"The Trail That Led Me Astray":
I’ve always loved hiking. It’s my way of unwinding, clearing my head, and getting away from the constant noise of daily life. Pine Ridge Trail had always been one of my favorites—nothing too strenuous, but far enough out that you wouldn’t find crowds of people. The last time I went, my buddy Nate and I did the whole loop in about six hours. That time, though, Nate bailed last minute. Something about his car needing repairs.
I thought about skipping it too, but it was the only free Saturday I’d have for a while. The weather was perfect—cool morning air, no chance of rain. Besides, I’d hiked Pine Ridge a dozen times before. I knew the trails like the back of my hand.
I got to the trailhead around 8 a.m. The gravel lot was nearly empty, just two other cars parked there. Probably other early risers already out on the trail. I grabbed my pack, double-checked my water bottle, snacks, and small first aid kit, and slung it over my shoulders. I had my pocketknife in my front pocket and my phone in my jacket, though I wasn’t expecting to have much of a signal once I got deeper in.
The first few miles were beautiful, just like I remembered. The morning sun filtered through the canopy above, casting a soft golden glow on the dirt trail. The air smelled like pine and damp earth. Every so often, I’d pass another hiker or a couple heading back toward the lot. Everyone was friendly, offering a quick smile or a polite, “Morning.”
By the time I hit the four-mile mark, I was feeling good—better than good, actually. There’s a split in the trail there. One path keeps you on the main loop, but the other leads to a less-maintained trail that winds deeper into the woods. I’d noticed it before on previous hikes but had never gone down it. The trail was marked with an old wooden sign, but the lettering was so weathered and faded I couldn’t make out what it said.
I figured, why not? I had plenty of time, and the idea of exploring a new section of the forest was tempting.
The deeper I went, the quieter it got. The sound of birds faded, and even the breeze seemed to die down. After about 15 minutes, I started noticing odd things. The first was a rusty tin can tied to a branch, swaying slightly in the breeze. It looked like it had been there a long time, the metal spotted with orange and brown. I figured it was just some old marker left by a hunter or a bored hiker.
But then there were more. A pile of rocks stacked neatly by the side of the trail. A child’s shoe—mud-caked and frayed—sitting on top of the rocks. That one made me stop. Who leaves a kid’s shoe out here?
I tried to brush it off. Maybe it fell out of someone’s pack, and they left it there, thinking they’d come back for it. But something about it didn’t sit right. My gut was telling me to turn around.
I checked my phone—no signal. Not surprising, but still unnerving. I decided I’d gone far enough and started heading back toward the main trail.
That’s when I heard it: the snap of a twig.
It wasn’t loud, but out there, in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. Slowly, I turned around, scanning the woods.
“Hello?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady.
Nothing.
I took a deep breath and kept walking, quicker this time. The trail felt narrower, the trees closer. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.
“Hey,” a voice called out behind me.
I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. About 30 feet away, a man stepped out from behind a tree. He was tall, mid-40s maybe, with scruffy brown hair and a dirty flannel shirt. He had his hands in his pockets and was smiling—not the friendly kind of smile.
“You lost?” he asked, his tone calm, almost casual.
“No, I’m good,” I said, forcing a smile of my own. “Just heading back to the main trail.”
He tilted his head, still smiling. “Main trail’s that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction I’d been heading.
I knew he was lying. I’d paid attention to the trail markers, and I was confident about where I was. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure it’s this way,” I said, taking a small step back.
His smile faltered, just for a second, before returning. “Suit yourself.”
I turned and started walking again, my heart pounding. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his eyes on me.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps—steady, deliberate. He was following me.
“Hey!” he called out again, his voice louder this time. “You really don’t want to go that way.”
I ignored him, picking up my pace. My mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do. My knife was in my pocket, but what good was a two-inch blade against someone twice my size?
Then I saw movement up ahead. Relief flooded me—another hiker. But as I got closer, I realized it wasn’t just another hiker.
It was another man.
He was younger, maybe late 20s, with a shaved head and a hunting knife strapped to his belt. He saw me and grinned, then glanced over my shoulder at the man behind me.
“Looks like you found someone,” the younger man said, his tone casual but with an edge that made my stomach drop.
The older man chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a little lost.”
I was trapped. My eyes darted to the woods on either side of the trail. They were dense, but if I ran, I might be able to lose them.
