"Alone in the Eagle Cap: A Night I’ll Never Forget":
I never thought a solo backpacking trip would turn into the most terrifying experience of my life. It was supposed to be a peaceful getaway, a chance to disconnect from the world and reconnect with nature. Just me, the trail, and the quiet expanse of wilderness—no deadlines, no phone calls, no traffic or noise. I’d done plenty of solo hikes before, and they were always therapeutic. This time would be no different, I thought. But instead, it became a waking nightmare—one I still can’t shake, even now.
It was late September, that sweet spot when the summer crowds had thinned and the mountains took on that crisp, golden glow before winter rolled in. I had my eyes set on the Eagle Cap Wilderness in Oregon—an overnighter, nothing too ambitious, just enough to clear my head and breathe some high alpine air. I’d spent the week before planning out the route, obsessing over the weather, checking my gear twice. I packed light but smart: a one-person tent, sleeping bag rated to 20°F, my Jetboil, freeze-dried meals, a water filter, first-aid kit, and my Garmin InReach Mini 2 for emergencies. I even allowed myself a few luxuries—my paperback copy of Into the Wild, a flask of whiskey, and a good headlamp.
Before hitting the trail, I stopped at a little diner just outside the town of Joseph. One of those classic roadside places with faded booths and hand-drawn specials on the chalkboard. I ordered a plate of loaded fries and a bacon cheeseburger—greasy, heavy, but comforting. It felt like a reward before the solitude ahead. The fries were a little off—too salty, maybe the oil was old—but I didn’t think much of it. I was in a good mood, and food was food.
The hike in was exactly what I’d hoped for. The trail wound through stands of larch just beginning to turn gold, and the scent of pine mingled with the earthy, damp aroma of the forest floor. The late afternoon light broke through the trees in golden shafts, illuminating the dust stirred up by my boots. It was so quiet, so utterly still. I passed no one. Just the wind in the branches and the occasional scolding chatter of a squirrel. After about five miles, I found a spot a few hundred feet off the trail, half-sheltered by a cluster of boulders and framed by two tall firs. It wasn’t perfectly flat, and the ground was a little rocky, but the view made up for it. From just outside my tent, I could see a sliver of alpine lake down the slope, its surface catching the last pinkish hues of the setting sun.
I set up camp, made dinner—a packet of freeze-dried chili mac—and sipped some whiskey as the cold crept in. I felt content. Alive. Free. But by the time I zipped myself into my sleeping bag, something wasn’t right. A twinge of nausea coiled in my gut, subtle at first, like motion sickness. I assumed it was just the hike combined with the heavy diner meal. Maybe I hadn’t drunk enough water. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through it, but instead of fading, the feeling built slowly, insidiously, until it bloomed into full-blown sickness.
It hit hard around midnight. I shot up in my sleeping bag, dizzy and sweating, just barely managing to unzip the tent before I started vomiting violently into the bushes. My stomach felt like it was being turned inside out, like something was clawing its way through me. The taste of bile burned in my throat. My legs buckled, and I fell to my knees in the dirt, clutching my midsection. I tried to steady my breathing, but every few minutes brought another round, each more intense than the last.
At first, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was altitude sickness. Maybe my body just needed to expel whatever was bothering it. I forced myself to drink water between bouts, but it only made things worse. Soon, the diarrhea started—explosive and uncontrollable. I stumbled into the woods, flashlight clutched in a trembling hand, and dug a shallow hole with my trowel, barely able to stay upright long enough to finish before collapsing against a tree. My whole body was shaking. Cold sweat clung to me despite the chill in the air. I was losing fluids fast, and I knew it.
Back in my tent, I curled into the fetal position, drenched in sweat, my sleeping bag damp and clinging to my clammy skin. The rocky ground beneath me might as well have been bedrock—it jabbed into my ribs and hips, impossible to ignore, but I lacked the strength to shift positions. My head pounded. I felt lightheaded, like I was floating just behind my own eyes. Panic started to rise in my chest, creeping in slowly at first, then all at once. What if I couldn’t stop this? What if I passed out from dehydration? What if I never woke up?
The hours dragged. Time became elastic—sometimes stretching out so that a single minute felt like an hour, other times snapping forward with no warning. I’d open my eyes and find that I’d lost ten or twenty minutes, only to vomit again and repeat the cycle. I kept trying to distract myself by focusing on the sounds around me—the rustle of leaves, the distant snap of a twig, the occasional shriek of a barred owl—but in my disoriented state, they all sounded wrong. Too close. Too purposeful. My brain, foggy with illness and fear, started weaving its own narrative. Was something circling the tent? Was I imagining those footsteps?
