“HUNTED AFTER”:
We picked this spot way out in the national forest, miles from any road or other people. It was just us, our tent, a small fire pit, and packs full of food and gear. We hiked in during the day, set everything up, and spent the afternoon fishing in a nearby stream. Caught a couple small ones, laughed about old times from college.
As it got dark, we built a fire and cooked some hot dogs. Alex was telling me about his new job, how stressful it was. "Man, I needed this break," he said, poking at the flames with a stick. "No phones, no bosses, just quiet." I nodded, feeling the same. We ate, shared a few beers from the cooler we'd lugged in, and talked more. About girls we'd dated, stupid stuff we'd done as kids. It felt good, relaxing.
Later, after the fire died down to embers, we crawled into the tent. Alex zipped up the door, and we settled into our sleeping bags. "Night, dude," he muttered. "Yeah, sleep well," I replied. It was pitch black inside, but I could hear him breathing soon enough, already out. I lay there a bit, listening to the usual sounds outside—crickets, leaves rustling. Then, something different. A low hum, like an engine far off. I figured it was nothing, maybe a plane overhead or my imagination. But it grew louder, closer.
I sat up, whispering, "Alex. Wake up. You hear that?" He grumbled, "What?" The hum turned into a rumble, like a car coming down the trail. But this spot was hike-in only—no vehicles allowed. We both froze as headlights flashed through the trees, lighting up our tent like a lantern. The engine stopped nearby, doors opened and slammed. Footsteps crunched on the ground, more than one person.
"Who's that?" Alex whispered, his voice tight. I shushed him, straining to listen. Voices now, low and mumbled. Men, sounded like two or three. One laughed, a sharp bark that made my skin crawl. They were close, maybe twenty feet away. I peeked through the tent's mesh window—couldn't see much, but shadows moved around a big truck parked right at the edge of our clearing. One guy lit a cigarette, the flame showing his face for a second: rough, bearded, eyes scanning around.
"What do we do?" Alex hissed. "Stay quiet. Maybe they're just lost." But my gut said no. Why drive out here at night? The trail wasn't for cars; they'd have to have gone off-road. One of them walked closer to our tent, shining a flashlight beam right on it. The light swept over us, and I held my breath. "Hey, anyone in there?" the guy called out, his voice gravelly.
Alex and I exchanged looks in the dark. "Should we answer?" he mouthed. I shook my head no. The guy called again, "We saw your fire earlier. Just checking if you're okay." But something in his tone felt wrong, like he was testing us. His friends chuckled behind him. Then, silence. The flashlight clicked off, and footsteps retreated. But they didn't leave. We heard them muttering, opening the truck doors, rummaging around. Metal clinking, like tools or something worse.
Minutes dragged on. My mind raced—were they hunters? Poachers? Or something bad, like robbers who'd followed us? We'd passed a few cars at the trailhead, but nobody suspicious. Alex whispered, "I think they're setting up camp or something." But no, they weren't pitching tents. Instead, one started walking around our site, circling slow. I could hear his boots on the dirt, getting nearer each lap.
"They're watching us," I whispered back, my voice shaking a little. Alex nodded, eyes wide. We sat there, backs against the tent wall, listening. The circling stopped, but then a twig snapped right outside. Someone was right there, breathing heavy. "I know you're awake," a different voice said, low through the fabric. "Come out and say hi."
Alex grabbed my arm. "No way," he mouthed. I shook my head. My phone had no signal out here—we'd checked earlier. No way to call for help. The voice laughed softly. "Suit yourselves. We'll be here all night." Footsteps moved away, but not far. We heard them talking again, words like "easy pickings" and "wait till morning." My imagination went wild: what if they had knives, guns? What if they were escaped from somewhere, looking for victims in the woods?
We didn't sleep. Every sound made us jump—them shifting in their truck, one getting out to pee nearby, another coughing. Hours passed like that. Alex whispered plans: "At first light, we pack fast and run." I agreed, but what if they blocked the path? What if they followed? The fear built slow, like pressure in my chest. I kept picturing them bursting in, dragging us out.
Finally, gray light filtered in. We moved quiet, stuffing bags. But as I unzipped the tent a crack, I saw them: three guys around their truck, drinking coffee from thermoses, staring right at our spot. One waved mockingly. "Morning, boys," he called. "Sleep well?"
Alex and I bolted out, grabbing our packs without folding the tent. "We're leaving," I said, trying to sound firm. They just laughed. "No rush. Trail's that way." But as we hurried past, one stepped in front, blocking us. Up close, he was big, tattoos on his arms, a scar on his cheek. "You forgot something," he said, pointing to our leftover gear.
