"TRAPPED UNDER":
My dad and I were out on our snowmobiles, zipping through the trees in the Quebec backcountry. We had planned a fun day exploring the trails we knew from before. Dad led the way on his machine, and I followed close behind on mine. Everything felt exciting at first, like an adventure we always talked about.
Then it happened so fast. Dad's snowmobile hit something hidden under the snow—a big drift—and it flipped right over the edge of a small drop. I slammed on my brakes just in time, jumping off to look down. There he was, down in a narrow ravine with a stream at the bottom. His snowmobile had landed partly in the water, and his leg was stuck under it, twisted bad.
"Dad!" I yelled, scrambling down the slope. It was steep, and I slipped a few times, grabbing branches to stop myself. When I got to him, his face was pale, and he was breathing hard.
"I'm okay, kiddo," he said, but I could see he wasn't. His leg looked wrong, bent where it shouldn't be, and blood was mixing with the water around it. "Help me push this off."
We tried together, but the snowmobile was too heavy, pinned in the mud and rocks. Dad winced every time we moved it even a little. "Stop," he finally said. "It's not budging. You have to go get help."
I looked around. We were miles from the road, deep in the woods where no one came this time of year. The trees were thick, blocking everything. "But Dad, what if I get lost? What about you?"
"You won't get lost," he said, trying to smile. "Remember the way we came? Follow our tracks back to the truck. Drive to the nearest house or ranger station. Tell them where I am. You can do this. You're strong."
I didn't feel strong. My legs shook as I climbed back up. I glanced down one last time. Dad waved weakly. "Go now. I'll be here waiting."
I started my snowmobile and turned around, following the path we had made. At first, it was easy—the marks in the snow showed the way. But as I went, the woods felt bigger, closing in. Branches scraped against my sides like fingers trying to grab me. I kept going, but then the tracks started to fade in places where wind had blown snow over them.
After a while, I stopped to listen. Nothing but quiet, except for a distant crack, like a branch breaking under weight. I waited, holding my breath. Another crack, closer this time. Was someone out there? Hunters maybe, or worse? I remembered stories Dad told about people getting stuck and never found. What if bad folks lived hidden in these woods, watching?
I shook my head and kept moving. "Just keep going," I whispered to myself. But the machine sputtered once, like it might quit. I revved it harder, pushing on.
Time dragged. I thought I saw movement between the trees—a shadow shifting. I slowed down, staring hard. Nothing. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks. But the fear grew, making me imagine eyes on me from the dark spots under the pines. What if someone followed our trail, found Dad alone and hurt?
Finally, I spotted the road ahead. Relief hit me, but I couldn't relax yet. I drove fast to the truck, loaded my snowmobile, and sped toward town. My fingers ached on the wheel, but I didn't stop. At the first house with lights, I banged on the door.
A man answered, looking surprised. "Help! My dad's hurt bad in the woods. His leg's broken, stuck under his snowmobile."
The man called the police right away. "Where exactly?" he asked.
I explained the trail, the ravine, everything I could remember. "Please hurry. He's been there hours."
Rescuers came quick—men with gear and bigger machines. They let me ride along, showing the way. As we got close, my worry built again. What if we were too late? What if something had happened while I was gone?
We reached the spot, and they rappelled down with ropes. Dad was still there, awake but weak. "You did it," he whispered when he saw me. They freed his leg, careful not to make it worse, and carried him up on a stretcher.
On the way to the hospital, Dad squeezed my hand. "I knew you could. But don't tell your mom how close it was."
Doctors said his leg was shattered, and he'd been close to real danger from the injury and being stuck. If I'd taken longer, it might have been too late. I stayed by his bed, thinking about those cracks in the woods, the shadows. Even now, when I think back, I wonder what was really out there, lurking just out of sight.
But we made it. Dad healed up after surgeries, and we never went that deep again without more people. That day taught me how quick things can turn bad, and how alone you feel when the woods swallow you up.
"FROZEN":
My friend Ben and I loved riding our snowmobiles through the thick forest outside our small Wisconsin town. One weekend in winter, we packed some snacks and extra fuel, then headed out early to explore new paths. Ben led the way on his blue machine, and I followed close behind on mine. The trees were tall and close together, making the trail narrow and twisty.
"Keep up, Alex!" Ben called back, his voice echoing off the trunks. He waved his arm, pointing to a side path that looked fun. "Let's try this one. It goes deeper in."
"Okay, but don't go too fast," I yelled. We turned onto the smaller trail, the engines roaring as we picked up speed. Snow flew up behind us like white dust. For a while, it was exciting. We zipped around bends, laughing when we hit small bumps.
Then, my snowmobile started to sputter. It jerked and slowed down. I pulled the throttle harder, but it coughed and stopped. "Ben! Wait!" I shouted. He circled back and stopped next to me.
