Short story 37

Big Bend

The sign announced my arrival in the familiar font of all official Park Service communication. The ranger’s booth beyond it grew large as I approached. I slowed to halt alongside the squat yellow hut, and paused my podcast.

“Afternoon friend.” The attending ranger greeted me with a bored smile that reached barely to the corners of her mouth. I nodded my head in response. “Entrance fee increased to $30 this year,” she intoned. “We can take cash or charge.” I fished my wallet from the backpack on the seat next to me, and handed her two twenties. She returned a ten, but kept ahold of the bill as she handed it through the window. “Be safe out there.” We locked eyes, and she fixed me with a meaningful glare that seemed to say that she was more concerned with my behavior than my safety.

“And don’t talk to the animals.”

She relinquished the change. I shook my head, marveling and the strange warning, and drove on, hitting play on my phone.

“Indeed, listener, it’s best if you don’t acknowledge these creatures at all.”

The podcaster pronounced this final sentence of the program in a tone that he no doubt imagined to convey solemn gravitas. Cheesy music and a cheap, howling wind sound effect signaled the end of the episode. I fiddled with my phone, tapping into a playlist I’d labeled “Old News.” The Eagles crooned back at me.

“Four that want to own me, two that want to stone me, one says she’s a friend of mine . . .”

The sound cut out. I wrestled with the auxiliary cord that connected my phone to my car speakers, and glanced at the home screen. No service. I stared at the now-useless brick for a moment, before turning my attention back to the road in front of me. Without my primary source of entertainment, I scanned through the radio stations, hoping to find something other than the breathless preaching that dominated the airwaves outside of the state’s major population centers. I found only static. Admitting defeat, I turned my focus from dashboard to get a proper look at my surroundings.

Tall yellow grass grew mysteriously from rocky soil that did not appear capable of supporting life. Crooked trees, all limbs, bent at impossible angles from the terrain. The scrubland, dotted with cacti, gave way to jagged mountains that stretched far into the horizon, and foliage seemed to grow thicker with elevation. Across the alien landscape, tiny roadrunners bolted back and forth, chasing some elusive prey on their impossibly fast little legs. Or, I chuckled to myself, perhaps they were eluding a dimwitted coyote.

My car jolted, as if I’d hit a pothole. The explosion of feathers across my windshield, however, indicated that the bump had not been the result of a shortfall in the Park’s maintenance budget. I cursed aloud. The view had distracted me. I resolved to focus on the road, rather than the environment, figuring there’d be time enough to appreciate the majesty of nature during my hike. A nearby sign indicated the Lost Mines trail, my destination, to be several miles further.

After another eerily silent half an hour on the road, I reached the trailhead. A smiling older couple, each wielding two walking sticks, lumbered off the path as I pulled into a nearby parking space. I collected my phone from the dashboard and my backpack from the seat next to me, along with my boots from the floor. Stepping out of the car, I stretched my legs and popped the trunk. The older gentleman, presumably husband to his hiking partner, walked around behind my car and greeted me with a friendly wave as I sat to change my shoes.

“Looks like you’ll have the trail to yourself this afternoon pal!” He flourished his hand magnanimously at the empty parking spaces around us.

“Didn’t see anyone else up there?” I pulled on my dusty brown boots as he shook his head.

“Nope, just that old boot over there!” He gestured toward his wife. I laughed, as if his joke had been funny, and double knotted my laces.

“You have the most beautiful eyes.” Croaked the old woman, cued by his gesture. “You just don’t see that color blue every day.” I chuckled and thanked her.

“You folks have a good evening now,” I said. Shouldering on my backpack, I pulled my hat low over my eyes to keep what I now realized to be a blazing afternoon sun off of my face. The blue of the hat’s brim now occupied nearly half of my visual field, and it obscured the old folks as I waved.

“You too young fellah.” I looked up to see the old man return the wave and stump back to his wife beside their Prius. Watching the hunched gentleman labor to cross the mere feet of the parking lot, I marveled that he’d been able to complete the trail's steep climb. Maybe the couple had kept their walk short. In any event, I set out toward the path.

The first mile or so of Lost Mines proceeds mostly uphill. Bristly flora frame the entire trail, and the low bushes make it easy to forget that the path winds through the middle of the desert and not somewhere more hospitable. As the trail’s switchbacks carve their way up the mountain, every few hundred yards, a clearing in the foliage reveals a sweeping view of the surrounding landscape. I covered this first stretch in a little less than half an hour. Hoping to capture the scenery for a new computer background, I paused in one of these gaps in the foliage and pulled out my phone. The vista proved hard to photograph though, and my efforts resulted in only a single passable shot. I dropped my phone back into my pocket and unscrewed my water bottle from the strap of my backpack. I took in the scenery as I drank.

A snuffling sound interrupted my commune with nature. My stomach dropped and I spun my head in search of the noise. I’m a big guy, but I’m hardly a match for the black bears that frequent this part of the park. I spotted it to the left. A coyote.

I froze and watched the creature emerge from the bushes. It had it’s back to me, and its head in one of the prickly bushes off the trail. It continued snuffling around the foliage, but its rummaging was bringing it closer to me. I slowly screwed the top back onto my water bottle. Coyotes didn’t usually attack people. But in an emergency, I could use the mostly full bottle to bludgeon the beast.

The coyote raised its head and froze. It sniffed the air. Slowly, it turned to face me. I locked eyes with it.

The creature looked . . . wrong. I seemed almost to have two snouts, one on top of the other. The deformity looked like a video game rendering error of the sort that makes a virtual plant disappear into a wall and come out the other side. Like one snout had incorrectly rendered inside the other, and a tiny bit of the duplicate, just the nose, was poking through the coyote’s face.

I stared into the creature’s wide, dark eyes for what felt like hours. Its noses twitched—both of them—as it sniffed the air.

“Easy boy.” I muttered the words to the creature in what I hoped to be a slow, calming whisper. “Take it easy.”

The beast stared. I didn’t move a muscle. Then, the coyote cocked its odd head to the side, and quickly, so quickly that I still question whether it had happened at all, the coyote winked.

