He yelled at us to stop, from out of nowhere, it seemed. It was startling, and one of the last things on my mind, as I led the group of 9 teenage backpackers down the trail, headed back to our Base Camp facility after a week out in the Lost Creek Wilderness. We’d be back in less than an hour except for whatever was about to happen. He was ragged looking, probably in his 40’s, had a Pit Bull by his side and, thankfully, kept his distance across a dry wash.
“Got any drugs,” was the second thing out of his mouth.
My heart instantly sank when I heard those words. It didn’t surprise me—why else would someone be engaging us and coming from a direction in which there were no trails, I reasoned?
But almost seamlessly, he made it known that it was antibiotics, and not the other, that he was talking about. That fact made me feel better initially, but I soon wondered if maybe he had something going on that needed medical attention. What, I speculated, would he be willing to do if things were dire?
Not knowing anything about him, I didn’t want to clue him in to the fact that we had a facility full of food and potential hostages just down the trail, so I suggested I go on ahead and call the EMS or Sheriff’s Department.
“No, don’t do that,” he was adamant.
His response concerned me, so I just said that maybe one of the people waiting for us up ahead might have something that would be of use, and I’d send them back his way. I knew that, in reality, there was no one waiting for us, but he didn’t. Thankfully it turns out, our group was just plain confused by the whole situation and didn’t verbalize anything as they privately speculated about whether or not there were indeed people up ahead waiting to cheer for us or something as we ended our trip.
The raggedy man seemed appeased and unwary of the dupe. He then launched into an explanation of his situation, which had something to do with an infected cut, hatchet, raccoon, and being out in the wilds for more than a month.
After he finished confusing us with his story, we made our exit on down the trail, walking and assuring him repeatedly as we left that we’d send someone back up to help him. I was ecstatic when he just stayed put and didn’t follow.
We ultimately got back to our base, unpacked, and then called the authorities to report the problem. But, they never located the man, and we never saw him again, although I’m pretty sure I still sometimes see him blending into the trees and simply watching.
I know there’s a good story mixed in with all of this, that’s probably true. But, through the years, I enjoyed telling it the way I saw it.—you know, the one where the escaped mass ax murderer hacks up the sleeping backpackers struggling to get out of their tents and sleeping bags and then feeds the pieces to his dog to get rid of the evidence.
no doubt him bones are up there somewhere