"What's wrong?" he asked, jumping off to look.
"I think it's the fuel line or something. It's not starting." We tried to fix it, but nothing worked. The forest felt bigger around us now, with no other people in sight.
"We can tow it back," Ben said. "Hook it to mine."
As we worked on that, a distant noise caught my ear. It was another engine, far off, but getting closer. Then, mixed with it, came a sharp cry, like an animal in pain. Ben heard it too. He stood up straight.
"That's odd," he said quietly. "Sounds like deer or something."
The cries got louder, more desperate. We looked at each other. Curiosity pulled us. "Maybe someone needs help," I suggested. We left the machines and walked toward the sound, pushing through deep snow that came up to our knees.
After a few minutes, we reached a clearing. We hid behind some trees to watch. In the open field, two men on snowmobiles were circling a group of deer stuck in the high drifts. The animals struggled, their legs sinking deep. One man revved his engine and drove straight at a deer, hitting it hard. The deer tumbled, letting out a awful wail. The other man laughed and did the same to another.
My hands shook. This wasn't hunting. It was mean, like they enjoyed hurting the animals. One deer tried to run, but the snow held it back. The first man chased it, running over its side. Blood spread on the white ground. The deer kicked weakly, its eyes wide with fear.
"Those guys are crazy," Ben whispered, his face pale. "We should get out of here."
But before we could move, one of the men stopped and looked our way. Had he seen us? His friend yelled something, and they both turned their machines toward the trees where we hid.
"Run!" I hissed. We turned and stumbled back through the snow, our boots heavy. Behind us, engines growled louder. They were coming after us.
Ben tripped on a root under the snow, falling face first. I pulled him up. "Hurry!" The snowmobiles crashed through the brush, getting closer. I could hear the men shouting.
"Who's there? Come out!"
We dodged between trees, hoping the thick woods would slow them down. My legs burned from the effort. Ben gasped for air beside me. A branch snapped loud behind us, too close.
Then, one snowmobile roared past on our left, cutting us off. The rider, a big guy with a rough beard, glared at us. "You saw nothing, got it?" he snarled.
We froze for a second, then bolted the other way. The second machine appeared ahead, blocking us. The men jumped off and approached, their faces angry.
"What are you doing here?" the first one demanded.
"We... our snowmobile broke," I stammered. "We heard noises and came to check."
"You shouldn't have," the second said, stepping closer. He had a knife on his belt, stained red. "Now you know too much."
Ben raised his hands. "We won't tell anyone. Promise. Just let us go."
They laughed, but it wasn't friendly. The bearded one grabbed Ben's jacket. "Think we'll believe that? Witnesses are trouble."
I looked around for a way out. The forest was dense, but maybe we could slip away. As the man shook Ben, I spotted a gap in the trees. "Ben, now!" I yelled, shoving the other guy hard.
He stumbled, and we ran through the opening. Snowmobiles started up again, chasing. We slid down a small hill, tumbling into deeper snow. The engines faded a bit—they couldn't follow as easy here.
We kept going, not stopping until we reached a main trail. Far off, we heard their voices cursing, but they didn't come. Exhausted, we flagged down another rider who helped tow us back to town.
That night, we told the police everything. Turns out, those men were part of a bad family known for breaking laws. They got caught later for what they did to the deer, and more.
I still think about that day, how close we came to real danger in those woods.
"NO WAY BACK":
My dad and I loved riding our snowmobiles through the thick forests near the big mountain. That Sunday morning, we packed up our machines and headed out early, excited for a quick trip before lunch. Dad was always the one planning everything. He knew those trails like the back of his hand from years of riding. I trusted him completely. "Stick close, son," he said as we started the engines. "The snow's fresh, but it can trick you if you're not careful."
We zoomed along the main path, the trees all around us like silent giants. The air was crisp, and the machines hummed loud under us. After a while, Dad waved for me to follow him off the trail a bit, saying he spotted a shortcut he'd used before. "It'll save us time," he yelled over the noise. I nodded and went after him. But soon, the path got narrower, and the snow got deeper. Our snowmobiles started to bog down, sinking in the soft white stuff.
"Dad, this doesn't look right," I called out, but he kept going, sure it would open up. Then, my machine hit a hidden log or something, and it stopped cold. Dad's did the same a little ahead. We tried digging them out with the shovel we brought, but the snow was too loose and deep. It kept falling back in. "We'll have to walk back to the main trail," Dad said, wiping sweat from his face even though it was so cold. "It's not far. Grab what you can carry."
We took our small bag with some jerky, a few water bottles, and the GPS device. Dad had his lighter and some cord, too. I clipped my knife to my belt. We started walking, following what we thought was the way back. But the trees looked the same everywhere, and the wind picked up, making it hard to see far. "How much farther?" I asked after what felt like forever. Dad checked the GPS. "Should be close. Let's keep moving." His voice sounded steady, but I could see he was breathing harder.