Behind me, a branch snapped and I spun. Finding nothing, I turned quickly back to the creature. But it was gone. Scared away, no doubt by the noise. I was breathing heavily. Far more heavily than my brief hike up the trail merited. It took a moment to collect myself.

I’d seen deformed animals before. Goats with extra legs. Deer with stubby little antlers. This coyote was just an accident of birth, the product of a twisted genome that had made it adulthood. Surely hadn’t actually winked at me, and even if it had, it was an animal, so it couldn’t have been communicating anything with the minor twitch. I carried on up the trail. But the image of the coyote, and its bizarre double-snout stayed with me.

Around mile 1.5 I reached another clearing. On the left-hand side of the path, this rest stop featured a bench carved from one of the sharp little trees. I paused briefly to tighten the laces on my boots and take a sip from my Nalgene. As I screwed the cap back on, movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention. I spun, half expecting to find the coyote staring back at me. Instead, I found another hiker passing me on the trail. He was descending, heading the opposite direction from me.

The man wore brown hiking boots that rose to mid-calf. Gray socks extended from underneath, just a bit further up his calves, ending below olive-green work-shorts the same color as my own. Unlike mine, however, his shorts lacked the little loop from which someone using them for manual labor might hang a hammer. They also lacked the little yellow “c” that marked the brand on the back-right pocket. His blue baseball cap was pulled low enough that I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I noticed that his gray t-shirt seemed entirely free of sweat.

The man raised a hand as I turned, though didn’t say anything.

“How’s that last stretch?” I asked as he passed to my right.

“Easy.” He rumbled the word in a deep baritone, not much louder than a whisper, drawing it out into languid assurance. He continued down the trail.

“How’s the view” I asked to his back.

“Easy.” I heard again, in the same slow whisper, before the hiker disappeared around the next switchback.

I shook my head, not sure I’d heard the guy correctly, as I gathered my belongings and finished lacing my boots. The sun was beginning to sink. I reached the trail’s peak, a little less than a mile later, and was greeted by a sweeping view of the surrounding desert. By then, a brilliant sunset painted the desert and I marveled at the view for nearly twenty minutes.

As I made my way back down the trail, the temperature dropped with the sun. A cloudy evening obscured the views I’d enjoyed on the way up, and by the time I’d reached halfway down the trail, I had to use the flashlight on my phone to light the path in front of me. Hiking at night is always unnerving. This wasn’t the first time I’d been caught out on a trail after sundown, and the desert path was much less intimidating than some of the more heavily wooded trails in the other parks I’ve visited. Still, the normal sounds of wildlife become much more sinister at night.

As I descended, my thoughts turned back to the events of the day. I’d woken up at the crack of dawn to make the long drive. I didn’t mind road trips, but the space between Austin and Big Bend was just empty. Not like one-little-town-every-couple-of-miles empty. Completely empty. Bring-a-spare-can-of-gas-and-make-sure-you-fill-up-everytime-you-see-a-station empty. I’d really plumbed the depths of the podcast universe, and even my favorite programs had run stale by the time I’d reached the welcome sign.

What was it the ranger had said to me? “Don’t talk to the animals?” I suppose a person has to be a bit odd to become a park ranger anyway, especially one way out here in the middle of nowhere. Still, strange thing to say. The memory of the odd warning brought to mind the coyote. With it’s warped, system-error snout. I shuddered at the image. A branch snapped to my left. Wind whistled through the bushes. I sped up.

A rock had found its way into one of my boots, and I bent to fish it out. The wind was whistling again. I held my phone in my mouth as I pulled one of my socks higher to make the boot a bit more accessible. The laces had loosened over the course of the day, and I could fit a finger down to the sole. I found the pebble, and worked it out of the shoe with my index finger. I rolled it just past the top lace, near the middle of my calf. It was difficult to see the little gray stone—it matched the color my socks nearly exactly—and the low light didn’t help. I managed to grab it before it could fall back into my boots though, and tossed it into the brush along the side of the path. It made a small click as it landed.

I stood and continued. I didn’t get more than a few steps before I felt a tiny impact on the side of my leg. Assuming I’d kicked up a stick as I’d been walking, I carried on. After another few steps though, I felt another pebble in my boot. This one hadn’t gotten deep and I didn’t need my light to fish it out. I held it between my index finger and thumb. This one, too matched my socks. I tossed it, as I had the other, and carried on.

A few steps later, I felt another impact, this time at my ear. A bug, surely. I paused briefly, before speeding up. Crickets buzzed loudly, and their nighttime whine seemed to come from every direction at once. A branch snapped. I was nearly jogging by the time I heard it.

“Easy”

Slow. Deep. Quiet. So quiet, I couldn’t be sure I’d heard it at all.

I broke into a run. All around me the trail seemed to come alive. Branches snapped and the wind whistled and crickets whined so loudly it was nearly deafening. My phone’s light bounced as I ran, and my backpack jostled uncomfortably on my back.

A root caught my foot.

I threw my hands out to break my fall.

The trail’s tiny, sharp rocks dug painfully in to my knees and my palms as I hit the ground. I scrambled to stand, but as I looked up I found myself eye level with a pair of brown hiking boots.

“Easy”

On my hands and knees in dust of the trail, bleeding into the grit, I froze.

Strong hands hoisted me from the ground, and I could do nothing but allow myself to be lifted. After an eternity, I raised my eyes.

And found myself face-to-face with the park ranger.

“Easy.” She spoke in the same careful tone that she’d used when selling my admission ticket, not the hiker’s creepy whisper. I caught my breath for a moment before I responded. “Thanks.” I dusted off my shorts and stepped back. Once I collected myself, I realized that I’d reached the end of the path, and the ranger stood at the trailhead. My car was just a few feet away, and a light over the parking lot illuminated us.

The ranger was holding a shotgun. She wasn’t pointing it at me, precisely. But she certainly wasn’t pointing it anywhere else, either. If she fired it, she’d probably blow off a few of my toes. Behind her, stood the old couple I’d seen on the way up the path. The old man stood straighter now than he had earlier in the afternoon, and he’d traded his walking sticks for a shotgun of his own. His wife, too, was armed, and the three of them stood, unmoving, between me and my aging 4Runner. None of them looked directly at me. In fact, each seemed to be looking pointedly at a spot where I wasn’t.

