I’ve been an avid outdoorsman my entire life. I grew up in the hill country of Tennessee and from the time I was young, my father taught me how to hunt and survive in the woods. It was part of life back home and everyone had this same shared upbringing in my town. Although I enjoyed hunting as much as any of my friends, it was really the solitude and peacefulness that I found among the trees that really stuck with me as I grew older.
When I turned twenty, I took a job with the parks department at the Roan Mountain state park. It wasn’t anything too exciting – I was mostly a glorified tour guide for park visitors, but it gave me the chance to make a living spending my days out in some of the most beautiful wilderness I’ve ever seen. Even though I lost my job when the budget cuts came in 2020, I still had the experience of two years there and a nice bit of qualification on my resume that I could take elsewhere and continue my love-affair with nature.
Those were some of the fondest memories I have rattling around in my head, but even they’re falling victim to this sinister black cloud that haunts my dreams these days.
I’m getting a little ahead of myself, though. It’s important for me to write this down; maybe it’ll help me make sense of it all. Maybe it’ll help me sleep at night.
Maybe not, but it’s worth a try, so I’m going to do it while I still can.
A year ago, I decided that a change of scenery might do me good. I’d spent most of 2020 working odd-jobs while trying to get back into a parks position, but there were no openings anywhere nearby. I’d always heard great things about the Pacific Northwest, so I figured I’d take a couple weeks and head out there to take a look around and see what it’s like. In addition to the hike, I had also scheduled an interview with the Oregon Parks and Recreation department before my planned return, so my spirits were high.
I spent a month planning the week-long hike into the backcountry of Oregon, anxious to see firsthand the massive redwoods I’d always heard about. Finally came the day I stepped off the plane and into the cool Oregonian air, more excited than I’d expected to be, and I knew in my heart that this was going to be a hike I’d never forget, a first step into what I was hoping I could turn into a new chapter of my life.
I had no idea how true that would end up being.
I spend an hour at baggage pickup and then another at the TSA office picking up the locked hard case containing the .44 magnum revolver that my grandfather had given me on my 18th birthday; the same one I always carried into the wilderness. But even slogging through the endless tedium of bureaucracy didn’t dampen my enthusiasm, and by the time I had retrieved my car rental and turned the wheels away from the airport and onto the open road, I was smiling again.
The moment I left my rented Jeep in the gravel parking lot at the trailhead and stepped into that shadowed lush greenery of the Pacific Northwest, I was certain I’d made the right decision. I had supplies and equipment to last me twice as long as my planned trek, and now I was already considering extending my hike a few days longer than planned.
It was early September and the temperature hovered right around seventy degrees during the day in the sun. Under the dense canopy of the old growth forest, though, it was probably ten degrees cooler. Remarkably, a gentle and steady breeze managed to make its way through the trunks of the pines and cedars that surrounded me, keeping the air light and fresh.
Within ten minutes of starting my hike, the small parking lot was lost to view behind me, and I was completely alone, surrounded by this primeval woodland. It was like something out of a Tolkien novel, and I could almost imagine rounding a hilly bend and stumbling upon a small village of Halflings, going about their day oblivious to the outside world I had just left behind.
I followed the well-maintained trail for another couple hours, only encountering one other hiker during that time as they returned in the direction of the trailhead from their own excursion. From their lack of any gear more substantial than a small shoulder pack, I guessed they were just out on a short walk. I saw them take quick note of my own considerable backpack and the handgun holstered across my chest and thought for a moment that I saw something like concern flash behind their eyes. It might have been some subtle disapproval at the firearm, but I didn’t think so; it wasn’t unusual for a hiker to go armed into the bush, especially when alone and in bear country.
Regardless, if it had been there at all, it was gone an instant later. We exchanged a friendly nod as we passed each other, but neither of us seemed willing to break the silence with our words, and so we continued on along our own paths, quickly lost to each other once again.