“I’m just trying to get back to my car,” I said, trying to sound calm.
The younger man nodded, still grinning. “Cars are a long way off. Why don’t you come with us? We’ve got a camp nearby. You can rest, figure things out.”
My instincts screamed at me to run. Without thinking, I bolted into the woods, branches whipping at my face and arms.
“Hey!” one of them shouted. “Get back here!”
I didn’t look back. I just ran, pushing through the underbrush as fast as I could. My legs burned, and my lungs felt like they were on fire, but I didn’t stop.
Finally, I saw it—a wooden trail marker up ahead. I burst out onto the main trail, nearly colliding with an older couple hiking toward me.
“Are you okay?” the woman asked, her face full of concern.
“Two men,” I gasped. “They’re back there. Following me.”
The man pulled out his phone and tried calling for help, but there was no signal. “Stay with us,” he said firmly. “We’ll get you back to the parking lot.”
We moved quickly, constantly glancing over our shoulders. I half-expected the men to appear at any moment, but they didn’t.
When we finally reached the lot, my car was still there, untouched. I thanked the couple over and over, then locked myself inside the second I got in.
I reported everything to the park rangers and the police, but nothing came of it. No arrests, no follow-ups. Just a vague warning to “be careful out there.”
I haven’t hiked alone since. The woods don’t feel peaceful anymore.
"The Forgotten Path":
The crisp autumn air clawed at my cheeks as I stepped onto the trail, the fiery reds and golds of the leaves cascading from the trees above. Their vibrant beauty would have been breathtaking if not for the gnawing unease curling in my stomach. Every rustle of wind through the branches, every distant birdcall, felt sharper, more immediate, as though the forest was alive and watching.
I tried to shake the feeling off. “It’s just a hike,” I muttered to myself, gripping my hiking stick tighter. “People do this all the time.” But that wasn’t entirely true. Not on this trail. Not anymore.
The news stories had painted it as a mystery—a puzzle the police couldn’t solve. Two hikers had vanished in the past year, both last seen within miles of where I now walked. No signs of a struggle, no evidence left behind. Just gone, swallowed by the woods.
The rational part of me knew the odds. This was a well-marked trail, popular with locals. Disappearances like that were rare, freak incidents. But the other part of me—the part that couldn’t ignore how the shadows seemed to stretch just a little too long—wasn’t so sure.
The trail wound deeper into the woods, and the sounds of the nearby road faded until all I could hear was the crunch of leaves beneath my boots. The trees closed in around me, their twisted branches weaving a canopy that filtered the sunlight into fractured beams. Despite the growing quiet, I forced myself to keep moving. “Just get to the overlook,” I said under my breath, my voice sounding small in the vastness of the forest. “Take a few pictures. Head back down.”
I passed a few other hikers—a young couple holding hands, their laughter floating through the trees, and a solitary man with a shaggy dog who nodded politely as we crossed paths. Each encounter brought a brief flicker of relief. I wasn’t alone.
But as I continued, those encounters became fewer and fewer, until it was just me and the forest.
About an hour into my hike, I reached a fork in the trail. To the left, a worn wooden sign pointed toward the overlook. To the right, an unmarked path snaked into the trees, nearly swallowed by weeds and undergrowth. It looked more like an old game trail than anything meant for hikers.
I stared at the unmarked path, curiosity tugging at me. It was almost hidden, as though the forest itself wanted to keep it a secret. My gut told me to stick to the main trail, to keep moving toward the overlook. But my feet hesitated.
“Just a quick look,” I whispered, as if saying it aloud made it less foolish. The moment I stepped onto the overgrown path, the air seemed to shift. It felt cooler, heavier, like I’d crossed an invisible boundary into somewhere I didn’t belong.
The path was faint, barely visible beneath the carpet of leaves. Branches reached out like skeletal fingers, snagging on my jacket as I pushed forward. After about fifty feet, the trees parted into a small clearing, and that’s when I saw it.
The truck.
It sat there, rusted and defeated, half-hidden by overgrown bushes. The vehicle was old—seventies, maybe older—its paint flaking away to reveal patches of corroded metal. The tires were flat, the windows fogged with grime, and the driver’s door hung open, swaying gently in the breeze.
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. This wasn’t just someone’s abandoned vehicle. There was a wrongness to it, a sense that it didn’t belong here any more than I did.
