"Frozen Breath, Wild Eyes":
My friend Jamie and I had been planning our winter camping trip to Yellowstone National Park for weeks. We craved the quiet of the backcountry, the chance to see snow-draped pines and frozen streams without the summer crowds. We spent hours packing: insulated sleeping bags rated for subzero temperatures, a four-season tent with heavy-duty stakes, dehydrated meals, a portable stove, and two canisters of bear spray each. We studied trail maps, marked our route to a remote campsite by a frozen stream, and double-checked our gear. Rangers had warned about black bears that sometimes didn’t hibernate if food was scarce, so we memorized safety tips: store food far from the tent, make noise to avoid surprising wildlife, and never run from a bear. Confident and excited, we felt ready for anything.
We reached the trailhead in the late morning, our boots crunching on fresh snow as we hiked three miles to our spot. The campsite was perfect: a flat clearing near a stream, its surface a glassy sheet of ice, surrounded by towering pines bowing under heavy snow. The air was crisp, and the silence was so deep it felt like the world was holding its breath. We set up the tent, hammering stakes into the frozen ground, and hung our food in bear-proof containers 200 feet away, tied high between two trees. That afternoon, we hiked a nearby trail, marveling at elk tracks in the snow and the way the sunlight sparkled on the icy landscape. By evening, we built a small fire, cooked a meal of rehydrated chili, and laughed about how we’d tell our friends back home we were “tough” for camping in winter. As night fell, we cleaned every scrap of food, zipped into our sleeping bags, and drifted off, warm and content.
I woke to a sound that sent a chill down my spine—slow, heavy crunching in the snow, like something big circling our tent. My heart thudded as I lay still, straining to hear. The clock on my watch glowed 1:17 a.m. I nudged Jamie, who was buried in their sleeping bag. “Hey, wake up,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Something’s out there.” Jamie stirred, groggy, their breath visible in the cold air. “What is it?” they mumbled, rubbing their eyes. Another crunch, louder, followed by a low, guttural huff. My stomach dropped. “That’s not a deer,” I said, fumbling for my bear spray in the dark. Jamie sat up, grabbing their own canister. “A bear?” they asked, voice tight with fear. We sat frozen, listening as the footsteps circled closer, the snow creaking under its weight. Then came a scraping sound, like claws dragging across the tent’s nylon wall.
I unzipped the tent flap just a fraction, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the zipper. In the pale moonlight, I saw it: a massive black bear, its fur matted, sniffing the ground where our fire had burned out hours ago. Its eyes caught the light, glinting like cold steel as it turned toward the tent. My pulse roared in my ears. “Stay still,” I whispered to Jamie, clutching the bear spray. “Don’t move.” Jamie nodded, their breathing shallow. “Hey, bear!” I shouted, forcing my voice to sound steady. “Go away! Get out!” Jamie joined in, clapping their hands and yelling, “Leave us alone!” The bear paused, ears twitching, but instead of backing off, it took a step closer, its head low, sniffing the air.
Panic clawed at me. “It’s not leaving,” Jamie hissed, their voice trembling. The bear pawed at the tent, its claws catching the fabric with a sickening rip. The tear was small at first, but the bear kept digging, widening it. “Spray it!” Jamie urged, their voice rising. I aimed the bear spray through the flap and pressed the trigger, sending a cloud of stinging mist at the bear’s face. It snorted, shaking its head violently, but didn’t retreat. Instead, it lunged, ripping the tent open with a deafening tear. Its massive head pushed through, jaws snapping, hot breath steaming in the cold air. Jamie screamed, scrambling backward, their sleeping bag tangling around their legs. I sprayed again, the mist burning my eyes and throat, but the bear was too close, unfazed.
“Get back!” I yelled, my voice cracking. Jamie grabbed a flashlight from their pack and swung it wildly, the beam dancing across the bear’s face. The bear swiped, its paw knocking the flashlight to the ground and raking Jamie’s arm. They cried out, blood soaking through their jacket sleeve, dark and glistening in the dim light. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I dropped the bear spray, useless now, and grabbed the camping knife from my pack, its six-inch blade feeling pathetically small. “Stay away!” I shouted, thrusting the knife at the bear’s shoulder. The blade sank in, and the bear roared, a sound that shook me to my core. It swiped at me, its claws grazing my thigh, pain searing through me like fire. I stabbed again, desperate, and the bear finally staggered back, ripping through the tent’s remains as it retreated into the darkness.