There had only been one other car in the parking lot when I arrived, so I was fairly certain I was unlikely to encounter anyone again for the next week, something I was greatly looking forward to. After another hour I reached the offshoot trail that I’d been expecting and followed it as it gently turned northerly, growing less distinct and wilder as I went. The air was cool and damp, and the ground beneath my boots was soft and alternated between rocky and muddy as I progressed. Based on my research, this should be the head of the Old River trail, which had been used for generations by trappers and fur traders. The course I had plotted would branch again in a couple of days and loop back around until I eventually returned to the main trail a few miles farther along. It was a nice comfortable track and would give me plenty of time to enjoy these woodlands, so different than those in my native Tennessee and yet so familiar at the same time.
For the next two days, I immersed myself in the forest, reveling in the solitude and the oneness I felt with all the living things around me. I set camp the first night beside a lazy stream that wound from somewhere above and carried icy cold waters, crystal clear and filled with small fish that darted back and forth in its currents. The second night, I set my tent up beneath an uncommon, though welcome, break in the high canopy above. Through the gap in the thick boughs above me, I watched in awe at the incredible amount of stars that lit the night sky, completely unobstructed by the light pollution that dimmed them to obscurity in my hometown.
On the fourth morning, I woke with the dawn, stepping out of my tent and into the heavily shadowed woodlands. I had a quick breakfast of some freeze-dried eggs and sausage, along with a steaming cup of instant coffee, both of which were surprisingly good. After I finished my second cup of coffee and attended to the rest of my morning routines, I broke camp and was moving again within the hour. There was an excited spring in my step as I took to the nearly invisible trail on that morning, and the anticipation that I had been trying to keep in check since my arrival I now allowed to run free.
This was the day I expected to reach an area of land that had been inexplicably and habitually avoided by trappers over the years, with them often taking a far more circuitous route around it, adding a day or more to their travel. It was this very region that had first caught my attention and attracted me to this particular route. I didn’t really expect to find anything of note, but the thrill of exploring what was essentially a “forbidden zone” for those men and women just added a level of mystery to my trip. According to what I’d read, there should have been an old layover cabin somewhere ahead of me, which I expected would provide some great photo opportunities for me, as well a few more pages to add to my mental scrapbook.
Overall, I expected it to be one of the highlights of my trip, akin to exploring an old gold rush era ghost town.
It was early afternoon when I first caught sight of something unusual, something out of place, through the dense trees ahead of me. I’d been periodically keeping an eye on my GPS, one of the high-end units I’d used on the job back in Tennessee. I’d uploaded my route to it before I left, and following the highlighted path on its LCD display made navigation simple in these strange forests.
When the path grew wider and more defined, I was stunned to find that I was approaching what looked like a large cabin of modern construction. As I continued towards it and cleared the tree line, I found myself in a large clearing, devoid of trees but heavily overgrown by brush and young saplings.
To my surprise, the familiar brown arrowhead logo of the National Parks Service was affixed to the front of the cabin, beside the partially ajar door, faded and somewhat obscured with fuzzy green moss. I was more than a little taken aback when I saw this, since I was certain that this area of wilderness was technically part of the Silver Falls state park, and the National Parks Service had no presence here. Aside from that, this apparent ranger station appeared to have been abandoned for some time, allowing nature to begin reclaiming the area. It had probably been a year or more since the grounds were last maintained, and within another two, all traces of the clearing would likely be completely eradicated, with only the decaying cabin and lack of old growth trees to mark its existence.
I double-checked the GPS unit, which had icons for all known ranger stations, but was even more confused when I could find none within fifty miles of this spot. Noting the location on my GPS, I took a few pictures of the exterior before stepping through the open door into the shadowed room, dimly lit only by the few grimy windows inset into the timber walls.
The interior was surprisingly sparse, with only a few desks positioned around the large space and a table in the center. I was astonished when my eyes lit upon an unlocked and open gun cabinet and found the rusting remains of two rifles and a shotgun in an otherwise empty rack. I’d seen some reckless and irresponsible things during my time with the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation, but I’d never expect to find unsecured firearms just left in the open for anyone to stumble across in a ranger station.
I grimaced and shook my head in dismay at this apparent display of government waste and neglect, snapping a few more pictures of the interior. If the corrosion hadn’t appeared to have long since rendered the weapons nonfunctioning, I’d have been inclined to carry them out with me and turn them over to the rangers. As it was, I had no interest in adding another twenty pounds to my already heavy load, and they were clearly of no threat to anyone anymore. I’d just make mention of them to the park rangers when I returned and let them decide what to do.