“What did I tell you when you first came into the park this afternoon, friend?” The ranger asked the question carefully, and without much inflection. She still didn’t meet my eyes, staring instead at the path behind me. Given her monotone, I couldn’t tell whether she was scolding me or testing me.

“Don’t talk to the . . .” I paused. The coyote.

“Don’t talk to the animals,” I finished. The ranger and her companions all visibly deflated, as if they’d been holding their breath. Each of the three of them finally turned their eyes to me, and the ranger shouldered her firearm.

“Friend, you get back in that car and you head straight out of this park.” The old man commanded me with a gravity that could not possibly have come from the doddering old fellow I’d met earlier in the day. “Don’t stop. Not for nothing,” the old woman added. “Or nobody.” She fixed me with a steely gaze that matched the gravity of her husband’s. “Not until you’re out of the park.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the speed limit either, friend,” the ranger added. I opened my mouth to ask what in God’s name the three of them were talking about, but the ranger fixed her jaw in such a way as to indicate that the conversation was over. The old couple wore similar expressions, and the three of them turned their full attention to the path, guns aimed to the ground.

I followed their instructions. I didn’t change my boots. I didn’t take off my shirt, even though a day’s worth of sweat had turned its gray material nearly the same color black as my car’s upholstery. The 4Runner came to life with its deep rumble and I stomped the gas, peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal. My hands didn’t stop shaking until I was nearly three miles from the trailhead.

The road in and out of Big Bend is straight, and covers several miles between the park entrance and the trails. I’d finally begun to relax, and I could see the ranger’s booth in the distance when I heard it again.

“Easy.”

The same slow whisper, so quiet that my rumbling engine nearly drowned it out. I spun my head in every direction. The sun was all the way down by this point, and I couldn’t see much outside the too-dim glow of my headlights. I heard it again.

“Easy boy.” The same tone. The same whisper.

“Take it easy boy.”

Faster this time. But not like a person who talked fast. Like a video played at double speed.

I continued to look frantically around me, doing my best to keep some attention on the road. Motion at the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned my head to the right. At the very edge of the half circle of road illuminated in my headlights ran an animal. An animal that looked like it had two snouts. One on top of the other.

I stomped the gas.

“EASY”

Loud. Deafening. But still soft, somehow. Like a recording of a whisper played at full volume through an expensive sound system. The ranger’s hut grew larger in the distance. I kept my attention on the road in front of me, but from the corner of my eye I could see that the coyote—the whatever-it-was—was still right on the edge of my headlights.

I chanced a look at it. Only for a moment. The sight haunts me still.

On the edge of the road, just outside the light of my headlights ran the coyote. On its hind legs. Its twin snouts foamed and its mouth yawned open. As it panted, the creature’s jaw opened wider than any natural being’s ought to, and row upon row of human-looking teeth hung nearly to its chest. A chest that seemed to be wearing a gray t-shirt. But not wearing it, precisely. Rather, the shirt seemed almost to grow from the creatures body, giving way seamlessly to the patchy fur of its arms and stomach.

It turned its head and looked directly at me. Its eyes were no longer the wide brown eyes of an animal, but rather piercing, blue eyes. Like a human’s. Like mine.

The coyote winked.

I tore my gaze from the abomination to spare a glance at my speedometer. I was going 87mph. I willed the aging SUV to go faster. Faster than it had any right to go. Faster than whatever was keeping pace with me out my window. I stole another glance at the creature.

As I turned my head I saw the beast stop. Not slow down. Stop. Completely. As if it had run into a wall. I whizzed past the ranger’s hut, and then, the welcome sign, and didn’t ease up on the gas until both were firmly in my rear view.

But I heard it again.

“Take it easy . . .”

I slammed on the breaks, and I could smell the rubber burning under my tires.

“Don’t let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy . . .”

The Eagles crooned from my car speakers. I had service again. The song had carried on right where it left off as my phone picked up a signal. I put the old SUV in park. Right there in the middle of the road. Tears ran freely down my cheeks and my hands shook so violently I couldn’t’ have driven the car if I’d tried. I don’t know how long I sat there. Parked in the middle of the West Texas highway. Minutes. Half an Hour. Hours. Once I’d pulled myself together, I called the Marfa hotel where I’d intended to spend the night. And cancelled my reservation.

I drove straight home, through the night and into the morning. I stopped only for gas and hardly took a breath until I reached my Austin apartment. I double-locked the door, pulled the blinds closed, and collapsed, exhausted into my bed.

I’m still not sure just what the hell I saw out there in the desert. But the next morning I had the thought, for the first time, but certainly not for the last, that maybe the National Parks aren’t just there to preserve natural beauty.

---

Shenandoah

“And how long will you be staying at the Skyland Lodge?”

I winced, at the hotel’s unfortunate name. The members of a Depression-Era Public Works committee had no doubt deliberated for months on just what to call Shenandoah’s in-park accommodation, but their efforts had not paid off.

“Just the one night.” I handed the desk attendant my credit card.

“Well we’re glad you can join us.” She passed a map over the counter, along with two keys and my receipt. “You’re in room 188, in the Hazletop building. Just follow this road to the right.”

I thanked the woman, crossed the small lobby, and pushed open the door into a crisp autumn afternoon. My decrepit 4Runner waited in the lot outside. I dropped the room keys and their associated paperwork into my backpack on the front passenger seat and started the old beast. The SUV rumbled reluctantly to life and its engine spluttered at the indignity of being called again to service so shortly after I’d last shut it off.

I patted the dashboard affectionately. “You’re doing great, girl.” As if on cue, the engine quieted at my affection.

Rather than head directly to my no-doubt dingy room, I took a left out of the visitor center parking lot. I noted on the map that a portion the Appalachian Trail crossed through the park just down the road. The Trail was on my bucket list. I certainly couldn’t hike the whole thing today, but I always enjoyed walking a few miles when I visited the parks it passed through.