"Forget it," Alex snapped, pushing past. The guy grabbed his shoulder. "Hey, manners." I shoved the guy's hand off. "Let go." Tension hung thick; their eyes were cold, like they enjoyed this. The other two closed in, forming a half-circle. "What's the hurry?" the leader asked. "We could share breakfast."
"No thanks," I said, heart racing. We backed up, then turned and ran down the trail. Behind us, laughter, then the truck engine roared to life. "They're coming," Alex panted as we sprinted. Sure enough, tires crunched on the path—they were driving after us, slow but steady, like a game.
The trail was narrow, but their truck squeezed through, branches scraping sides. We dodged roots, breaths coming hard. "Faster!" I yelled. Alex tripped once, scraping his knee, but got up. The truck horn blared behind, mocking. My legs burned, fear pushing me on. What if they caught us? What did they want—our stuff, or worse?
After what felt like forever, we hit a wider section, veered off into thicker trees where the truck couldn't follow. We hid behind a fallen log, listening. The engine revved, stopped. Doors opened. Footsteps searched nearby. "Come out, come out," one sang. Alex and I stayed still, barely breathing. Minutes ticked. Finally, curses, doors slammed, truck backed away.
We waited longer, then circled back to the main road another way. Hitched a ride from a passing ranger, told him everything. He said there'd been reports of sketchy folks harassing campers in that area—maybe squatters or thieves. We never went back for our tent. Even now, thinking about those voices outside, the circling footsteps, the chase—it makes me shudder. What if we'd answered that first call? What if they'd decided not to wait?
“FOURTH NIGHT”:
We finally made it happen one summer, starting from Echo Lake and aiming for Donner Pass. It would take us five days, about seventy miles through beautiful mountains and lakes. We packed light, with tents, food, and a small gun just in case of wild animals. The first day went smooth, walking past clear water and setting up by Aloha Lake.
On the second day, we climbed over Dicks Pass, high up at ten thousand feet. The views took our breath away, with snow patches still on the ground even in warm months. We pushed hard, thirteen miles, and camped in a quiet spot. The third day felt easier, through forests and open fields to Richardson Lake. We built a fire, shared some drinks, and relaxed. Jordan pulled out a bag of dried mushrooms he had hidden. "Want to try?" he asked with a grin. Alex shrugged and took a bit. I chewed half a piece, not wanting too much. Soon, a warm feeling spread through us. We laughed a lot, staring at the stars. In the fun of it, we howled at the moon like wolves, our voices echoing across the water.
The fourth day brought us along ridges above a big lake. Our feet hurt from blisters, but we kept going. That night, we found a flat area near the trail for our last camp before the end. We sat by the fire, eating our last meal and talking about how proud we felt. "This trip changed me," Alex said, poking the flames with a stick. Jordan nodded. "Best decision ever." I agreed, feeling close to both of them.
Footsteps crunched on the dry ground nearby. We looked up as a man limped into the firelight. He looked rough, with dirty clothes hanging loose on his thin frame. His face caught me off guard—his cheek sunk in deep, like part of his jaw had gone missing long ago. His eyes gleamed small and sharp, like a rat's in the dark. "Mind if I join?" he asked, his voice low and scratchy. We glanced at each other. Jordan spoke first. "Sure, sit down." The man eased onto a log across from us, rubbing his bad leg. "Been hiking these hills my whole life," he said. "My family has roots here from way back."
We tried to be polite. I asked, "You out here alone?" He smiled slow, showing uneven teeth. "Family's always close." Then he tilted his head. "You boys armed?" Alex shifted uneasy. "We have a small pistol, for protection." The man chuckled soft. "Smart. Woods can turn bad quick." He stared into the fire for a long minute, the flames dancing on his twisted face. Suspense built as silence stretched. Finally, he leaned forward. "Want to hear a story? A true one, from these parts."
Jordan nodded. "Go ahead." The man cleared his throat. "Three city boys like you came hiking this same trail. They started at Echo Lake, pushed over Dicks Pass on day two, rested by Richardson Lake on day three. On the fourth night, they sat by a fire, feeling good about themselves. They had taken some mushrooms, howled at the moon like fools." My skin prickled. How did he know? Alex whispered, "That's us." But the man kept going. "A handsome stranger limped into their camp, just like I did. He sat down, asked if the boys were armed. They said yes, a small pistol. The stranger laughed, said the woods were full of dangers."
