"The Self-Serve Camp":
I started from the east coast and headed west, stopping at different spots each night. By the time I reached Oregon, I felt free, but tired from all the driving.
One evening, I drove into a small town with not much around. My gas tank was low, almost empty. I needed to fill up, but it was already dark, and I saw no stations open. I pulled over at what looked like an old logging site turned into a campground. It was quiet, with trees all around and gravel roads leading to spots for tents or RVs. A sign said it was self-serve, pay in a box. I figured I could camp here, ask someone about gas in the morning.
I drove in and saw a fire at the first site. A man and a woman sat there, maybe in their late twenties. He had a beard, she had long hair tied back. They looked up as I stopped. I rolled down my window.
"Hi," I said. "Is this place okay to camp? I'm low on gas and need a spot for the night."
The man nodded. "Sure is. Nearest gas is two miles down the road, but it's closed now. Opens early."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll set up then."
The next site was empty, so I parked there. It was close to theirs, but not too close. I got out my tent and started putting it up. The ground was hard, so I used a rock to hammer in the stakes. That's when the man walked over, holding a small ax.
"Need help?" he asked. "This ax works better than a rock."
I paused. It felt odd, him coming over with an ax, but he seemed helpful. "Okay, thanks."
He hammered the stakes in quick. When he finished, I offered him a beer from my cooler. "Want one? For the help."
He took it. "Sure. Name's Tom."
"I'm Alex," I said. We sat by my fire pit, though I hadn't lit it yet. His woman walked over then.
"You got any pills?" she asked straight out. "Like for pain or something?"
I shook my head. "Just ibuprofen. Why?"
She shrugged. "Headache. But hey, you got weed? I heard Washington's got good stuff."
"I picked some up there," I said, trying to be friendly. "Want to share?"
We smoked a bit. They kept talking about the campground rules. "Make sure you pay at the box," the man said. "Rangers check."
"Yeah, put money in the envelope," the woman added.
I nodded. "I will."
They said it again a few minutes later. "Don't forget to pay."
It started to bother me. Why repeat it? And then the woman said, "If you got no cash, just write your card number on the paper. They take that."
No way. That sounded wrong. Who writes card info in a box? I said, "I think I have cash."
The woman stood up. "Come meet the neighbors. They're nice."
I didn't want to, but I followed her to an RV two sites over. It looked old, parked there for months. Cardboard covered the wheels, and it was dirty. A dog lay outside. She knocked, and a man opened the door. He was over sixty, eyes red from drinking. A woman inside waved me in.
"Come eat," she said. "I made tacos."
I sat on a worn couch. The old man started talking, long story about his life, jobs he had. It dragged on. Then he ended with, "You know Jeffrey Dahmer? He ate people. Funny, right?"
I forced a laugh, but my skin crawled. Who jokes about that? The woman pushed a taco at me. "Eat it."
I took it, but didn't bite. "Thanks, but I'm full."
When I left, I tossed the taco to the dog. Back at my site, the young couple was gone. I sat by my unlit fire, thinking. This place felt off. Why the ax? The pill question? The card thing? That joke?
Then I heard yelling from the RV. The old woman screamed, "That's it! I've had it!"
She stormed out, walking toward my site. The young woman followed. The old one looked at me. "I need a ride to town tomorrow. You going?"
"Uh, maybe," I said.
The young woman smiled. "I'll come too. We can all go."
My mind raced. Three strangers wanting in my car? No. I said, "Actually, I might leave early. Real early."
The old woman frowned. "You sure? I need out of here."
"Yeah, sorry."
They walked away, but I heard whispering. I went into my tent, zipped it tight. Lay there, listening. Footsteps? Or just wind? I thought about the ax, the joke about eating people. What if they weren't just weird? What if they hurt people out here, where no one sees?
I waited an hour, heart racing quiet. Then I packed fast. Threw the tent in the car, didn't fold it right. Drove out slow, lights off at first so they wouldn't see. On the main road, I breathed easier. Less than a mile away, I saw a B&B with lights on. I knocked.
A clerk opened. "Need a room?"
I told him about the campground, the people, the weird stuff. He listened. "Sounds creepy. Stay here. Coffee in the morning."
I slept in a real bed, safe. Next day, I got gas. The station guy asked where I camped. I told him.
"Those folks? Stay away. Heard stories. People go missing sometimes."
I drove on, but I checked my mirrors all day. What if they followed? I changed my route, avoided small towns. That night changed me. Now, when I camp solo, I pick busy places. No more remote spots.
"Mount Rogers, Midnight":
I started in Georgia and had been on the trail for weeks, making good progress into Virginia. I felt strong, even though my legs ached from the constant up and down.
