"Close Encounter on the Meadow Trail":
I’ve been a trail guide in Jasper National Park for three summers.
One beautiful morning, the kind that makes you feel alive. I was leading a family of four on a three-hour trail ride: John and Lisa, and their kids, Emily and Ben. Emily, ten years old and Ben, eight.
As we left the stables, I gave my usual spiel. “Hi, I’m your guide. Feel free to ask any questions. We’ll ride through some stunning scenery today, and we might even spot some wildlife.”
Lisa, the mom, shifted nervously in her saddle. “What if we see a bear?” she asked, her voice tight.
I smiled to ease her worry. “Bears are usually more scared of us than we are of them. The horses’ size and our noise keep them away.”
That seemed to settle her, and we set off. The trail wound through dense forests. Emily pointed excitedly at a squirrel darting up a tree, while Ben gasped as a deer flashed its white tail and vanished into the brush.
“Dad, did you see that?” Emily called, bouncing in her saddle.
John chuckled. “I sure did, kiddo. Keep your eyes peeled for more.”
About an hour in, we reached a narrow section of the trail, hemmed in by thick underbrush and tangled roots. My horse, Bert, a steady bay with a knack for sensing trouble, suddenly froze. His ears flicked forward, and he snorted, a low, uneasy sound. Bert only acted like this when something was wrong.
I raised my hand. “Hold up,” I whispered. “Stay here. I’ll check ahead.”
I nudged Bert forward, my eyes scanning the trail. Then I saw it—a grizzly bear, about 50 meters away, standing right in the path. Grizzlies are rare here, and this one looked wrong. It was thin, its ribs jutting out, its fur patchy and matted. Not the plump, healthy bear you’d expect in August. An unhealthy bear is unpredictable, and that made my pulse race.
I turned Bert back to the group, keeping my voice low. “There’s a bear on the trail. It’s a grizzly, and it looks unwell, so we need to be careful. We’re turning back to find another route.”
Lisa’s face paled. “Is it dangerous?”
“It might be more aggressive than usual,” I admitted. “But if we stay calm and move slowly, we should be fine.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “A real bear?”
“Yes, but we’ll keep our distance,” I said, forcing a calm tone.
I radioed the barn. “This is Alex on the Meadow Trail. We’ve got a grizzly blocking the path, about 50 meters ahead. It looks thin, maybe sick. We’re taking the alternate route back.”
“Copy that,” the barn replied. “Stay safe and keep us posted.”
I led the group back, searching for a side trail I knew branched off a quarter-mile behind us. But as we moved, The bear had heard us—or smelled us—and was following. It emerged from the trees, now only 30 meters away, its massive head swinging as it sniffed the air.
“Everyone, stay close and keep your horses calm,” I said, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my chest. “We’re moving to that clearing on the right.”
We guided the horses off the trail into a small open space surrounded by pines. The bear stopped, then reared up on its hind legs, towering over us. Its claws, four inches long, glinted in the sunlight, and its yellowed teeth bared in a silent snarl. Emily whimpered, clutching Lisa’s arm.
“Mommy, I’m scared,” she whispered.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Lisa said, her voice trembling. “Just stay quiet.”
Ben stared, frozen, his small hands gripping the reins.
“Alex, what now?” John asked, his calm tone betraying a hint of panic.
“Stay still,” I said. “Bears usually avoid us if we don’t threaten them.”
But this bear wasn’t usual. It dropped to all fours and took a few steps closer, its eyes locked on us. Then, without warning, it charged, swiping its paw in a bluff that sent dirt flying. Bert tensed beneath me, his muscles quivering, his heart pounding so hard I felt it through the saddle. The other horses snorted, shifting nervously.
“Easy, Bert,” I murmured, stroking his neck. “You’re okay.”
The bear stopped 20 meters away, huffing, then turned and lumbered into the woods. I exhaled, my hands shaking on the reins.
“Let’s move,” I said. “We’ll take the long route back.”
We started toward the alternate trail, but a crack of branches stopped me cold. The bear was back, closer now, maybe 15 meters, its gaunt frame weaving through the trees. It was stalking us.
“Alex, it’s following us!” Emily cried, her voice shrill.
“Stay calm,” I said, though my own heart was hammering. “Everyone, start shouting. Make noise to scare it off.”