We collapsed, gasping, the cold air rushing into the ruined tent. The bear’s footsteps faded, but I couldn’t stop shaking. “Are you okay?” I asked, crawling to Jamie. They were clutching their arm, blood dripping onto the snow. “It hurts so bad,” they said, teeth gritted. “I can’t move it much.” My thigh was bleeding, the claw marks shallow but stinging. I ripped open our first aid kit, hands trembling as I wrapped gauze around Jamie’s arm, tying it tight to slow the bleeding. My own wound was less severe, but every movement burned. “We can’t stay here,” I said, glancing at the shredded tent. “The bear could come back.” Jamie nodded, pale and sweating despite the cold. “The car,” they said. “We have to get to the car.”
The car was three miles away, back at the trailhead, through deep snow and dense forest. We grabbed what we could—bear spray, water, a flashlight, and a map—and stuffed them into a backpack. Jamie leaned on me, their arm useless, limping as we started hiking. The snow was knee-deep in places, dragging at our boots, and every rustle in the trees made me flinch, certain the bear was following us. “Keep talking,” I said, my voice shaky. “It’ll keep animals away.” Jamie tried, muttering about anything—work, movies, the chili we ate—but their voice was weak, and I could tell they were struggling. “We’re gonna make it,” I kept saying, as much for myself as for them.
After an hour, maybe two, my legs felt like lead, and Jamie was barely moving. Their face was ghostly white, their arm swollen under the bandage. “I need to stop,” they whispered, slumping against a tree. “Just for a bit.” I didn’t want to stop—every second felt like tempting fate—but Jamie couldn’t go on. We found a cluster of pines with branches that blocked the wind and gathered dry twigs for a fire. My hands were so numb I could barely strike the match, but the small flames caught, casting flickering shadows. We sat close, the fire’s warmth a faint comfort against the biting cold. “What if it comes back?” I asked, scanning the dark woods. Jamie didn’t look at me, just stared at the fire. “We hurt it,” they said quietly. “It won’t want to mess with us again.” But their voice wavered, and I knew they didn’t believe it.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the fire’s crackle and the occasional snap of a branch in the distance. Each sound made my heart race, my hand tightening on the bear spray. I kept picturing the bear’s eyes, its teeth, the way it tore through our tent like paper. Jamie shifted, wincing. “You think we’re close to the car?” they asked. I pulled out the map, but in the dim firelight, it was hard to tell. “Maybe halfway,” I said, hoping I was right. We stayed there until the sky started to lighten, the first gray streaks of dawn filtering THROUGH the trees. “Let’s go,” I said, helping Jamie up. They leaned heavily on me, their steps uneven.
The hike felt endless. The snow seemed to fight us, clinging to our boots, and my thigh throbbed with every step. Jamie was quiet now, saving their energy, their breath coming in short gasps. I kept talking, rambling about anything to keep us both calm—our favorite diner back home, the time we got lost on a summer hike and laughed it off. But the fear never left, a tight knot in my chest. Every shadow looked like a bear, every sound like claws in the snow. “We’re almost there,” I said, more prayer than fact, as the trail started to look familiar.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, we saw the parking lot, the car a distant speck through the trees. Relief flooded me, but I didn’t let myself relax until we were inside, doors locked, the engine sputtering to life. Jamie slumped in the passenger seat, eyes half-closed. “We made it,” they whispered, a faint smile breaking through the pain. I drove to the nearest hospital, my hands still shaking on the wheel, the image of the bear burned into my mind.
At the hospital, doctors stitched Jamie’s arm, saying the claw marks were deep but clean. My thigh needed a few stitches too, but I was lucky—the bear had barely caught me. A ranger visited us later, explaining that the bear was likely a young male, half-starved and desperate, which made it bold enough to attack. They’d track it, they said, to make sure it didn’t hurt anyone else. Sitting in the sterile hospital room, Jamie looked at me, their arm in a sling. “No more winter camping,” they said, managing a weak laugh. I nodded, my throat tight. “Never again.” The memory of that night—the crunch of snow, the bear’s roar, the tearing fabric—stayed with me, a reminder of how quickly the wild can turn deadly.