One afternoon, I came across a man sitting by the path, strumming a guitar. He looked rough, with a beard and dirty clothes, and he had a dog with him. The dog seemed friendly, wagging its tail as I approached. "Nice day for a hike," I said, trying to be polite. He looked up, his eyes distant, and muttered something about being the captain of some squad. I nodded and kept walking, not thinking much of it. Hikers come in all types.
Later that evening, I set up my tent in a small clearing near Mount Rogers. I had passed a few other people earlier, but now it was quiet. I boiled water for dinner and ate my noodles, listening to the birds settle in. As darkness came, I zipped into my sleeping bag, tired but content.
A noise woke me sometime in the night. Footsteps crunching leaves. I sat up, grabbing my headlamp. "Who's there?" I called out. No answer at first, then a voice, low and angry. "This is my trail" It was the man from earlier. I could see his outline through the tent fabric, the dog sniffing around.
"I don't want trouble," I said, my voice steady but my hands shaking as I searched for my knife in my pack. "Just passing through."
He laughed, a sharp sound. "Passing through? I'll burn you out. Pour gasoline and watch it go up." He kicked at the ground near my tent. I smelled something chemical, like lighter fluid maybe. Panic rose in me. I had to get out.
I unzipped the tent fast and stood up, facing him. He had a large knife in his hand, the blade catching the light from my lamp. "Back off," I warned. "Leave me alone."
"You think you can tell me what to do?" He stepped closer, waving the knife. The dog whined and backed away. "I own this place"
I tried to reason. "Look, I have food. Take it if you want. Just go."
He lunged then, faster than I expected. The knife sliced my arm, hot pain shooting through. I screamed and swung my backpack at him, hitting his shoulder. He stumbled, but came back, slashing again. This time it caught my side, deep. Blood soaked my shirt. I fell to the ground, gasping.
He stood over me, breathing heavy. "See what happens?" he said. "You shouldn't have come here."
I lay still, eyes half-closed, holding my breath as best I could. The pain burned, but I forced myself not to move. He poked me with his foot, then turned away, muttering to himself. The dog followed him as he walked off into the trees.
Minutes passed. I counted in my head to stay calm. When I couldn't hear him anymore, I rolled over slowly. Blood everywhere. I pressed my hand to the wound on my side, wincing. My phone— I grabbed it from the tent. No signal here, deep in the valley. I had to move.
I stuffed a shirt against the cuts and tied it tight with my belt. Every step hurt, but I started walking south, back the way I came, where I knew a road crossed the trail miles away. The path was narrow, roots tripping me. Blood dripped down my leg. I whispered to myself, "Keep going. Just keep going."
After a while, I heard voices ahead. Two hikers, a man and a woman, at their camp. I stumbled into their light. "Help," I croaked. "A man attacked me. Knife."
The woman jumped up. "Oh no, sit down. You're bleeding bad." She grabbed her first aid kit while the man tried his phone. "No bars here," he said. "We need to get to the road."
They helped me stand. "What did he look like?" the man asked as we walked.
"Beard, dog, called himself John,” I said through gritted teeth. "Threatened to burn me."
The woman nodded. "We heard warnings about a guy like that on the trail forums. Crazy stuff."
We pushed on, them supporting me when I weakened. The cuts throbbed, and I felt dizzy from blood loss. "Tell me about yourself," the woman said, trying to distract me. "Where you from?"
"Canada," I answered. "Started this hike alone, thought it would be good for me. Master's in biology, love the outdoors."
"Sounds nice," she replied. "Hang in there. Road's not far."
Finally, we reached the crossing. The man got a signal and dialed emergency. "We have a stabbed hiker," he told the operator. "Appalachian Trail, Davis Hollow area. She's hurt bad."
Sirens came soon after. Paramedics loaded me into the ambulance, starting IVs and bandaging. "You walked miles like this?" one asked. "Tough lady."
In the hospital, doctors stitched me up—multiple wounds, but nothing vital hit. Police came, and I told them everything. They found the man later, following his dog right to him.
I recovered over time, scars reminding me. That trip was supposed to heal me, but it almost ended me.
"Night Visitors on the Trail":
I wanted to push my limits, spend a few days hiking and camping by myself to clear my head. I packed light: a small tent, sleeping bag, some food, water filter, and a pocket knife for cutting rope or food. I started early one morning from a quiet trailhead, feeling ready for the challenge.
The first day went fine. I covered about ten miles, passing a couple of other hikers who nodded hello but kept to themselves. By afternoon, I reached a spot near a stream where I could set up camp. As I pitched my tent, a man walked by on the trail. He looked rough, with a dirty backpack and clothes that seemed worn out. He stopped and stared at me for a moment.