After only a moment on the road, I came to the “Stony Man Trail” parking lot. The area provided little more than a dusty shoulder off the main road, so I found a hospitable section of dirt to park the 4Runner. I opted to leave my backpack and boots in their place on the passenger seat, but decided to take my hat. As I unsnapped it from its place on my backpack strap, I remembered the cooler, just below the seat.

A lifetime ago, a college girlfriend had painted its top to mimic a brown wicker weave. “A pick-a-nick basket for your next hike,” She’d teased. A gift for a beach trip we’d taken with friends, the cooler lasted far longer than the relationship, and I’d filled it with sandwiches before departing from my Washington apartment. I lifted its lid, digging past a cold pack to fetch a foil-wrapped turkey and swiss. I stuffed my lunch into a back pocket, and left several sandwiches and a sports drink for my return.

The Stony Man trail climbs gently uphill through a mile and a half of dense woods. About halfway through the hike, the White Blazes of the Appalachian trail give way to blue swatches that mark a path to the summit. Autumn had decorated the Shenandoah foliage in brilliant orange, red, and green, and I found myself so caught up in this natural fireworks display that I nearly missed the turn. I managed to tear my attention from the trees for long enough to find my way, though, and after about half an hour of hiking, I reached the summit.

Below me, the Shenandoah Valley stretched in every direction. Farmland checkered the countryside, creating a haphazard patchwork of wheat brown, rolling green hills, and brilliant autumn color. Little white farmhouses dotted the landscape, and I imagined their occupants concluding a hard day’s work in front of roaring fire.

I sat there, daydreaming, for some time. The drive had worn me out though, and I looked forward to dinner, a good night’s sleep, and a morning of hiking the next day. The blue blazes guided me back to the white swatches, and at a leisurely stroll, I made my way back down, accompanied by the lyrical trill of birdsong. After about forty-five minutes of walking, I spotted the silver glint of my ancient car through the trees. As I got closer, though I spotted something else.

Distance, and the dense forest obscured my view. But through the trees, a massive animal seemed to wrap itself around the right side of my car. I stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t see it clearly. I stared at the shape for what felt like hours, but was surely only minutes.

I crept closer.

A yard or two nearer I could make out a few details. Shaggy arms pawed at the door and claws clacked against the window. A bear? The creature seemed to stand head and shoulders above the SUV though. A truly massive bear. I didn’t dare venture any closer.

Whump

A heavy impact shook the nearby branches.

Whump

I glimpsed a flash of silver through the trees and I realized what was happening.

Whump

The beast was rocking my car.

Whump

Left

Whump

And right.

Whump.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t dare so much as blink, lest the animal turn its attention from my car to me. The thumping continued for I don’t know how long, and, terrified though I was, I worried at how much abuse the old car could take. At this thought, though, the sound stopped. I couldn’t’ see the black form through the trees anymore, but I also couldn’t’ be sure it was gone. I waited, crouched amongst the trees.

After what felt like hours, I worked up the courage to leave the woods for the parking lot. My car was in rough shape.

Long scratches marked the windows, and the already-battered exterior now sported several new, deep dents. I unlocked the door, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Turning the key in the ignition, I prepared myself for the worst.

The 4Runner roared to life. Its engine thundered more vigorously even than it had when I left the lodge, as if the car was celebrating its own survival. I drove carefully back to Skyland, half expecting the bear to leap from the woods along the way. I made it back to the welcome center without incident though, and parked the 4Runner in the same place I’d left it when I checked in. I figured that I ought to report the incident to a ranger, and I went inside to find one. The desk attendant was nowhere to be found. I poked around the lobby, passing a smattering of old couples and young families. But no ranger.

A sign indicated the “Mountain Tap Room” to be around the corner. I followed it, telling myself I’d report the bear tomorrow.

The restaurant was small. Just a few square tables scattered across the floor and a short bar, all decorated in dark, rustic wood. A young family sat at one of the tables, and the only other patron was stationed at the far end of the room, chatting pleasantly with the bartender. I parked myself two stools down from him.

The man wore a red, grey, and green checked flannel shirt and a pair of faded light blue jeans. He sported salt and pepper black hair, cut near to a buzz on the sides. His hands, resting on the bar, were tanned, and while I couldn’t see his palms, I knew they’d be calloused. He turned part of the way to me as I sat. I could only see his face in profile, and the partial view did not betray an age. He could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty.

“Evening bud.” He raised his beer. I lifted a hand in return, but didn’t say anything back. I scanned the short menu as the bartender made her way to me.

“What’s it going to be?” She asked for my order politely, but didn’t offer a smile.

“Three Rivers Belgian.” I selected the draft randomly from the list of unfamiliar beers. “And a burger as well, please.” She poured the drink, and handed it over the bar. I nodded my thanks.

“You spend a lot of time in the parks?” asked the man in flannel. He spoke in a confident baritone that immediately disarmed my usual hesitance to strike up conversation with strangers.

The image of a coyote with two snouts flashed, unbidden through my mind. In the years since I’d visited Big Bend, that night’s events had faded into memory. The steady march of time, coupled with a busy life, and a cross-country move, had reduced the horrifying experience to little more than a distantly remembered fever dream. I’d convinced myself that what I saw in the desert been the product of an overactive imagination, and too many late-night podcasts.

I banished the image from my mind and answered the question.

“I grew up hiking them.” He turned more fully to face me. “My Dad was a ranger before we came along, so he used to take us all around.”

“Can always spot a Friend of the Parks.” He responded, pronouncing the phrase as if it were an official title, or a military rank. “Cheers. We tapped our mugs.

“How were the trails?” he asked. My rocking car returned immediately to the front of my mind, and before I could think better of it, I told him about the experience.

“Saw a bear out by Stony Man. Damn thing almost ripped my car in half.”

By this point he’d turned in his stool to face me with his whole body. He raised his eyebrows, but his ageless face remained otherwise impassive.

“You didn’t leave food in the car did you?” he asked. I cursed myself internally, remembering the cooler.