He paused, eyes locking on mine. "The boys got nervous. The stranger told them they were dumb for coming out here, lucky to still breathe. One boy thought about grabbing the gun, but the stranger warned him—his cousins hid in the dark, rifles pointed at their heads. 'See you around,' the stranger said, and limped away. Footsteps followed, more than one pair." Jordan's face went pale. "That's our story. How do you know?" The man stood slow, his limp more noticeable. "Because I'm that handsome stranger." He grinned wide, the hole in his cheek pulling tight. "And my family's watching right now."
We jumped up. I scanned the trees, but saw only blackness. The man turned and limped into the shadows. His footsteps faded, but then more sounds came—branches snapping, leaves rustling from different spots. "We need to go," Alex said, voice shaking. We grabbed our packs fast, not even putting out the fire. As we hurried down the trail in the dark, using our flashlights, whispers seemed to float from the woods. "See you around," a voice echoed faint. We didn't stop, pushing those last miles through the night.
At Donner Pass in the morning, we collapsed, safe at last. We told a ranger what happened, but he just said drifters sometimes wander the trails. Police checked, found no one. We never hiked that path again. Now, when I close my eyes, I see that sunken face by the fire, and hear those extra footsteps in the dark. What if his family really waited out there, rifles ready? The thought keeps me awake.
“CLOSED CAMPSITE”:
We wanted to see the big trees and quiet spots along the west coast. We rented a small car and packed our tent, some food, and sleeping bags. One evening, we needed a place to stop for the night. We saw a sign for a campsite off the main road, but it looked old and the gate was open. We drove in anyway, thinking it might be fine.
The road inside was bumpy and covered with leaves. We passed a few empty spots before we saw some tents set up in a circle. It looked like people were staying there, but everything was quiet. We picked a spot a little away from the others and started unloading our stuff. As we set up the tent, two men walked over from the woods. They were thin and their clothes were dirty. One had a hoodie zipped up but no shirt under it. The other had messy hair and kept scratching his arm.
"Hey, you guys new here?" the one in the hoodie asked, talking really fast. His eyes darted around.
"Yeah, just stopping for the night," Tom said, standing up straight. "Is this place open? The sign was down."
The other guy laughed, but it didn't sound friendly. "Open? Sure, it's open for folks like us. We're here working on the trails. Seasonal stuff. Name's Rick, this is Dave."
"I'm Tom, this is my girlfriend," Tom replied, putting his arm around me. I smiled but felt uneasy. Their hands shook a little when they talked.
"You got any extra water?" Dave asked, stepping closer. "We're running low."
We gave them a bottle from our cooler. They thanked us and walked back to their tent, whispering to each other. I watched them go, noticing how they moved quick, like they were in a hurry.
We finished setting up and started a small fire to cook hot dogs. Tom and I sat close, talking about the drive tomorrow. "This place feels off," I whispered to him. "Those guys seem weird."
"Probably just tired workers," Tom said, but he looked around too. "We'll leave early in the morning."
A car pulled in then, a white one with loud music thumping. It stopped near the other tents, and someone got out, looked around, then got back in and drove away fast. That made my skin prickle. Why come and go so quick?
Later, an older woman came over from her pickup truck parked nearby. She had gray hair tied back and coughed a lot. "You kids shouldn't stay here," she said in a rough voice. "This ain't a safe spot. Strange things happen at night. People act crazy, like they're not right in the head."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice quiet.
She leaned in. "Folks disappear sometimes. Or they start fighting over nothing. You hear screams? That's when you pack up and run. I'm just saying, watch yourselves."
Tom nodded. "Thanks for the warning. We'll be careful."
She walked away, still coughing. I looked at Tom. "Maybe we should find another place."
"It's getting late," he said. "Let's just eat and go to bed. I'll keep the flashlight handy."
We ate our food, but I couldn't relax. The fire crackled, and I kept glancing at the other tents. No one came out, but I heard low voices now and then. After we put out the fire, we got into the tent and zipped it up. Tom held me close. "It's okay," he whispered. "Just some odd people."
I tried to sleep, but then I heard arguing from one of the tents. It was Rick and Dave. "You took it all!" one yelled. "Give it back!"
"Shut up, man!" the other snapped. "They'll hear you."
The arguing stopped, but then footsteps crunched on the leaves. Someone was walking around. I nudged Tom. "Listen," I said softly.
He sat up. "Stay here." He unzipped the tent a little and peeked out with the flashlight. "I see one of them going to the woman's truck."
The footsteps got closer to us, then stopped. I held my breath. Was someone standing outside our tent? Tom shone the light, but no one was there. "Must have gone back," he said, but his voice shook a bit.
We lay back down, but sleep wouldn't come. More footsteps, this time circling our spot. Crunch, crunch, pause. Then again. "Tom, that's not normal," I whispered. "Why would they walk around like that?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe they're looking for something."