"You hiking alone?" he asked, his voice flat.
"Yes," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just a short trip."
He lingered a bit, looking around my campsite, then walked on. I watched him disappear down the path, but something about him made me uneasy. I shook it off and finished setting up, eating a quick meal of dried fruit and nuts before crawling into my tent as the light faded.
That night, I woke to footsteps crunching leaves outside. At first, I thought it might be an animal, but then I heard whispers. Two voices. I stayed still, listening. The zipper on my tent started to move slowly. I grabbed my knife from beside my sleeping bag, holding it tight.
The flap opened, and a face peered in—the same man from earlier, with a woman beside him. "Give us the pack," he said, reaching for my backpack at the foot of the tent.
"What are you doing?" I yelled, sitting up. "Get away!"
The woman pushed in, grabbing at the bag. "Shut up. We need this stuff."
I slashed out with the knife, catching the man's arm. He yelped and pulled back. "She's got a blade!"
They both lunged then, the man pinning my legs while the woman tried to wrench the knife from my hand. I kicked hard, my boot connecting with his side. He grunted and loosened his grip. I twisted free and stabbed toward the woman's foot, feeling it sink in. She screamed and stumbled back.
"Let's go!" she hissed at him, clutching her shoe.
The man glared at me, blood dripping from his arm. "You'll regret this."
They scrambled out, grabbing what they could—a water bottle and some food from my pack—before running into the darkness. I zipped the tent shut, my hands trembling as I held the knife ready. I could hear them crashing through the brush, arguing in low voices as they fled.
I didn't sleep after that. I sat up, knife in hand, listening for any sound of them coming back. Every rustle made me flinch. I thought about packing up and hiking out right then, but it was too dark, and I didn't know if they were waiting nearby. So I waited, counting the minutes until dawn.
As soon as the sky lightened, I broke camp fast, stuffing everything into my pack. My legs felt weak, but I pushed on, hiking hard toward the next shelter. About two miles down, I spotted another hiker—a older guy with a full beard, resting on a log.
"Hey, you okay?" he asked, seeing my face.
I told him what happened, my voice shaky. "Two people attacked me last night. Tried to steal my stuff. I fought them off with my knife."
His eyes widened. "That's serious. Let me help. I have a satellite phone—I'll call for help."
He dialed, explaining the situation to someone on the other end. "Yes, a hiker was assaulted at the campsite near mile marker 45. She's safe now, but the attackers might still be around."
While we waited, he shared his water and a snack.
Rangers arrived an hour later, two of them on foot. I described the man and woman—their clothes, the man's cut arm, the woman's limp. "We'll search the area," one ranger said.
They escorted me to a nearby town, where I got checked at a clinic. No broken bones, just bruises. Later, I found out the police caught the pair at a local hospital, treating their wounds. They had other stolen gear in their car—backpacks, tents from other hikers.
I ended my trip early, driving home with a mix of relief and fear. Now, when I think about solo hikes, I remember how quickly things turned bad. I still love the trail, but next time, I'll carry more than just a knife.
"Six Days on the North Face":
I had just reached the top of Mount Goddard, standing there at over 13,000 feet, looking out at the endless rocks and distant valleys. It was my reward after months of finishing school and working nonstop. I signed the register, noting I was only the third person up here that year. My plan was simple: a few days out from Florence Lake, up the mountain, then back. I told my dad the route before I left, figuring I'd be home soon.
Descending the north side felt tricky with all the loose stones. I moved carefully, bracing against the slope. Then a small rock came free in my hand. Before I could react, a bigger one—about the size of a large backpack—tumbled down and slammed into my right calf. The crack echoed in my ears as pain exploded through my leg. I fell backward onto a patch of snow and started sliding fast, out of control, blood trailing behind me.
I dug my left heel and hand into the snow, slowing myself just before hitting sharp rocks below. When I stopped, I looked down. My tibia bone poked out through the skin, jagged and white, blood soaking everything. The sight made my head spin, but I pushed it aside. I had to act. No one knew exactly where I was, and cell service didn't exist here.
I pulled off my shorts and used my long underwear to cover the wound temporarily. With my pocketknife, I cut a piece from my sleeping pad and wrapped it around the break. I took apart my walking sticks, using the shafts as splints, and tied them tight with my belt and some straps. It hurt bad, but the pressure stopped most of the bleeding. I knew I couldn't walk, so crawling to safety was my only shot, but with my full pack, it was impossible.
