"The Creekside":
I had been looking forward to this fishing trip for months. My old friend David and I worked long hours in the city, and we needed a break. We picked a spot in the national forest, a quiet area near a creek where the water ran clear and the fish were plentiful. We loaded up the truck with our gear—rods, tackle boxes, a cooler for the catch, and our tent—and drove out early one morning in spring. The drive took us through winding roads, past thick trees that blocked out most of the light. By afternoon, we reached the creek and set up camp on a flat patch of ground close to the water.
We spent the first few hours fishing. I caught a few trout right away, their scales shining as I pulled them in. David got lucky too, landing a big one that made us both laugh. We built a small fire as the light started to fade, and I cleaned the fish while David gathered more wood. That's when I noticed a man walking along the bank. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with a scruffy beard and worn clothes. He carried a fishing pole and had a dog trailing behind him. He stopped and watched us for a moment before calling out.
"Hey there," he said. "Looks like you fellows had some good luck today."
I looked up from the fish. "Yeah, the trout are biting. You out here fishing too?"
He nodded and came closer. "Name's Joe. Been trying my hand upstream, but not much action. Mind if I join you for a bit?"
David glanced at me, and I shrugged. We were friendly types, and it wasn't unusual to chat with other folks in these remote spots. "Sure," David said. "Pull up a log."
Joe sat down by the fire, his dog settling nearby. We talked about the fish, the best bait to use, and how the creek had changed over the years. He said he lived nearby and came out here often. His stories were simple—about catching bass in the summer, spotting deer in the mornings. But something about him felt off. His eyes darted around a lot, and he kept rubbing his hands together like he was nervous. Still, we shared our meal. I grilled the trout over the flames, and we passed around plates. Joe ate quickly, thanking us between bites.
"This is real good," he said. "Haven't had a hot meal like this in a while."
"No problem," I replied. "Plenty to go around."
As the fire crackled, the conversation turned to sports. David brought up a recent game, and Joe joined in, laughing at a bad play. It seemed normal enough, but I caught him staring at our gear a few times, like he was sizing things up. After an hour or so, he stood up. "Well, I better head back to my spot. Come on, boy," he said to his dog. "Time to go."
We said goodnight, and he walked off into the trees, his figure disappearing in the dim light. David and I cleaned up, put out the fire, and crawled into our tent. We talked a little about the day, planning to fish more in the morning. I fell asleep listening to the creek flowing nearby.
A noise woke me sometime later. It was dark, and I lay there, trying to figure out what it was. Footsteps? I unzipped the tent flap a crack and peered out. There was Joe, standing just outside, holding something in his hand. Before I could say anything, he raised his arm. A loud bang split the air. David jerked beside me, clutching his face. Blood poured between his fingers.
"David!" I shouted, scrambling up.
Another bang, and pain exploded in my back. I stumbled forward, but Joe fired again. This time, it hit my neck. Warm blood sprayed out, pulsing with each beat of my heart. I pressed my hand against the wound, feeling the hole, the slick wetness. Panic surged through me. David was moving, groaning, his face swollen and red. Joe stood there, gun pointed, his expression blank, like this was nothing.
David lunged at him, grabbing for the weapon. Joe fired once more, close range into David's chest. David reeled back but didn't fall. He turned and ran toward the truck, keys in hand. I bolted after him, dodging into the trees. My vision blurred from the blood loss, but I heard the engine roar to life. Joe was yelling something, but I couldn't make it out. I broke from the cover and sprinted to the road, waving my arms.
"Wait! David, it's me!"
He slowed just enough for me to jump in the passenger side. "Drive," I gasped, still plugging my neck with my fingers. Blood soaked my shirt, my hand slippery. David floored it, the truck bouncing over the rough dirt road. We flew down the mountain, tires skidding on turns. At one sharp bend, the wheels slipped toward the edge, a drop-off into blackness below. I grabbed the wheel to help steer, and we straightened out by inches.
"Who was that guy?" David muttered through his swollen mouth, blood dripping from his jaw.
"I don't know," I said, my voice weak. "Just keep going. We need help."
The pain in my neck burned like fire, spreading down my arm. I wondered if I'd pass out, if the blood would stop. David gripped the wheel, his shirt dark with stains from his wounds. We drove for what seemed like forever, the truck rattling, until we saw lights—houses at the base of the hill. I pointed to the first one. "Stop here."