"Whiteout":
I tugged my jacket tighter, the chill seeping through as Alex and I hiked deeper into the mountains. The trail was narrow, lined with pine trees, their needles crunching under our boots. My backpack dug into my shoulders, stuffed with our tent, sleeping bags, a small stove, and enough food for two nights. We’d been planning this trip for weeks, craving a quiet weekend by the lake. The air smelled of earth and resin, and the only sounds were our steps and the occasional chirp of a bird. By late afternoon, the lake came into view, its surface dark and still, reflecting the gray sky. We picked a flat spot near the shore, surrounded by tall grasses and a ring of stones left by past campers.
“Perfect spot,” Alex said, dropping his pack with a thud. His breath puffed out in a small cloud. “Let’s get that fire going.”
“Yeah, I’m starving,” I replied, unloading my gear. We set up the tent, its green fabric blending with the trees. I hammered stakes into the soft ground, my hands already stiff from the cold. Alex gathered sticks, snapping them over his knee, and soon our fire crackled, casting a warm glow. We cooked beans and hot dogs on the stove, the smell making my mouth water. As we ate, we talked about old camping trips, laughing about the time Alex forgot the matches and we tried to start a fire with flint for hours.
“Think we’ll see any stars tonight?” Alex asked, leaning back on a log, poking the fire with a stick.
“Hope so,” I said, glancing up. “Nothing beats a clear sky out here.”
The fire died down to embers, and we crawled into the tent, zipping ourselves into sleeping bags. I fell asleep to the faint rustle of wind through the pines, feeling safe, like the forest was ours.
A loud thud jolted me awake. My heart pounded, eyes wide in the dark. The tent sagged, something heavy pressing against it. I fumbled for my flashlight, its beam shaking as I aimed it at the walls. Snow. Thick, wet clumps were piling up, bending the poles. The air inside felt sharp, colder than before.
“Alex, wake up!” I shook his shoulder hard. “We’re in trouble.”
He groaned, blinking slowly. “What’s going on?”
“Snow. It’s burying the tent.”
We scrambled out of our sleeping bags, pulling on boots and jackets. I unzipped the tent, and a blast of icy air hit my face. Snow poured in, already ankle-deep. Outside, the campfire was gone, smothered under a white blanket. Our stove, left by the rocks, was half-buried, and the lake was a faint outline through the falling flakes. My stomach knotted. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We’d checked the forecast—clear skies, cold but manageable. Now, the world was white, disorienting.
“We need to get to the car,” I said, my voice unsteady. “We can’t stay here.”
Alex nodded, his face pale under his hood. “Yeah, let’s pack fast.”
We stuffed our gear into our packs, hands trembling. My fingers fumbled with the tent stakes, numb despite my gloves. Snow clung to my sleeves, melting into my cuffs. The trail back to the car was a mile away, but the snow was deep, slowing every step. I led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the dark, catching flakes that swirled like static. The trees loomed, their branches sagging under the weight. My boots sank with each step, the effort burning my thighs.
“You okay?” I called back to Alex, who was lagging behind.
“It’s heavy,” he said, his voice tight. “How far do you think we are?”
“Halfway, maybe,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. The trail markers—small metal signs nailed to trees—were buried or hidden. The path looked wrong, like the forest had rearranged itself. Shadows shifted in my peripheral vision, and I kept glancing back, expecting to see the lake, but it was gone, swallowed by the storm. My heart raced, a quiet panic creeping in.
Then Alex yelped, stumbling hard. He grabbed my arm, nearly pulling me down. “My ankle,” he gasped, wincing as he sank into the snow. “I stepped in a hole or something.”
I helped him to a fallen log, my flashlight shaking as I checked his foot. His face was twisted in pain, and he sucked air through his teeth when I touched his ankle. “Can you walk?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant.
“I’ll try,” he said, but when he stood, he limped heavily, leaning on me. The cold was brutal now, seeping through my layers. My toes felt like stones in my boots. I’d read about hypothermia—how it sneaks up, makes you sluggish, confused. Stories of campers found frozen in storms like this flashed through my mind. We couldn’t stop.
“We need shelter,” I said, scanning the trees. “Something to wait this out.”
Alex nodded, his breath shallow. “Just keep moving.”
We pushed on, slower now, his arm over my shoulder. The snow was up to my shins, each step a fight. My flashlight caught a dark shape ahead—a cabin, old and sagging, its wooden walls weathered gray. The windows were dark, one cracked, and the roof was half-covered in snow. It looked abandoned, but it was our only hope.