I left the food and most gear behind, thinking rescue would come before I starved. I grabbed my bivy sack for shelter, a rain poncho, my knife, a whistle I tied around my neck, gloves, and hats. If things got worse, the knife could help... in a desperate way. I crab-walked to another snow patch and slid down to a flat rocky area, maybe 100 yards away. It took forever, every move sending fire up my leg. I cleared some stones to make a spot for my body, propping my leg up best I could.
Night came, and the quiet pressed in. I blew the whistle sharp and loud, yelling "Help!" over and over. My voice bounced off the mountains, coming back empty. No answer. I wiggled into the bivy sack, trying to stay warm, but the pain kept me awake in waves. What if no one came? My parents expected me Monday; they'd wait a day or two before worrying. I had to hold on.
By morning, a bad smell hit me—my leg. The wound looked puffy and red, infection already starting. I crawled to the snow, using a flat rock to scrape off the dirty top layer. I packed clean snow into the break, letting it melt and flush out the mess. With the knife, I gently scraped at the sticky parts, massaging my foot to keep blood moving. It was gross, yellow goo coming out, but I had no choice. I did this routine a few times that day, sipping water from melted snow in my hands.
Hunger gnawed at me. I spotted ants crawling on rocks nearby and scooped some up, crunching them down. They tasted bitter, but it was something. Later, a moth fluttered close; I grabbed it and ate that too. Small things to keep energy up. I blew the whistle again, shouting until my throat hurt. Still nothing. The loneliness crept in deeper—miles from any trail, no hikers around. What if animals smelled the blood? I pushed the thought away, focusing on my leg, keeping it elevated.
The next day blurred into more of the same. The infection spread, my calf swelling hot and tight. Pain throbbed constant now, like a hammer inside. I talked to myself to stay sharp. "Come on, Gregg, you've fought fires, guided rafts—this is just another challenge." But inside, fear built. What if the infection reached my blood? I knew sepsis could kill fast. I cleaned the wound again, packing more snow, but the bone looked wrong, edges turning dark. I blew the whistle in bursts, three short, three long, three short—SOS. Echoes mocked me.
On the third day, weakness hit hard. No real food, just bugs and snow water. My body shook from the effort of crawling even a little. I imagined hearing voices in the wind, but it was nothing. "Stay calm," I muttered. "Rescue's coming." I checked my leg; the smell was worse, pus oozing steady. I scraped deeper with the knife, biting my lip against the agony. Blood mixed with the mess, but I had to clear it. Hours passed staring at the sky, willing a plane or chopper to appear. Night brought chills, even in the bivy. I whispered to myself about home, picturing my dad's face when I got back. "I'll make it, Dad. Just hold on."
By day four, despair snuck in. My leg felt like dead weight, numb in places but burning in others. The swelling pushed against the splint, and I loosened it a bit, scared of cutting off circulation. I ate more ants, forcing them down. Thirst wasn't bad with the snow, but hunger made me dizzy. I shouted less, saving strength, but blew the whistle every hour. The vast emptiness terrified me—rocks and sky, no life. What if I died here, alone? I shook my head. "No. Fight." I massaged my toes, willing them to move, but they barely twitched.
Rain came that afternoon, soaking through my poncho. I shivered hard, water pooling around me. The cold made everything worse, infection flaring up. I huddled tighter, talking aloud. "You're strong. You've survived worse scrapes." But doubt whispered back. Night was endless, pain spiking with every shiver. I thought of amputating—knife in hand, staring at the leg—but couldn't do it yet. Not unless death stared closer.
Day five, exhaustion weighed me down. I barely moved, just cleaned the wound weakly. The goo was thicker, smell choking. My whole body ached from infection spreading. I blew the whistle faintly, voice gone. Hope faded; maybe no one was looking. "Please, someone find me," I croaked to the empty air. Bugs crawled over me, and I ate what I could catch. The isolation clawed at my mind—every rustle in the rocks made me tense, imagining predators drawn to the scent.
Then, on day six, a distant thump. A helicopter! My pulse raced. I grabbed the poncho, waving it wild despite the pain. The chopper circled closer, rotors loud. I blew the whistle nonstop, yelling hoarsely. It hovered above, a ranger leaning out. "We see you!" he shouted over the noise. Relief flooded me, tears mixing with sweat.
They lowered a basket, and two rescuers dropped down. One was a medic named John. "Hang in there, buddy," he said, checking my leg. "That's nasty, but you're alive." I nodded, words failing. "How'd you find me?" I managed. "Your dad reported you missing. We searched the area." They stabilized my leg better, gave me fluids. "You did good splinting this," the other said. "Saved your life." They hoisted me up, chopper air blasting.
In the hospital, doctors said the break was compound, infection severe, but I'd keep the leg after surgery and antibiotics. Six days alone, broken and fighting—that fear still lingers. But I made it.