"The Wrong Companion":
I had been dreaming about hiking the Appalachian Trail for as long as I could remember. The idea of walking through the wilderness, from Georgia to Maine, was thrilling. The trail promised adventure, solitude, and a chance to test myself against nature. But since I couldn’t afford to take several months off work, I decided to start with a section hike in Maine. I figured starting at Baxter State Park and heading southbound would be a perfect introduction to the trail life.
I didn’t want to go alone, so I teamed up with two guys from my Roswell, my college town. Blake and Jerkwad—though I didn’t know Jerkwad’s true nature when we started. Blake was quiet, respectful, always ready with a smile and a helping hand. Jerkwad seemed enthusiastic about the hike, and I thought his energy would make him a good companion. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The day we started, my parents drove us five hours from New Hampshire to Baxter State Park. I was buzzing with excitement, my backpack loaded with gear I’d spent months researching and buying. At the South Gate, we met a ranger who was friendly, giving us tips on trail conditions and safety. But as soon as he turned away, Jerkwad muttered, “What a shady guy.” I thought he was joking, but then he added, “That guy’s an ass.” I was stunned. Why would he insult someone just doing their job?
Blake and I exchanged a glance, both of us confused. “Just ignore him,” Blake whispered, adjusting his pack. “Let’s get moving.” I nodded, not wanting to start the hike on a bad note, and we set off down the trail.
The first few miles were everything I’d hoped for. The trail was well-marked, winding through dense forests of towering pines and rocky outcrops. The air smelled of earth and evergreen, and a distant stream gurgled softly. But Jerkwad’s behavior quickly soured the experience. He started yelling—swear words, racial slurs, things I won’t repeat. A family hiking nearby shot us uncomfortable looks, their kids trailing behind them. My face burned with embarrassment. “Hey, can you keep it down?” I said, trying to sound calm. “There are people around.”
Jerkwad laughed, his voice grating. “Relax, man. It’s just words. Lighten up.” But he didn’t stop. If anything, he got louder, belting out offensive lyrics like he was performing for an audience. I wanted to disappear into the trees.
Then came the caterpillar incident. We were on a flat stretch of trail when Jerkwad spotted a small caterpillar inching across the path. Instead of stepping over it, he stopped, picked it up with a stick, and flicked open his lighter. “Let’s see if it’s alive,” he said with a grin that made my skin crawl. He set the caterpillar on fire, watching as it writhed and burned into a charred husk. I felt sick. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I snapped, my voice shaking.
He shrugged, unfazed. “It’s just a bug. Chill out.” His casual cruelty made my stomach turn, but we were miles from anywhere, so I kept walking, keeping my distance.
It got worse. Jerkwad pulled out a buck knife and started stabbing trees along the trail. “This is how you mark your territory,” he said, plunging the blade into a thick oak. Then he threw the knife at a stump. It hit with a thud, and the blade snapped off. I thought that might slow him down, but he just laughed and pulled a two-foot machete from his pack. “Meet Henry VII,” he said, waving it around like a trophy. “My favorite weapon.” My heart raced. This guy wasn’t just annoying—he was dangerous.
As the day dragged on, Jerkwad’s complaints grew louder. Then launched into rants about Mormons, Canadians, anyone he could think of. It was like he was trying to pick a fight with the entire state. At one point, he started kicking apart the stone cairns that mark the trail. “Who needs these stupid things?” he said, scattering rocks across the path. I bit my lip, my hands clenched into fists. Those markers could save our lives if we got lost, and he was destroying them.
The hike itself was grueling. After 13 hours, my hips and knees felt like they were grinding to dust. Every step was agony, and Jerkwad’s chaos made it unbearable. Blake was holding up better, but even he looked worn out, his eyes darting nervously toward Jerkwad every time he raised his voice.
We stopped for a break in a small clearing. I collapsed onto a rock, my legs trembling. Blake sat beside me, pulling out a map. “You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice low so Jerkwad wouldn’t hear.
