“The Whistle Beyond the Firelight”:
Work stress, a bad breakup—everything was piling up. The city felt like it was closing in on me, every traffic jam, every meaningless meeting, every memory of what I’d lost grinding against my nerves like sandpaper. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t focus. Even food tasted like cardboard. Something inside me was unraveling. So, I threw everything I thought I’d need into the back of my black Ford F-150—tent, camp stove, hatchet, fishing gear, a cooler full of beer and prepped meals—and just started driving north. Moose Creek, tucked deep into the wild north of Big Sky, Montana, had come up on a forum post months ago. Remote. Quiet. Unmarked trails. Exactly what I needed.
It was late October 2024. The air was crisp, the kind that bites just enough to remind you you're alive. The drive itself felt like a shedding of layers—the further I got from the city, the lighter I felt. Asphalt gave way to gravel, and eventually to dirt. Pines thickened on either side of the road like ancient sentries, and soon cell service dropped off entirely. I welcomed the silence. When I finally rolled up to the trailhead, a two-track path barely wide enough for my truck, the sun was already low in the sky. I parked at a wide bend near the creek, where the trees opened just enough to reveal a perfect clearing blanketed with soft pine needles.
I stepped out and just stood there for a moment, listening. The only sounds were the distant gurgle of the brook and the wind sifting through the trees. No voices. No horns. Just the clean breath of the mountains. I unloaded my gear, stretching my arms after the long drive, and started setting up the old canvas wall tent I’d used on elk hunts years ago.
As dusk rolled in, I got a small fire going with deadfall and kindling. I leaned back against a log, the fire warming my legs, beer in hand, and just watched the sky go orange and violet and finally black, studded with stars. That first night felt like a kind of rebirth. I cooked a trout I caught in the brook, its skin crisping over the fire. When I crawled into my sleeping bag, the tent smelling faintly of pine and canvas, I slept like I hadn’t in months.
The next morning, frost had kissed the ground and my breath came out in clouds. I got the stove going and brewed coffee, the bitter steam mixing with the cold mountain air. I didn’t have a plan—just wander, maybe fish again, maybe sit and do nothing. It was bliss. But the peace didn’t last.
I was packing a small day bag. A man appeared—tall, mid-forties maybe, with a thick beard and sun-weathered face. He wore a faded Carhartt jacket, the kind that looks like it’s been lived in for years, and a small backpack slung over one shoulder that didn’t seem to hold much. His boots were dusty, well-worn.
“Hey there,” he said, waving one hand casually. His voice was light, almost friendly.
“Hey,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “You camping out here too?”
“Yeah, just passing through,” he said. “Name’s Steve. Mind if I sit for a bit?”
I didn’t want company. But I didn’t want trouble either. So I forced a nod. “Sure. I’m Tom. Grab a log.”
He lowered his pack and sat with too much familiarity, glancing over my setup like he was inventorying it. My cooler. My rod. My truck keys. Everything I had, his eyes grazed over like a scavenger’s.
“Nice spot,” he said. “Quiet. You out here alone?”
I hesitated. “My buddy’s meeting me tomorrow,” I lied. “Just got here early.”
He nodded, smiling with his mouth. “Smart. Always good to have backup. No one around for miles. No one to hear you if something goes wrong.”
I chuckled weakly, though it felt like a gut punch. “Yeah. Guess that’s the idea.”
He accepted a beer when I offered one. We talked for a bit—fishing, weather, gear. But it wasn’t normal small talk. He asked questions that dug too deep. “You drive up here alone?” “How long you staying?” “Your buddy know exactly where your camp is?” Casual tone, but each word felt like a probe, testing for weakness.
By noon, I was restless. He still hadn’t left. At one point, he wandered off behind my tent and stayed out of sight for several minutes. When he came back, he was quiet, and I noticed my axe had shifted position. It was lying on the woodpile, but the handle faced differently now. I didn’t say anything.
