reminder that some
places, some mysteries, are best left untouched, respected from a
distance. And the Button Man, whoever he
was, remained a part of that untamed land, a legend as
enduring as the mountains themselves.