As we pushed on, the ground sloped down, and we found ourselves in a narrow valley with a small stream running through it. The water was partly frozen, but we had to cross it. Dad went first, testing the ice. "It's solid enough," he said. But when I stepped on, my foot broke through, and cold water soaked my boot and pant leg. "Ouch, that's freezing!" I shouted. Dad pulled me out quick. "Shake it off, son. We can't stop now." My leg went numb fast, and every step hurt.
We kept going, but the light started fading. Dad tried the cell phone, but no signal. "Must be the mountains blocking it," he muttered. We ate some jerky, but it was hard to chew, and our water was turning to ice in the bottles. "We need to find shelter," I said, my teeth chattering. Dad nodded. "Look for a spot under a big tree or something." We dug a shallow hole in the snow with our hands and the shovel, huddling close. Dad tried lighting a fire with the lighter and some dry twigs he found, but the wind blew it out every time. "Come on, work," he grumbled, flicking it again and again.
Night came, and the cold bit deep. We sat back to back, trying to stay warm. "Tell me about that time you caught the big fish," Dad said, to keep our minds off it. I told the story, laughing a little, but inside I was scared. What if no one found us? The woods felt endless, like they swallowed everything. Strange sounds came from the dark—branches cracking, wind howling like whispers. "Dad, what if we're going the wrong way?" I asked quietly. He squeezed my shoulder. "We're not. Trust the GPS. Morning will come, and we'll get out."
But morning brought more snow falling thick. My wet clothes were stiff, and Dad looked pale. We started walking again, down the valley, hoping it led somewhere. "The stream should take us to a road," Dad said. But he moved slower, his steps dragging. We crossed another part of the water, and this time Dad slipped in up to his knees. "I'm okay," he insisted, but his pants were soaked now too. The cold made my head fuzzy, like I couldn't think straight. Hunger gnawed at me, and our jerky was gone.
By afternoon, Dad sat down against a tree. "Just need a rest," he said, his words slurring a bit. I tried pulling him up. "We have to keep going, Dad. Please." He looked at me with tired eyes. "You're strong, son. If I can't... you go on." Tears froze on my face. "No, we're together." I wrapped my arms around him, sharing what little heat I had. The woods closed in, every tree looking like a wall. I yelled for help until my voice was hoarse, but only echoes answered.
Hours blurred. Dad stopped talking, his breathing shallow. I shook him. "Wake up, Dad! Someone's coming, I know it." But he didn't respond. Panic rose in me—the fear of being alone out here, the cold taking everything. I curled next to him, whispering, "Hold on."
Then, voices—real ones. "Over here!" someone shouted. Searchers in bright jackets appeared through the trees. "We found them!" one called on a radio. They wrapped me in blankets, gave me warm drink. "Your dad's... he's gone," one said softly. The pain hit hard, but relief too. They carried us out, me on a sled, Dad behind.
That day changed everything. The woods took my dad, but I made it because of him. Now, I warn everyone: the forest looks fun, but it can turn mean fast if you're not ready.
"30 SECONDS...":
It all started when my buddy Jack suggested we take our snowmobiles out for one last run before the season ended. We lived up in Alaska, where the woods go on forever, and we'd done trips like this plenty of times. Jack was the experienced one, always leading the way, and Dave and I followed along. "Come on, guys," Jack said that morning as we loaded up the machines on the trailer. "The trails are perfect right now. We'll head up to the Talkeetna area, ride around Bald Mountain, and be back by dark. What could go wrong?"
I laughed and slapped him on the back. "Yeah, as long as your old sled doesn't break down again." Jack's machine was a bit older, but he loved it. Dave nodded, checking his gear. "I packed some extra fuel just in case. And sandwiches. Nobody goes hungry on my watch." We drove out to the starting point, unloaded, and fired up the engines. The roar filled the air as we zipped off into the trees, following a path we'd mapped out the night before.
At first, everything felt normal. We rode single file, with Jack in front, me in the middle, and Dave bringing up the rear. The woods were thick around us, branches whipping by as we picked up speed. "How's it looking back there?" Jack called over the radio we all carried. "All good," I replied. "Dave, you keeping up?" Dave's voice crackled back. "Yeah, but slow down a bit. I think I hit a bump wrong." We eased off the throttle and stopped in a small clearing to check. Dave's handlebar looked a little loose, but he tightened it with a tool from his pack. "No big deal," he said. "Let's keep going."