David pulled over, and I staggered to the door, pounding on it. "Help! Please, call for help! We've been shot!"
A woman opened the door, her eyes wide. "What happened?"
"A man... he shot us. Up by the creek. Please, call an ambulance."
She pulled us inside, wrapped us in blankets, and dialed the number. We sat on her porch, waiting. David leaned against the wall, breathing hard. "You okay?" he asked.
"I think so," I lied. The wait dragged on, every minute feeling longer. Sirens finally wailed in the distance. Paramedics loaded us into helicopters, flying us to the hospital. Doctors rushed me into surgery, saying the bullet missed a major artery by a hair. David needed operations too, bullets lodged in his chest and face.
Later, we learned the truth about Joe. His real name was something else, a man with a dark past who'd hurt people in that same forest years before. He'd taken our truck after we escaped, but crashed it running from the police. He didn't survive his injuries. Knowing that brought some relief, but the memories stuck. The way he turned from friendly to deadly in a second. The sound of those shots echoing in the quiet woods. David and I recovered, scars and all, but we never went back to that creek. Some places hold too much danger, hidden in the isolation.
"The Trailside":
I always enjoyed those quiet hikes with Ellen. We were both students at UC Davis, and getting away from campus felt like a breath of fresh air. That day in late March 1981, we picked Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The tall trees surrounded us, and the paths wound through thick underbrush. It was our way to unwind, talk about classes, and just be together. Little did I know that walk would change everything.
We parked the car near the entrance and started on one of the main trails. Ellen carried a small backpack with water and snacks, and I had my camera slung over my shoulder. She was ahead of me, pointing out birds and ferns. "Look at that one, Steven," she said, her voice light and happy. "It's like a tiny forest all on its own." I smiled and snapped a photo. The path was narrow, with roots poking up here and there. We passed a few other hikers early on, but as we went deeper, the crowds thinned out. Soon, it was just us and the rustle of leaves.
After about an hour, we took a side trail that promised a view of the river. It was steeper, with more rocks and fallen branches. Ellen slowed down to step carefully. "This is getting rugged," she commented, glancing back at me. "But it's worth it, right?" I nodded, feeling the burn in my legs. The forest closed in, the trees blocking out most of the light. I noticed how isolated we were—no voices, no footsteps besides ours. A branch snapped somewhere off the path, and I paused. "Probably a deer," I said to myself, but I quickened my pace to catch up with her.
We reached a small clearing by a stream, and Ellen suggested we rest. She sat on a log, pulling out a granola bar. "Want half?" she offered, breaking it and handing me a piece. We chatted about our plans for summer—maybe a road trip up the coast. The water bubbled nearby, a soothing sound at first. But then, another crack echoed from the bushes, closer this time. Ellen tilted her head. "What was that?" she asked quietly. I stood up, peering into the shadows. Nothing moved. "Maybe an animal," I replied, trying to sound calm. But my pulse quickened. We shouldered our packs and kept going, the trail climbing uphill now.
Further along, the path narrowed even more, hemmed in by dense foliage. I felt eyes on us, that prickling sensation on the back of my neck. Ellen must have sensed it too because she walked closer to me. "Feels a bit eerie out here," she murmured. I agreed, but we pressed on. Then, up ahead, a man stepped out from behind a tree. He was middle-aged, with glasses and a plain jacket, looking like any other hiker at first. But something about his stare made me uneasy. He blocked the path slightly, not moving aside.
"Hello," Ellen said politely, expecting him to pass. He didn't. Instead, he pulled out a gun from his pocket, pointing it straight at us. My mind raced— this couldn't be real. "Don't scream," he said in a flat voice, his eyes cold. Ellen grabbed my arm. "What do you want?" she asked, her tone steady but frightened. He glanced around, making sure we were alone. "I'm going to rape you," he told her directly, stepping closer. The words hung in the air, turning my blood to ice.
Ellen shook her head. "No," she said firmly, her voice rising. "You won't." She backed up, pulling me with her. I tried to think—run? Fight? But the gun was right there. "Stay still," he ordered, waving the weapon. "Both of you." I raised my hands slowly. "Please, just let us go," I begged. "We won't tell anyone." He ignored me, focusing on Ellen. She resisted, pushing at his arm when he reached for her. "Get away!" she shouted. In that moment, everything exploded.