I gripped my knife under the sleeping bag, hand trembling. I tried to tell myself it was just the wind. Just a raccoon. But the fear had taken hold, and it didn’t care about reason. Everything outside the tent felt like a threat. Even the darkness seemed alive, watching me from just beyond the thin nylon walls.
Around 2 a.m., I accepted that I couldn’t wait it out. I fumbled with numb fingers for the Garmin and turned it on, struggling to type through the nausea and shivering. “Food poisoning. Solo backpacker. Need assistance. Coordinates attached.” I hit send, the tiny screen confirming the message had gone out. The reply would take time, especially out here, but it was the only thing keeping me tethered to hope. I laid back down, every nerve on edge, every muscle aching. I was so thirsty, but drinking only made me gag. I didn’t know if I’d make it until morning.
The night stretched on like a slow-motion fever dream. I drifted in and out of awareness, jolted awake each time by stomach cramps or sudden, sharp sounds outside. At one point, I thought I heard whispering. Faint, indecipherable. Rationally, I knew it was impossible—but that’s the thing about being sick and scared in the woods. Rationality doesn’t stand a chance. My heart would pound with every gust of wind. I kept checking the Garmin, willing a response to appear. Anything. Just a sign that someone knew I was out here.
Just before dawn, around 6 a.m., I heard voices. At first, I dismissed them as another hallucination. But then I saw the faint glow of headlamps flickering through the trees, and two figures emerged from the forest—Search and Rescue. Real people. My body went slack with relief. I stumbled out of the tent, my legs barely cooperating. I must’ve looked like death—pale, filthy, hunched, eyes sunken. One of them, a guy maybe in his forties with a calm, reassuring voice, stepped forward.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I… I think so,” I croaked. My voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else. “I just need to get out of here.”
They didn’t waste time. One of them helped pack what gear they could, but most of my things were left behind—I couldn’t carry the weight. I could barely stand. The hike out was slow, agonizingly so. Each step sent dull shocks of pain through my knees and stomach. I leaned heavily on one of the rescuers, my pride long gone. We stopped frequently so I could rest or vomit or just breathe through the waves of nausea. They kept talking to me, calmly, keeping me grounded in the present.
By the time we reached the trailhead, I was delirious. An ambulance waited there, engine idling, doors open. They got me inside, hooked up an IV, checked my vitals. I was severely dehydrated, bordering on collapse. The EMTs reassured me, told me I’d be okay. I believed them, but barely. I don’t remember much of the ride to the hospital—just the blur of trees outside the window and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
I recovered physically within a few days—my body bounced back quicker than expected. But the mental scars didn’t fade so easily. I had nightmares for weeks afterward—visions of being trapped in the dark, unable to move, the sounds of the forest pressing in on me like a living thing. The idea of being so helpless, so utterly alone, shook something loose inside me. The wilderness had always been a place of comfort for me. Now, even the sound of leaves rustling at night made my stomach tighten.
I haven’t gone backpacking alone since. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I’ll make peace with what happened and learn to trust the woods again. But for now, the memory of that trip still lingers—raw, vivid, and all too real.
"What the Forest Took":
I’m still haunted by that camping trip in Redwood National Park. It was supposed to be a perfect escape—me and my buddy Jake, deep in the heart of those towering, ancient trees, disconnecting from everything. No cell service, no noise, just silence and sky and green. We both needed it, badly. Life had been grinding us down in different ways—stress from work, relationships falling apart, that creeping feeling that you’re always late for something but don’t know what. We wanted to feel small in a good way, like we were part of something timeless, sacred even. That’s what the redwoods are supposed to do: humble you, center you. But what I got instead was something I still don’t like talking about unless I have to.
We hiked in about ten miles from the nearest trailhead. No one else around—just the birds overhead, the hush of leaves whispering in the wind, and that damp, earthy scent that’s like wet moss and old bark. Everything smelled alive. We found a spot that looked almost too perfect to be real—flat ground, soft with fallen needles, a break in the trees that gave us just enough starlight. We pitched the tent, built a tiny fire, and made some instant noodles we’d brought. Afterward, Jake pulled out a ziplock of raw peanuts he’d picked up at some roadside stand near the coast. “Nature’s candy,” he grinned, tossing a few in his mouth. I remember laughing, shaking my head, but I grabbed a handful too. They didn’t taste bad—just a little dirtier than the stuff you’d buy at the grocery store. Earthy, sure, but we were out in nature. It fit.
