I remember the headlights cutting across the sand, like
twin blades slicing through the dark.
My friends and I had gathered under the stars at our usual
spot, a desert trailhead just outside El Paso.
It was late, but we've done this so many times that none of us
were fazed by the hour. We joked about who'd eat dust on
the first big dune and swapped stories of past rides.
While the wind rattled the truck doors.
The desert air seemed to hum with energy, enough to stoke our
excitement for the ride ahead. We were just about to set off
when a lone four Wheeler appeared in the distance.
At first I could barely make out the shape, just a hazy glow
bobbing over uneven ground as it approached.
The figure on the ATV offered a quick nod, more of a gesture
than a greeting. His gear looked battered by the
elements and a layer of grime covered his bike.
No introductions came. He didn't ask where we were
headed, didn't say much of anything.
He just lingered near our group, helmet visor down, waiting.
I glanced around at my buddies. We were all thinking the same
thing. Should we invite this stranger
to ride with us? The desert at night can be
overwhelming for anyone going solo.
Besides, there's a sort of code among off roaders help each
other out when needed. So I waved him over.
You're good if you want to join. I hollered.
He gave that same silent nod. No name, no back story.
Still, I shrugged it off. Might have been nerves, might
have been pure exhaustion. Who was I to judge?
Engines roared as we headed off in a single file line.
We fanned out a bit so no one got blasted by another's dust.
The moon didn't provide much light, and our ATV headlights
wove a jittery dance across the sand.
It was exhilarating, speeding through shadows, shifting weight
on the bike as we climbed ridges, and feeling that crunch
under our tires. I intentionally kept myself
second to last, leaving the newcomer in the rear so I could
keep an eye on him. Every few minutes I do a quick
glance over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't lagging too far
behind or struggling. At first, he held his own.
His headlights stayed close enough for me to see, bouncing
along in time with our group, but something about him felt
off. He never pulled up alongside me
or tried to talk, though that was hardly a crime.
Still, my nerves started simmering when I noticed how
he'd occasionally accelerate like he was about to catch up,
then drop back just as fast. We pressed on through winding
trails and patches of rocky ground where the dust seemed to
hang in the air like a fog. My buddies looked comfortable,
probably laughing into their helmets about some inside joke,
but my mind kept drifting to the quiet rider behind me.
Something tugged at my thoughts, urging me to stay alert.
He hadn't done anything threatening yet.
I found myself checking my mirror more than usual.
After a solid hour of weaving through washes and shallow
ravines, we decided to head to our favorite overlook.
It's a high Ridge with a panoramic view of the
surrounding desert, a spot where we typically kill the engines
and soak in the scenery. When we finally reached it, we
parked our bikes in a rough semicircle.
The night sky opened above us, a million stars shining the gentle
glow of the city far off in the distance.
It was the kind of place that could remind you just how small
you are. I twisted around on my seat,
fully expecting to see the newcomer pulling up in that last
position. But the space behind our group
was empty. Only my own tire tracks trailed
back down the slope. A cold ripple of alarm worked
through my gut. He'd been on my tail the entire
time, right? Why wasn't he cresting the hill
now? My friends noticed the vacant
spot, too. A few shrugged, assuming he'd
slowed or taken a wrong turn. That's when we flipped on our
flashlights and started calling out, waiting for a sign.
Any sign of him coming over that Ridge?
Nothing. One of my buddies volunteered to
ride back a short way. Maybe the stranger's bike
stalled out, or he caught a flat.
We hoped that was all. Time dragged on, and the
unsettling possibility that he'd vanished, sunk in the desert can
play tricks under moonlight, distorting shapes and distances.
But how far could he have gone without one of us noticing?
I stared down the slope, straining for the glow of his
headlight. In the darkness.
Only a vast expanse of sand and rock stared back.
We regrouped quickly. My mouth felt dry, and it wasn't
from thirst. A wave of anxiety crawled under
my skin as I fired up my ATV again, ready to retrace our
route. Who was this guy, and why did he
vanish so suddenly? Could he have crashed in a
hidden drop? Did he peel off for reasons we
wouldn't want to know? A dozen scenarios whirled
through my mind, and none of them felt particularly
comforting. With the moon high overhead, we
revved our engines and split off to search.
The desert, once exciting and freeing, had turned menacing
under its silent cloak. The hush of it all rattled me
more than I cared to admit. Engines roared again, headlights
swung wildly, but all that open space gave no clues.
In that moment, I had one thought pinned at the front of
my mind. We had to find him, no matter
how bizarre the circumstances seemed.
Leaving anyone lost out here wasn't an option.
We had no idea what we were up against yet.
There was no turning back. We needed to figure out what
happened to the stranger in the dunes.
I sat astride, my ATV, engine humming beneath me, while the
rest of the group formed a huddle in the sand.
We had all gotten a glimpse of how quickly thrill could twist
into alarm. That stranger, silent, nodding,
gone. Everyone was on edge.
Our friend Julio pulled up alongside me, his flashlight
beamed, trembling a bit as he scanned the trail behind us.
Nobody spoke for a moment, we just listened to the drone of
our machines and the wind carving through the dunes.
We decided to split into pairs. Our plan was to backtrack,
methodically sweeping each path we'd taken that night.
It felt like a massive undertaking in total darkness,
but there was no alternative. Leaving someone out here,
especially a rider none of us knew, felt like abandoning a
lost cause. I kept picturing him sprawled
out somewhere behind a rock formation, injured and unable to
call for help. Julio and I inched along the
first stretch of ridgeline, headlights combing through
swirling dust. Every time I hit a bump, my
stomach lurched with dread. This search was different from
anything I'd experienced. The silence pressed in, heavier
than usual. I tried shouting over the
engines growl, calling out Hello buddy, can you hear us?
But the desert swallowed my voice.
We found ourselves creeping forward with the beams pointed
in every direction, desperate for any glint of metal or
movement. We pushed deeper into the
trails, offshoots, places where we rarely rode at night.
