I tend to go camping a few times between May and October. I’ve been as far north as Acadia National Park and as south as the Great Smoky Mountains. Like everyone else who has ever been camping, I’ve been caught in rainstorms where the tent advertised as weatherproof starts leaking at the seams. Then the wildlife– bears outside my tent rummaging for food, then leaving as the scent leads them to a backpack strung to a far-reaching branch high up a tree. Despite the uneasiness these scenarios create, it’s part of what makes camping special: exposure to the wilderness. This vulnerability has never bothered me much– that is, until recently.
I packed my backpack the night before with everything I’d need for a 7.5 mile there and back hike. I woke up to a call from my buddy who would be joining me, saying he caught a stomach bug and couldn’t make it. I was bummed to hear it, but I’ve been solo camping a dozen times before. I had a protein bar to curb my appetite until I got to a diner in a small town by the edge of the national forest I would be going to. I’ve been once before and couldn’t get enough of their blueberry pancakes. For a town named Sandwich, you know they know food. I accounted for Memorial Day traffic and gave myself plenty of time to leave, and in fact, arrived at the diner before my ETA. A weather-tattered missing child flyer was posted on the entry door. A 14-year-old girl, last seen in November, walking home from the bus stop. It noted, “a hundred yards from her home.”
I sat at the counter and by my second coffee, was talking Red Sox with a local beside me. Looking better than last season, we both agreed. We talked about Bogaerts leaving and traded stories of Fenway.
“I’d take my kids down to see them when they were younger…” He paused. “Well, Becca goes to games sometimes. She goes to college in Boston now.” He seemed like he was going to go on, but got lost in his thoughts. I tried lightening things up and asked him what he thought of Devers’ batting. “I don’t want to talk about baseball anymore.”
The food was great and I stayed for another cup of coffee, but the atmosphere was heavy. I’m sure losing a child with no sense of closure will rattle a small town.
My car almost bottomed out on the road to the trailhead. Rocks bulged from the ground as I navigated the narrow passage with a steep drop to my right. The sign to the trail was up ahead. No other cars were parked. Though it was a holiday weekend, as the sign explained, this is a seldom used trail. “Be mindful and be safe.”
The first mile is a relaxing stroll that eventually comes up to a pond with a beaver dam stretching across. The ground becomes extraordinarily soft here. There’s a meadow up ahead where I took a break and enjoyed the view of nearby Algonquin Mountain. A mile further, the woods become dense. Here, a sign reads, “The following portion of this trail is poorly marked. The route can be treacherous. Proceed with caution.”
Though I wasn’t far from the lean-to I’d be camping at, there were portions where I questioned whether I was on the trail at all. I looked at my map, then at my compass. I felt assured and kept walking. I was right– I came to the brook that crosses the trail. A fresh moose print in the mud. I clapped to let my presence be known. As I gained elevation, the trail became exceedingly narrow. To my left were boulders; to my right was a hundred-foot drop. There were steps carved into the dirt ahead. I took a moment to self-assure my balance and continued.
The elevation plateaued and just ahead I could see the lean-to.
While gathering wood for a fire, I found some wintergreen that would be great for making tea. With the campfire crackling and my tea beside me, I opened a collection of Hermann Hesse fairytales I brought. I could still hear the stream faint in the distance. The middle of the forest is peacefully noisy. The whistles of songbirds, the caws of crows, the breeze through the trees. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it’s like a symphony.
The forest gets darker sooner than town, and by now the sun was largely blocked by trees. Baked beans simmer in my camping pot and are gone soon after. I lie in my sleeping bag under the lean-to without much on my mind. Then, the bellow of a moose echoed off the trees. I listened intently for footsteps, but the sound had probably traveled from a mile away. As the hours passed, I extinguished the fire and continued reading stories with my book light until I fell asleep.
A call from the woods woke me. I figured it was another moose. It’s not unheard of for them to be roaming around at night. Then, it called again. This time as I listened more closely, something was off. It had an almost human quality to it, like a hunter’s call. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it didn’t sound close. Several minutes of quiet passed, then again. This time right outside my camp, followed by footsteps. Moose sound like big animals on all four– these steps were bipedal. One after the other through the brush. A branch snapped and I shot up and grabbed my flashlight. I called out “Hello?” in case it may have been a hiker. I checked my watch. 1:00 AM. Shining my flashlight in the direction I heard it, there was nothing. Ten minutes went by as I listened for more footsteps. Whatever it was I figured must still be in the area. I took my bear spray from my backpack pouch and with my flashlight in the other hand, searched the perimeter of camp. I didn’t find anything and went back to the lean-to. I turned on my LED lantern and lie quietly, unable to fall back asleep. I checked my watch again: 2:15 AM. Then another noise, this time hooting. Animals, I told myself. It could be an owl, but again I had my hand on the bear spray. Another hoot, followed by a cackle. Then the footsteps. “Who’s there!?” I called out. A cackle responded. Suddenly, from the direction of the noises, a flashlight was shined on me. Out of fear, I sprayed the bear spray toward the light, but whatever– whoever it was didn’t retreat. The flashlight turned off, followed by human laughter. I shined my flashlight towards it and it did stand on two legs, but its proportions were off– its thin legs seemed too tall for its body. Its eyes reflected the light like a cat’s as it receded back into the darkness.
I would hear its demented calls throughout that night, never sure whether or not it was near or far. I’m not sure whether it was human, animal, or something entirely different. I wish my friend was able to make the trip, because sometimes, like this very moment, as I type these words, it’s hard to believe them. But it wasn’t a dream, as I never fell back asleep that night. The moment the sun rose enough to see, I hit the trail. And with each ambiguous path, and each carved cliffside footstep, the sights and sounds of the night rattled through my mind. My car was a sanctuary– still the only one parked by the trailhead. When I think about the town that lines that forest, the same heavy feeling that surrounded me in the diner hits. I hope that child is found, but I know something more than a bear or moose lurks in those woods. I hope it’s not human, but I shudder to think what else it could be.