We went to bed early, the kind of early you only hit when you’ve hiked all day with a pack digging into your shoulders. I fell asleep to the sounds of wind threading through the treetops and an owl calling in the distance. It was peaceful. Until it wasn’t.
I came out of sleep like I’d been shot. My stomach felt like it had turned inside out. Pain like I’d never felt before—sharp, twisting, boiling under my ribs and crawling through my guts like something alive. I barely made it out of the tent before I was on my knees, vomiting into the dirt. The sound of it echoed through the trees, and the smell—acidic and sour—curled back into my nose on the cold air. I was sweating, but the night air cut into my skin, raw and freezing. I could barely breathe. My body was shaking so hard I couldn’t tell where the tremors ended and the nausea began.
“Jake,” I croaked, barely louder than a breath. I remember how terrified I was just then—terrified that I wouldn’t be able to call for help, that I’d pass out right there in the dirt. A moment later, the tent zipper tore open and Jake came stumbling out, flashlight jerking wildly.
“Dude, what the hell?” he said, his voice still groggy. Then he saw me, hunched over and gasping, my face pale and soaked with sweat. “You look like hell.”
“I think it was the peanuts,” I managed to say, clutching my stomach. “Something’s wrong. Bad wrong.”
He crouched beside me, the flashlight illuminating my trembling hands. “We both ate them,” he said. “I’m fine. You sure it’s not something else?”
I opened my mouth to respond but then another wave hit, and I turned and staggered a few feet into the woods, barely getting my pants down in time before everything just exploded out of me. It was horrible—hot, wet, uncontrollable. I leaned on a tree, my breath hitching in panicked gasps, the smell rising around me, mixing with the cold freshness of pine and damp earth. It made me retch again, hard, until I was dry-heaving, nothing left in me but acid and fear.
Jake followed me, keeping a little distance. “Here,” he said, offering me a water bottle. “You’ve gotta drink something.”
I tried. I really did. But the water hit my stomach and came straight back up, splashing onto the forest floor, onto my boots, warm and bitter. My head felt like it was full of cotton, my vision starting to tilt and flicker. I slumped down onto my knees, unable to stand.
“We can’t stay here,” Jake said, and I heard the panic starting to creep into his voice. “You’re getting worse. We’ve gotta move. We’ve gotta get back to the car.”
“It’s too far,” I said, trying to find the strength to lift my head. “I can’t walk. I can’t even stand.”
“I’m not leaving you here,” he said. “Not a chance.”
He forced me to my feet, half-carrying me back to camp. Packing up was a blur—he did most of it, stuffing the tent into its bag like it was nothing, slinging both packs over his back. I tried to help but every movement sent new pain flaring through my stomach. I threw up again before we even left the clearing.
We started walking. Or rather, Jake walked and half-dragged me along. The trail was a ribbon of darkness, barely visible even with the flashlight. Every root was a threat. Every shadow felt like it had teeth. I couldn’t think straight—my mind kept drifting in and out. I’d hear something in the brush and freeze, convinced someone—or something—was there. I swear I saw eyes at one point, deep in the woods, just for a second. Probably deer, or my brain breaking. But it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like the forest itself was watching us, breathing slowly, patiently.
“You hearing things?” I asked, voice barely audible.
Jake didn’t look at me. “It’s the wind. Or a raccoon. Just keep moving.”
But I knew he was hearing it too, because he kept glancing behind us, like he was expecting something to step out of the dark.
I kept mumbling nonsense, trying to keep myself awake. I talked about high school, old trips, stupid memories. Jake didn’t say much—just encouraged me to keep going, keep talking, keep breathing. My legs gave out more than once, and each time he pulled me back up, swearing under his breath, eyes scanning the woods.
The last half-mile to the car was the worst. I started hallucinating. I saw lights that weren’t there. I heard voices, distant and echoing, calling my name from the trees. I kept thinking I’d just lie down for a second and rest, but Jake wouldn’t let me. “You stop moving, you die out here,” he kept saying. “You wanna die? Then sit. Otherwise, walk.”
When we finally saw the car, I nearly collapsed with relief. Jake shoved me into the passenger seat and floored it. My whole body was shaking, my vision tunneling. I leaned over and puked again, and this time there was blood in it—dark, thick, terrifying.
Jake’s voice cracked when he saw it. “Jesus, hold on, man. Don’t pass out. Just stay awake.”
I remember the headlights on the winding road. I remember the sound of Jake’s knuckles drumming the steering wheel, his voice getting more desperate. Then everything kind of went gray.