“Hey, man,” I said eventually, trying to sound light. “I think I’m gonna hike a bit before it gets dark.”
He stood up too quickly. “Mind if I tag along?”
I forced a smile, shouldering my pack. “Actually, I was planning to go solo today. Just clear my head, y’know? Rain check.”
He didn’t respond for a second, then nodded slowly. “Sure, Tom. Catch you later.”
I left without looking back. I hiked hard and long, looping wide around ridge lines, pretending I had a destination. I didn’t. I just needed to burn time. When I finally returned near dusk, the clearing was empty. No sign of Steve. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
That night, I barely ate. I kept the fire going longer than usual, ears straining at every sound. Just as I was about to retreat into the tent, I heard it—a low whistle. Slow. Purposeful. Like someone mimicking a bird, but not quite right. It came from just beyond the ring of firelight.
I stood still, blood turning cold. “Steve?” I called out, voice tight.
Silence. Then the whistle again, closer. I grabbed my flashlight and scanned the trees. Nothing. Just black shapes and moving shadows. Then a voice, low and amused: “Just messin’ with ya, Tom.”
He stepped into the glow. His hands were at his sides, but then I saw it—my axe, dangling from one of them, like it belonged to him now.
“What the hell, man?” I said, stepping back. “This isn’t funny.”
“You sure about that?” he replied, voice calm, almost gentle. “Dangerous out here. Anything could happen.”
I held the flashlight up, not as a light, but as a weapon. My hands shook. “You need to leave. Right now.”
But he didn’t move. Just stared at me, head tilted. “Let’s talk inside,” he said, nodding toward my tent.
“No way,” I said, backing further. “I’ll call for help.”
His grin widened. “You think anyone’s coming?”
I turned to run. That’s when I heard his boots thundering behind me. Then pain—white-hot and blooming across my shoulder like fire. I screamed, crashing into the ground, my body rolling against sharp rocks and sticks. I looked up, dazed, and saw him standing over me. He raised the axe again, eyes wide and wild. And I knew I had to fight, or I wouldn’t see another sunrise.
I kicked out blindly, my boot connecting with his shin. He grunted, staggered a step, and in that moment, I scrambled backward like an animal, blood warm down my arm from where the axe had grazed me. My flashlight was gone—somewhere in the dirt—and I clawed for anything I could use. My hand closed around a thick branch, more club than stick, and I swung it up just as he lunged again.
The branch cracked against his ribs. He snarled and swung the axe down in a wild arc. It buried halfway into the ground beside me, sparks flying as it glanced off a rock. That gave me just enough time to get to my feet and run.
The forest was pitch black beyond the firelight, branches clawing at my face and arms as I barreled into the trees. My shoulder throbbed, every heartbeat a jolt of searing pain. Behind me, I could hear him crashing through the underbrush, cursing low and fast, not yelling—he was hunting now.
I ran until my lungs were on fire. I knew these woods only in vague sketches from the day before, but I remembered a rock outcrop a half mile upstream from camp. If I could get there, I could climb it—get a vantage, maybe even a place to defend.
I slipped twice in the dark, slamming my knee into a root, my hand skimming across frozen moss. My breath came in ragged sobs.
The rock face loomed ahead, pale in the dark. I scrambled up, using roots and handholds slick with frost. I pulled myself into a shallow crevice halfway up and flattened against the stone, trying to quiet my breathing. Below, in the trees, I heard him.
His footsteps slowed. He was methodical now, stalking like a predator. I saw his silhouette moving along the trail, axe glinting faintly as he turned, scanning. He called out softly, sing-song: “Tooom… you out there, buddy?”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
He passed below me and disappeared into the trees.
I stayed there until dawn.
The cold was savage, but I didn’t dare climb down. My shoulder throbbed, likely dislocated, maybe worse. I pressed my jacket against the wound, teeth gritted. Hours passed. At one point, I saw movement again—far off this time, across the brook. Him? Maybe. Maybe not.
