“Shadows of the Lost Trail”:
I’m hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, my boots sinking into the soft dirt of Southern California’s rugged hills. The trail winds through patches of dry chaparral, dotted with gnarled oak trees and manzanita bushes, their red bark peeling like sunburned skin. I’m near Warner Springs, around mile marker 127, and the solitude feels like a gift after weeks of city noise. But the stories I’ve read online nag at me—hikers who vanished without a trace, like Christopher Sylvia in 2015, David O'Sullivan in 2017, Kris Fowler in 2016. No bodies, no answers. Just questions that linger like smoke.
It’s late afternoon when I decide to camp by a small creek, its water glinting as it cuts through the rocks. The spot feels peaceful, with tall grasses swaying and a faint hum of insects in the air. I drop my pack, stretch my aching shoulders, and start pitching my tent, hammering stakes into the ground. That’s when I notice something odd—a flash of faded blue under a pile of leaves near a twisted oak. Curious, I brush the dirt aside and uncover a tattered backpack, half-buried, like someone tried to hide it. My pulse quickens. I tug it free, revealing a rolled-up sleeping bag, a few shirts, and a small journal tucked in a side pocket. The name scrawled on the journal’s first page stops me cold: Christopher Sylvia.
I’ve read about him—disappeared a decade ago, not far from here. His gear was found near a place called Mike’s Place, but no sign of him. Experienced hiker, mid-thirties, just gone. My hands shake as I flip through the journal, its pages yellowed but intact. Entries talk about the trail, the views, the quiet. The last one, dated February 16, 2015, just says, “Met someone today. Seemed off.” My stomach twists. I pull out my phone, take photos of the backpack and journal, zooming in on the name. No cell service out here, not even a single bar. I can’t call the police or anyone else. I stuff the journal in my pack, telling myself I’ll report it when I reach Warner Springs tomorrow. But the find sits heavy, like a stone in my chest.
Night falls, and I’m in my tent, the creek’s soft trickle mixing with the rustle of leaves. Every sound feels sharp, cutting through the dark. An owl hoots nearby, and I flinch, my sleeping bag suddenly too tight. Then, a snap—a branch breaking, too heavy for a deer. I hold my breath, ears straining. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunch outside, circling my tent. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure it’s audible. I grab my flashlight, its beam shaky in my hand, and unzip the tent flap just enough to peek out. Shadows shift among the trees, but I see no one. The footsteps stop, and the silence is worse. I zip the tent shut, clutching my multi-tool, its tiny blade useless but comforting. I don’t sleep much, jumping at every rustle, every creak, until dawn paints the tent walls gray.
Morning comes, and I pack up fast, my eyes scanning the trees. The backpack and journal feel like a secret I shouldn’t be carrying. I hit the trail early, my pace quicker than usual, glancing over my shoulder every few steps. The hills roll out around me, the trail curving through dusty switchbacks and open ridges. A few miles on, I hear boots behind me. A hiker catches up, a tall guy in his forties, wearing a faded green jacket and a wide smile. His beard is scruffy, his eyes bright but sharp, like he’s sizing me up.
“Hey there,” he calls, slowing to match my pace. “I’m John. You hiking alone?”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just taking it day by day.”
“Nice stretch, this part,” he says, gesturing to the hills. “I’ve hiked it a few times. You hear about those missing folks? Sylvia, O’Sullivan, Fowler?”
My skin prickles. “Yeah, creepy stuff. Makes you wonder what happened.”
He nods, his smile thinning. “Trail’s wild. People get lost, or… something else.” His tone shifts, just enough to make me grip my pack straps tighter.
We hike together for an hour, his chatter filling the silence. He talks about the best campsites, the tastiest trail meals, but there’s something off—his laugh’s too loud, his glances too frequent. I mention the backpack I found, testing him. “Found some gear back by the creek,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Old stuff, had a name on it—Christopher Sylvia.”
His step falters, and his eyes flick to mine, narrow and hard. “You touched it?” he asks, too sharp. “Where exactly?”
“Near my campsite,” I say, watching him. “Took pictures. Gonna report it in town.”
He nods, slow, his jaw tight. “Smart move. But you should stick to the main trail. Safer that way.”