The next thing I remember clearly is fluorescent lights. Beeping. Needles in my arm. A nurse saying something I couldn’t understand. And Jake—tired, filthy, standing by the bed, eyes rimmed red. “They said Salmonella,” he told me. “Probably those peanuts. Some kind of contamination. You were real close, man. You scared the shit out of me.”
I spent four days in that hospital. I lost ten pounds. My kidneys almost shut down. Jake slept in his car the first night, too wired to drive home. Every day, he brought me something—juice, chips, magazines I didn’t read. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.
When I finally got out, I didn’t feel relieved. I felt… hollow. Changed. Like the forest had taken something from me and didn’t give it back. It wasn’t ghosts or monsters that got me. It was something so much worse: my own body turning into a threat, miles from help, no one to save me but a friend who refused to give up.
To this day, I can’t smell pine without flinching. I don’t eat peanuts. I barely camp anymore. And every now and then, when I’m lying in bed, I still hear the forest. Quiet. Waiting. Watching.
You ever feel something look at you through the trees, and know you wouldn’t have made it without someone dragging you through the dark?
I do. Every single time I close my eyes.
"Whispers at Shadow Creek":
Last summer, in July 2024, my friends Ethan, Lily, Brandon, and I planned what we thought would be a simple, peaceful escape—two nights of camping at Shadow Creek. It was a secluded spot nestled deep in the hills, about two hours from town, a place Ethan had been to once with his cousin years ago. He said it was quiet, beautiful, and untouched by crowds or tourists, and that sounded perfect to us. We wanted a break from everything—work, texts, social media. Just us, some trees, a fire, and the stars. Nothing else.
The drive there felt like the start of something good. The sun was high and warm, the windows down, music low. We joked around in the car, passing bags of snacks back and forth, excited for the weekend ahead. The last stretch was a dirt road that wound through thick forest, our tires crunching over gravel. When we finally parked and hiked the mile into camp, we were already sweating, but the excitement carried us. The trail was narrow and overgrown in places, almost like nature didn’t want to be disturbed. Still, when we emerged at the creekside clearing, it took our breath away.
Tall, dark pines surrounded us on all sides, their trunks like silent sentries. The branches swayed in the breeze, high overhead, casting long shadows that shifted constantly, like the forest was breathing. The creek ran along one edge of the clearing, its water cool and clear, tumbling over smooth stones. There was a kind of hushed reverence in the air, as if the woods were watching us. It was beautiful—untamed, untouched—but there was something else, too. A quiet tension beneath the peace, like we were guests somewhere we didn’t quite belong.
We set up two tents—Ethan and Brandon in one, Lily and I in the other—pitched them on soft ground near the water, and gathered rocks to make a fire ring. Ethan built the fire expertly, stacking the kindling just right, and soon flames danced in the dusk, sending sparks up toward the canopy. The air was thick with the smell of pine, woodsmoke, and damp moss. We sat around the fire, laughing, teasing each other, sharing memories. It felt good. It felt safe.
For dinner, we kept things simple. Brandon had packed some canned chili, and we found a flat rock to prop the pot over the flames. As it heated, a sour smell drifted up—sharp, metallic, a little off. “You sure this is good?” I asked, sniffing it cautiously.
Brandon shrugged, turning the can toward the firelight. “It says it expires next year. Looks fine to me.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “It’s fine. It’s chili, not sushi. Just eat it.”
We laughed, even though something about the smell lingered in the back of my mind. I ate a little—less than the others, since I was distracted watching the fire crackle and spit. The forest was starting to press in now, the dark thickening around us, the temperature dropping. We passed around bread, cracked jokes about “gourmet camp cuisine,” and for a while, everything was normal. Familiar.
But it didn’t last.
Maybe an hour later, Lily suddenly went quiet. She was curled over, arms wrapped around her stomach. “Something’s wrong,” she said, her voice thin and trembling. “I feel…ugh, like I’m going to be sick.”
Ethan didn’t look much better. He was pale and sweating, blinking hard. “My stomach’s killing me,” he groaned, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
Brandon stood up suddenly and staggered toward the bushes. The sound of him retching was immediate and violent. I felt cold. The laughter was gone, replaced by the sound of dry leaves under staggering feet, harsh breathing, and the low, panicked groans of pain.
“I didn’t eat that much,” I said, mostly to myself. “It must’ve been the chili. Something was wrong with it.”