We rode deeper, the path narrowing as we left the main trails behind. Jack wanted to explore a side route he'd heard about from some locals—a loop that wound through denser forest and past an old cabin. "It'll be fun," he said. "Short cut back to the truck." I wasn't so sure, but Jack knew these woods better than anyone. As we pushed on, the engines hummed steadily, but something started to feel off. The gaps between us grew a little wider. I glanced back and saw Dave falling behind again. "Hey, Dave, close it up," I radioed. No answer. I slowed down, and Jack did too, pulling over.
"Where's Dave?" Jack asked, looking around. We waited a minute, then two. Finally, Dave came puttering up, his face red. "Sorry, guys. Machine stalled for a second. Thought I fixed that." We shared a sandwich to shake off the nerves, but I noticed how quiet the forest had gotten. No birds, no wind rustling—just our voices and the idling engines. "Weird," I muttered. Jack shrugged. "Probably nothing. Let's move." We started again, but this time Dave took the middle spot, and I brought up the rear. "Stay close," Jack said. "Don't want anyone getting turned around."
The path twisted more, dipping into valleys and climbing small hills. We were miles in now, the kind of deep where you don't see another soul. Suddenly, my radio buzzed. "Guys? I think I took a wrong fork." It was Dave's voice, shaky. I looked ahead—Jack was still in front, but Dave wasn't between us. How had that happened? "Dave, where are you?" Jack asked. "I... I don't know. The trail split, and I followed the left one. Now it's getting narrow." My pulse quickened. "Turn around and come back. We'll wait at the split." Silence. Then, "Okay, turning now."
We backtracked to where the path forked, engines off, listening. Minutes passed. "Dave?" I called on the radio. No response. Jack tried too. "Dave, talk to us." Still nothing. We decided to ride down the left fork to find him. The trail was rough, roots and rocks hidden under the surface, making the sleds bounce hard. "This doesn't feel right," I said to Jack. "He couldn't have gone far." Jack nodded, his eyes scanning the trees. "Yeah. Keep your eyes open." We rode for what felt like forever, calling out his name. "Dave! Hey, Dave!" Echoes bounced back, but no answer.
Then we saw it—Dave's snowmobile, half-buried off the side of the trail, engine still warm. "What the...?" Jack jumped off and ran over. I followed, my legs heavy. The machine looked fine, no damage, keys still in it. But Dave was gone. His pack was there, sandwiches untouched. "Dave!" we shouted, voices cracking. We searched around, pushing through brush, looking for footprints. There were some—leading away from the sled, deeper into the woods. "He must have walked off," Jack said. "Maybe to look for a better signal or something." But why leave the radio? It was clipped to the handlebar, silent.
We followed the prints, calling louder. The tracks went straight for a bit, then zigzagged, like he was confused. "This is bad," I whispered. Jack stopped suddenly. "Look." Ahead, the prints just... ended. No more marks, like he'd been lifted right up. We circled the area, hearts racing. "Dave! Where are you?" Nothing. Jack pulled out his phone—no bars. "We need to get help," he said. "Ride back to the truck, call search and rescue." But leaving felt wrong. What if Dave came back to his sled?
We marked the spot with a bright scarf from my pack and rode out, fast as we could. The whole way, I kept glancing back, expecting to see him waving. At the truck, we called the authorities. "Our friend vanished," Jack told the dispatcher. "Snowmobile's there, but he's not." Teams came quick—rangers, volunteers, dogs. They searched for days, helicopters overhead, people combing the woods. They found the sled where we said, prints matching what we saw. But no Dave. Not a scrap of clothing, no blood, nothing.
As the searches dragged on, whispers started. Locals talked about the area being part of something called the Alaska Triangle, where people just disappear. Planes go down, hikers vanish. Jack's face went pale when someone mentioned his own brother had gone missing years ago, biking home. "Not again," he muttered to me one night by the fire at base camp. "My family can't take this." I nodded, but inside, fear gnawed at me. What if something was out there? Not a monster, but maybe a person—someone hiding in the woods, watching us ride by, waiting for one to fall behind.
Nights were the worst. I'd lie awake, replaying it. Had Dave called for help and we missed it? Did he hear us shouting? Searchers found an old cabin miles away, empty, but Dave's sled was pointed that way. Maybe he tried to reach it. But why no more tracks? Theories flew: He fell into a hidden ravine, or got turned around and kept walking. But deep down, I wondered if someone grabbed him. Poachers, or worse—a drifter living off the grid. The rangers dismissed it—no signs of struggle. But the quiet of those woods stuck with me, like they swallowed sounds, swallowed people.
Weeks turned to months. No Dave. Jack and I stopped talking about it much, but it changed us. I sold my snowmobile, couldn't ride without seeing that empty sled. Sometimes, I'd dream of him out there, alone, calling our names. "Guys? Where are you?" And I'd wake up sweating. The official report said exposure, lost in the wilderness. But I know better. Something took him that day, right under our noses. And in those deep woods, it could happen to anyone. Even you.