Slowly, I approached, each step tentative, my hiking stick clutched so tightly my knuckles ached. The closer I got, the more details emerged. A faint smell of decay lingered in the air, though I couldn’t pinpoint its source. The truck’s interior was a mess—fast-food wrappers, crushed soda cans, and something that looked like a weathered road map sprawled across the dashboard.
And then I saw it.
On the passenger seat lay a faded baseball cap. The fabric was frayed, the brim warped with age. My stomach lurched as recognition hit me. The cap matched the description of the one worn by the first missing hiker.
I stumbled back, my breath hitching. The unease I’d felt all morning now surged into full-blown panic. This wasn’t just an abandoned truck. It was a clue—a piece of a mystery that no one was meant to solve.
A sharp crack echoed behind me.
I spun around, my hiking stick raised instinctively. Standing at the edge of the clearing was a man.
He was tall and thin, his silhouette framed by the dark trunks of the trees. His clothes—faded jeans and a dark hoodie—hung loose on his wiry frame. His face was obscured by shadows, but his eyes… I could see those clearly. They were fixed on me, unblinking and cold.
“Hello?” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I…I didn’t mean to trespass.”
He didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring at me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
“I was just leaving,” I said, taking a step back. My voice wavered, and I hated how weak it sounded.
The man tilted his head slightly, like a predator studying its prey. He took a step forward.
My pulse roared in my ears. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs felt like they were made of lead. “I…I think this is private property,” I stammered. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Another step forward.
I backed away, the rusted truck pressing against my spine. My hand tightened around my hiking stick, though I knew it would be useless if he decided to close the distance.
And then he smiled.
It wasn’t a kind smile. It was a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that sent a jolt of fear straight through me. The kind of smile that told me he was enjoying this—my fear, my helplessness.
I bolted.
I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just ran, crashing through the undergrowth, branches tearing at my clothes and whipping against my face. The forest seemed endless, every shadow stretching into a looming threat. Behind me, I heard the crunch of footsteps. Slow, deliberate. He wasn’t running. He didn’t need to.
I didn’t stop until I burst onto the main trail, nearly colliding with a group of hikers. “Help!” I gasped, my chest heaving. “There’s…there’s a man back there! An old truck…”
They looked at me with a mix of concern and confusion. One of them pulled out a phone, dialing the police as I struggled to explain what I’d seen.
When the officers arrived, I led them back to the clearing. The truck was still there, but the man was gone. They searched the area, their flashlights cutting through the shadows, but they found nothing—no footprints, no signs of disturbance. Nothing but the truck and the haunting feeling that lingered in the air.
I never went back to that trail. But the memory of that day clings to me, a heavy weight I can’t shake. I think about the baseball cap, the man’s smile, the way he moved toward me with the patience of someone who knew they had all the time in the world.
And I think about the missing hikers. About how their stories ended where mine almost did. Some secrets are buried deep in the woods. Others are left there to wait.
"Into the Wild":
I was 24 when I decided to go hiking alone in the dense woods of Southern Oregon, near Crater Lake. It was late October, and I thought the cooler weather and thinning crowds would offer me the solitude I craved. I wanted peace—a brief escape from the chaos of everyday life and a chance to reconnect with nature. Little did I know, this journey would test my endurance, courage, and very will to survive.
The drive to the trailhead was uneventful, the winding roads cutting through endless forests of towering pines and golden aspen. By the time I arrived, the late afternoon sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the forest floor. I parked my car, shouldered my pack, and set off down a narrow trail. The world around me seemed alive—the crunch of leaves underfoot, the occasional rustle of squirrels darting through the underbrush, and the distant sound of wind whispering through the treetops.
The plan was simple: hike a few miles into the forest, find a scenic spot to rest for the night, and spend the next day exploring before heading back. I wasn’t planning to camp exactly—just to rest under the stars with a tarp, sleeping bag, and my small pack of essentials. It was meant to be freeing, minimalist, and peaceful.
About an hour in, I found the perfect spot—a small clearing tucked away from the main trail, surrounded by ancient pines and a carpet of soft needles. The fading sunlight bathed the area in warm hues, and I felt a rare sense of calm. After laying out my tarp and sleeping bag, I set up a small fire to ward off the evening chill and cooked a simple meal of instant noodles and dried vegetables. The forest was alive with the hum of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
As night fell, the stars came out in breathtaking clarity. I lay on my back, staring up at the vast expanse of the Milky Way, feeling utterly small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But just as I was drifting off, a noise jolted me awake—a rustling sound, faint but deliberate, coming from the nearby trees.