He fired. The shot hit Ellen in the chest, and she crumpled to the ground with a gasp. I lunged forward, yelling her name, but he turned the gun on me. The bullet slammed into my neck, hot pain ripping through. I fell backward, blood pouring out. The world spun, sounds muffled. I saw him stand over Ellen, firing again to make sure. Then he looked at me, assuming I was done for. He rifled through our packs quickly, taking what he wanted, and vanished into the trees.
Lying there, I fought to stay conscious. The pain was unbearable, but I touched my neck— the bullet had gone through, missing the artery by inches. Blood soaked my shirt, but I could still breathe. Ellen lay motionless a few feet away, her eyes open but unseeing. Tears mixed with the blood as I whispered her name, hoping for a response. None came. I knew I had to move, or I'd bleed out. Using my good arm, I pushed myself up, staggering. The trail blurred, but I stumbled back the way we came.
Every step was agony. Branches scratched my face, roots tripped me. I fell twice, tasting dirt. "Help," I croaked, but my voice was weak. How far had we hiked? Minutes felt like hours. Finally, I heard voices—other hikers. I collapsed onto the main path as a couple rounded the bend. The woman screamed when she saw me. "He's hurt!" she cried to her partner. He knelt down. "What happened? Who did this?" I managed to gasp, "Man with a gun... shot us... Ellen's back there." They called for help on a radio one of them had, and soon rangers arrived.
In the hospital later, doctors said it was a miracle I survived. The bullet had nicked muscle but nothing vital. Police showed me sketches, and I described the man—his glasses, his calm demeanor. It led them to David Carpenter, a guy with a history of violence. Turned out he'd been stalking trails, preying on people in parks like this one. He'd killed others before us, leaving bodies in remote spots. Knowing that made the nightmare worse—how close we'd come to being just more forgotten victims.
Even now, years later, I avoid deep woods. The memory creeps in—the isolation, his emotionless voice, Ellen's last stand. She was brave until the end. I wish I could have saved her, but surviving meant telling her story, making sure he paid. And he did, locked away forever. But the fear lingers, a reminder that in those desolate places, danger can hide behind any tree.
"Two Women, One Trail":
I had just finished a long week at work and needed to clear my head, so I packed my backpack and drove to Shenandoah National Park. It was late May, and I wanted a quiet spot to camp for a couple of days. I hiked in from the main road, following the Bridle Trail until I found a small clearing near a brook. The area felt peaceful, with trees all around and the sound of water running nearby. I set up my tent, made a small fire, and sat down to eat some canned soup.
As the light started to fade, I heard voices not too far away. Two women were talking and laughing softly. I figured they were campers like me, so I walked over to say hello. One was tall with short hair, arranging firewood, and the other was shorter, petting a golden retriever. "Hi there," I called out, not wanting to startle them. The tall one looked up and smiled. "Hello! You camping here too?"
"Yes, just over that way," I replied, pointing back. "I'm Emily. Nice dog you have." The shorter one nodded. "This is Taj. I'm Lollie, and this is Julie. We're from up north, taking a break from everything." We chatted for a bit. Julie mentioned she loved rocks and had collected a few from the trail. Lollie talked about how they met through work and decided on this trip to hike and relax. "It's so quiet out here," Julie said. "Makes you forget the world." I agreed, and after a few minutes, I wished them good night and went back to my site. Their voices carried a little while longer before everything went still.
I settled into my sleeping bag, listening to the brook. Sleep came easy at first, but sometime in the middle of the night, a noise woke me. It was a rustle, like footsteps on leaves, coming from the direction of their camp. I sat up, ears straining. Then, a dog's low growl, followed by silence. I waited, but nothing else happened. Maybe an animal, I thought, and tried to go back to sleep.
The next morning, I packed up early and decided to check on them before heading out. Their tent was still up, but no one was around. Taj was tied to a tree, whining softly. "Lollie? Julie?" I called. No answer. Their backpacks leaned against a log, untouched. Something felt wrong. I stepped closer and saw a sleeping bag half out of the tent, like someone had been dragged. My hands started to shake as I peeked inside. There was blood on the ground, dark stains spreading out. I backed away fast, my breath catching.