The terrain got rough, dotted with rocky outcrops that cast
strange shadows. Once, Julio shouted for me to
stop, thinking he spotted a glimmer of something near a
gully turned out to be just a discarded can, reflecting our
lights back at us. This small discovery, useless as
it was, rattled me. The idea that anything could be
lying out here, some clue, or maybe a wrecked bike, felt all
too real. As we pressed on, the desert's
darkness seemed to expand. My flashlight revealed twisted
shapes of cacti, occasionally giving me the sense I was
looking at contorted figures. A flicker of moonlight on a
large stone would make me slam on the brakes, sure I'd found
the missing rider at last, only to realize it was just another
rock. With every false alarm, tension
built. There was something uncanny
about the whole situation, someone vanishing with hardly a
trace. By the time we regrouped with
the others, the night sky was at its blackest, only the faint
glow of distant stars above. Everyone's expression showed the
same mix of confusion and anxiety.
We formed a loose circle, flashlights bobbing as we talked
over each other, questions flying around.
No one had seen anything. Not a skid mark, not a tire
track veering off, not even footprints leading away.
One of our friends, Rosa, suggested maybe he left on
purpose, but we all knew that made little sense.
Why ride up to a random group, stick with us for an hour, and
then vanish? We agreed to push farther out,
searching in a wider arc. Another hour passed with the
same dead ends. The desert slopes yielded
nothing except the occasional tumbleweed or the rustle of
unseen creatures. The dread weighed on me harder
with every passing minute. I kept envisioning the sun
rising over an empty stretch of land where we never solved a
thing. As we climbed higher to another
vantage point, we cut our engines and stood, listening.
Normally, if an ATV were running anywhere close, you'd pick up on
the hum echoing through the canyons.
We heard nothing beyond our own breathing in the scrape of boots
on rock. The desert was an expanse of
blackness, rolling on all sides. A few of us yelled again, hoping
for a response, but the echoes just mocked us, bouncing off
distant ridges before fading to silence.
We settled on one LastPass through the main route, the
route we knew best. My mind was torn between worry
and a creeping sense that maybe we'd stumbled into something we
shouldn't. In towns near the border, you
hear enough rumors to keep you up at night.
Stories of clandestine crossings, deals gone wrong,
people who disappear without a word.
Could that be what we were looking at right now?
Sometime after two in the morning, we returned to where
we'd started the night, faces grim under the glow of our quads
headlights. We cut the engines again,
letting our flashlights light our anxious expressions.
It was clear none of us wanted to give up, but exhaustion clung
to our voices. We were out of leads, out of
directions to try. We rode back to our trucks in a
sombre line, a far cry from the excited banter that had filled
the air just hours before. Reaching the parking area, we
held onto a flicker of hope that maybe we'd find the stranger
sitting there alive and well. The lights showed only our own
vehicles and an empty patch of gravel.
The absence of his bike made the night feel colder.
I felt an ache in my chest I couldn't explain.
We climbed down from our ATVs and stared at each other in
disbelief, dust settling on our clothes and in our hair.
Nobody had a real answer. Calling the cops was mentioned
once or twice, but we had no clue who we'd even be reporting
missing. He never gave a name or
background. It was like we'd imagined him,
except we all saw him with our own eyes.
That night, as we all parted ways, I could sense a collective
question floating among us. What in the world had we just
witnessed? Back at home, I tossed and
turned, catching only glimpses of sleep.
It felt wrong to simply move on, but we'd done everything we
could think of. The only thing left was to stay
alert for any news, any shred of an explanation.
Days later, I'd still flip through TV channels, scan social
media, anything to see if our silent stranger turned up
nothing. The desert had swallowed him
whole, or so it seemed. Whenever I drove past that
trailhead afterward, I found myself gripping the wheel a
little tighter, reminded that sometimes people can vanish and
leave you questioning every dusty mile you retraced.
And in those moments, I understood just how big and how
utterly unforgiving that desert can be.
I've always been the kind of person who jogs in out of the
way spots, mostly to avoid traffic and curious onlookers.
Back then, I lived in this rundown corner of town where the
main drag abruptly ended and a lonely, unmarked stretch of
asphalt took over. No streetlights, no sidewalks,
just a tunnel of trees and the occasional scurrying animal.
Most people would have avoided it, but I preferred the quiet.
At least that's what I told myself.
On one of my first runs down that road, I noticed something
odd on the left side, a sagging fence half concealed by wild
undergrowth, and behind it, an orchard gone wild.
Gnarled apple trees clustered together, their twisted limbs
heavy with fruit. Except the fruit never seemed
picked. Loads of it lay rotting on the
ground, filling the air with a syrupy overripe smell that clung
to my clothes if I got too close.
It was bizarre, this abandoned patch of land producing so much,
yet no one around to collect a single thing.
Late one afternoon, I decided to head that way.
Just as the sun started slipping beneath the horizon, the
temperature dipped and the shadows along the road
lengthened. I told myself it was just
another workout, but deep down, I sensed a heavy silence.
Each footstep echoed louder than it should have, like the trees
were leaning in to hear every breath.
Farther down, the brush on both sides of the road grew thicker,
almost forming a tunnel. The deeper I went, the more
anxious I got. There were these faint rustling
noises, almost inaudible over my breathing.
At first, I chalked it up to small critters.
Still, my nerves were on edge. I kept glancing back, half
expecting a shape to slink out of the trees.
Finally, as I drew close to that broken fence, the smell of
fermenting apples washed over me again.
I slowed my pace. The property looked darker than
usual, like the encroaching woods were swallowing it whole.
A nasty feeling twisted in my stomach.
I'd come for a simple run, but I found myself in that orchard's
orbit, wishing I'd turned around sooner.
Nothing jumped out at me, nothing screamed, but the sense
that I wasn't entirely alone stuck with me, and for the first
time on that road, I regretted being there by myself.
I went back to that overgrown orchard a few days later,
telling myself it would be a quick visit.
The memory of those apple trees had been rattling around in my
mind. It felt wrong that so much fruit
was just rotting away, even though I sensed something was
off. The last time, I convinced
myself I was imagining things. Looking back, I should have
known better. The sun dipped lower than I'd
anticipated by the time I reached the battered fence.