Finding nothing else of interest, I left the cabin and continued my journey, leaving the oddity behind as I once again entered the dense trees.
It was only another half hour before I found the remains of the layover cabin I had read about previously, but was disappointed to discover it little more than a collapsed wooden frame at this point, half-buried under the weight of a long-dead and fallen cedar. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find, but I think there was a small part of me that imagined the romantic notion of being able to stay the night in that long-forgotten cabin, not used in a hundred years or more.
I took a few pictures of the rotting timber frame, but my heart wasn’t really in it. I’d built this moment up in my mind for the last month, but the reality fell far short of the expectations. Hitching my pack higher on my shoulders, I tucked away my small camera and started once again along the path.
Before I had taken more than a handful of steps, however, an aged wooden placard nailed to a tree near the remains of the layover cabin caught my attention. I frowned as I stepped closer, realizing that this had been some sort of sign, perhaps a navigational aid once used by the old trappers and fur traders. I could tell that it had been painted at some point, but the pigment had long since been erased by the elements. Still, squinting and looking across its surface at an angle allowed me to make out a few words that had been carved into its now wet-rotted wood.
Turn back. Death waits beyond this point.
I scrutinized the surface of the signboard for several minutes to ensure I had read it correctly, but each examination yielded the same results. I could feel that familiar tingle of excitement in the back of my mind and realized that my muted anticipation had not been as diminished as I’d thought at the less-than-impressive discovery of the layover cabin.
I’d finally reached the area of wilderness shunned by those who had traveled here before me, the place I’d seen referred to as the Legion Gate in multiple images of hand-drawn maps. I’d always wondered how it had come by that name, but eventually dismissed it as one of those archaic peculiarities of a bygone age. Still, it had a ring of menace about it, which only served to tug at my curiosity even more.
Another few pictures and then I was again on my way along the indistinct trail. I noticed as I proceeded farther how the ground had begun to dip lower, and I found myself traveling along a gradual descent that helped to quicken my pace. The trees here were growing larger and older than in the lands I passed through over the last few days and the undergrowth had long since been choked out by the massive trunks of those I passed among now.
Before long, the trail leveled out and I felt I was now in the bowl of some great depression in the land, the terrain rising to a gentle ridge visible through the forested expanse surrounding me. The wildlife in this area seemed less prevalent and somehow subdued, the chittering and birdsongs now only present as muted echoes in the distance. I could hear the gentle whispers of a nearby stream somewhere off to my left but kept my feet to the trail. The GPS was having trouble locating my position now, presumably due to the heavy canopy cover overhead, and the last thing I wanted to do was to wander off trail and lose the path.
I noticed that the breeze that had been my companion throughout my hike was now absent, unable to find its way down the decline or penetrate the dense forestry. Although the atmosphere was still very cool in the ever-darkening shadows of the massive trees, it was no longer fresh and airy, now turning somehow unpleasantly stale and musty. There was a damp scent of organic decay that seemed to pervade every breath, and I felt an odd melancholy now tinting my mood.
It was then that I came upon another curious discovery. Ahead, mostly hidden by the crowded forestry, I caught sight of a few flashes of bright color as I proceeded between the massive trunks. Soon, the colors resolved themselves into something unexpected – a small encampment of bright nylon tents surrounding a central firepit. Though I couldn’t detect the smell of a recent campfire, I still caught the lingering scent of burnt wood loitering in the air.
When I grew close enough to get a good look, I subconsciously reached up and unsnapped the strap on my holstered magnum, my eyes darting around the small clearing.
The tents, though still upright, were torn and ravaged and the occupants nowhere in sight. Immediately, my thoughts went to a possible bear attack. Although I’d read that grizzly bears had gone extinct in Oregon early in the 20th century, there was still a large population of black bears all over this area. I’d seen fresh scat a few times over the last couple days, but thankfully hadn’t encountered any of the predators yet.
I knew that the black bears in Oregon were larger and more dangerous than those I was more familiar with in my home state of Tennessee and were a very real threat to people out here.