I don’t like how he says it, like a warning. We keep hiking, but the air feels heavier now. A mile later, he points to a faint path branching off into thick woods, overgrown with brambles and pine. “Shortcut,” he says, his smile back but not reaching his eyes. “Cuts off a couple hours. Wanna try it?”
My gut screams no. The main trail’s clear, well-traveled. This path looks like it hasn’t been used in years. But John’s already turning, his boots crunching on pine needles, and I don’t want to seem scared. “Sure,” I say, my voice tighter than I mean it to be.
The shortcut feels wrong from the start. Branches snag my pack, and the trail narrows, forcing us single-file. John’s ahead, his broad shoulders blocking my view. The woods are quiet, too quiet—no birds, no breeze, just our steps and my quickening breath. He glances back every few minutes, his eyes cold now, like he’s watching prey. My heart’s thudding, and I curse myself for following him.
“You know,” he says suddenly, stopping so fast I almost bump into him, “people disappear out here all the time. Like Sylvia. Maybe he wanted to vanish. Maybe some people need to.”
His voice is low, almost a growl. He turns, stepping closer, his frame towering over me. “What did you say?” I ask, stepping back, my hand brushing the multi-tool in my pocket.
“You shouldn’t have touched that gear,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re asking for trouble, poking around like that.”
“I’m just reporting it,” I say, my voice shaking. “I need to get back to the main trail.”
He steps closer, blocking the path. “I don’t think so. People who find things like that… they don’t last long out here.”
Panic surges, hot and sharp. He lunges, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. I twist hard, kicking his shin with all my strength. He stumbles, cursing, and I rip free, sprinting into the woods. Branches claw at my face, my pack bouncing as I dodge trees and leap over roots. His footsteps crash behind me, heavy and close, his voice shouting, “You can’t run forever! You’re gonna end up like him!”
My lungs burn, my legs screaming, but fear keeps me moving. I zigzag through pines, hoping to lose him, my breath ragged. His shouts grow fainter, but I don’t stop, not until I burst onto a dusty dirt road, my knees buckling. Headlights flash in the distance—a beat-up pickup truck rattling toward me. I wave my arms, screaming, “Help! Please!”
The truck slows, and an older man leans out, his face weathered, eyes wide with concern. “You okay, kid?” he asks, his voice gruff but kind.
“Someone’s after me,” I gasp, glancing back at the trees. John’s silhouette is there, just at the edge of the woods, watching. He doesn’t move closer, but his stare burns into me. “Please, get me to town.”
“Get in,” the man says, swinging the passenger door open. I climb in, my hands shaking as I clutch my pack. As we drive, I spill everything—the backpack, the journal, John, the chase. The man, a local rancher named Tom, listens, his jaw tight. “You’re lucky you got out,” he says. “Folks go missing around here. Not all of ’em get found.”
He takes me to the police station in Warner Springs, a small building with flickering fluorescent lights. I show the officers the photos, hand over the journal, and tell them about John—his green jacket, his sharp eyes, his threats. They take notes, their faces grim, and promise to look into it. Later, I hear whispers that John’s been questioned before, linked to other incidents on the trail, though nothing’s ever been proven. No one knows if he had anything to do with Sylvia or the others, but the cops keep his name on file.
I’m safe now, back in town, but the trail’s magic is tainted. The journal’s with the police, and I hope it helps solve Sylvia’s case, but I can’t shake the what-ifs. Was John just a creep, or something worse? Did I stumble too close to a truth someone wanted buried? The PCT’s beauty still pulls at me, its ridges and creeks calling, but I’ll never forget how fast it can turn deadly—not from ghosts or monsters, but from people, hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone to find the wrong thing.
"Lost in the Silence of the PCT":
I’d been hiking the Pacific Crest Trail for nearly a month, my boots caked with dirt, my legs heavy from the endless climb through Washington’s rugged terrain. Near White Pass, I stumbled across a small campsite tucked between pines, where I met him—a hiker named Kris, tall and wiry, with a scruffy beard and a grin that seemed to push back the weight of his massive pack. His eyes were bright but tired, like he’d seen too many miles. We shared a fire, the flames crackling as we boiled water for instant noodles, the scent of pine and smoke thick around us.
“You going the whole way?” I asked, stirring my pot, the metal spoon scraping softly.