“Hey, bear! Go away!” we yelled, clapping our hands. John’s deep voice boomed, and Lisa joined in, her pitch high with fear. The kids shouted too, their voices small but fierce.
The bear paused, ears twitching, but kept pacing us, undeterred. Bears usually flee from noise, but this one was desperate—maybe starving. I remembered that horses can intimidate bears with their size. If I could make us look bigger, it might back off.
“John, take the lead with the kids,” I said. “I’ll stay back and try to deter it.”
John nodded, taking the reins of Ben’s pony. I turned Bert to face the bear, now 10 meters away, its eyes glinting with a wild hunger. “Hey, bear!” I shouted, waving my arms. “Get out of here!”
Bert snorted, stamping a hoof. The bear stopped, growling low. For a moment, I thought it would charge again. My breath caught, every muscle braced for the worst. But then Bert let out a loud whinny, sharp and commanding, and the bear flinched, taking a step back.
“Go on!” I yelled, urging Bert forward a few steps. The bear hesitated, then turned and crashed through the underbrush, disappearing into the forest.
I watched, holding my breath, until the rustling faded. It was gone—for now.
I caught up with the group, who had stopped a hundred meters ahead. “Is it gone?” Lisa asked, her face ashen.
“I think so,” I said. “Let’s keep moving, just in case.”
We took the alternate trail, a longer loop through open meadows and sparse woods. The rest of the ride was quiet, save for the creak of saddles and the soft thud of hooves. We spotted a herd of elk grazing in a meadow, their antlers catching the light, and Emily’s face lit up.
When we reached the stables, Lisa hugged me tightly. “Thank you for keeping us safe,” she said. “That was terrifying, but you handled it so well.”
I managed a smile, my adrenaline still fading. “It’s part of the job. I’m just glad everyone’s okay.”
That evening, as I brushed Bert’s coat, I replayed the encounter. It was the closest I’d ever come to a grizzly.
"Ranger Came Back":
I’ve always found peace in the backcountry. That morning, I was buzzing with excitement for a solo ride, a chance to lose myself in the mountains.
I packed my saddlebags carefully: water, energy bars, a first-aid kit, a map, and my phone, though I knew cell service would be spotty at best. My horse, Ranger, a sturdy bay with a calm spirit, was ready. We’d been on countless trails together, and I trusted him completely. After a quick breakfast, I saddled up, and we headed toward the trailhead, the sun just peeking over the horizon.
The first few hours were pure joy. The trail wound through dense forests, over babbling streams, and up gentle slopes. The air smelled of pine and earth, and Ranger moved with ease, his ears pricked forward, as happy as I was. As we climbed higher, the trees thinned, revealing meadows dotted with wildflowers.
It happened so fast. A loud crack split the air—maybe a branch snapping, maybe something else. Whatever it was, it spooked Ranger. He reared up, neighing in panic, and before I could react, he bolted.
“Whoa, Ranger, easy!” I shouted, gripping the reins, but he was beyond hearing me. His eyes were wide, his hooves pounding the uneven trail. Rocks and roots jutted out, and I knew we were in trouble if I couldn’t calm him down.
I pulled hard on the reins, my heart racing. “Come on, boy, slow down!” But he only ran faster, veering off the path into rougher terrain. Then, disaster. Ranger’s hoof caught a loose rock, and he stumbled. I was thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded in my left leg, and my vision blurred. Everything went black.
When I came to, I was sprawled on the rocky ground, my head throbbing, my leg screaming in agony. I tried to move, but the pain was unbearable. I glanced down and saw my leg bent at a horrible angle—definitely broken. My stomach churned.
“Ranger!” I called, my voice weak and shaky. No answer. He was gone. Panic clawed at my chest. I was alone, injured, miles from the nearest road, with no one to help.
I fumbled for my phone, hoping against hope. The screen was shattered, useless. I tossed it aside, fighting back tears. “Okay, stay calm,” I told myself. “You’ve been in tough spots before. You can do this.”
I needed to assess my situation. My leg was broken, and my head felt foggy—maybe a concussion. The sun was dipping lower, and the temperature would drop soon. I had to find shelter and signal for help.