The woman started coughing again, loud and hacking. Then her truck door opened, and I heard mumbling. "You got it?" a man's voice said. It sounded like Dave.
"Yeah, but keep it down," she replied. "Those new ones might call someone."
My mind raced. What were they talking about? It didn't sound like trail work. Tom and I stayed still, listening. The footsteps came back, closer. Something brushed against the tent fabric, like a hand sliding along it. I grabbed Tom's arm. "Did you feel that?"
He nodded, eyes wide. "We need to get out of here. Quietly."
We started packing our sleeping bags, trying not to make noise. But then the arguing started again, louder. "You owe me!" Rick shouted from their tent. "Hand it over!"
A zipper opened, and footsteps stormed out. I peeked through a small gap in our tent door. Rick was heading to the woman's truck, his face twisted angry. He looked right at our tent, eyes locking on the gap where I was watching. He stopped, stared for a long moment, then kept going.
"Tom, he saw me," I whispered, my hands cold.
"Keep packing," Tom said. "We're leaving now."
We stuffed everything into bags fast. Outside, Rick climbed into the woman's truck cab. I saw shadows moving inside, and smoke curled out the window. They were doing something in there, heads close together. Dave came out of his tent, looking around sneaky, like he was guarding.
We loaded the car. Tom turned the key, but the engine revved and the car didn't move. "What's wrong?" I asked, panic rising.
He checked. "The brake is on. Hang on." He released it, and we started backing up slowly. As we turned, the woman's truck lights flashed on, bright and blinding. I shielded my eyes. Then, a scream cut through the air – high and sharp, like someone in pain.
"Drive!" I said to Tom.
He hit the gas, and we bounced down the road. In the rearview mirror, I saw figures running after us for a bit, then stopping. The scream echoed again, fading as we got farther.
We didn't stop until we found a small town with a bed and breakfast. The owner let us in late, and we told her a little about it. She nodded. "That old site? It's been closed for years. Bad folks hang out there sometimes, doing drugs and worse."
We switched cars the next day, just in case. I still think about that night. What if we had stayed? What were they really doing in those tents? The way they watched us, the screams – it felt like we barely got away from something awful.
“STANLEY CREEK”:
I grabbed my backpack and headed into the Willamette National Forest for a quick overnight trip. My dog needed the exercise, and I craved some peace after a long week. I drove down a gravel road south of Oakridge, found a quiet spot off the path near Staley Creek, and set up my small tent. The river rushed nearby, birds called, and it felt perfect.
As I boiled water for coffee, a pickup truck rolled up slowly. A middle-aged man got out, wearing a worn jacket and boots. He looked around, then walked over. "Nice spot you got here," he said. "You alone?"
"Just me and my dog," I answered, keeping my tone light. "Taking a break from town."
He nodded. "Seen any other folks around? Couple came through earlier, looking for a place to camp. Older man and woman, with a dog."
I shook my head. "Haven't seen anyone. It's pretty empty out here."
He lingered, staring at my tent. "Be careful. Roads get tricky at night. People sometimes get lost." He gave a small smile, then got back in his truck and drove off.
I brushed it off, but something felt wrong. I finished my coffee fast and walked my dog along the creek. No other camps in sight. The forest seemed bigger as the light faded.
After dark, I zipped into the tent with my dog curled beside me. I tried to sleep, but around midnight, I heard a dog barking—not mine. It came from down the path, sharp and frantic. Then voices, low at first, then louder. A man shouted something I couldn't make out.
My dog perked up, ears forward. I whispered for him to stay quiet. More barking, then a sharp crack—like a branch snapping, but louder. Another crack. Silence.
I lay still, heart racing. My dog trembled. No more sounds. I waited an hour, listening. Nothing.
I couldn't stay. I quietly packed my gear in the dark, stuffed everything into my pack, and slipped out with my dog on leash. We walked fast to my car, glancing back the whole way. The truck was gone, no lights anywhere.
I drove to the nearest ranger station at dawn and reported the noises. The ranger took notes but said it might have been hunters or poachers. I went home, uneasy.
Days later, news broke: A couple had been shot and killed at a campsite near Staley Creek. Their dog too. Police found the bodies after other campers stumbled on the scene. The victims were a local teacher and her boyfriend, out for a simple trip. No arrests, no clear motive.
I read the descriptions and realized the spot was close to where I'd camped. The barking, the shouts, the shots—they matched the timeline. The man in the truck had asked about a couple with a dog. I wonder if he was looking for them. Or if I was next.
I still hike, but never alone anymore. That night taught me how fast the woods can turn dangerous.