Kris leaned back against a log, stretching his legs. “Yeah, started at the Mexican border. Almost done now. Maybe a week left if I push it. You?”
“Just a section,” I said, glancing at the dark shapes of the trees beyond the firelight. “This part’s no joke. You hear about the storms up here?”
He shrugged, but his gaze flicked to the sky, where clouds hung low and heavy. “I’ve seen worse. Snow, rain, whatever. Just keep moving, you know?”
I nodded, but something in his voice felt off, like he was convincing himself. “People go missing out here,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Heard stories at the last supply stop. Hikers just… gone.”
Kris’s grin faded for a second, then returned. “Yeah, well, I’m careful. Got my map, my gear. I’ll be fine.” He paused, then added, “You watch yourself too, okay? Trail’s tricky this far north.”
“Will do,” I said. We ate in silence after that, the fire popping, the forest eerily quiet. When he packed up to leave, his silhouette disappeared into the trees, and I felt a strange pang, like I should’ve said more.
Two days later, at a supply stop, I overheard hikers talking. Kris never made it to his next checkpoint. No sign, no message, nothing. His last cell ping was near White Pass, then silence. My stomach knotted, his face flashing in my mind—those tired eyes, that quick grin. I couldn’t shake it. When I heard they were organizing a search, I didn’t think twice. I signed up, my pack heavier with dread than gear.
The search began at first light, a group of twelve of us fanning out from White Pass. The forest was dense, pine needles blanketing the ground, branches snagging at my jacket. We shouted Kris’s name, our voices bouncing off the rocky ridges, swallowed by the vastness. The air smelled of wet earth and moss, and every step felt like wading deeper into something unknown.
A guy named Tom, older with a gray beard and deep lines around his eyes, fell in step beside me. “You knew him, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, like he didn’t want the others to hear.
“Met him once,” I said, scanning the underbrush. “Shared a fire. He seemed solid, like he knew what he was doing.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “That’s what’s weird. Experienced guys don’t just vanish. I’ve been on this trail before. Heard stories—people disappearing, no trace. Some say it’s the weather, some say… other things.”
I shot him a look. “Like what?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just… doesn’t feel right out here.”
His words stuck with me, crawling under my skin. The trees seemed to lean in, their shadows sharper, longer. I kept calling Kris’s name, but the silence that answered felt heavy, like the forest was holding its breath.
Around noon, I spotted something glinting in the dirt—a water bottle, scratched and dented, with “K.F.” carved into the cap. My heart thudded. “Guys, over here!” I called, holding it up. The group gathered, faces tense.
“That’s his,” a woman named Lisa said, her voice steady but her eyes wide. She was younger, with short brown hair and a no-nonsense way about her. “Could’ve just dropped it, right?”
“Or he was running,” Tom muttered, crouching to study the ground. “Look at the dirt—scuffed up, like someone moved fast.”
“Stop it,” I said, sharper than I meant. “We don’t know that.” But my hands shook as I tucked the bottle into my pack. We marked the spot and kept moving, deeper into the forest where the trail grew narrow, the air colder.
Hours later, near a rocky outcrop, I froze. A scrap of blue fabric hung from a thornbush, torn and frayed, like it had been ripped off in a hurry. It matched the jacket Kris wore that night by the fire. My mouth went dry. “Found something,” I said, my voice barely carrying.
The group crowded around, their breaths visible in the chill. Lisa knelt, touching the fabric. “Could be an animal,” she said, but her fingers lingered, uncertain. “Or he snagged it on the bush.”
“Running from what?” Tom asked, his eyes darting to the trees. “This isn’t an accident. Something’s wrong here.”
I didn’t answer. My pulse hammered, and I scanned the forest, half-expecting to see eyes staring back. The trees were too close, their branches like fingers reaching out. We pressed on, the silence heavier, our steps quicker.
Then we found it—a campsite, hidden in a small clearing, barely visible from the trail. A small tent, unzipped, flapped open, its contents spilled out. A stove, a spoon, a half-eaten energy bar, a pair of socks crusted with dirt. Kris’s pack sat against a tree, untouched, like he’d meant to come back. My chest tightened.
“This is his,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why leave all this?”
Lisa circled the site, her face pale. “Maybe he got lost. Wandered off.”