I ran back to my site, grabbed my things, and hurried down the trail toward the road. But as I moved, I heard branches snapping behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man in the distance, tall and broad, wearing a dark jacket. He wasn't hiking; he was following. I picked up my pace, heart racing—no, wait, my legs felt heavy, but I pushed on. The trail twisted through thick woods, and I lost sight of him for a moment.
"Lady, wait up!" he shouted suddenly, his voice rough and close. I didn't stop. Instead, I veered off the path into denser trees, hoping to hide. Crouching behind a fallen log, I held my breath. Footsteps crunched nearer. "I saw you at their camp," he said, louder now. "You shouldn't have been there." His words sent a wave of cold fear through me. Who was he? Had he done something to them?
I stayed still, watching through the leaves. He stopped, scanning around. He had a backpack, and something metal glinted in his hand—a knife? My mind raced. Lollie and Julie's site, the blood... it hit me then. This man must have hurt them. I needed to get away, find help. Slowly, I inched backward, but a twig snapped under my foot. He turned sharply. "I hear you," he growled, stepping toward my spot.
Panic took over. I bolted up and ran, crashing through bushes. He chased, his boots pounding the ground. "Come back here!" he yelled. The brook was ahead; I splashed across it, slipping on rocks but keeping my balance. He was gaining, his breaths heavy. I dodged trees, my backpack bouncing, until I saw the main trail again. A ranger station sign pointed left. I sprinted that way, not looking back.
Minutes felt endless, but I reached a gravel road where cars parked. A family was unloading picnic gear. "Help!" I gasped. "There's a man after me, and two women are hurt back there!" The father grabbed his phone. "Call the rangers," he told his wife. She dialed quickly while I hid behind their car. The man emerged from the woods, saw us, and stopped. He stared for a second, then turned and vanished back into the trees.
Rangers arrived soon after. I told them everything—the voices, the blood, the chase. They searched the site and found Lollie and Julie. It was awful; both had been attacked with a knife, their throats cut while they slept. Taj was okay, but the women didn't make it. The rangers said it looked like a random act, but I knew better. That man had targeted them, and then me.
They questioned me for hours. "Did he say anything else?" one ranger asked. I shook my head. "Just that I shouldn't have been there." Investigators later learned he was Walter Jackson, a truck driver from Ohio who hiked in parks. He had a history of hurting women—kidnappings, assaults. He knew those trails well, picked spots where no one would hear. If I hadn't run, I might have ended up like them.
Weeks passed, and I couldn't shake it. Every noise at night made me jump. I moved apartments, got a dog of my own. But sometimes, when I'm alone, I think about that chase, his voice echoing. The park was supposed to be safe, a place to escape. Now, it reminds me how quickly quiet turns dangerous.
I testified when they connected the evidence years later. DNA from the scene matched him, but he was already dead in prison for other crimes. It brought some closure, but not enough. Lollie and Julie were just enjoying nature, like I was. Their families still grieve, and I do too, for the fear he left behind.
That's my story. I don't hike alone anymore.
"Cold Ashes":
I had been a ranger at Chiricahua National Monument in Arizona for three years by then. The place was vast, with those strange rock formations rising like fingers from the ground, and miles of trails that wound through canyons few people ever visited. Paul Fugate was my coworker, a quiet man in his thirties who knew every plant and bird in the monument. We often shared shifts, talking about the visitors or the wildlife. One afternoon in January 1980, as we finished checking the visitor center, Paul pulled me aside.
"Have you noticed anything unusual out on the trails lately?" he asked, his voice low, like he didn't want anyone else to hear.
I shook my head. "Like what?"
"Tracks," he said. "Not from hikers or animals. Wider, deeper, like from vehicles where no vehicles should be. And some spots look trampled, with bits of trash that don't belong to tourists. I think someone might be using the backcountry for something illegal."
I paused, thinking about it. The monument bordered Mexico, and we'd heard rumors about smugglers crossing through remote areas. But we were naturalists, not law enforcement. "We should report it to the superintendent," I suggested.
Paul nodded, but his eyes looked distant. "I will, but first I want to get a better look. Just a quick hike tomorrow to confirm. You in?"
