He yelled to 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 40s, 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 clear that he was talking about antibiotics, not the other kind. That fact made me feel better initially, but I soon wondered whether he might have some sort of injury 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 someone waiting for us up ahead might have something useful, 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 say anything as they mentally speculated about whether 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 involved an infected cut, a hatchet, a raccoon, and being out in the wild for more than a month.
After he finished confusing us with his story, we made our exit 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 found the man, and we never saw him again, although I’m pretty sure I still sometimes see him blending into the trees, simply watching.
I know there’s a good story mixed into 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 body parts to his dog to get rid of the evidence.