I sat up, flashlight in hand, and scanned the dark forest. The beam of light revealed nothing but the skeletal outlines of trees swaying gently in the breeze. “Probably just a deer,” I muttered to myself, though my heart was pounding. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching me.
The rest of the night was restless. I dozed in and out of sleep, each creak and snap of a branch pulling me back to full alertness. When dawn finally broke, the familiar sounds of the forest—chirping birds, scurrying squirrels—were eerily absent. The silence was heavy, unnatural, and it set my nerves on edge.
I decided to shake off the unease by hiking to a nearby lake I’d seen marked on my map. The trail was narrow and overgrown in places, the morning air crisp and biting. About a mile in, I noticed something that made my stomach knot—tracks. Large, deep tracks, unmistakably bear prints, pressed into the soft earth.
My pulse quickened as I crouched to examine them. They weren’t old; the edges were fresh, the soil still moist. The tracks followed the trail I’d just come from, heading in the direction of my rest spot. I swallowed hard, scanning the forest around me for movement. Seeing nothing, I forced myself to keep going. The lake was only another mile or so, and I figured the bear had likely moved on.
When I reached the lake, its serene beauty was almost enough to calm my nerves. The water was a perfect mirror, reflecting the golden hues of the autumn foliage. I found a fallen log near the shore, set down my pack, and pulled out my fishing rod. For a while, I lost myself in the rhythmic casting of the line, the stillness of the lake broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish.
But just as I began to relax, a low, guttural growl shattered the silence. My body froze, every hair standing on end. Slowly, I turned my head. Less than twenty yards away, emerging from the trees, was a massive black bear. Its dark eyes locked onto mine, unblinking.
“Hey bear… hey bear,” I said, my voice trembling as I slowly rose to my feet. My arms went up instinctively to make myself look bigger. I remembered the advice from every wilderness guide I’d ever read: don’t run, don’t scream, and don’t make sudden movements.
The bear sniffed the air, taking a step closer. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure it could hear it. As I inched backward, my mind raced for options. My fishing rod was useless, and my knife was buried in my pack. I needed to get away, but running was a death sentence.
That’s when I noticed movement behind me. A rustle in the brush, soft but distinct. I turned my head slightly and saw it—a cub, small and curious, peeking out from the undergrowth.
“Oh no,” I whispered. The situation had just gone from bad to worse. I was between a mother bear and her cub, the one scenario every hiker dreads.
The mother bear huffed, her massive body tensing. She took a step forward, then another, each movement deliberate and menacing. Suddenly, she lunged—a bluff charge, stopping just feet away from me. I stumbled back, raising my arms higher, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.
“Easy… easy…” I murmured, sidestepping slowly to give her a clear path to her cub. But she wasn’t backing down. Her growls deepened, and I knew I had seconds to make a decision.
When she lunged again, I turned and ran—not back toward the lake or my gear, but deeper into the forest, hoping to draw her away. Branches whipped at my face and arms, the uneven ground threatening to trip me with every step. Behind me, I could hear her crashing through the underbrush, her growls growing louder.
My lungs burned, and my legs felt like they’d give out at any moment. Just when I thought I couldn’t go any further, I spotted a dense thicket of thorny bushes. With no other options, I dove in, ignoring the searing pain as the thorns tore at my skin.
The bear stopped just outside, pacing and huffing, her massive frame visible through the gaps in the branches. She sniffed the air, growling once before turning back the way she came.
I stayed in the thicket for what felt like hours, too terrified to move. When I finally crawled out, scratched and bleeding, the forest felt oppressive, its shadows darker and more menacing than before. I stumbled back toward the trail, every sound amplifying my paranoia.
By the time I reached the trailhead and saw my car, I was on the verge of collapse. I climbed in, locking the doors as if that could somehow protect me from the wilderness outside. As I drove away, the dense trees seemed to close in around the narrow road, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms.
That day, I learned a sobering truth: the wilderness is as beautiful as it is unforgiving. Out there, I was just another creature, vulnerable and small in the face of nature’s raw power. I’d gone seeking solitude, but what I found was a humbling reminder—I was never truly alone.