Lily was now on her knees, vomiting near the fire, her body shuddering violently. Her hands were trembling. “I feel like I’m dying,” she whispered. I rushed to her, held her hair back, my fingers shaking.
Brandon stumbled back into the clearing, his face pale and glistening. “That wasn’t food poisoning,” he muttered. “It felt like…burning, inside.” His words slurred slightly. He collapsed to his knees and leaned forward, breathing hard.
Everything was spinning. The fire popped, the trees whispered, and I realized just how alone we were. There was no signal, no road, no way to reach anyone quickly. The nearest ranger station was a mile down the trail, but it might as well have been ten in the dark.
Lily was shaking now, struggling to sip water from her bottle. It dribbled down her chin. Her lips were cracked and dry. “I can’t…hold it down,” she murmured. “Everything hurts.”
“I have to get help,” I said, grabbing the flashlight from my pack. “I’ll go to the ranger station. You guys stay here. Ethan, you’re still with it—try to keep the fire going, keep them warm.”
Ethan barely nodded. “Don’t take long,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s dark out there.”
I didn’t tell them how scared I was. I didn’t say that I felt like something was watching us even before anyone got sick. I didn’t mention that I kept thinking about the sour smell, about the way the woods had gone silent—eerily silent—when they started vomiting.
I stepped onto the trail, the flashlight barely cutting through the black curtain ahead. My feet crunched over twigs and dry leaves. The silence was thick, except for an occasional gust of wind that hissed through the trees like something breathing. I tried to focus, to count my steps, to ignore the way my mind conjured shapes in the shadows.
Then I heard it.
A soft crack—like a twig snapping. I stopped. Listened. My heart pounded in my ears. “Probably a deer,” I whispered, but my voice didn’t sound convincing.
I kept walking, faster now. But a few minutes later, I heard something else. A whisper, low and faint, like a voice carried on the breeze. I froze. “Hello?” I called, my voice cracking. “Is someone there?”
Nothing. Just rustling leaves. I didn’t wait around. I forced myself to move, my legs stiff with adrenaline, the flashlight shaking in my grip. The path felt longer than I remembered. Every shadow looked like it wanted to grab me. The forest felt alive, like it was leaning closer, listening.
When I finally saw the faint outline of the ranger station—a small, wooden cabin with one yellow light in the window—I nearly cried. I stumbled up the steps and pounded on the door.
A moment later, it opened. The ranger was older, gray-bearded, wearing a flannel shirt and worn jeans. His eyes widened when he saw me.
“My friends are sick,” I gasped. “Food poisoning, maybe. They’re throwing up—really bad. One of them can’t stay conscious.”
“Come inside,” he said quickly, reaching for a radio. He called in the emergency, speaking calmly, but with urgency in his voice. “Chopper will be here soon,” he said to me. “Show me where your camp is.”
We headed back together, his flashlight cutting through the woods like a sword. I stayed close. Somehow, the sounds in the forest didn’t scare me as much with him there, but the anxiety didn’t leave. It just sat deeper, heavier.
When we reached camp, the fire was barely embers. Lily was lying on her side, her breathing shallow. Ethan looked up, hollow-eyed. Brandon was slumped near the tree line, silent but conscious. The ground was stained with vomit. The ranger knelt beside Lily, checked her pulse, gave her water in small sips.
The whir of the helicopter came like salvation. A searchlight swept across the trees. Paramedics descended in a blur of motion—bags unpacked, vitals checked, stretchers lowered. I just stood there, numb, watching them work.
We rode in silence to the hospital. I remember holding Lily’s hand, even though she barely responded. In the sterile brightness of the ER, doctors said it was severe bacterial contamination. The can must’ve been compromised—tiny dent, rust, something. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were going to be okay. Dehydrated, yes. Sick for a while. But alive.
In the waiting room, I sat alone while machines beeped and nurses moved in and out. I stared at the vending machine across the hall, thinking about how close we came to losing each other. Not from a bear, not from a serial killer, not from some ghost in the woods—but from a bad can of chili and the sheer fragility of being so far from help.
I still think about that night—the smell of the chili, the whisper in the dark, Lily’s cracked lips, Brandon’s haunted look, Ethan curled into himself. I still hear the leaves rustling, the silence that wasn’t really silence. The woods are beautiful, sure. But they’re old. Unforgiving. They don’t care if you make it back.
Now, when I camp, I pack differently. First-aid kit, satellite phone, water filter, extra batteries. I check every can three times. And every time I step into the woods, I remember how fast everything can fall apart. One bad decision, one missed detail—and the forest won’t lift a finger to save you.