I shook my head. “I don’t know if I can do this. My body’s falling apart, and… him.” I nodded toward Jerkwad, who was now hacking at a sapling with his machete, muttering to himself.
Blake sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he’s… a lot. But we’re almost at camp. Just a little further.”
I nodded, but inside, I was crumbling. This was supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime, but it felt like a trap.
The sun was setting, the forest growing darker, shadows stretching across the trail. Jerkwad’s antics didn’t stop. “You’re all gonna burn!” he yelled at the trees, swinging his machete wildly. I stayed as far back as I could, but the trail was narrow, and his voice echoed in my head.
Then, things took a turn. We hit a steep, rocky drop-off where the trail dipped sharply. Jerkwad, still waving his machete, lost his footing and slid down a small embankment, landing hard. Clutching his leg. “I think I twisted my ankle.”
Blake and I scrambled down to help, but Jerkwad shoved us away. “Don’t touch me! I’m fine!” He struggled to his feet, limping but refusing help. “Let’s keep going. I’m not quitting.”
We hiked in silence after that, the air thick with tension. My body screamed for rest, but every time I thought about stopping, I saw Jerkwad’s wild grin, his machete glinting in the fading light. I didn’t feel safe.
We finally reached a campsite near a stream. I dropped my pack and sank to the ground, too exhausted to set up my tent. Blake started gathering wood for a fire, while Jerkwad limped around, muttering curses. As we sat by the fire that night, I leaned toward Blake. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “He’s going to get us killed.”
Blake nodded, his face grim. “I know. But what can we do? We’re stuck out here.”
“I’m not,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I’m going home.”
He looked at me, surprised. “You sure? It’s a long way back.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’d rather walk all night than spend another day with him.”
The next morning, while Jerkwad was still asleep, I packed my bag and told Blake my plan. “Call me when you’re done,” he said, his voice heavy. “Stay safe.”
I hiked back to the nearest road, each step a battle against my aching body. It took five hours for my parents to pick me up. While I waited, I sat by the trail, feeling like I’d failed. A woman hiked by, her accent hinting at Australia or New Zealand. She saw me sitting there, looking defeated, and stopped. “You okay?” she asked, her voice kind.
I forced a smile. “Rough day. Bad hiking partner.”
She sat beside me. “Hiking’s tough,” she said. “But don’t let one bad day ruin it. Katahdin’s a beast, but it’s worth it.”
Her words were kind, but I knew I was done. The trail was beautiful, but it had shown me its dark side.
When my parents arrived, I climbed into the car, my gear piled in the back. As we drove away, I looked back at the trail one last time. It was stunning, but it had become a place of fear.
I never heard from Blake or Jerkwad again. I hope they made it, but I’ll never know. That one day on the Appalachian Trail taught me a hard lesson: the wilderness is unforgiving, and so are the people you choose to share it with.
"Red Bandana on the Branch":
Ever since I was a kid, flipping through books about adventure and survival, I knew this was something I had to do. The idea of trekking through hundreds of miles of wilderness, relying only on myself and nature, felt like the ultimate test of resilience. So, when I finally set out on my thru-hike, I was ready for the challenge—or so I thought.
It was late spring when I started my journey from Springer Mountain in Georgia. The first few weeks were tough but exhilarating. My legs ached from the constant uphill climbs, and my shoulders burned under the weight of my pack, but every sunrise over the mountains made it worth it. I met other hikers along the way—friendly faces who shared stories around campfires and traded trail snacks. We called ourselves "thru-hikers," a tight-knit community bound by our shared goal of reaching Maine.
By the time I reached Pennsylvania, I was halfway through my journey. The trail here was different—rockier, with more elevation changes, and the forests felt denser, almost oppressive at times. I had been hiking alone for a few days, enjoying the solitude after weeks of constant company. It was peaceful, just me and the rhythm of my footsteps on the dirt path.