When the sun finally bled into the sky, I crawled down and limped back to camp, every step torture. My tent had been slashed open. The cooler was gone. My rod broken. The axe still stuck in the dirt where it had landed, blood drying on the blade.
I didn’t stop. I went straight to my truck, keys still in my jacket pocket. Thank God. The tires were slashed—but only two. I had a patch kit and a small air compressor. I worked fast, hands shaking the whole time, eyes scanning the treeline. Every sound felt like death approaching.
I don’t know how I did it. But by early afternoon, I had the tires patched and the truck rolling, slow but moving. I didn’t stop until I hit the first sign of pavement. I didn’t stop until my phone buzzed back to life with cell signal and I called 911.
The sheriff’s department sent a unit up that night, but they found nothing. No man. No signs, other than the damage to my camp. They said it was likely a transient. A recluse. “That country draws all kinds,” one deputy told me, like it was supposed to be comforting.
But I know what I saw. I know he wasn’t just passing through. He’d been waiting. Watching.
I still think about it. Still hear that not-quite-right whistle in dreams. Still wake up some nights reaching for a branch that isn’t there.
"The Night the Canyon Turned Cold":
It was a Friday in late September when I packed up my little hatchback with a borrowed tent, my sleeping bag, a small camp stove, a few cans of soup, some trail mix, and my sketchbook. The drive out was beautiful. The leaves were beginning to shift into their autumn colors—deep reds, warm golds—and the road curved gently through dense pines and oaks. Willow Creek wasn’t too far from town, but it felt like a different world entirely. The moment I passed the weathered wooden sign at the park entrance, I felt a sense of peace settle over me, like the woods had opened up just to welcome me in.
At the ranger station, a small wooden building with a slanted roof and a screen door that creaked as I pushed it open, I met Ranger Tom. He had a gray beard, a baseball cap, and a relaxed, steady kind of friendliness that immediately made me feel a little less on edge.
“Welcome to Willow Creek!” he said, flipping through a logbook. “First time camping solo?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, trying to sound like I did this sort of thing all the time. “Just need some time to unplug.”
“Well, you picked a good spot for that,” he said with a smile, handing me a folded map. “Stick to the marked trails, and if you need anything, there’s an emergency phone by the main lot. Cell signal’s garbage out here, so don’t count on that.”
I thanked him and left, driving the gravel road until I found campsite 23. It was a quiet spot, tucked just off the loop, with a clearing ringed by tall pines and thick underbrush. No other tents were visible, but I knew a few were nearby—close enough for comfort, not close enough to intrude on my solitude. I parked, took a deep breath of the fresh, pine-scented air, and started unpacking.
Setting up the tent took longer than I expected. I struggled with the poles and fumbled with the stakes, my hands clumsy, but eventually, it stood tall and secure, a little crooked but solid. I laid out my sleeping bag and arranged my gear neatly inside. There was a satisfying quiet all around—just the occasional rustle of branches in the wind and the distant call of birds. I sat on the small picnic bench beside the fire ring, sketchbook in my lap, and started doodling the trees, their tall trunks disappearing into the canopy overhead.
That evening, I hiked a short trail down to the lake. The water was still, glassy, reflecting the pastel colors of the sunset. I sat by the edge for a long time, just watching the sky change. When I got back to my site, I built a small fire, the crackle and pop of it somehow louder in the quiet. I roasted marshmallows—burned most of them—but the sugary, sticky mess still tasted amazing. The stars slowly emerged as night deepened, and I lay back on the bench, staring up at them, feeling small in the best kind of way.
By ten o’clock, the fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the chill had crept in. I zipped myself into my sleeping bag, the nylon of the tent rustling softly as I shifted to get comfortable. Crickets chirped all around, and I felt calm, almost weightless, like I’d finally found the stillness I was craving.