“Damn.” I spoke as much to myself as to him. “I suppose I did leave a couple of sandwiches in the cooler, didn’t I.” I knew better.

His expression didn’t change.

“Did you get a good look at him?” He fixed me with an intense, but unreadable stare, and I noticed that his eyes were nearly the same shade of grey as the hair at his temples. I shifted in my seat.

“Only through the trees. Couldn’t see him all that clearly. He was big though. A good bit taller than my car on his hind legs.”

The man wrinkled his brow and looked away for a moment, before turning his grey eyes back to me.

“Did you see his feet?”

“Excuse me?” Surely, I’d misheard him.

“Did you see his teeth?” I let out a breath. The question was still strange, but at least it made proper reference to animal anatomy.

“No, couldn’t bring myself to get close enough.” I chuckled at my own cowardice, but the man didn’t return the laugh. He looked at me a moment longer, and opened his mouth to speak. Whatever he’d been about to say, though, he thought better of it. He turned his attention to the bartender.

“Close me out Katie?” She nodded and, began printing his check from the register.

“I’m going to head in for the evening pal.” The bartender brought his bill in a plastic tray, and he signed the receipt. “You make sure you report that bear to a ranger tomorrow.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, and he was gone before I could return the farewell.

I watched him go. Katie brought my burger, and I turned my attention to the food, putting the brief conversation out of my mind. A wave of exhaustion hit me nearly as soon as I finished the burger. The drive from D.C., the hike, and an adrenaline hangover from my bear sighting combined all at once, and it was all I could not to pass out on the bar. I closed out my tab, and shuffled out to my car where it waited in the parking lot. On the way out, I passed the man from the bar, speaking animatedly into his cellphone. Rather than interrupt what appeared to be an intense conversation, I passed him without acknowledgement.

A brief drive brought me to the Hazletop. After finding a place for the 4Runner outside, I gathered my backpack and hauled the cooler from its place on the passenger side floor. I found room 188 just up a set of outdoor stairs and juggled my belongings, trying to hold my backpack, cooler, and keys, all while unlocking the door. I managed to shoulder my way into the room and the awkward shuffle brought me in backwards. I dumped my belongings on the floor, and collapsed, thinking only of sleep, to the room’s single bed.

I woke with a start some hours later. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes. I climbed from the bed, peeled off my jeans, tugged my musty t-shirt over my head, and stumbled to the bathroom. I considered showering, but told myself I’d do so in the morning. I rubbed my eyes as I shuffled back toward my bed. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw it.

On the far wall, between the drawn blinds of two long windows, was painted a horrifying mural. It was difficult to see in the low light, but I squinted to make out the details.

The image showed a creature with the same general shape as a bear, but bigger, and up on its hind legs. It had a bear’s heavy lower body, large round head, and narrow shoulders. But it seemed thinner than a bear, nearly emaciated, and more at ease upright. As if the artist hadn’t been aware that bears ordinarily walk on all fours. The creature’s coat too, was longer than any woodland animal’s. Matted, black fur, almost like human hair, covered the beast head to toe, except in a few mottled patches that exposed shiny, twisted skin, like burn scars. Its face was flatter than a bear’s, and a heavy lower jaw, featuring two jutting teeth, hung in a prominent underbite. For whatever perverse reason, the artist had included a shiny dribble of drool at the corner of the creature’s mouth.

I stared at the image, unmoving for a moment. Once the initial shock wore off, I decided I was too tired to think especially hard about the picture, and dismissed it as another product of the same mid-century public works nightmare that had provided the hotel with its tragic name. I crawled back into bed, and in moments, slept again.

Sunlight, directly in my eyes, woke me up. Remembering the twisted mural, I made of point of rolling out of bed the other way before shuffling out of the room. I started my car, and drove the short distance back to the visitor’s center in search of breakfast.

I parked amongst a handful of other cars, and crossed the gravel lot towards the lobby. A sign for the “Potluck Dining Room” guided me to breakfast. A hostess sat me at a table in a far corner. Like the Mountain Tap Room, dark wood covered nearly every surface of the dining restaurant, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered sweeping views of the surrounding forest. A handful of other diners sat, scattered around the wide room.

When the server came around, I ordered eggs and bacon. I enjoyed the view until the food arrived. As she brought my breakfast, though, a familiar face joined her.

“Morning pal.” The man from the Tap Room. “How’d you sleep.” His ageless face remained as impassive as ever, but I sensed that he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

“Like a rock,” I answered truthfully. “I was pretty toast after the drive, the hike, and the bear yesterday, so I was out pretty quickly.” He looked relieved.

“Glad to hear it.” As the man turned to go, I thought of the mural, and the twisted bear it had shown.

“Hey did your room have one of the murals?” He stopped dead. As he turned back to me, I saw that the color had drained completely from his face.

“Mural?” He asked quietly. I could see him thinking, and he asked the next question carefully. “What did yours show?”

“A bear. . . thing.” I answered. “But a big one, with a weird face.”

He set his jaw, and nodded, as if he’d hoped that I wouldn’t answer in the way I had. He thought again, for a moment, and then, as if he’d made up his mind, fixed his expression in a look of grim determination.

Without a word, he grabbed my arm, and before I could protest, he’d hauled me from my seat.

“Hey man, what. . .”

I tried to shake the arm free, but his grip was like steel. He frog-marched me across the restaurant, as the few other patrons looked on in confusion. He didn’t answer though, as we left the restaurant, and crossed the lobby. That same look of determination remained fixed on his ageless face as he led me outside to the door of my car.

"You need to follow me.” He issued the command with authority, and before I could protest, or ask just what, exactly, was happening, he’d turned, and begun jogging across the parking lot to a bright red pickup truck. I thought of Big Bend, and the old couple. And when he peeled out of the lot, I followed.