Tom kicked at a rock, his voice low. “Or something took him. This doesn’t look right. Nothing’s packed up. It’s like he just… vanished.”
“Enough,” I snapped, but my hands were clammy. I started searching the site, desperate for anything that made sense. That’s when I saw it—a small notebook, half-buried under a pile of leaves near the tent. I grabbed it, my fingers numb, and flipped it open. Kris’s handwriting filled the pages, a trail journal with notes on miles, campsites, supplies. The last entry, dated two days ago, stopped me cold.
“Someone’s out there,” it read. “Heard footsteps last night, circling the tent. Not an animal—too deliberate. Moved camp today, but still feel watched. Staying close to gear, but I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
My stomach dropped. I showed the page to Tom and Lisa. Lisa’s hand went to her mouth. “He was scared,” she whispered. “He thought someone was following him.”
“Who?” I asked, my voice cracking. The words felt like a weight, pressing down on me. I looked around, the clearing suddenly too small, the trees too dark. “Who was out here with him?”
Tom’s face was grim. “I heard there’ve been weird types on the trail lately. Drifters, people who don’t belong. Could be one of them.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Lisa said, but her voice trembled. “We need to report this. Get the sheriff’s team out here.”
I nodded, clutching the journal. “We should go. Now.”
We started back, marking the site with a bright orange flag. But the forest felt different now, like it was watching us. Every rustle, every snap of a twig, made my heart race. My eyes kept darting to the shadows, expecting movement. Then, maybe a mile from the camp, it happened—a scream, sharp and human, echoing from somewhere deep in the forest. We froze, our breaths caught.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Lisa nodded, her face ashen. “Could be an animal. A cougar, maybe. They sound human sometimes.”
“That wasn’t a cougar,” Tom said, his voice flat. He gripped his walking stick like a weapon. “That was a person.”
We stood there, listening, but the scream didn’t come again. Just silence, thick and suffocating. My legs felt weak, but we kept moving, faster now, the trail winding through denser trees. I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on my back, the journal burning a hole in my pack.
Then I saw them—footprints, fresh in the soft dirt beside the trail. Big, heavy, with deep treads, not like Kris’s smaller hiking boots or any of our group’s. They veered off into the forest, clear for a dozen steps, then stopped, like whoever made them had vanished into thin air. My breath hitched.
“Look at these,” I said, pointing. The group gathered, staring at the prints.
“Those aren’t ours,” Tom said, his voice low. “And they’re fresh. Someone’s out here.”
Lisa crouched, touching the edge of a print. “Could be another hiker. Or a searcher we didn’t meet.”
“Then where’d they go?” I asked, my eyes following the tracks to where they ended. The forest was silent, but it felt alive, like it was hiding something.
We didn’t talk much after that. We hiked back to the trailhead, the journal and water bottle in my pack, the torn jacket stuffed in Lisa’s. My mind raced—Kris’s words, the scream, those footprints. When we reached the search coordinator, a stern woman with a clipboard, we reported everything: the bottle, the jacket, the camp, the journal, the scream, the tracks. She took notes, her face unreadable, and promised to send a bigger team with dogs and a helicopter.
They searched for weeks after that—sheriff’s teams, volunteers, even drones buzzing over the ridges. They found nothing. No Kris, no sign of whoever left those footprints. The official report said he likely got lost, maybe caught in a storm, but I couldn’t believe it. Not after that journal, not after that scream.
I left the trail for good after that. Couldn’t go back, not with the way the forest felt now, like it was waiting. I still check news sites, hoping for word on Kris, but there’s nothing. Just silence. And every night, when I close my eyes, I hear that scream, see those footprints ending in the dirt. Whatever happened to Kris, whatever was out there with him, it’s still on that trail. And I can’t shake the feeling it’s still watching.
"Echoes of the Lost: The Pacific Crest Trail Vanishing":
I’d hiked the Pacific Crest Trail before, so when I heard about Kris Fowler’s disappearance, it hit hard. He was a thru-hiker, chasing the dream of walking from Mexico to Canada, but he vanished in October 2016, somewhere between White Pass and Chinook Pass in Washington. His phone pinged near White Pass, then went silent. The thought of someone just gone, swallowed by the wilderness, kept me up at night. I had to help. So, in November, I joined a volunteer search team, hoping to find answers.