Nearby, a small clearing offered some cover under a cluster of trees. If I could get there, I could make a makeshift camp. But moving was torture. Every inch I dragged myself sent waves of pain through my leg. I gritted my teeth, sweat beading on my forehead, and kept going. It felt like hours, but I finally reached the clearing.
Using my good leg and arms, I gathered branches and leaves to build a crude shelter. It was flimsy, but it might keep the worst of the cold at bay. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me, but as the sun set, the chill seeped into my bones. Shivering, I tried to focus on anything but the pain.
Then, I heard it—a rustling in the bushes, followed by a low growl. My blood ran cold. Bears lived in these woods, and I was helpless. I froze, barely breathing, praying whatever it was would move on. The rustling grew closer, and I clutched a stick, knowing it was useless against a predator.
A shape emerged from the trees, and I nearly sobbed with relief. It was Ranger, limping slightly but alive. He trotted over, nuzzling my face, his warm breath a comfort in the cold.
“Good boy, Ranger,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “You came back.”
I checked him over. He had scrapes and a slight limp, but nothing serious. Having him back gave me a spark of hope, but I was still in trouble. I needed help, and fast.
I remembered the whistle in my first-aid kit, tucked in Ranger’s saddlebag. It was meant for emergencies like this. I dug through the bag, my hands shaking, and found it. I blew as hard as I could, the shrill sound cutting through the silence. I waited, listening, but heard nothing but the wind.
“Don’t give up,” I told myself. “Someone might hear.” I blew the whistle again, then again, spacing out the blasts to save my strength.
Night fell, and the forest came alive with sounds—crickets, owls, and other noises I couldn’t identify. I kept imagining a bear or a mountain lion lurking just out of sight. The pain in my leg was relentless, a constant reminder of how vulnerable I was.
I thought back to another ride years ago, when Ranger had spooked at a snake but I’d managed to stay on. That day, I’d laughed it off, proud of my skills. Now, I wished I’d been more cautious, maybe brought a satellite phone or told someone my exact route. “You’re tougher than this,” I muttered, trying to bolster my courage. “You’ve got to keep going.”
Hours dragged on. I blew the whistle when I could, but my strength was fading. The cold was unbearable, and I was starting to feel dizzy. I leaned against Ranger, his warmth keeping me grounded. “We’re in this together, buddy,” I said, stroking his mane. “We’ll make it.”
Just as dawn broke, I heard voices—distant but real. My heart leapt. “Help! Over here!” I shouted, my voice hoarse.
Two hikers appeared, their faces etched with concern. “We heard your whistle,” one said, kneeling beside me. “What happened?”
“Broke my leg,” I gasped. “Fell off my horse.”
“We’ve got a radio,” the other said. “We’ll call for help.”
They stayed with me, offering water and reassurance. Soon, the sound of a helicopter filled the air. A rescue team arrived, and I was carefully loaded onto a stretcher, Ranger led by one of the hikers.
In the hospital, after surgery to fix my leg, I lay in bed, replaying the ordeal. It was the scariest thing I’d ever faced, but it hadn’t broken my spirit. I knew I’d ride again, maybe not alone next time, but I’d be back in the saddle.
"Clink, Whoosh, Throw":
It was a night like any other when my wife, Jamie, and I decided to take our horses out for a ride in the desert. We loved these rides, a chance to escape the noise of the city and soak in the quiet of the backcountry.
Jamie rode slightly ahead on Rusty, a sturdy bay who always seemed eager to lead. I followed on Luna, my gentle mare, who moved with a calm, steady gait. We were on a familiar path, one we’d ridden many times before, chatting about small things—work, weekend plans, nothing heavy.
“Do you think we’ll see any coyotes tonight?” Jamie asked, her voice light, almost playful.
“Hope not,” I replied, patting Luna’s neck. “Last time, Luna got all jumpy when one howled.”
We laughed softly, the sound fading into the vastness of the desert. But then Jamie stopped abruptly, pulling Rusty to a halt. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, her tone shifting to something tense.
I reined in Luna, my ears straining. “Hear what?”
“Listen,” Jamie said, her voice barely audible now.
At first, I heard nothing but the faint rustle of a breeze. Then it came—a rhythmic unmistakable sound, coming from somewhere to our left, beyond a low rise. Clink, whoosh, throw. Like metal striking dirt, followed by the soft thud of earth being tossed aside.
“What is that?” I asked, my heart picking up speed.