That morning, I woke up early, as usual. My tent was pitched in a small clearing near a stream, and the air was cool and damp. I packed up quickly, eager to get moving. I had heard from other hikers that there was a small town called Duncannon not far ahead, a popular stop for resupplying and resting. I was looking forward to a hot meal and a bed for the night.
The trail was quiet that day. Too quiet, maybe. Normally, I’d hear birds chirping or squirrels darting through the underbrush, but today, the forest seemed to hold its breath. I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling, telling myself it was just my imagination. But as I hiked, I couldn’t ignore the faint smell that began to drift through the air. It was sharp and metallic, like blood, mixed with something else I couldn’t quite place.
I stopped for a moment, scanning the trail ahead. The path curved around a bend, disappearing into a thicker part of the woods. My heart started to race, though I didn’t know why. I told myself it was probably just a dead animal nearby, something natural. But the smell grew stronger as I continued, and with it came a sense of dread I couldn’t explain.
When I rounded the bend, I saw it—a small clearing just off the trail. And there, hanging from a sturdy branch of an oak tree, was a body. A young man, dressed in hiking gear, his face pale and lifeless. His backpack lay discarded on the ground beneath him, its contents spilling out.
I froze. My mind couldn’t process what I was seeing. Was this real? It had to be a dream, a nightmare. But no, the sight was all too vivid. The rope around his neck, the way his body swayed slightly in the breeze—it was real. Too real.
I wanted to scream, to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. I forced myself to step closer, hoping against hope that he might still be alive. “Hey!” I called out, my voice trembling. “Can you hear me?”
There was no response. Of course there wasn’t. He was gone. His eyes were open, staring blankly into the distance, and his skin had a waxy, lifeless quality. I felt bile rise in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I had to do something.
I wasn’t sure what to do next. I’m not a doctor, not trained for this kind of thing. My mind raced. There had to be someone I could tell, someone who could help. I remembered Duncannon wasn’t far—maybe a couple of hours’ hike at most. I could get there and alert the authorities.
But I couldn’t just leave him like this. What if someone else came along? What if animals... I shuddered at the thought. I needed to mark the spot so I could lead someone back here. I took off my red bandana and tied it to a low-hanging branch near the trail. Then, with one last look at the tragic scene, I turned and started hiking toward Duncannon as fast as my legs would carry me.
The trail felt longer than ever. Every step was heavy, my mind replaying the image of the hanged man over and over. Who was he? Why did he do this? Was there something I could have done to stop it? The questions swirled in my head, but I pushed them aside. I had to focus on getting help.
After what felt like an eternity, I finally reached the outskirts of Duncannon. The town was small, with a few shops and a hostel for thru-hikers. I headed straight for the general store, where I knew there was a phone. The store was empty except for the clerk, a middle-aged woman with a kind face. She looked up as I entered, her smile fading when she saw my expression.
“You okay, hon?” she asked.
I shook my head, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to use your phone. It’s an emergency.”
She pointed to the phone on the counter without hesitation. “Go ahead.”
I dialed 911 with shaking hands and reported what I’d found. The operator assured me that someone would be sent right away and asked me to wait at the store. While I waited, the clerk brought me a cup of coffee. “You look like you need this,” she said gently.
“Thank you,” I replied, my hands still trembling as I took the cup. The warmth was comforting, but it couldn’t erase the chill that had settled in my bones.
A few minutes later, two police officers arrived. They were from the local sheriff’s department—a burly man with a mustache and a younger woman with a serious expression. I explained what had happened, describing the location as best I could. They asked me to lead them back to the spot.
The hike back felt surreal. The officers walked ahead, their radios crackling with static, while I trailed behind, my legs heavy with dread. When we reached the clearing, the body was still there, just as I’d left it. The officers immediately took charge, securing the area and calling for backup.