I’d seen the results of a bear attack once during my time with the parks service and it was enough to turn my stomach and fuel many sleepless nights afterwards. A family of four had been camping in a restricted area of the park known for its bear population. Despite the numerous warning signs at the ranger station and those posted all around the area, the father had thought it a great adventure to go off-trail and set camp with his wife and teenage children.
There hadn’t been much left of them or their camp when we found them a week later.
I don’t like to think about it. The images are still there sometimes when I close my eyes.
Cautiously, I unholstered my revolver and moved as silently as I could toward the camp, eyes never ceasing their scanning of the woods surrounding me, searching for any hint of movement. I doubted that whatever had done this was still nearby; a quick glance at the fire ring showed that it had rained at least once since the last campfire, the remaining ashes compacted and pocked with tiny craters. There had been no rain during my hike, so I thought this was at least a week or more old.
I ducked my head into a couple of the dome-style tents, noting that the bedrolls and supplies were still present, including large backpacks bearing the embroidered emblem of the USGS.
What the hell was the geological survey doing all the way out here?
In the last tent, which, surprisingly, had not sustained the same damage as the others, I found some watertight cases marked with the same USGS emblems. Survey equipment, I guessed.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said aloud to myself, backing away from the tent and turning a slow circle to take in the whole area. The USGS routinely did tree surveys, so it wasn’t uncommon for them to be in the wilderness, but I also knew that they would have traveled armed and wary when camping in bear country. There were five two-man tents, not counting the one used to store equipment, so that meant there had been at least five of them, and possibly as many as ten.
I couldn’t imagine a bear, or even a family group, being able to take them. Hell, with that many armed people, I can’t imagine any of them would have been taken.
The only explanation I could think of was that perhaps one of them had been hurt and the entire group called for a helicopter rescue, leaving their equipment and supplies behind. The tents could very well have been torn open after they were extracted; there wasn’t really anything to indicate an attack – no blood, no bodies, no pieces of bodies. There were just torn tents and the mysterious lack of occupants.
Additionally, I could find none of the distinctive claw-tipped bear prints that I would have expected had there been an attack. In fact, aside from the numerous boot prints in the soft earth, the only animal tracks I could find around the campsite were those of some cloven-hooved animal, likely from a large deer or elk. Those prints were prevalent through the camp, so I suspected the animal had wandered through in search of food at some point after it had been abandoned.
Regardless, this new discovery, combined with the general oppressive feel of the whole place, had sapped the enthusiasm from me. I didn’t feel the same thrill of intrigue I had previously, and now just wanted to be away from this place.
I had a satellite messenger in my pack; I could cut this whole trip short and report my findings, calling for a rescue in the process. The satellite messenger was like a PLB – a personal locator beacon – except it had the added capability of sending short text messages in addition to issuing an SOS signal. The only drawback was that it required a greater view of the sky than a PLB did, and I was certain that if my GPS wasn’t receiving a signal, the messenger wouldn’t either.
I holstered the handgun and secured the snap. I’d almost forgotten I was still clutching it as I investigated the camp, but there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger.
Pulling my camera out, I took a photo inventory of the encampment, including the condition and content of the tents, and made note of my last updated coordinates, which were only a few hundred yards distant. When I got back, I’d be sure to pass the information to the authorities and let them investigate. Hopefully, it would turn out that there was nothing amiss and that the USGS personnel were all accounted for, but in case they were not so fortunate, this information might be valuable to rescue efforts.
Satisfied that I had done all I could here, I turned my attention once again to the path, leaving the ravaged encampment behind me with an uncomfortable and inexplicable feeling of being observed. The trail began to rise as I approached the western edge of the depression, and then plateaued. I began to note with curiosity the black and red striped plastic ribbon tied around some of the trunks. I’d seen all sorts of tree markers before, including those used by the USGS, but I didn’t recall ever seeing any of that particular color combination.
I briefly wondered at what such a marker would mean to the USGS surveyors, but that thought was abruptly forgotten when I stepped around an exceptionally broad tree and was faced with hell.