Daylight was fading and the place looked even bleaker.
I could barely make out the tree trunks in the dimness except for
ghostly outlines of twisted branches.
The scattered apples on the ground shone with a pale gleam,
more white than red in that light.
Every step crunched on fallen debris, the kind of sound that
makes you think you're disturbing a space best left
alone. I gingerly stepped around thorny
brambles, hoping to snag some apples that weren't completely
bruised. The heavy fermenting scent clung
to the air enough to make me cough.
I grabbed a couple of half decent pieces and turned to head
back. No reason to linger.
My instincts nagged me to hurry, like I was trespassing on land
that had quietly decided it wanted to be left in peace.
That's when I saw movement at the edge of my vision.
Just a quick twitch of something in the shadows.
My pulse hammered as I wove around a thick Bush, trying to
reach the road. Suddenly a figure blocked my
path. A man, mid 40s maybe, crouched
low and moving with deliberate steps.
His arms were out like he was about to grab something, and for
a heartbeat I thought that target was me.
I yelled, practically launching the apples in his direction.
He jumped like he'd been shocked and stumbled backward with a
sharp gasp. We both stood there, breathing
hard, our eyes locked in mutual alarm.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, he blurted out.
I, I thought you were a deer. His voice cracked in a shaky
apology, and he retreated a few steps onto the asphalt.
Stunned relief washed over me. My mind replayed every Horror
Story I'd ever read, and I realized how badly this could
have gone. He kept apologizing, saying he'd
been tracking deer and never expected a person to appear out
of nowhere. I was torn between wanting to
chew him out for creeping around and just being overwhelmed that
he wasn't out to hurt me. We stood like that for a moment
under the fading light, neither one sure what to say next.
In the distance, the orchard rustled, as if the land was
eavesdropping on our jittery exchange.
Finally, he mumbled one last apology and started walking
away, leaving me alone in that patch of dying daylight.
My legs shook as I made my way to the road.
I still had an apple clutched in my hand, didn't even remember I
was holding it. Even after getting home, the
whole thing stuck in my head. Maybe he really was harmless,
just some clueless soul hoping to spot wildlife.
Yet there was something in his posture that ignited a deep
sense of unease. Regardless, I promised myself
one thing. No more late visits to that
orchard. The cost of free apples wasn't
worth the jolt of panic still coursing through my veins.
I could practically recite the route from memory, an hour and a
half on winding roads peppered with narrow turns through thick
forest. My friends and I had driven this
way countless times, always with the same giddy excitement for
climbing. I remember glancing in the rear
view and seeing my friend's Jeep trailing close behind,
headlights cutting through the early evening dimness.
Even though the drive was familiar, I felt a nagging buzz
in the pit of my stomach. Kind of like when you know
something's off, but you can't quite place it.
When we finally pulled up to our usual spot, that same clearing
by the rocky outcrops, nostalgia hit me in waves.
It was exactly as I remembered, the tree line hugging the open
space, the boulders towering in the distance, and the wind
carrying that faint scent of damp earth.
I hopped out of my car, giving the surroundings a quick once
over. No immediate signs of trouble,
just that subtle hush that always settles over the place at
dusk. We piled out and started
unloading tents and gear. Conversations were light at
first, everyone joking about their worst climbs or
embarrassing spills from previous trips.
Deep down, I sensed attention we were trying hard to ignore.
After all, last year one of my friends had her gear vanish in
the middle of the night. A few jokes and forced laughs
can only do so much to disguise that unease.
We chose a well worn spot for the tents like we always did.
Each time we'd arrange them in a semi circle around an old stone
fire pit so we'd all be close to the warmth and to each other.
Someone joked that the missing gear could have been the
handiwork of a squirrel hoarding chalk powder, but nobody really
bought that story. I think we all just wanted to
make light of the situation to keep the weirdness away.
The sun started sliding down behind the treetops faster than
we expected. Sky with these fiery streaks of
orange and red. We hurried to pitch the tents
before darkness got too thick. I was fumbling with the poles
more than usual, which I blamed on shaky hands, but I didn't
want to admit I was on edge. It almost felt like every small
noise in the forest had been amplified.
The rustle of leaves sounded just a bit too close.
The crack of a twig snapping somewhere off to the left made
me turn my head. Nothing ever appeared, but that
didn't make me any less jumpy. By the time our tents were
secured and the fire was crackling, night had fully
settled in. We set up camp chairs around the
flames and doled out some snacks.
The glow of the fire felt comforting on my face, but I
kept finding myself peering past it, into the blackness beyond.
It's amazing how quickly my mind started conjuring images of
shapes and figures out there, hunched between trees.
I couldn't see anything, but the sense of being watched lingered
around the edges of my thoughts. When the conversation drifted,
someone finally brought up the missing gear from the year
before. We debated the odds of it being
an animal versus a person who crept in.
My friend swore up and down she was positive she'd left
everything right by her tent flap, only to discover it gone
at sunrise. No scraps of fabric, no stray
shoe left behind. Just gone.
We tried to rationalize it, but excuses felt hollow in the
silence. I remember glancing at her,
noticing her eyes dart toward the shadowy brush as she spoke,
like she was both angry and uneasy at once.
I attempted to change the topic, steering everyone back to
climbing roots. We were excited to try the next
day. That worked for about 5 minutes
until we heard a sharp snap of a branch nearby.
Every head swung around, flashlights raised.
We stared for a long moment but saw nothing, just the flicker of
our own fire light bouncing off tree trunks.
Tension hung thick in the air. I could practically taste it.
Eventually, we forced our shoulders to relax and carried
on. It was still early in the night,
and we weren't about to let jitters ruin the trip.
We told a few more stories, some of them genuinely funny, about
epic bouldering fails and the time someone nearly tumbled off
a ledge because they sneezed mid climb.
Laughter helped a little. It felt like a small shield
against the feeling that something might not be right.
Hours passed and the flames died down to glowing embers.
I offered to fetch more wood, but the stack was already
running low. We decided to call it a night,
saving what was left for the morning chill.