“There,” I pointed, my voice hoarse. “We’ll stop there.”
Alex grunted, his face gray with pain. I half-carried him to the door, which creaked as I pushed it open. The air inside was stale, smelling of damp wood and mildew. Dust coated everything—a rickety table, broken chairs, a rusted stove in the corner. Cobwebs hung like curtains, and the floorboards groaned under our weight. I helped Alex to a corner, setting him on the floor against the wall. He shivered, clutching his ankle.
“This place is creepy,” he whispered, his eyes darting to the windows. “You sure it’s safe?”
“Safer than freezing out there,” I said, trying to sound sure. My hands were numb as I searched for anything to burn. A few logs were stacked by the stove, but they were damp, moss clinging to the bark. I broke a chair, its wood splintering with a crack that echoed in the silence. My matches sparked, but the logs only smoked, the flame weak.
“Come on,” I muttered, blowing on the embers. My breath trembled, fear tightening my chest. If we didn’t get warm, we were done. I’d read about campers who didn’t make it—lost in storms, bodies found days later. The thought made my skin crawl.
Alex pulled his jacket tighter, his teeth chattering. “What if we don’t make it through the night?”
“Don’t talk like that,” I snapped, my voice sharp with fear. “We’re fine. We just need fire.”
A low growl cut through the quiet. I froze, the match burning my fingers. It came again, deeper, from outside. Something heavy brushed against the cabin wall, a slow, deliberate scrape. My heart slammed against my ribs. Bears? Wolves? I’d heard stories of animals in these mountains, bold and hungry in the cold. My flashlight beam shook as I aimed it at the window, but the glass was too frosted to see through.
“What was that?” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper, his eyes wide.
“Shh,” I hissed, grabbing a broken chair leg. I crept to the window, wiping the frost with my sleeve. Shadows moved in the snow, dark shapes that vanished when I blinked. The growling stopped, but the silence was heavier, like something was waiting just out of sight. My pulse thundered, every creak of the cabin making me flinch.
“We need to block the door,” I said, dragging the table across the floor. It scraped loudly, the sound jarring in the quiet. Alex helped, wincing as he pushed, his ankle swollen under his boot. We piled chairs on top, barricading the entrance. The stove finally caught, a weak flame flickering, casting long shadows on the walls. I sat close, rubbing my hands, but the cold still clung to my bones. Alex’s face was pale, his eyes darting to the door.
“You think it’s gone?” he asked, his voice small.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, gripping the chair leg tighter. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. I kept imagining eyes in the dark, watching us. The cabin felt like a trap, its walls too thin to keep anything out. I checked my phone—no signal, just a blank screen mocking me.
Hours dragged on. The fire burned low, and I broke another chair to feed it, the wood splintering in my hands. Alex dozed, his head slumped, but his breathing was uneven, worrying me. I stayed awake, every noise making me jump—a branch snapping, the wind moaning, the faint crunch of snow outside. My mind raced with stories of campers who vanished, their tents found empty, their gear scattered. I shook the thoughts away, focusing on the fire’s weak glow.
A sharp knock rattled the door. I jolted, the chair leg raised like a club. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice cracking.
“Park ranger!” a voice shouted. “You okay in there?”
Relief hit me like a wave, but I was cautious. I moved the table, cracking the door open. A man in a ranger uniform stood there, his flashlight cutting through the snow. His face was weathered, snow dusting his hat and shoulders. “Saw your tracks from the trail,” he said. “Storm’s bad. We need to get you out.”
I helped Alex up, his arm heavy over my shoulder. The ranger led us to his truck, parked a half-mile away, its lights a beacon in the dark. The snow was still falling, piling higher, but the truck’s heater blasted warm air as we climbed in. I sank into the seat, my body shaking, not just from the cold but from how close we’d come. Alex leaned against the window, his face still pale but alive.
“You’re lucky,” the ranger said, driving slowly through the snow. “People get lost out here every year. Some don’t make it.”
I nodded, staring out at the white void. I’d read about those people—campers caught in sudden storms, injured, or worse. We’d been cocky, thinking we were ready for anything. The forest didn’t care about our plans. As the truck rumbled toward safety, I swore I’d never take it for granted again.