I stood back, watching as they worked. One of them climbed up and cut the rope, lowering the body gently to the ground. They checked for any signs of life, though it was clear there were none. After a while, the female officer came over to me.
“Thank you for reporting this,” she said, her voice steady but kind. “I know it must have been traumatic for you.”
I nodded, still in shock. “Do you know who he is?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. We’ll have to run his description and see if anyone matches it from missing persons reports. Did you notice anything else? Any notes or anything?”
I thought back. “There was a backpack on the ground. Maybe there’s something in there.”
The officer went over to the backpack and carefully opened it. Inside, she found a wallet, some food, and a small notebook. She flipped through the notebook and found an entry from the day before. “It says here that he was struggling with depression and felt like he couldn’t go on,” she read aloud. “He wrote that he didn’t want to burden his family anymore.”
I felt a lump form in my throat. “So, it was suicide?”
“It appears so,” she said solemnly. “We’ll need to confirm with the medical examiner, but based on this, it seems likely.”
I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. This young man had been suffering, and now he was gone. And I was the one who found him. It felt like too much to bear.
The officers finished their initial investigation and arranged for the body to be transported to the morgue. They thanked me again for my help and told me I was free to go. But as I stood there, watching them load the stretcher into the van, I knew I couldn’t continue my hike. The trail no longer felt like a place of adventure; it felt haunted by this tragedy.
That evening, I stayed at the hostel in Duncannon. The common area was filled with other hikers, laughing and sharing stories, but I couldn’t join in. I sat in a corner, staring at my hands, still seeing the image of the hanged man every time I closed my eyes.
A hiker named Jake noticed me and came over. He was a few years older than me, with a beard and a friendly demeanor. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, sitting down across from me.
I hesitated, then told him what had happened. His face grew serious as I spoke. “That’s rough, man,” he said when I finished. “I’ve heard stories like that before, but never thought I’d meet someone who actually found one.”
“Has this happened before on the trail?” I asked.
Jake nodded. “Unfortunately, yeah. The trail can be tough on people, mentally and physically. Some don’t make it.”
We talked for a while longer, but my heart wasn’t in it. All I could think about was the young man and his family, who would soon learn of his fate.
The next morning, I made a decision. I couldn’t go on. The Appalachian Trail had been my dream, but now it felt like a nightmare. I packed up my things and caught a bus back home.
As the landscape passed by outside the window, I reflected on my experience. The trail had given me so much—strength, resilience, a sense of accomplishment—but it had also taken something from me that day. I don’t know if I’ll ever return to finish my thru-hike. Maybe one day, when the memory fades, I’ll give it another shot. But for now, I need time to heal, to process what I saw and felt.
One thing is certain: the Appalachian Trail is not just a path through the woods; it’s a journey through the human spirit, with all its triumphs and tragedies. And sometimes, those tragedies are the hardest to leave behind.
"Mile Marker of Madness":
Hiking the Appalachian Trail, a 2,190-mile journey from Georgia to Maine. In early May 2019, I set out with two friends, Alex and Chris, and another hiker we’d met along the way. Alex was a seasoned hiker, having tackled several long trails, while Chris was newer but full of enthusiasm. We planned to hike together for a few weeks, sharing the adventure and the challenges.
After two weeks, we reached southwest Virginia. The trail was stunning—towering trees, babbling streams, and the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. We were averaging 15 miles a day, our packs heavy but our spirits high. That evening, we found a secluded spot near a small stream to set up camp. As we unpacked our gear and started a small fire, a man approached. He was tall, with a scruffy beard and wild eyes, carrying a large backpack. His dog, a friendly-looking mutt, trotted beside him.
“Hey there,” he called out, his voice rough. “Mind if I join you for the night?”
We exchanged quick glances. Sharing campsites is common on the trail, and he didn’t seem threatening at first. “Sure, no problem,” I replied, trying to sound welcoming.