Nobody said it aloud, but I think we were all relieved to
retreat to our tents, as if zipping ourselves inside could
provide some semblance of real safety.
Before heading to mine, I took a quick walk around the perimeter,
trying to assure myself no one else was out there.
The trees loomed tall, and the moonlight filtered in patches
through the canopy. It felt eerie, but I chalked it
up to imagination. Satisfied, more like too spooked
to keep looking, I went back to my tent and crawled inside.
My friend in the next tent over called out 1/2 joking don't
vanish on us, which earned a few nervous chuckles.
I tried to settle in, but sleeping was impossible.
Every time I let my eyes drift shut, I'd become acutely aware
of how thin the tent walls were, how close the forest was.
I kept replaying that moment when the gear disappeared last
time, wondering if someone had been brazen enough to sneak up
while we all slept. My mind kept circling back to
that question. If there was a thief or
something worse, would they be desperate enough to come back?
That final thought stuck with me.
I ended up lying there, eyes wide open, listening to the wind
whistle through the branches. I wanted so badly to believe it
was just a normal night in the woods, that nobody was out
there, that everything was fine. But some distant part of me
suspected that we weren't alone, and that maybe we never had
been. I must have only dozed off for a
few minutes at a time, because it seemed like every small noise
yanked me back to reality. My friends muffled snore would
fade and the wind would stir the leaves just enough to make it
sound like movement outside. I kept picturing someone
creeping between the tents, scanning through our stuff.
It was relentless. At one point, I couldn't take it
anymore. I slipped on my boots, grabbed a
flashlight, and unzipped the tent.
The cold air on my face was sobering.
The embers in the fire pit still cast a faint orange glow.
Across the clearing, I could make out the silhouettes of the
other tents, bent domes in the darkness.
I decided to step a little farther away, partly just to
confirm there wasn't anything sinister lurking right beside
us, and partly because I needed a moment alone to steady my
nerves. I moved beyond the reach of that
feeble light where the forest floor turned into patches of
undergrowth and tangled roots. The flashlights beam danced
across tree trunks. Everything looked ordinary, yet
I couldn't help but feel exposed.
I tried to shake off the paranoia, forcing myself to
believe I was just psyching myself out.
That's when I noticed something off.
There was a subtle shift in the gloom a few yards ahead, low to
the ground. I froze, shining my light in
that direction. Initially, I thought I'd caught
sight of an animal, a raccoon or maybe a fox.
The shape didn't move, though, so I took a step closer.
A creeping sense of dread started pooling in my gut
because I realized I was seeing a human silhouette splayed out,
as if lying prone. It reminded me of old military
movies where someone in camouflage is crawling through
the brush. We locked eyes, or at least I
sensed we did. My mind went blank for half a
second. I flicked the flashlight
directly on him. Sure enough, whoever it was wore
a Gilly suit, the kind that makes people almost melt into
the surroundings. He had clearly been watching the
campsite, head lifted in our direction.
The reflection from his eyes was unnerving, like an animal caught
in the headlights. I couldn't decide whether to
shout or run. My body didn't want to do
either, so I just stood there, gripping the flashlight.
It felt like an eternity, but it might have only been 2 seconds.
Finally, this figure realized I was on to him and launched up
from the ground. He took off deeper into the
forest, vanishing so fast that I didn't even hear much in the way
of snapping twigs or rustling foliage.
He just melted into the darkness.
My flashlight beam darted around trying to track him.
No luck. I was left with the echoes of my
own heartbeat thudding in my ears and a panicked feeling that
maybe he wasn't alone. Adrenaline kicked in and I
practically sprinted back to camp, nearly tripping over a
root as I went. By the time I reached the tents,
I was gasping for air, stammering over my words to
explain what had happened. Everyone scrambled out of their
sleeping bags, disoriented but fully alert after hearing the
fear in my voice. Flashlights flicked on in every
direction. My friends kept asking me to
repeat myself, not sure if I was exaggerating once they realized
I was serious. We all stood in a tight knot
around the dying embers, shining beams across the tree line.
Nothing stirred. It was like the forest had gone
silent. No chirping insects, no sway in
the branches. Someone muttered that we should
go look for footprints or broken bushes, so a couple of us inched
forward with flashlights, scanning the ground.
The rest stayed near the tents, half packed in case we needed to
bolt. I had my eyes peeled for any
sign of him. Bent grass, a snapped branch,
maybe a stray piece of Gilly fabric.
We found nothing. The area where I'd seen him
lying looked undisturbed, as if he'd never been there.
We gathered again by the fire pit, forming a circle.
The conversation was a mess of suggestions.
Should we stay awake all night? Should we drive off right now?
Should we report it somehow? Part of me wanted to leave
immediately, but the idea of stumbling through unfamiliar
back roads in total darkness freaked me out just as much.
Eventually, we agreed to keep watching shifts huddling close
to the low flames. I doubt any of us truly relaxed.
Every gust of wind set our nerves on edge.
Flashlights cut across the darkness, searching for signs of
movement. Time dragged on.
Minutes felt like hours, and the black sky slowly turned Gray as
dawn approached. The relief that came with those
first light rays was almost overwhelming.
We hurried to break down the tents, tossing gear into bags
without caring about neatness. Loading up the cars felt like it
took an eternity, each of us scanning the shadows in case the
figure was still around. Once everything was stowed, we
locked the doors and climbed inside.
Nobody spoke much on the drive out.
Even once we hit the main road I couldn't stop checking my
mirror, half expecting to see a Gilly suited stranger sprinting
down the asphalt. By the time I reached home, my
mind was still buzzing with questions.
I couldn't figure out what this person wanted, why they'd target
our camp, or what happened to my friend's gear the previous year.
There was no closure, just the unsettling reality that someone
out there knew our habits, watched us without making a
sound, and slipped away like a phantom.
In the days that followed, we swapped a flood of anxious group
texts. Everyone wondered if we should
report it to the Park Rangers or something like that.
In the end, we made our choices quietly.
None of us plan to return to that spot.