I agreed, figuring it would be a short outing. The next morning, we set off early from the parking area near Bonita Canyon. Paul carried his notebook and a small backpack with water and a radio. I had my binoculars and a map. The trail started easy, following Echo Canyon, but Paul led us off the main path after about a mile, into a narrower ravine.
As we walked deeper, the rocks closed in around us. The air felt still, and our footsteps echoed off the walls. Paul pointed out a few things—a lizard scurrying away, a yucca plant in bloom—but his mind seemed elsewhere.
"See here," he said, stopping at a flat spot. He knelt and traced his finger over the dirt. "These ruts. Too straight for nature. And look, a cigarette butt, foreign brand. Not American."
I bent down to examine it. The ground did look disturbed, with faint lines that could have been from tires or heavy boots. "Could be campers who got lost," I said, but I didn't believe it. The area was too remote for casual visitors.
We kept going, climbing over boulders and pushing through scrub brush. After another half hour, Paul stopped again. "Listen," he whispered.
I strained my ears. At first, nothing, then a faint rustle, like something moving through the bushes ahead. Not wind—too rhythmic. "Animal?" I asked quietly.
Paul shook his head. "Too big for a deer. Stay close."
We moved slower now, careful with each step. The ravine opened into a small clearing, hidden by towering pinnacles. There, we found signs of a camp: a circle of stones for a fire, empty cans scattered around, and a torn tarp half-buried in the sand. But no people.
"This isn't right," Paul muttered, poking at the ashes with a stick. They were cold, but recent. "Smugglers, maybe. Drugs or people crossing the border."
My pulse quickened. We weren't equipped for this. "We need to head back and call it in," I said.
Paul agreed, but as we turned, that rustling came again, closer this time. We froze. Then, a voice—low, speaking in Spanish—drifted from behind a rock formation. I couldn't make out the words, but it sounded urgent, like an argument.
Paul's face went pale. "They're here," he breathed. "We have to go, now."
We backed away, trying to stay silent, but my foot hit a loose rock, sending it tumbling down the slope. The noise echoed loudly. The voices stopped.
"Run," Paul hissed.
We scrambled back the way we came, hearts racing. I glanced over my shoulder and saw shadows moving—two figures, maybe three, emerging from the rocks. They wore dark clothes, faces obscured by hats. One shouted something, and I heard footsteps pounding after us.
Paul was ahead of me, faster on the trails. "Split up!" he called. "Meet at the visitor center!"
I veered left into a side canyon, hoping to lose them. Branches scratched my arms as I pushed through. Behind me, the pursuit sounded closer—one set of footsteps branching off toward me. I ducked behind a large boulder, holding my breath. The footsteps slowed, then stopped. I peeked out and saw a man, tall and thin, scanning the area. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and something metallic glinted in his hand—a knife, or worse.
He moved on, but I waited, counting to a hundred in my head. When I finally crept out, the canyon was empty. I made my way back to the main trail, every snap of a twig making me jump. Hours seemed to pass before I reached the parking lot, exhausted and shaken.
Paul wasn't there. I radioed the superintendent, explained what happened. Search teams arrived within the hour—local sheriff, other rangers, even a helicopter from the National Guard. We combed the area for days, following every lead. They found the camp we described, with more evidence: discarded wrappers, a few shells from bullets. But no sign of Paul.
One evening, as the search wound down, a deputy pulled me aside. "We think he ran into traffickers," he said. "Border's close, and this monument's a corridor for them. They don't like witnesses."
I nodded, but inside, fear gripped me. That night, back at my cabin, I couldn't sleep. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like footsteps. I kept replaying the chase—the shadows, the voices, the glint of metal.
Weeks turned to months. Paul's wife, Dody, came by often, asking for updates. "He wouldn't just leave," she said one day, her voice breaking. "He loved this place."
"I know," I replied. "We saw something we shouldn't have."
The case went cold. No body, no arrests. The National Park Service even fired Paul in absentia for abandoning his post, which denied Dody any benefits. It felt wrong, like erasing him.
Years later, I left the monument, but the fear stayed with me. In quiet moments, I wonder if those men are still out there, hidden in the rocks, waiting for the next unlucky soul. Chiricahua's beauty hides dangers—vast, empty spaces where a person can vanish without a trace. And sometimes, I think I hear that rustling again, even far from Arizona.