It took me a moment to really even realize what I was seeing, as if my mind was rejecting the atrocity of it. When it finally clicked, I staggered, my world going gray, and I felt close to collapsing from the madness laid out before me.
The bodies of two men had been stripped naked and lashed upside down to trees on either side of the path. Their bindings appeared to be made of thin black vines or roots and had clearly been made while the men were still alive, as the cords had been drawn so tight as to have split the skin of their calves and ankles, spilling blood up their legs and torsos. Their arms were splayed out to either side and bound to a crossbeam made from what looked to be the repurposed branches of a tree in a grotesque and twisted abomination of a crucifixion.
This was not the worst of it, though; not by far. Their abdomens had been brutally torn open and emptied of their organs, which had been unceremoniously discarded at the base of the trees in a pink-gray pile of viscera that still glistened in the muted afternoon light. Someone had then stuffed them full of pine needles and leaves to the point that the bodies were both straining with bloat, and crimson-stained vegetation protruded from the cavities. Their blood had painted their shoulders and heads completely red and dried and clumped their dangling hair.
My eyes dropped lower, to their faces, and I saw that the men’s eyes had been savagely torn out as well, and their empty sockets and gaping mouths likewise stuffed full of forest detritus to the point of overflowing. At that moment, a foul wind rose, and upon it, I thought I could just make out the haunting tones of an inhuman whisper, reaching for my ears with a language never meant for the voices of men.
Again, the world shifted before me and I took a clumsy step backwards in shock, my feet tangling and dropping me hard on my tailbone. I sat there a long moment, chest heaving and heart pounding in my ears before a voice in the back of my mind screamed at me to get back on my feet and run.
My senses returned then, and I was only too glad to oblige. I leapt to my feet and ran with every ounce of strength I had, passing between the two obscene horrors and racing along the overgrown path. I had only covered fifty long strides before breaking abruptly out of the dense tree line and into a broad glade nearly seventy-five yards across. Unbelievably, even this large clearing was not enough to provide a break in the unrelenting canopy above, a fact I noted subconsciously, even as my eyes fell upon the new depraved scene before me.
The center of the expanse had contained a single tree with oddly smooth and blackened bark, ten feet in diameter, which had been felled and now lay upon the ground. It’s length extended from the center of the clearing and stretched beyond the tree line far enough that I couldn’t tell where it ended. Seated in a circle surrounding the great stump were six more figures – four men and two women – all stripped naked and seated in a cross-legged fashion, leaning forward with their hands outstretched and resting atop the smooth surface like it was a massive roundtable around which they prayed. Scraps of their USGS uniforms littered the area, torn to rags and cast aside chaotically around them. Their naked backs were hashed with bleeding cuts, as if made by razors, and I could almost recognize patterns in their mangled flesh that recalled long-forgotten runes or the letters of some unrecognizable language.
I stepped forward almost unwillingly in a daze, forcing my feet to carry me closer to the obscene convention. Unlike the other bodies I’d found previously, these men and women seemed to still be alive and swaying minutely, as if joined in some communal and silent chant.
As I closed to within a dozen yards of the massive remains of the stump, my eyes were drawn to its surface, patterned with thousands upon thousands of tightly packed growth rings, each seeming no thicker than the width of a needle. For an incongruous moment, my thoughts turned to astonishment, both at the incredibly slow growth this tree must have incurred, as well as the impossible age that the rings implied.
As my gaze swept across its saw-scarred top, I realized that the entire center of the tree, the size of a manhole cover, was black as pitch and sickly hollow, as if the tree had been burned from within thousands of years ago, leaving a void that surely should have killed it. Somehow, inexplicably, it had survived and continued to grow, year after year, century after century, millennium after millennium.
Until now.
Looking around the darkened clearing, I observed some discarded equipment scattered about, and was surprised to find two long-bladed chainsaws nearly hidden by the knee-high grass.
Some small part of my brain tried to reason why the USGS would travel all this way to remove this ancient tree, but the question was a small one, and was quickly eclipsed when I looked closer at the men and women.
Their eyes were gone, but unlike their companions I’d found earlier, they had not been torn out, but rather scorched from their skulls by some intense flame. It was as if someone had taken a road flare to each of them, and I could see clearly the blackened flesh surrounding the empty and cauterized sockets. Their mouths gaped open limply, wider than unbroken jaws should have permitted, and I couldn’t imagine the pain that must have even now wracked their bodies.