I don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was a sound, maybe just that eerie instinct that something’s not right. One second I was asleep, the next I was wide awake, my heart already thudding in my chest. I stayed perfectly still, listening. At first, all I heard was the usual nighttime sounds—the wind moving through the trees, a distant owl. But then I heard it. A footstep. Slow. Heavy. The crunch of dry leaves under boots, just outside the tent.
I froze, every muscle in my body locking up. My breath went shallow, my ears straining. Another step. Then another. Not rushed. Not panicked. Deliberate.
I turned my head slowly toward the side window of the tent. It was mesh, just a thin barrier between me and whatever was out there. At first, I couldn’t see anything. Then a shape moved—a tall, human silhouette against the dim outline of the trees. My mouth went dry. I reached for my flashlight with trembling fingers and flicked it on.
The beam cut through the dark and landed on a face. A man. Inches from the mesh. His skin looked pale, almost bluish in the light, and his eyes were wide, locked onto mine. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared, his breath fogging the mesh slightly. He had stubble on his chin, a dark hoodie pulled tight over his head, and something about him made every instinct in my body scream that something was terribly wrong.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice hoarse and shaky. “What do you want?”
No response. His eyes didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just stood there, like he was waiting for something.
“I’m calling the rangers!” I shouted. “You need to leave right now!”
He took a single step closer. I heard a twig snap under his foot. That was enough. I yanked my backpack closer, grabbed my keys, and with one desperate motion, unzipped the tent door. The sound of the zipper was deafening in the silence. I bolted out into the night, barefoot, the cold dampness of the forest floor soaking into my skin instantly. Rocks and pine needles jabbed at my feet, but I didn’t stop.
Behind me, I heard movement—those steady, deliberate footsteps. Not running. Just following.
My car came into view like a lifeline. I fumbled with the keys, dropped them, cursed under my breath. I snatched them off the ground, hands shaking uncontrollably, and finally got the door open. I dove inside, slammed it shut, locked the doors, and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. I turned on the headlights.
Nothing. The woods were empty. But I wasn’t waiting for him to show again. I threw the car into gear and sped down the gravel road, dust rising behind me. When I reached the main lot, I screeched to a stop next to the emergency phone, jumped out, and called the ranger station.
“There’s a man at my campsite!” I said, the words tumbling out of me. “He was watching me, right outside my tent!”
The voice on the other end was calm, professional. “Okay, take a deep breath. What’s your name and your campsite number?”
“Sarah. Number 23. Please, I’m alone.”
“We’ve got someone on the way right now. Stay in your car, doors locked.”
I sat in the car, staring into the woods, every shadow a possible threat. I could still see his face, burned into my memory. Those eyes. That blank stare. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my hands went numb.
Fifteen minutes later, a ranger truck pulled into the lot. It was Tom. His demeanor was different now—more serious, all business. I rolled down my window, barely able to speak.
“You okay?” he asked, crouching slightly to see into the car.
I nodded slowly. “He was just… staring. He didn’t say anything.”
“We found him,” Tom said. “Guy from a group site not far from yours. Drunk out of his mind. Said he got turned around looking for the bathroom.”
“Drunk?” I whispered. “That’s not… he didn’t seem drunk.”
“We’re escorting him out and banning him from the park. You did the right thing. Want us to wait while you pack up?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. I want to leave now.”
Back at the site, with the ranger truck’s headlights casting long beams into the trees, I hurriedly grabbed my things. I didn’t even bother folding the tent, just ripped the stakes out and shoved everything into the trunk. The woods didn’t feel peaceful anymore. They felt close. Watching.
I drove home as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. The sky was pale blue, birds just starting to chirp. But I felt none of the comfort I had the day before. My hands still trembled on the steering wheel.
When I finally stepped into my apartment, I locked the door behind me and sat down on the couch, my heart still pounding. I kept seeing his face. I kept wondering—what if I hadn’t woken up? What if I’d just lain there and let him unzip the tent? What if he hadn’t been drunk?