"Frozen Footsteps":
I’d always loved the outdoors, the way the forest felt alive yet peaceful, but that winter camping trip in the Sierra Nevada in 1983 turned that love into something else—something heavy with fear. My friends, Tom and Lisa, and I had been planning this trip for weeks, craving a break from our routines. We chose a remote spot deep in the mountains, a clearing by a frozen stream about seven miles from the nearest trailhead. We were experienced campers, but winter in the high Sierras was new territory. We packed with care: insulated tents, sleeping bags rated for extreme cold, thermal layers, a small stove, and enough food—dried meals, granola bars, and canned chili—for four days. The drive to the trailhead took hours, winding through narrow roads lined with snow-dusted pines. By the time we parked, the sky was turning gray, and we shouldered our heavy packs for the long hike in.
The trail was brutal. Snow reached our knees in places, and the weight of our gear made every step a struggle. My boots sank deep, the cold seeping through despite my wool socks. Tom led the way, his breath puffing out in clouds, while Lisa hummed a tune to keep our spirits up. “This better be worth it,” she said, half-laughing, as she tugged her scarf tighter around her face.
“It will be,” I replied, though the effort of speaking made my chest ache. “Nothing like a frozen lake to make you feel alive.”
We reached the clearing just as the light started to fade. The stream, locked in ice, glinted faintly, and towering pines circled the spot, their branches heavy with snow. We worked fast to set up camp, our fingers stiff as we hammered tent stakes into the frozen ground. Tom built a fire in a cleared patch, the flames crackling as they caught on the dry wood we’d carried in. We sat around it, warming our hands, passing around a thermos of coffee that burned my throat in the best way.
“This is perfect,” Lisa said, her face glowing in the firelight. “No phones, no noise—just us.”
Tom nodded, poking the fire with a stick. “Yeah, but it’s creepy how quiet it is. No birds, no nothing.”
I glanced at the dark tree line, the shadows thick beyond the fire’s reach. “That’s just winter,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Everything’s sleeping.”
We ate dinner—chili heated on the stove, the smell rich and comforting—and planned the next day’s hike to a nearby ridge with a view of the valley. The cold pressed in as the fire died down, so we crawled into the tent, zipping ourselves into our sleeping bags. The ground was hard beneath me, and I could feel the cold through the tent floor, but exhaustion pulled me under fast.
I woke in the dead of night, my heart racing before I even knew why. A sound had jolted me—a sharp crack, like a branch snapping under weight. I lay still, holding my breath, listening. Another crack, closer, followed by a slow, deliberate crunch in the snow. Footsteps. My skin prickled. We were miles from any road, deep in the wilderness. No one should be out here.
I nudged Tom, my voice a whisper. “Wake up. Something’s outside.”
He stirred, mumbling, “What time is it?”
“Shh. Listen,” I said, my eyes fixed on the tent wall.
The crunching came again, circling slowly around us. Lisa sat up, clutching her sleeping bag. “What is that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Footsteps,” I said. “Someone’s out there.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “You sure it’s not an animal?”
Then we heard it—a low, guttural sound, like someone muttering under their breath, just beyond the tent. My stomach dropped. Animals didn’t mutter. I grabbed the flashlight, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the zipper. “Stay here,” I told them, stepping out into the night.
The cold hit me like a wall, my breath catching in my throat. The flashlight beam swept across the snow, catching the glint of ice on the stream and the dark shapes of trees. The fire was down to embers, casting a faint red glow. I stood frozen, listening, but the footsteps had stopped. The forest was silent, too silent, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath.
Tom poked his head out. “See anything?”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice low. “But I heard it. We all did.”
Lisa joined us, her jacket pulled tight. “That wasn’t an animal,” she said. “Animals don’t sound like that.”
We circled the tent, our flashlights cutting through the dark. The snow around us was smooth except for our own tracks from earlier. No footprints, no signs of anyone. “Maybe it was the wind,” Tom said, but his voice was unsteady.
“Wind doesn’t throw rocks,” I muttered, still scanning the trees.
We went back inside, zipping the tent tight. None of us slept much after that. Every creak of the pines, every shift of snow, made my heart jump. I kept the flashlight clutched in my hand, ready to bolt.
Morning came, gray and heavy. We tried to shake off the fear, blaming it on tired minds and the strangeness of the wilderness. After breakfast—granola bars and instant coffee—we hiked along the stream toward the ridge. The forest was stunning, the snow sparkling under the weak light, but I couldn’t relax. I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling like something was watching us from the trees. During a break, Lisa stopped, staring at a distant slope. “There,” she said, pointing. “Something moved.”