We gathered at the White Pass trailhead, a small group of about fifteen, standing in a loose circle. The air was sharp, our breath puffing out in clouds. Tom, the search coordinator, was a stocky guy with graying hair and eyes that looked like they’d seen too many empty trails. He held up a photo of Kris—bearded, grinning, wearing a blue jacket and a backpack. “Kris was last seen here on October 12,” Tom said, his voice steady but heavy. “He was heading north to Chinook Pass, 28 miles away. A storm rolled in that day, bad one. His phone pinged at 5 p.m., then nothing. We’re covering the trail, side paths, ridges, and lakes—Snow Lake, Anderson Lake, all of it. Stay in pairs, check in by radio every hour, and don’t wander off alone. This terrain’s no joke.”
I paired up with Jen, a wiry woman in her thirties with a no-nonsense vibe. She’d done search-and-rescue before and carried a topo map folded in her pocket. As we started hiking, she pointed at the map’s contour lines. “This stretch is rough,” she said. “Steep ridges, thick forests, and the trail fades out in spots. Plus, there’s snow now. If Kris got off-trail, he could be anywhere.” Her words sank into me, making the trees around us feel taller, closer. The path was narrow, lined with pines and patches of snow that crunched under my boots. Every so often, I called out, “Kris! Kris Fowler!” My voice bounced off the ridges, but only silence answered.
We searched for hours, moving slow, checking under fallen logs, behind boulders, anywhere a person might’ve crawled for shelter. My pack felt heavier with every step, the straps digging into my shoulders. Jen kept her eyes on the ground, scanning for tracks or gear. Around noon, we stopped near a creek to eat. I sat on a rock, chewing a granola bar, when Jen spoke up. “You ever think about how easy it is to disappear out here?” she asked, not looking at me. “One wrong turn, and you’re gone.” I nodded, my mouth dry. “Yeah. Too easy.”
By late afternoon, we reached a dense forest near Snow Lake. The trail dipped into a shadowy valley, the pines so thick they blocked out most of the light. My stomach twisted as we followed a faint side path, barely more than a deer trail. The air felt heavy, like it was holding its breath. I spotted something—a scrap of blue fabric snagged on a thorny bush. “Jen, look,” I said, pointing. She knelt, studying it. The fabric was torn, frayed, maybe from a jacket. “Could be nothing,” she said, but her voice was tight. “Or it could be his.” She pulled out a plastic bag and sealed the fabric inside. I radioed Tom, my fingers fumbling with the button. “Found a piece of blue fabric, possible clothing, near Snow Lake,” I said. Tom’s voice crackled back. “Mark the spot, bag it, keep moving. Stay sharp.” I marked the coordinates on Jen’s map, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Was this Kris’s? Had he been here, scared, lost?
We set up camp by Snow Lake that night. The water was still, reflecting the dark trees like a mirror. The other volunteers built a small fire, and we sat around it, eating rehydrated meals from packets. Dan, a lean guy with a gray beard and a knit cap, spoke up, his voice low. “This trail’s got a history,” he said, poking the fire with a stick. “Kris isn’t the first. There was a guy in California, vanished in ’15. Another in Oregon, couple years back. No trace, no body. Like the trail just… takes them.” Jen rolled her eyes. “Dan, come on. We’re here to find Kris, not scare each other.” But Dan leaned forward, the firelight flickering on his face. “I’m just saying, you feel it out here. Like something’s watching.” His words hung in the air, and I felt a chill that wasn’t from the cold.
I crawled into my tent later, zipping it tight. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of leaves. Around midnight, I heard footsteps—slow, heavy, circling the camp. My heart thudded. I lay still, clutching my sleeping bag, straining to listen. The steps paused, then started again, closer. I unzipped my tent an inch, peering into the darkness. Nothing but the faint outline of trees and the lake’s edge. “Just a deer,” I whispered, but my voice sounded hollow. I didn’t sleep much after that.
The next morning, Jen and I pushed deeper into the forest, following a creek that fed into Anderson Lake. The trail was faint, overgrown with roots and slick with mud. My boots sank with every step, and the trees seemed to close in tighter. I kept glancing behind me, half-expecting to see someone—or something—following. Jen noticed. “You okay?” she asked, adjusting her pack. “Yeah,” I lied. “Just tired.” But the truth was, Dan’s words were stuck in my head, and that fabric we’d found felt like a warning.