The cliffs and boulders might still be calling to some other
carefree group of campers, but I'm not so sure that forest is
as innocent as it seems. And the truth is, I'd rather not
find out who's hiding in the undergrowth, keeping close tabs
on anyone foolish enough to spend the night.
I tossed my gear in the truck at dawn, feeling excited and just a
bit anxious about the day ahead. My friend and I had planned a
shooting trip in this logging area that was supposedly so
remote we'd have the place to ourselves.
We joked about having the entire wilderness to do what we wanted,
but deep down I noticed how quiet everything felt.
No traffic sounds, no voices, just the crunch of the tires on
gravel and the heavy stillness of Backcountry roads.
We drove for what felt like hours, only passing the
occasional turn off that led deeper into dense brush.
We kept losing phone reception, and each time we checked we saw
the same mocking no signal on the screen.
I tried to laugh it off, telling myself it was the perfect
digital detox, but something about those winding roads was
unsettling. Even the crows perched on dead
branches off in the distance made the place feel unwelcoming.
Eventually the dirt path narrowed.
Huge ruts scarred the road, and on one side there was a pretty
steep drop. Made me wonder how any logging
trucks maneuvered here without sliding right over the edge.
My friend said we should pick up the pace, but between the shaky
ground and the bumpy potholes, I kept my foot on the brake.
Every time I glanced over the edge, my stomach did a nervous
flip, like all it would take was one wrong turn to tumble
straight down. As we climbed a small Ridge,
something caught my eye. An old pickup, its headlights
barely visible through the haze of dust.
I eased over, letting my truck hug the tree line so they could
pass. Except they didn't.
They rolled right up, nose to nose with my front bumper until
I was certain we were only inches apart.
Two guys sat inside, rifles propped casually across their
laps. The back of their truck
overflowed with fresh cut lumber.
I couldn't see much detail through their dirty windshield,
but I caught enough of their expressions to sense they
weren't in a chatty mood. I raised a hand in greeting.
No reaction. Tried a quick hey y'all headed
out. Still nothing.
They just stared. My friend turned slightly in his
seat, probably ready to reach for his sidearm.
The air felt suffocating, like something was about to go very
wrong. I couldn't reverse easily, and
pushing forward wasn't an option unless these guys moved.
We were stuck basically alone, far from anyone who could help
if things went. SI braced both hands on the
steering wheel, trying to decide how to handle this.
There was an urge to honk or yell, but something told me that
any sudden move might trigger a reaction I didn't want to see.
These strangers definitely weren't here for a friendly
morning drive. The question was, what were they
going to do next and how were we going to get out of it?
I sat there with my hands clamped around the steering
wheel, my buddy next to me, both of us completely unsure if we
should speak first or even move. The two guys in the pickup
stayed glued to their seats, rifles across their laps, lumber
spilling out the back. The silence felt suffocating,
like the air itself was pressing down on us.
Just when I thought we might be stuck in this weird stalemate
forever, another set of headlights appeared behind their
truck. Then another, and another, until
it was this whole parade of ramshackle cars and trucks
creeping over the Ridge one by one.
Each was just as loaded down with stolen logs as the first,
like a convoy in broad daylight that couldn't care less who saw
them. I remember glancing at my buddy
and he gave me this look that said this is bad.
Really bad. There was no question we were
witnessing something illegal. If these folks realized we'd
seen too much, they could easily decide we weren't leaving to
talk about it. We were stuck on a narrow dirt
lane with a Cliff on one side and a wall of trees on the
other, in the middle of nowhere, without a shred of cell signal
to call for help. The vehicles moved at a snail's
pace, each passing close enough that I could see the lumps of
wood stuffed into back seats, tied to roof racks and piled in
truck beds. Some drivers stared right at me
through their windows. Others acted like we didn't
exist. Even the kids in one beat up
minivan peeked out from behind the stack of planks, eyes wide.
Nobody said a single word. It was like we'd stumbled into
some secret operation that demanded absolute silence.
My friend shifted in his seat, his sidearm now unholstered and
resting near his leg. I took the hint and eased my own
weapon out of its case, keeping it low.
In my head, I was preparing for the worst.
If someone jumped out or decided to raise a rifle, we'd have to
fight or make a break for it. Either option was terrifying.
We had no backup, and there were way more of them than us.
When the final car in the convoy crawled past, leaving behind a
haze of dust, the original pickup still blocked our path.
Their engine hummed, but they stayed put for a long moment.
I swallowed hard, wondering if they were about to raise their
guns or ram our bumper or who knows what else.
My buddy's knuckles went white around his grip.
Then, as if they'd finally decided we weren't worth the
trouble, the driver punched the gas.
Their truck lurched forward, practically grazing my front
end, and rumbled around the bend without so much as a glance
back. The dust settled, and the road
fell silent again, like we'd just witnessed a ghost town
passing through. I released a shaky breath, still
clutching my pistol. My friend told me to wait a
second before moving, just to be sure they weren't lying in wait.
We both scanned the tree line. No sign of movement, nothing but
the lingering smell of diesel. We had no intention of sticking
around for round two. Guns still in hand, we turned
the truck around as carefully as we could on that narrow lane.
I didn't bother with the scenic route or any more off road
exploring. We just wanted to put as much
distance as possible between US and that convoy.
Even after we'd hit the main highway, I couldn't shake the
feeling of being watched. It wasn't until we saw the first
sign of actual civilization that I let go of the tension in my
shoulders. Right then and there, I knew I'd
be finding a proper shooting range back home, somewhere with
reliable phone reception and staff around.
I realized that out in these remote places, when things take
a turn, there's no safety net. You're on your own.
I spent half the day driving over abandoned logging roads,
the roads where gravel occasionally pings against the
underside of your car and you never see another soul.
I kept waiting for some old radio tower to pop up, or an RV
pulled off to the side, but nothing appeared.
Just miles and miles of silence. Usually, that's what I like, the
isolation, the freedom. That day, though, the whole
drive had a strange energy. Every little bump made me glance
around, half expecting headlights to blaze up behind
me. By late afternoon, I pulled into
a spot I'd scouted on the map, a flat clearing near a sluggish
Creek. Getting the SUV leveled took a
couple tries, since the ground was lumpy.