But if they felt it, felt anything, they showed no sign of it. Their eyeless gazes fixed on that black abyss in the center of the impossible base. I crept closer, my right hand moving to rest on the butt of my holstered magnum and my left reaching out unbidden to the closest of them, a young woman with short brown hair and slight build. I didn’t want to touch her, didn’t want to touch any of them, but I couldn’t overcome this need to understand and to try to help them if I could.
The moment my fingers made contact with the feverishly hot skin of her shoulder, I knew I had made a mistake.
At once, the circle of men and women ceased their movement and the one I had reached out to turned her sightless gaze to meet my own, a chill rippling like cold lightning through my veins. In that instant, I knew there was nothing of life left in any of them. I didn’t understand what was happening, but no humanity remained in their faces, as if they were no more than empty husks or damaged automatons, endlessly repeating the last command they had been given.
All thoughts vanished when she started screaming, though.
It was horrific – the scream of the damned, or of a demon. It was pitched higher than I would have thought possible and seemed to reverberate through the forest around us. The air shook and vibrated with its assault, and I clamped my hands over my ears to try to dampen the hellish wail. I could feel consciousness start to escape me, felt the trickles of blood from my ears slip between my fingers, but still the scream continued. It came ceaselessly, without pause, without breath, without mercy.
I stumbled away, vomiting into the grass as I fled. My ears burned with a pain I couldn’t have imagined, until suddenly everything went silent. My vision blurred and a ripping ache wound through my brain like a white-hot brand.
That was the last sound I ever heard.
Somehow, my directionless flight led me beyond the far side of the clearing and into the tree line, all thoughts gone as my body operated on base instinct – survival. My feet ran without command, my hands pushed aside underbrush and branches alike without direction.
I don’t know how long I fled.
Minutes?
Hours?
I only remember emerging from the forest into a wide-open field and into the bright warmth of late afternoon sunlight. Somehow, my fingers found the satellite messenger, still clipped to my pack, and activated the SOS beacon.
After that, I have only fragmented memories of falling to the ground, and later, of being transported in a rescue helicopter. Later still were the memories of the hospital, of the doctors.
And then of the mental institution.
*
That was a year ago, and I’ve made great strides since then. My vision has mostly returned in my right eye, though I have little more than blurry shadows in the other. My hearing is gone, and the doctors tell me there is no hope for recovery there – whatever damage was done had been severe enough to nearly liquify the nerves, eardrum, and cochlea in each ear.
My mind is a bit fragile still, and I have to be careful about forcing myself to recall memories of that day. Sometimes, like now, as I write this, I can distance myself from it, pretend like it is just a story that I’m telling about someone else.
But if I push too hard or force myself to accept that this actually happened to me, I will suffer a grand mal seizure and fall into a catatonic state for days on end.
I gave my story to the authorities, along with the GPS tracking and my camera.
I’m told that they spent a month combing those woods, using my GPS data to try to find the locations I told them about. They found the old ranger station, and it sounds like it’s a mystery, even to them. They also found the USGS campsite, just as I described it, but that’s it.
No bodies.
No black-skinned tree old enough to have seen the dawn of mankind.
No eyeless USGS surveyors.
Nothing.
They gave up the search after two of their rangers went missing, deeming the area too dangerous to continue S&R operations. The Old River trail is now restricted, and the area known as Legion Gate has been enclosed with miles of tall chain link fencing topped with razor wire. I’m told it’s to prevent anyone else from falling victim to an extremely dangerous natural environment, as they’ve termed it.
I don’t go out in the woods anymore. I get anxious and suffer severe panic attacks if I even drive too close to a forested area. My hands get clammy, and my breathing starts to hitch if I turn on the TV and see an image of a tree line.
I’ve since moved to a metropolitan area in the southwest, surrounded by hundreds of miles of concrete and desert. I’m on permanent disability now and do part-time work at a local retail shop to keep busy, but it hasn’t left me completely.
I can still hear the scream.
Why can I still hear the scream?