I followed her gaze, squinting through the pines. “I don’t see anything.”
“It was fast,” she said, her voice tight. “Like a shadow, darting between the trees.”
Tom frowned, adjusting his hat. “Could’ve been a deer. Let’s just keep moving.”
But I saw the worry in his eyes. We stayed close, our conversation fading as we trudged on. The ridge offered a breathtaking view—snow-covered peaks stretching into the distance—but the unease lingered, like a weight in my chest.
That night, we built the fire bigger, piling on extra wood until the flames roared. We sat close, eating in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. I kept my flashlight in my lap, my eyes darting to the darkness beyond. Then, out of nowhere, a rock landed in the snow just outside the fire’s glow. We froze, staring at the spot where it hit. Another rock followed, thudding closer, kicking up a spray of snow near Lisa’s boots. She gasped, scrambling back.
“Who’s there?” Tom yelled, jumping up, his flashlight sweeping the trees.
No answer. Just the echo of his voice fading into the night. My heart pounded as I grabbed a burning stick from the fire, its end glowing red. “We need to leave,” I said, my voice shaking. “Right now.”
“We can’t hike in the dark,” Lisa said, her eyes wide. “The trail’s too rough.”
“Staying here is worse,” I shot back. “You heard that. Someone’s out there.”
Another rock sailed from the darkness, landing in the fire with a burst of sparks. That was it. We tore down the tent, our hands fumbling with the stakes and poles. I kept my flashlight trained on the trees, expecting a figure to step out at any moment. The cold made my fingers clumsy, but fear kept us moving. We stuffed our gear into our packs, not caring if things were neat, and started the hike back to the trailhead.
The path was a nightmare in the dark. Snow hid roots and rocks, and we stumbled often, our heavy packs pulling us off balance. Behind us, those deliberate footsteps crunched, matching our pace. I swung my flashlight back, the beam shaking in my hand, but it showed nothing—just endless trees and snow. “Keep going,” I said, my voice barely audible over my pounding heart.
“Do you still hear it?” Lisa asked, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
“Yeah,” Tom said, his voice low. “It’s still there.”
The footsteps followed us for miles, never closer but never stopping. My legs burned, my lungs aching from the cold air. Branches snagged at my jacket, and every shadow looked like a person waiting to jump out. I kept thinking about how far we were from help, how no one would hear us scream out here.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the trailhead appeared. Our car sat under a thick layer of snow, a dark shape in the moonlight. We threw our packs in the trunk, piling into the front seat together for warmth. Tom fumbled with the keys, cursing under his breath as the engine sputtered before roaring to life. As we pulled away, I looked back, my flashlight aimed at the trail. For a moment, I swore I saw a figure—tall, motionless, standing just at the edge of the trees. Then the beam shifted, and it was gone.
We drove in silence for a long time, the hum of the engine the only sound. Lisa finally spoke, her voice small. “What was that? A person?”
“I don’t know,” I said, staring out the window at the passing pines. “Maybe someone lives out there, doesn’t like campers. Or maybe they were just toying with us.”
Tom gripped the wheel tighter. “Could’ve been a hunter, someone messed up in the head. There’s weird people in these mountains.”
When we reached town, we went straight to the ranger station. The ranger, an older guy with a weathered face, listened to our story, scribbling notes. “Could’ve been a recluse,” he said. “Some folks live off-grid out there, don’t take kindly to strangers. Or maybe kids pulling a prank. We’ll check it out, but that forest’s huge. Hard to find anyone who doesn’t want to be found.”
He asked if we’d seen anyone, any details about the figure. I told him about the shadow at the trailhead, but it felt flimsy, like a dream I wasn’t sure of. He nodded, promising to send a patrol, but I could tell he didn’t expect to find much.
That trip haunts me. I haven’t gone camping since, not even in summer. At night, I still hear those footsteps in my head, the slow crunch in the snow, the low mutter just outside the tent. I think about that figure at the trailhead, wondering who they were, what they wanted. Were they watching us the whole time, waiting for us to leave? Or was it something worse, someone with darker plans? The mountains keep their secrets, and I’m not sure I want to know the truth. All I know is I’ll never feel safe in the wilderness again.
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