Eventually, I settled, unpacked a folding chair and let myself
unwind. A little wine seemed like a
perfect idea. I remember sipping from the
bottle, letting my eyes wander across the sea of trees.
I might have gotten more relaxed than I intended, which is why I
ended up crashing in the back of the SUV earlier than usual.
Sometime in the night, something reached my ears.
It didn't sound like normal forest noise, no rustle of
leaves or crack of a twig. It was more like a low humming
pattern. If I had to guess, I'd call it
chanting, but it was so faint I couldn't be certain.
My nerves started buzzing. No one else was supposed to be
out here. No campsites, no cabins, no
vehicles. I rolled onto my side, telling
myself the road must have carried sound from way off.
The worry stayed, though. I checked my phone for a signal.
Nothing, of course, then drifted into an uneasy doze.
A while later, 3 sharp knocks blasted through the stillness,
each one a clear note that set my pulse galloping.
I pushed myself upright and spotted a face at the window, my
mind practically short circuited.
Another person right there. I yelled in this scratchy,
guttural way I barely recognized.
Whoever it was darted off so fast I only got a glimpse of
movement in the darkness. I fumble for the keys, hands
trembling so badly I almost dropped them, then flicked on
the headlights. The beams swept across a few
scraggly bushes in the Creek beyond, but no shape, no
footprints. Just me and the hum of the
engine. For a long time I just sat
there, breathing in short bursts, flicking my gaze around
for any sign of that stranger silence.
After a while, I started questioning my own senses, but I
couldn't deny those 3 knocks. Nobody runs around out here in
the dead of night for fun. I kept the engine running,
headlights on, scanning until the sky began to lighten.
The wine buzz had long since worn off, replaced by a raw edge
in my gut. At first light, I hauled myself
out to do a quick sweep around the SUV.
No footprints, no trampled grass, no broken branches.
That baffled me even more. No sign of a vehicle either.
It was like someone had drifted in from thin air and vanished
just as fast. Deciding I'd had enough of that
spot, I packed everything up at record speed.
My plan was to find a safer location, maybe somewhere with
more open space so I wouldn't feel so cornered.
Still, as I drove away, every reflection in the side mirrors
got me jumping, half convinced I'd see someone trailing me.
I'd come looking for solitude, but suddenly it felt like the
last thing I wanted. I eventually found a new
clearing, but let's just say the rest of that trip was
overshadowed by the memory of those knocks.
My mind kept flashing back to that face in the window.
Some part of me wondered if it might be better never to know
who or what that person was. By the time I finally made it
home, I was a wreck that drive back.
Every unmarked turn, every shadow on the side of the road
felt like it might bring another unwanted visitor.
I never did figure out how they managed to appear out of
nowhere, and maybe that's a good thing.
Sometimes the not knowing can be a safer place to live in.
I drove a few miles away to this clearing I'd heard about,
supposedly a safer spot, or at least one where you could see
someone approaching. The place wasn't exactly
luxurious, just a level patch of dirt with a few straggly trees
around, but it felt more open. Figured that would help me sleep
easier. It didn't.
That first night in the new spot, I barely rested.
Every rustling leaf was a potential intruder.
I set up my little camp stove, tried to eat something, but my
nerves had the better of me. The face I'd seen at the window
kept replaying whenever I blinked.
I fiddled with my phone, hoping for a shred of signal so I could
call a friend and get some reassurance.
No such luck. It was like the forest itself
wanted me isolated. I finally dugout my satellite
phone, which I usually reserve for real emergencies.
I got a faint connection and immediately dialed a friend.
She listened to me Babble about mysterious chanting in the woods
and a stranger banging on my window.
She kept saying it sounds like you should come home, and all I
managed was I'm not ready to give up yet.
Probably stubborn pride talking. The connection cut out halfway
through our conversation, leaving me with static and a
feeling of being stranded in more ways than one.
That night I did everything possible to stay calm.
Zipped myself into my sleeping bag, kept a flashlight in hand
and locked all the doors. Problem was, my mind wouldn't
cooperate, couldn't stop picturing a dark shape lurking
behind every tree, waiting for me to let my guard down.
Around midnight, I heard a loud crack in the distance, maybe a
branch snapping, and my pulse ratcheted up again.
No chanting this time, but honestly, I wasn't sure which
was worse, the unknown or the memory of it.
By the next morning, I felt wrung out, like I'd barely
closed my eyes at all. Even the bright sunlight didn't
chase away the sense that I was being watched.
I'm not one to give up easily, but there's a point where you
realize this kind of dread can unravel you.
So I packed up in a hurry, double checked the engine, and
started the long trek back to civilization.
The whole drive home was just as tense.
Each time the road curved, I caught myself glancing in the
mirrors, bracing for a figure behind me.
Nobody showed up. Eventually, I rolled onto a main
highway, and the sight of a passing truck filled me with a
strange relief I never thought I'd appreciate so much.
When I finally walked through my own front door, I half expected
some hidden presents to have followed me.
Nothing did, of course, yet I still locked.
Everything turned on every light, as if my home had become
an extension of those woods. Even days later, I'd jolt awake
at night imagining someone outside my window.
I'd never had a trip twist my nerves so hard, and the worst
part was I had no answers, just a lingering echo of knocking in
the dark, reminding me that solitude can turn on you in ways
you'd never see coming. I was spending a quiet evening
at the Ranger station sorting gear, minding my own business,
when the call came in. A missing person, possibly under
the influence, vanished near the park's edge in the middle of a
vicious winter storm. Even before the details arrived,
every part of me knew this wouldn't be a routine rescue.
The temperature had plummeted to brutally low levels, and
whiteout conditions were closing in fast.
In weather like that, every moment out there counts double.
My partner and I hopped into our truck and hit the roads leading
out to a set of isolated cabins. The drive felt like a slow crawl
through thick, swirling snow, headlights bouncing off endless
flurries. We eventually spotted the dim
glow of cabin windows outside. A handful of frantic figures
waved us down the second we got out.