The red pickup truck sped up as we crossed onto Skyline Drive. Trees, hills, and fall foliage whipped past me as I forced my decrepit SUV to keep pace with the much newer car in front of me. After only a few moments on the road, red and blue lights filled my rearview, and the wail of a siren drowned out the 4Runner’s struggling engine. I slowed as what I assumed to be a Park Ranger approached. A horn blared. I looked again to my mirror. The ranger drove only a few feet behind me, and I could make out his brick jaw, dark-tinted aviators, and smoky-the-bear hat on the dashboard. She shook his head, waving a hand forward in a keep-going motion. Soon, he overtook me, and as he passed, I noticed that he drove not the usual white-and-green park service car, but an unmarked, gunmetal grey pickup SUV, with a siren mounted to the roof.

The ranger passed me and the red truck, siren still blaring. The red pickup crossed into the left lane, and its driver waved for me to pass, indicating that I should continue to follow the ranger. I kept pace with the flashing lights, and the pickup crossed back into the right lane behind me.

The three of us continued in this formation for miles as the ranger led us on harrowing, cannonball run of the scenic highway. The famously winding road twisted and curved through the Park, and every time we sped around a curve, I feared that my aging 4Runner would flip. I remembered the drive from the park entrance to Skyland taking around an hour. The three of us covered the distance in twenty minutes.

The ranger didn’t slow until we’d passed the entrance hut. The white and yellow entry barrier was conveniently thrown up by the time we passed. He pulled over to the side of the road once we’d left the park. I did the same, as did the red pickup behind me.

The ranger opened the door and stepped out, carrying my backpack. My hands shook as I opened my own door. The terrifying drive had required one hundred percent of my focus, and I’d hardly had a moment to think of what exactly to say. I wanted answers, though.

“What the fuck.” I yelled the words at the ranger, gesticulating wildly as I did so. He stared, impassive, his expression unreadable behind the tinted aviators. The other man had also stepped from his red pickup and joined us by the side of the road. The two shared a meaningful glance.

I looked frantically from one man to the other, searching both of their expressions for some explanation, some reason why I’d been escorted from a National Park at 75 miles an hour, first thing in the morning, while my belongings sat in my hotel room. The ranger took off his sunglasses, and looked me in the eye. The other man put a hand on my shoulder. Both stood in front of me. I stared.

“You told me about a mural in your room, friend.” The gray-eyed man said this slowly, almost sadly. The men shared another look, and the ranger followed up.

“Pal, the rooms in Skyland don’t have artwork.” He trailed off, looking to the trees, then turned back to me.

“Your room didn’t have a mural.”

We locked eyes.

“It had a window.”

It took me a moment to process his words. I looked again, from one man to the other, but found nothing by way of explanation in either face. The image of the twisted bear-creature came again to my mind. It’s cruel fangs. It’s long claws. The drool at the corners of its mouth. I thought again of my car, shaking the woods, and the black form that had wrapped itself nearly around the vehicle, clawing desperately at its window. My stomach dropped, and I thought for a moment that I might lose my breakfast on the ranger’s boots. The two men stared.

“Head straight on home pal.” The ranger looked almost sympathetic. “And I wouldn’t plan any more trips to Shenandoah.” He turned toward his car, and the man in flannel followed suit.

“Wait.” My voice cracked as I yelled the final word. But I didn’t know what to ask. “Do you have my cooler?” I finished lamely and he turned back to me.

“That’s staying in the park, friend.” He smiled and shook his head. “I hope you didn’t have anything too valuable in there.” He turned again, and I could tell the conversation was over. The gray-eyed man climbed back into his truck, and as I watched, the two men turned and drove slowly back into woods.

The drive back to Washington was quick. Once I turned off the engine in my old 4Runner, it never started back up again. The bear—or whatever it was—coupled with the furious flight down Skyline drive had finally been too much for the old girl. And that night, as I tossed and turned in my bed, high above the noisy streets of the nation’s capital, I thought again, more sure this time, that maybe the national parks, aren’t just there to preserve nature.

---

Yellowstone

“He’s not far now.”

Our guide indicated some unseen sign at the base of a nearby pine tree. I nodded my head knowingly and did my best to give the impression that I cared deeply about catching up to the Elk.

I didn’t much like the outdoors anymore. But in grad school, trying to stand out, I’d made the mistake of putting “hiking” and “exploring the National Parks” in the “Interests” section of my resume. Much to my chagrin, this inclusion had labeled me “outdoors guy” at my job, and when my boss Owen invited me to join a group for a “teambuilding retreat” to a hunting lodge in Wyoming, I didn’t dare decline.

So I found myself hefting a hunting rifle through the Wyoming woods in a light October snow, and wanting very badly to return to my cabin.

“What’d you see?” Owen’s question snapped me out of the rumination.

“Tracks.” The guide responded. “Pretty fresh.” My boss lit up in a wide smile–eager, no doubt, to return to our group with a trophy.

“How far do you think he is?”

“Can’t say for sure.” The guide looked off into the distance. “Close enough that we’ll keep going on foot.” I looked longingly back at the gray pickup truck we’d left behind. Owen, several years older, and decidedly soft around the middle, looked equally despondent. We continued through the trees, quiet for a few moments, until Owen’s warm baritone again broke the silence.

“So you been out here long?”

The guide chuckled, and deep wrinkles gathered around his eyes. “I used to be ranger. Spent twenty years in the parks, including Yellowstone. Retired a few years back, and I’ve been leading trips for Stone Creek ever since.” At the guide’s mention of our hunting lodge, I thought again of my sumptuously appointed cabin. Something in my face must have betrayed me, because when the guide turned back to us, he shot me the sort of indulgent look that outdoor-working-types often give inside-city-folks.

“How about you boys? Spend much time out this way?”

“Yep,” I shot back, mildly offended by his look. “My Dad was a ranger. I spent a lot of time in the Parks as a kid.” The guide paused, and seemed to reevaluate for a moment. He stared at me, as if searching my features. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Owen interjected with another question.

“I hear some spooky stories coming out of the parks.” My boss looked expectantly back to our guide. “People going missing, that sort of thing. Did you ever see anything strange out there?”

My stomach dropped. A coyote with two snouts flashed through my mind. I tried to keep a neutral expression, though, and the ranger saved me by answering quickly.

“Oh sure. You see all kinds of strange things. Kids turn up miles from their parents, in places they couldn’t have gotten on their own. Hikers hear impossible sounds coming from the trees. That sort of thing. The parks are big though, and there’s a lot of them, so, just statistically, some odd stuff is going to happen out here.”