Around noon, I spotted something odd—a small pile of rocks, stacked neatly, like a marker. It didn’t look natural. “Jen, over here,” I called. She jogged over, and we crouched, moving the rocks one by one. Underneath was a small notebook, its cover damp and smeared with dirt. My pulse raced as I opened it. The pages were filled with tight, neat handwriting—trail notes, dates, mile markers. It was a hiker’s journal. The last entry was dated October 12, 2016. I read it aloud, my voice shaking: “Lost. Storm came fast. Can’t find the trail. Cold. So cold. I think I hear someone…” The words trailed off, the ink smudged, like the pen had slipped from frozen fingers.
Jen stared at the page, her face pale. “That’s Kris’s writing. Has to be.” She grabbed the radio. “Tom, we found a notebook near Anderson Lake. It’s got an entry from October 12. Says he was lost, heard someone.” Tom’s voice came back, urgent. “Bag it, bring it back now. Don’t touch anything else.” As I slipped the notebook into a plastic bag, a twig snapped behind us. I spun around, scanning the trees. Nothing moved. “You hear that?” I whispered. Jen nodded, her eyes wide. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
We started back, moving fast, the notebook heavy in my pack. Every rustle made me jump, every shadow seemed to shift. I kept looking over my shoulder, sure I’d see someone trailing us. The forest felt alive, watching. At one point, I heard a faint whisper, like a voice carried on the wind, but when I stopped, it was gone. “You’re imagining things,” I told myself, but my heart wouldn’t slow.
Back at camp, Tom took the notebook, his hands careful, like it was fragile. He read the last entry, his jaw tight. “This is big,” he said. “But it’s strange. ‘I think I hear someone’—who? Another hiker? A rescuer? Or just… his mind, breaking down in the cold?” Nobody answered. The other volunteers sat quietly, staring at the fire. Dan spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe he wasn’t alone out there.” Jen snapped, “Enough, Dan.” But I saw her glance at the trees, like she felt it too.
The search stretched on for days. We combed ridges, checked frozen creek beds, shouted Kris’s name until our throats were raw. But we found nothing else—no tracks, no gear, no sign of him. Each night, I lay in my tent, listening for those footsteps. They came again the third night, slow and deliberate, stopping just outside my tent. I held my breath, too scared to move. In the morning, I checked the ground—no prints, just snow and pine needles. I didn’t tell Jen. I didn’t want her to think I was losing it.
On the fifth day, we searched a steep slope near Blowout Mountain, a spot Tom said Kris might’ve veered toward. The terrain was brutal—loose rocks, icy patches, trees so dense you couldn’t see ten feet ahead. My legs burned, and my breath came in short gasps. Jen pointed to a narrow gully below. “If he fell there, we’d never find him,” she said. I nodded, but the thought made my chest tight. Was Kris down there, hidden under snow? Or had he wandered farther, chasing a sound he thought was help?
That night, around the fire, Tom shared more about Kris. “He was experienced,” he said. “Knew the trail, had good gear. But that storm… it changed everything. If he got disoriented, hypothermia sets in fast.” Dan stirred the fire, his face grim. “Or maybe someone else was out there. You read that notebook. He heard something.” Jen sighed. “Dan, people hallucinate when they’re freezing. It was probably nothing.” But her voice wavered, and I wondered if she believed it.
On the last day, hiking back to White Pass, I felt it again—that prickling sense of being watched. I glanced at the ridge above, and for a split second, I saw a figure—tall, motionless, half-hidden by pines. My breath caught. I blinked, and it was gone. “You okay?” Jen asked, following my gaze. “Thought I saw something,” I admitted. She scanned the ridge, then shook her head. “Nothing’s there. Let’s keep moving.” But I couldn’t shake it. My heart pounded all the way to the trailhead.
We left without finding Kris. The notebook was the only proof he’d been out there, lost, scared, hearing something—or someone—in his final moments. I still think about that entry: “I think I hear someone…” Was it another hiker he missed? A trick of his mind? Or something else, something the trail didn’t want us to find? I don’t know. At night, I still hear those footsteps in my dreams, circling closer, and I wonder if the PCT ever lets go of the people it claims.
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