I haven’t gone camping since. I miss it—the quiet, the stars, the sense of being far away from everything. But I can’t forget that night. I bought a satellite phone. Pepper spray. Read everything I could about solo camping safety. Maybe someday I’ll go again. But not alone. Not without a way to call for help.
"The Man Outside My Tent":
I needed a break, some quiet to clear my head. My days had started to blur together—too much noise, too many people, deadlines, the constant ping of notifications. I craved something different, something still. So, I decided to go solo camping at Willow Creek State Park, a place I’d heard was peaceful, with good trails and a wide, calm lake. I'd never camped alone before, but the idea of disconnecting from everything and just being surrounded by trees and silence sounded perfect. I was excited, maybe a little too confident, thinking a night or two alone would be just what I needed to reset.
It was a Friday in late September when I packed up my little hatchback with a borrowed tent, my sleeping bag, a small camp stove, a few cans of soup, some trail mix, and my sketchbook. The drive out was beautiful. The leaves were beginning to shift into their autumn colors—deep reds, warm golds—and the road curved gently through dense pines and oaks. Willow Creek wasn’t too far from town, but it felt like a different world entirely. The moment I passed the weathered wooden sign at the park entrance, I felt a sense of peace settle over me, like the woods had opened up just to welcome me in.
At the ranger station, a small wooden building with a slanted roof and a screen door that creaked as I pushed it open, I met Ranger Tom. He had a gray beard, a baseball cap, and a relaxed, steady kind of friendliness that immediately made me feel a little less on edge.
“Welcome to Willow Creek!” he said, flipping through a logbook. “First time camping solo?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, trying to sound like I did this sort of thing all the time. “Just need some time to unplug.”
“Well, you picked a good spot for that,” he said with a smile, handing me a folded map. “Stick to the marked trails, and if you need anything, there’s an emergency phone by the main lot. Cell signal’s garbage out here, so don’t count on that.”
I thanked him and left, driving the gravel road until I found campsite 23. It was a quiet spot, tucked just off the loop, with a clearing ringed by tall pines and thick underbrush. No other tents were visible, but I knew a few were nearby—close enough for comfort, not close enough to intrude on my solitude. I parked, took a deep breath of the fresh, pine-scented air, and started unpacking.
Setting up the tent took longer than I expected. I struggled with the poles and fumbled with the stakes, my hands clumsy, but eventually, it stood tall and secure, a little crooked but solid. I laid out my sleeping bag and arranged my gear neatly inside. There was a satisfying quiet all around—just the occasional rustle of branches in the wind and the distant call of birds. I sat on the small picnic bench beside the fire ring, sketchbook in my lap, and started doodling the trees, their tall trunks disappearing into the canopy overhead.
That evening, I hiked a short trail down to the lake. The water was still, glassy, reflecting the pastel colors of the sunset. I sat by the edge for a long time, just watching the sky change. When I got back to my site, I built a small fire, the crackle and pop of it somehow louder in the quiet. I roasted marshmallows—burned most of them—but the sugary, sticky mess still tasted amazing. The stars slowly emerged as night deepened, and I lay back on the bench, staring up at them, feeling small in the best kind of way.
By ten o’clock, the fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the chill had crept in. I zipped myself into my sleeping bag, the nylon of the tent rustling softly as I shifted to get comfortable. Crickets chirped all around, and I felt calm, almost weightless, like I’d finally found the stillness I was craving.
I don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was a sound, maybe just that eerie instinct that something’s not right. One second I was asleep, the next I was wide awake, my heart already thudding in my chest. I stayed perfectly still, listening. At first, all I heard was the usual nighttime sounds—the wind moving through the trees, a distant owl. But then I heard it. A footstep. Slow. Heavy. The crunch of dry leaves under boots, just outside the tent.
I froze, every muscle in my body locking up. My breath went shallow, my ears straining. Another step. Then another. Not rushed. Not panicked. Deliberate.