Their story tumbled out in pieces.
A young woman, part of a group doing psychedelics, had dashed
out into the cold with minimal clothing.
No coat, no boots, just everyday clothes that wouldn't hold up
long in these conditions. The storm was relentless.
My partner and I spent a few minutes piercing together the
woman's last known direction. Her friends seemed disoriented
themselves, eyes wide with leftover adrenaline.
Or something else. It didn't help that the snow was
falling so heavily, any footprints would be wiped away
in minutes. Still, we started combing the
perimeter, flashlights barely slicing through the swirling
white. Trudging through high drifts
left my muscles burning. My partner kept a steady pace
beside me, both of us calling the woman's name over and over.
The wind made it feel like the sound died right as it left our
throats. Even so, we pressed on, scanning
tree lines and shining lights into every hollow.
At one point, we thought we saw movement, but it was just a
shrub bent under heavy snow. The sense of being surrounded by
nothingness was overwhelming. As we push deeper, the only real
signs of direction were the faint outlines of footprints,
half filled by drifting flakes. Each clue felt like a lifeline.
Maybe we'd catch up if we hurried.
Time slid by with terrifying speed.
My body was soaked in sweat beneath the layers, but my face
felt raw from the icy wind. We kept yelling her name, hoping
beyond hope for a response. Suddenly, I spotted a piece of
cloth half buried in a snowbank. We knelt down to examine it.
A shirt several feet away lay a single shoe, also partially
covered. This was when alarm bells really
went off in my head. Anyone stripping off clothes in
a snowstorm is in critical danger.
Paradoxical undressing is no joke.
Hypothermia can make a person feel burning hot and they start
peeling off layers. We were in a race against time.
We pressed on, bracing ourselves for whatever we'd find next.
About 50 yards further, the beam of my flashlight caught a figure
slumped at the base of a tree. The woman was motionless,
missing every bit of clothing. We scrambled down an incline,
nearly tumbling over each other in the rush.
When we reached her, the silence was crushing.
Her eyes stared ahead without any flicker of awareness.
My partner called out her name, tried to check vitals, but it
was already too late. The reality of it made
everything else fade, like the storm noise dropped several
decibels and left only the sight in front of us.
She looked heartbreakingly vulnerable, skin tinged in a way
that only deep cold can cause. We did what we could, but we
knew it was over. We radioed for backup, though
rescue was past the point of mattering.
Local police made their way out with a snowmobile, and we gave
them a grim summary. The group from the cabin showed
up, some of them not even dressed for the weather.
Weeping and trembling, I stood to one side, trying to muster
something, anything to say, but words felt useless.
The wind whipped snow in our faces as the authorities zipped
her into a bag. They guided the group back
toward the cabins while my partner and I slogged behind
every step, waited with the knowledge of what we'd just
witnessed. That night, I stayed at the
Ranger station long after my shift ended, replaying the scene
in my mind. I'd known the wilderness was
harsh, but there's a big difference between knowing it in
theory and seeing real consequences unfold in front of
you. The sound of that wind, the
snapshot of her half buried footprints, the terrible hush
around that tree, those moments clung to me like a living
memory. Even now, whenever the sky
threatens snow, I recall the sheer force of that storm and
how it claimed a life in a way that felt both sudden and
painfully drawn out. I ended up driving home at dawn,
coasting through nearly empty roads, my thoughts spinning.
The entire time. I kept picturing footprints in
the rearview mirror, fading under the relentless sweep of
snow. It struck me that isolation can
be terrifying in more ways than one, and sometimes all the
preparations in the world won't shield you from the final
outcome. It was a lesson I never wanted
to learn. But nature doesn't ask for
permission before it teaches you the hardest truths.
I lingered on that Mesa way too long, staring at the fading glow
of the sunset like it was my last chance to see something
beautiful. I'd hiked up for a quick
photography trip, but the sky had turned into this swirling
palette of orange and Crimson, and I got carried away clicking
pictures from every angle. By the time I realized the sun
had dropped below the horizon, dusk was already sliding into
night. My phone's battery was
practically gasping, but I still tried to capture a couple more
shots before stuffing everything back into my pack.
The moment I fished out my headlamp, a jolt of unease shot
through me. The thing powered on, but only
in that weak red mode. Not ideal, but still better than
wandering around in pitch darkness.
I flicked the switch a few more times, hoping I'd get a bright
beam, but the battery icon blinked at me like it was on its
last legs. Great. 5 miles of rocky trail,
minimal light, and not a soul around to bail me out.
I tried to shrug it off as no big deal, telling myself that
red light was actually a smart way to preserve night vision,
but with each step my breathing felt tight.
The terrain under my feet was unpredictable, sharp stones
jutting out in every direction. I had to shuffle along
carefully, feeling more and more like I was being swallowed by
shadows. Every rustle of wind, every
shift in the dirt made me grip my trekking pole a little
tighter. Maybe it was my imagination
playing tricks, but the quiet started to seem off, like even
the insects were holding their breath.
Even so, I kept plodding along, hoping I'd get used to the
darkness. Then I stopped dead, convinced I
sensed something behind me. I whipped around, shining that
pitiful red glow into the gloom, only to see the same boulders
and shrubs as before. No sign of anything moving, at
least nothing I could make out. My mind was humming with
tension, though, no matter how hard I tried to dismiss it.
A prickling sensation climbed up the back of my neck, almost like
a warning. Finally, I couldn't take the
suspense. I clicked the lamp to white
mode, desperate for a better look, though I knew it would
drain the battery fast. For a split second, I saw an
outline low to the ground, slipping behind a rock about 25
yards off. It moved with eerie grace, too
smooth for a harmless critter. My mouth went dry.
I stared at the spot, waiting, but it didn't show itself again.
That little glimpse was enough to send a wave of anxiety
through me. I considered running, but the
thought of charging blindly down the Mesa didn't sound like a
winning plan. I did the only thing I could,
tried to make myself seem larger and bolder than I felt.
I raised my arms, spread my jacket, and let out a series of
forceful shouts that echoed across the quiet landscape.