He introduced himself as Sovereign, a trail name he’d chosen. He told us about his journey and his dog, Felicia, who wagged her tail as we tossed her a bit of food. We chatted for a while, sharing stories of the trail. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Sovereign’s demeanor shifted. He started ranting about conspiracy theories—how the government was tracking hikers with GPS devices, how nobody could be trusted. Alex tried to lighten the mood, asking about his favorite trails, but Sovereign’s voice grew sharper, his eyes darting around.
“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “They’re watching us. All of us.”
Chris laughed nervously, trying to defuse the tension. “Hey, man, we’re just here to hike. No government spies here.”
Sovereign didn’t laugh. He stared at us, his expression unreadable, then turned away to set up his tent. We decided to keep an eye on him but didn’t think much of it. The trail attracts all kinds of people, and we’d met our share of eccentrics.
As night fell, the forest grew darker, the only sounds the crackle of our fire and the distant hoot of an owl. I crawled into my tent, exhausted but uneasy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Hours later, I woke to Sovereign’s voice outside, muttering to himself. His words were low, almost a growl—“They’re coming,” “I have to protect myself.” My stomach tightened. I whispered to Alex and Chris in the next tent, but they were fast asleep.
Around midnight, a loud rustling jolted me awake. I peeked through the tent flap and saw Sovereign standing over our backpacks, a 20-inch knife in his hand. The blade caught the moonlight, glinting like a warning. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. He was rifling through our gear, his movements frantic.
I shook Alex and Chris awake, whispering, “He’s got a knife. We need to get out of here.”
Before we could move, Sovereign spun toward us, his eyes blazing with rage. “You’re part of them, aren’t you?” he shouted. “You’re trying to stop me!”
He lunged, the knife slashing through the air. I grabbed my hiking pole, swinging it wildly, but he was too fast. The blade caught my arm, slicing deep. Pain seared through me as blood soaked my sleeve. Alex screamed as Sovereign turned on Chris, stabbing him in the chest. Chris crumpled to the ground, motionless.
I fumbled for my GPS device, my hands shaking so badly I could barely press the emergency button. I prayed the signal would reach someone. Sovereign was now after Alex, who was fighting to keep him at bay. I grabbed a rock and swung it with all my strength, hitting Sovereign on the head. He stumbled, dazed, giving us a split second to run.
We bolted into the woods, branches snapping underfoot, Sovereign’s shouts echoing behind us. His dog’s barking added to the chaos, a relentless reminder of the danger at our heels. My arm throbbed, blood dripping as we ran, but fear kept me moving. We stumbled through the darkness, not knowing where we were going, just desperate to escape.
After what felt like forever, we spotted a faint glow—a group of hikers setting up camp. We staggered toward them, gasping for breath. “Help us!” I cried. “He’s got a knife!”
The hikers took us in, their faces pale with shock. One had a satellite phone and called for help. Park rangers and police arrived, their flashlights cutting through the night. They found Sovereign not far away, still clutching his knife, his dog by his side. He was arrested on the spot.
Chris was rushed to the hospital, but he didn’t make it. The loss hit like a tidal wave, leaving me numb. My arm needed stitches, and Alex was shaken but physically unharmed. We later learned Sovereign’s real name was James L. Jordan, a 30-year-old from Massachusetts with a history of mental illness. He’d been on the trail for weeks, acting erratically, threatening other hikers. In Tennessee, he’d been arrested for minor charges but was released, with no one realizing the danger he posed.
The attack shook the Appalachian Trail community. Hikers shared stories of their own unsettling encounters with Jordan, who called himself “the captain of the hit squad” and had been seen trashing shelters and threatening to burn tents. The incident was a stark reminder that, while rare, human danger can lurk even in the wilderness.
I continued my hike, but it wasn’t the same. I was more cautious, always checking over my shoulder, sticking close to other hikers. The trail’s beauty remained, but it was forever tainted by that night of terror. I carry the scars—on my arm and in my mind—as a reminder of how quickly peace can turn to horror.