He waved his hands at this final dismissal, in a “nothing to see here” gesture. But as he looked from me to Owen, he paused for a moment, on my face, and we locked eyes. I knew then, that he was lying. And he knew that I knew. And we shared a brief moment of silent understanding that stretched on until Owen interjected again.

“Huh. . . Your Dad ever tell you about any of that?” He looked at me expectantly, and I tried desperately to concoct some way of ending this line of conversation without being rude to my boss. The guide must have seen my discomfort, though, because he saved me again.

“Look there.” He gestured to the base of another spruce. “We’re close now.” I didn’t see anything in the spot he’d indicated. But whether he’d seen a sign or not, the distraction proved effective, and Owen dropped his line of questioning. We continued on again in silence.

After only a few moments of blessed quiet, the guide raised a hand, and put a finger to his lips. Owen and I stopped in our tracks, pausing at the crest of a hill. The guide pointed into the distance and I followed his finger. For a while, I saw nothing, and I searched the landscape for some sign of whatever he’d indicated.

The Wyoming woods had grown thicker around us as we’d left the pickup truck behind. The light October snow was beginning to stick, and a thin layer of white had settled amongst the pine needles. The snow wasn’t so heavy that I couldn’t see clearly, and I scanned the rocky hills below us for some sign of our prey.

After a moment of searching, I spotted it. Far in the distance, perhaps a few hundred yards away, a set of antlers peeked out from behind a copse of trees. I grinned. Frightened though I might now be of the outdoors, I had truly loved nature for most of my life, and the prospect of landing a big bull elk still excited me. I turned back to my group. Owen was looking through a set of binoculars, scanning the woods as I had, and the guide waited patiently for him to spot the animal on his own. On cue, the shrill call of a bull elk sounded through the trees.

If you’ve never heard an elk’s “bugle,” the sound is equal parts comical and terrifying. The creatures call out in a high, piercing whine that, depending on the animal, can sound almost like a screaming child, the screeching brakes of a poorly maintained car, or the whir of machinery. But the sound is distinctive and unmistakable. You know it when you hear it.

Owen looked down from the binoculars, and while I suspected he hadn’t spotted our quarry, he seemed satisfied that we were on the right track. Our guide pulled a long, tubular call from one of his many pockets, and put it to his mouth. As he blew, a similar sound, nearly identical to the call we’d just heard, echoed forth. His call was answered by another bugle, and the three of us exchanged excited looks. We trekked silently through the trees, down the hill, and toward the spot where we’d seen the antlers. As we got closer, our guide put up a hand to stop us.

“Alright,” he whispered. “We’re getting close enough that we might be able to take this guy. But if anyone asks, we got him a few miles back the way we came from.” Owen and I didn’t answer, but our puzzled expressions must have been clear enough, because the guide quickly answered our unspoken question.

“You’re not allowed to hunt in Yellowstone. I think we crossed into parkland about a half a mile back.”

His words hit like a punch to the stomach.

The excitement of the elk hunt evaporated, and I felt only a sinking, creeping dread. Since Shenandoah, and a mural that wasn't a mural, I hadn’t dared to venture even close to the parks. In fact, I’d done all I could to avoid them, declining invitations to go hiking or camping at every turn.

But here I was. Years later. Back in one of the god-forsaken National Parks.

I stopped involuntarily. The guide carried on, though, either not noticing, or ignoring my reaction. “I know all the rangers on duty, and neither of y’all would get in trouble. But still, it’s a hassle I’d rather not deal with.” Owen nodded conspiratorially, and I did my best to fix my expression. Apparently, I didn’t quite manage it though, because Owen weighed in to reassure me.

“See, you’re not going to get in trouble. I’m sure it happens all the time.” He looked to our guide for further reassurance. But the old ranger spotted something in my face that Owen hadn’t. He fixed me with the same look he had when I mentioned that my Dad had been a ranger. Again, he seemed about to say something, but another bugle cut him off. He turned, and we continued down the hill and into the woods.

Slowly, we stalked closer to the Elk. Circling around the spot we’d last seen it, we approached from behind. At the guide’s insistence, we readied our guns. Owen, would take the first shot, of course, as he’d financed the entire retreat. I hoped I wouldn’t have to follow up though, because my hands had begun to shake as my fear of the parks took hold.

Our boots left faint, nearly invisible tracks in the thin layer of frost that was now accumulating atop the dirt. Snow has a way of muffling noise, and I could hear only the sounds of own breath, and an increasingly frantic heartbeat. Again, the guide held up his hand, and we stopped. I spotted the antlers again, through the trees. They were closer now, about a hundred yards away. I stared, fixated, as the antlers shifted. I held my breath, and the silent, still woods seemed almost to do the same, as I readied myself for the beast to move. Owen knelt and brought the rifle to his shoulder in a practiced motion. The antlers shifted again. All was still.

Then, slowly, inexorably, the antlers moved from behind the distant tree. Or rather, their owner moved, and the antlers came with it. And as the beast came into view it became clear that whatever the antlers were attached to, it certainly was not an elk.

The antlers ended in sharp, vicious points that did not seem entirely natural. And grew from a head that seemed to belong to a human–or something that had been a human once, long ago. The crown of its head was round, and entirely bald. Its face had the same general shape of a man’s: two eyes, two ears, and a mouth. But where a nose would ordinarily be, it had only a small, bulbous snub, and two, snake-like slits. Its eyes, I could see even from a distance, were a cold, piercing blue. Every other part of the creature was bone-white, and had it not been for the antlers, I might not have seen it against the snow.

The creature was thin–but its limbs were corded with sinewy, ropy muscle. Its torso again looked like something that had once been human. But a human that had been stretched and twisted so as to be almost unrecognizable. Long, arms hung nearly to the ground. Beneath an emaciated rib cage hung a distended, protruding belly. Thin stick legs with backward-facing knees ended in tufts of white fur and large black hooves. Its enormous hands, tipped with long filthy nails, held the shredded remains of what looked to have once been a rabbit. The creature, now fully in view from behind the tree, opened its red-stained mouth to reveal rows of long, knife-like teeth. And from that horrifying maw, came the shrill, whining bugle of a bull elk.