The lamp's bright beam flickered ominously, reminding me I
couldn't keep it on for long. My best bet, ironically, was to
switch back to red mode and ration what little power I had
left. Not exactly comforting.
When I turn my back on that rock, I almost imagined the
shape creeping closer. My nerves were shot, but I
forced myself to keep walking. After a few minutes, I looked
over my shoulder again and flipped to white mode.
Two points of green light flashed in the darkness,
hovering at the same level as that earlier silhouette.
They didn't move toward me, just hovered there, as if testing my
resolve. My stomach tightened.
This was no curious deer, That much was obvious.
Whatever it was seemed to be trailing me at a steady
distance, refusing to either vanish or close in.
I tried to keep my breathing steady, but the fear got worse
with every step. Eventually, I fumble for my
phone. One bar of service popped up and
I managed to call a friend. My voice came out shaky, which
pretty much told him everything he needed to know.
Between rushed explanations, I managed to spit out where I was
and that I felt I was being followed.
I joked in an attempt at humor. If I'm not back soon, here's
where you can find my mangled remains.
But neither of us really laughed.
Hearing another person's voice helped calm me though, at least
a little. I didn't feel quite so alone,
even though physically I was still by myself out there.
Battery life on my lamp ticks steadily downward.
I decided to push forward, focusing on making it down the
steep part of the trail before full darkness dropped like a
curtain in the back of my mind. A question kept nagging.
What happens if that silhouette decides to come closer?
But I forced myself to move, imagining all the ridiculous
ways I'd fight back with nothing but a stick or a small knife if
I had to. Anything to avoid picturing the
alternative. I kept checking behind me,
scanning with that dim beam, never quite sure if I'd see
those eyes again. Every inch of the way tension
clung to me like a second skin. I could feel it in the way my
shoulders hunched and the way I gripped my trekking pole.
This was only the start of a long, nerve wracking journey
back to safety, and I could already tell it would be a
nightmare. Yet I had no choice but to keep
going. I didn't waste any more time
lingering where I'd spotted those glowing eyes gripping my
trekking pole. I started the descent, knowing
full well that the path below was a loose mess of rocks and
gravel. Each step felt uncertain, like
the ground wanted to betray me. On top of that, the darkness was
spreading fast, and the only light I had was a red beam
barely strong enough to light my boots.
I'd occasionally flick to white mode, just for a few seconds,
hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was stalking me.
It was there, all right. Whenever I switched, I'd spot
those same green reflections, Never closer, never farther,
like a shadow that knew exactly how to keep a safe distance.
Once or twice my foot slipped on the gravel and I'd lurch
forward, arms flailing. It was all I could do not to
topple down the slope. Every time I nearly wiped out,
my mind, conjured images of that creature watching, waiting.
I imagined it was analyzing my missteps, looking for the
perfect moment to strike. But nothing happened.
It just kept trailing me. That was almost worse.
It was unnerving knowing it could leap out at any time, yet
it seemed content to let me walk myself ragged.
My headlamp flickered in and out, the red glow getting weaker
by the minute. Part of me wanted to just say
screw it and keep the bright beam on, but I knew it'd burn
out in seconds if I tried. I couldn't risk stumbling around
here with no light at all, At least not until I got off this
rocky terrain. Every time that thought crossed
my mind, my grip on the trekking pole tightened like that stick
was my lifeline. Every so often I'd hear a faint
scrape behind me, or what I thought might be one, anyway.
It sounded almost like something brushing against stone, but so
faint it could have been the wind.
I'd freeze up, switch to white mode, and scan the darkness.
Those two green pinpoints would stare back at me, then slink out
of sight. I'd let out this shaky breath,
fumble the lamp back to red, and keep going, heart hammering in
my chest. The descent was brutal.
My legs burned from the strain of stepping carefully and not
letting gravity hurl me forward. When I finally reached flatter
ground, I realized I'd only cleared the rocky portion of the
Mesa. Now I was entering this open
field where the moon offered just enough light to see
outlines of tall grass. I almost laughed out loud from
the relief of not having to navigate jagged rocks with a
dying lamp, but then I noticed the grass shifting in the
breeze. It was unnerving that something
could hide in there. Crouching out of sight only a
few yards away, my headlamp let out one final flicker before
shutting off. Great, now I was down to the
moon, my phone's dim flashlight, which probably had 10 minutes
left tops, and a prayer. Oddly enough, part of me felt a
tiny surge of relief. Like, at least I didn't have to
worry about babying that useless lamp anymore.
I picked up my pace, trying to keep my footsteps light, but
moving quickly enough that if something were behind me, it
wouldn't have an easy shot. A few times the grass rustled in
a way that made me think the predator had crept closer.
I'd jerk my phone out, swipe on its pathetic flashlight, and
wave it around. Nothing.
The only sound was my own ragged breathing.
It was quiet, but not quite peaceful.
More like the calm before a storm, if the storm decided to
stay hidden. Eventually the trail got clearer
and I could make out a path leading toward the road.
My adrenaline was still pumping, but I realized I could see the
faint glow of St. lights in the distance.
I kept imagining those eyes would pop up one last time,
maybe right behind me, but they never did.
Step by step, I put more distance between me and the Mesa
until the terrain flattened and I could actually make out the
shape of my car under the moonlight.
When I finally reached it, I just stood there, panting, hands
shaking. I half expected to sense that
creature behind me again, but there was nothing.
It's incredible how even a little piece of metal and glass,
my car felt like a fortress after the night I'd had.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I locked the doors out of sheer
reflex, then let out this exasperated laugh like I
couldn't believe I was in one piece.
Looking back on it, I'm almost positive it was a Mountain Lion.
Nothing else fits that kind of stealth and patience.
It must have decided I wasn't worth the hassle or just got
bored. I'll never know.
But I do know that crossing through a top predator's
territory alone at night with a dying flashlight was one of the
dumbest moves I've made. As I sat there with the engine
idling, I promised myself I'd do better next time.
More importantly, I'd remember how it feels when something is
out there in the darkness, quiet and watchful, letting me know
just how fragile I really AM.