I turned my head slowly toward the side window of the tent. It was mesh, just a thin barrier between me and whatever was out there. At first, I couldn’t see anything. Then a shape moved—a tall, human silhouette against the dim outline of the trees. My mouth went dry. I reached for my flashlight with trembling fingers and flicked it on.
The beam cut through the dark and landed on a face. A man. Inches from the mesh. His skin looked pale, almost bluish in the light, and his eyes were wide, locked onto mine. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared, his breath fogging the mesh slightly. He had stubble on his chin, a dark hoodie pulled tight over his head, and something about him made every instinct in my body scream that something was terribly wrong.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice hoarse and shaky. “What do you want?”
No response. His eyes didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just stood there, like he was waiting for something.
“I’m calling the rangers!” I shouted. “You need to leave right now!”
He took a single step closer. I heard a twig snap under his foot. That was enough. I yanked my backpack closer, grabbed my keys, and with one desperate motion, unzipped the tent door. The sound of the zipper was deafening in the silence. I bolted out into the night, barefoot, the cold dampness of the forest floor soaking into my skin instantly. Rocks and pine needles jabbed at my feet, but I didn’t stop.
Behind me, I heard movement—those steady, deliberate footsteps. Not running. Just following.
My car came into view like a lifeline. I fumbled with the keys, dropped them, cursed under my breath. I snatched them off the ground, hands shaking uncontrollably, and finally got the door open. I dove inside, slammed it shut, locked the doors, and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. I turned on the headlights.
Nothing. The woods were empty. But I wasn’t waiting for him to show again. I threw the car into gear and sped down the gravel road, dust rising behind me. When I reached the main lot, I screeched to a stop next to the emergency phone, jumped out, and called the ranger station.
“There’s a man at my campsite!” I said, the words tumbling out of me. “He was watching me, right outside my tent!”
The voice on the other end was calm, professional. “Okay, take a deep breath. What’s your name and your campsite number?”
“Sarah. Number 23. Please, I’m alone.”
“We’ve got someone on the way right now. Stay in your car, doors locked.”
I sat in the car, staring into the woods, every shadow a possible threat. I could still see his face, burned into my memory. Those eyes. That blank stare. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my hands went numb.
Fifteen minutes later, a ranger truck pulled into the lot. It was Tom. His demeanor was different now—more serious, all business. I rolled down my window, barely able to speak.
“You okay?” he asked, crouching slightly to see into the car.
I nodded slowly. “He was just… staring. He didn’t say anything.”
“We found him,” Tom said. “Guy from a group site not far from yours. Drunk out of his mind. Said he got turned around looking for the bathroom.”
“Drunk?” I whispered. “That’s not… he didn’t seem drunk.”
“We’re escorting him out and banning him from the park. You did the right thing. Want us to wait while you pack up?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. I want to leave now.”
Back at the site, with the ranger truck’s headlights casting long beams into the trees, I hurriedly grabbed my things. I didn’t even bother folding the tent, just ripped the stakes out and shoved everything into the trunk. The woods didn’t feel peaceful anymore. They felt close. Watching.
I drove home as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. The sky was pale blue, birds just starting to chirp. But I felt none of the comfort I had the day before. My hands still trembled on the steering wheel.
When I finally stepped into my apartment, I locked the door behind me and sat down on the couch, my heart still pounding. I kept seeing his face. I kept wondering—what if I hadn’t woken up? What if I’d just lain there and let him unzip the tent? What if he hadn’t been drunk?
I haven’t gone camping since. I miss it—the quiet, the stars, the sense of being far away from everything. But I can’t forget that night. I bought a satellite phone. Pepper spray. Read everything I could about solo camping safety. Maybe someday I’ll go again. But not alone. Not without a way to call for help.
Because the truth is, the woods can be beautiful, healing even—but they’re also isolated, and isolation can be dangerous. That night taught me that sometimes, it’s not the wild animals or the weather you need to be afraid of. It’s the stranger who shows up without a word, in the middle of the night, just outside your tent. Watching. Waiting.