Jamie’s eyes were wide, catching the moonlight. “It sounds like someone digging.”
“Digging?” I echoed, a chill creeping up my spine. “Out here, at this hour? Who’d be digging in the middle of the desert at night?”
Jamie didn’t answer, but her expression mirrored my own growing unease. We both knew the stories—deserts like this one, especially around places like Phoenix, were where people sometimes hid things she didn’t want found. Things like bodies. Reports of human remains discovered in remote areas flashed through my mind, like the case near Deer Valley Airport where bones were found scattered in the sand (FOX 10 Phoenix).
“We should check it out,” Jamie said, though her voice wavered, lacking conviction.
“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed. “What if it’s something dangerous?”
“But what if someone needs help?” Jamie countered, her brow furrowed.
I hesitated, the sound still ringing in my ears. Clink, whoosh, throw. It was steady, deliberate, and it made my stomach twist. “Fine,” I said finally, “but we’re being careful. No heroics.”
We dismounted, tying Rusty and Luna to a scraggly bush nearby. Her reins secure, we crept toward the sound, keeping low to avoid being seen. The desert felt different now—less peaceful, more like it was holding its breath, watching us.
As we neared the rise, the sound grew louder. Clink, whoosh, throw. Now I could hear something else—heavy breathing, punctuated by the occasional grunt. My mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. A lost hiker digging for water? A smuggler hiding contraband? Or something far darker?
We reached the top of the rise and peered over, crouching behind a cluster of rocks. Below, in a small clearing, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness. A figure was hunched over, shovel in hand, digging a hole in the sandy earth. Next to the hole was a large, dark shape—long, wrapped in something like a tarp or plastic. It was the size of a person.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, my blood turning cold.
Jamie’s hand clamped onto my arm, her grip tight enough to hurt. “We need to get out of here,” she hissed, their voice trembling.
I nodded, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene. The figure’s movements were methodical, almost mechanical, as if she’d done this before. The shape beside the hole didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it would give us away.
Then the figure stopped digging. She straightened up, head turning slightly, as if she’d heard something. The flashlight beam swung toward us, its light grazing the rocks where we hid. I ducked lower, my breath catching in my throat.
“We have to go, now!” I whispered urgently.
We scrambled back down the rise, trying to move silently, but my foot caught a dry twig. It snapped with a crack that echoed in the stillness. My heart stopped.
The figure shouted something—a sharp, angry word I couldn’t make out. Then came the sound of footsteps, heavy and fast, coming our way.
“Run!” Jamie yelled.
We sprinted back to the horses, my hands shaking as I fumbled with Luna’s reins. She sensed my panic, prancing nervously, her hooves stirring up dust. “Come on, come on,” I muttered, finally freeing her.
Jamie was already swinging onto Rusty’s back. “Hurry!” she called, her voice sharp with fear.
I hauled myself onto Luna, my legs trembling as I settled into the saddle. We urged the horses into a gallop, the desert blurring past us as we raced away from the clearing. The wind whipped at my face, and my pulse thundered in my ears. Behind us, I thought I heard the faint roar of an engine starting, but I didn’t dare look back.
We rode hard, the horses’ hooves pounding the ground, until the rise was far behind us and the sounds of pursuit—if there had been any—faded into the night. Only then did we slow, pulling the horses to a walk, both of us gasping for breath.
“What the hell was that?” Jamie asked, her voice still shaky.
“I think we just saw someone burying a body,” I said, the words feeling unreal as she left my mouth. The image of that dark shape next to the hole was seared into my mind, along with stories of remains found in deserts like this one—skeletal remains near Tovrea Castle, bones in Pinal County, a body in a toolbox.
“Should we call the police?” Jamie asked, glancing back toward the direction we’d come from.
“And tell them what?” I replied, my voice tight. “That we saw someone digging in the desert? We don’t even know for sure what it was.”
“But that shape—it looked like a body,” Jamie insisted, her eyes wide.
“I know,” I said, my stomach churning. “But if it was something illegal, reporting it could put us in danger. That person might have seen us.”
Jamie fell silent, her face pale in the moonlight. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “Maybe we should just… forget it.”
But I knew we wouldn’t forget. That night changed the desert for me. What had once been a place of peace now felt like a vast, silent witness to secrets buried beneath the sand.