The crack of a rifle sounded through the forest, and the creature’s head snapped backwards. I looked back to find the ranger, rifle to his shoulder, aiming at the distant horror. I spun my head again, back to the creature, as it slowly looked back upwards. And then turned its head, nearly ninety degrees, to look directly at us.

“Fuck.”

The ranger’s quiet curse snapped me out of my daze. Owen, too, stood now, and looked frantically to our guide. In the distance the beast dropped to all fours.

“Run.”

The simple command was all I needed. I turned, and bolted back in the direction we’d come from. My rifle jostled uncomfortably against my back, and as I sprinted, I shrugged out of its straps, and left it on the path behind me. Ragged breath, and pounding footsteps told me that Owen and the guide followed closely behind me. I willed my legs to move faster.

Only once, briefly, did I chance a backward look. The beast had covered the distance between us in impossible time, galloping on all fours in a frenzied, loping sprint. It was so close now that I could see shreds of rabbit in its teeth and across its mouth. The guide sprinted just behind, but as I turned, he paused to lift his rifle again. I saw Owen, too, sprinting behind me, red-faced and laboring up the hill. The abomination was nearly on top of him. I saw the fear in his eyes, as he no doubt heard the monster following closely on its heels.

The crack of a rife echoed through the woods.

A muffled curse followed shortly after.

And Owen's pitiful cry came next.

“Help me.”

He called out, and his warm baritone wavered with fear. I’m ashamed to admit it. But in that moment, a single thought rang clearly through my mind.

I didn’t have to be faster than whatever was chasing us.

I only had to be faster than Owen.

And I was.

From behind me, a thump, a wet ripping sound, and a horrific, tortured scream confirmed it. The guide's muffled curse followed. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even slow. The ranger caught up to me, sprinting to my right. And the look that crossed his face confirmed all that I needed to know. Owen wouldn’t’ be leaving Yellowstone. Alive, or dead. A pounding behind me signaled the beast to be done with my boss. For now.

“We’re almost there.” The guide screamed his assurance through ragged breath. “They can’t leave the Parks.”

I thought of a coyote, sprinting on its hind legs through the West Texas desert, until it stopped dead in its tracks. As if it had hit a wall. And I thought of a desperate hurtle down Skyline drive. And I knew that the old ranger was telling the truth. So I sprinted. Lungs, burning, chest heaving, faster than I’d ever moved in my life. Toward an invisible finish line in the distance.

And I could see it. I can’t explain how, or why. But I saw it. Only a few yards away. The trees didn’t look any different. The ground didn’t look any different. But some instinctual part of my brain drew a line through the woods in the distance. And I knew, that if I could just make it to that invisible line, I would be safe. Drawing on reserves I did not know I had, I sped up.

I could hear the beast's pounding hooves.

I was so close.

I could smell its rotting breath.

Yards away

I could feel its labored breathing

Nearly there

I wasn’t going to make it. The abomination’s stench, its breath, its pounding feet. They weighed on my like a physical thing, nearly on top of me. I resigned myself to a horrific end when the ranger’s piercing yell cut through my panting breath.

He’d collapsed on the ground just in front of me.

I reached down mid-stride, hoping desperately that I could help him as I hadn’t helped Owen. But as I reached for his arm, I realized that he was grinning. I realized too that I could no longer feel the beast behind me. Slowing, I chanced a look backward. And I saw it. Only a few yards away. Still. And staring at me.

I had made it.

I stopped and stared as the creature turned, stood back on two legs, and sauntered, almost casually, back into the woods. I knew then, that the ranger had been correct. That we’d left park property, and that, bound by some law I couldn’t properly understand, the creature could not follow.

I collapsed next to the ranger. He continued to grin madly as I splayed out, spread eagled on the dirt. My chest heaved and I realized dimly that my coat and pants were soaked through with cold sweat. I shucked my jacket and lay there for a moment, looking up to the sky, as snowflakes spiraled softly down to earth. After a moment, I raised myself to a sitting position. I don’t know quite how long we sat there, the ranger and I. Staring into the woods, not saying a word.

Help me

The desperate cry ripped through the winter air.

Help

Again. In a familiar, warm baritone. I stood.

Help

The ranger stood and put a hand on my chest. Without a word, he shook his head, sadly. I thought of the elk’s bugle that we’d heard through the trees. And I thought of that high, animal whine coming from the creature’s mouth. And I thought of the tubular call the guide had put to his lips, believing that it was we who lured a wild creature toward ourselves. And I heard the voice call out again.

Help me

And the guide turned from the woods, and walked away. And I followed.

We reached the pickup perhaps fifteen minutes later. We drove back without a word. The ranger broke the silence as we pulled up to the ranch. He said only that he’d “fix things” with his bosses and my coworkers to explain why Owen hadn’t returned. I didn’t ask what he meant. Instead, when we got back, I made a beeline for my cabin. I lit a fire in the fireplace. I made a cup of coffee. I shed my clothes and left them in a pile on the floor. And I gathered a blanket around myself, and I sat in front of the fire. And I wept.

Sometime later–perhaps only minutes, perhaps hours–a knock interrupted my sobs. I dried my face on the blanket, and hastily pulled myself together. I opened the door to find the familiar, lined face of our guide. He cocked his head in a “come this way” motion, and I followed him outside. The two of us sat together, side by side, in the rocking chairs out front of my cabin. We rocked back and forth for a moment, neither of us quite ready to break the silence. The old ranger spoke first.

“What’s your last name, son.”

I told him.

He nodded, as if he’d been expecting my answer. “I figured you were ‘ol Danny’s boy.” I turned to him, shocked equally by his casual reference to my father, and by the fact that, after the day’s events, I was even capable of shock. “You look just like him." I thought about the night my Dad hadn’t come home. I didn’t respond for a while. Then, slowly, almost resigned, I asked.

“What the hell man?”

I wrapped all my questions into the one. The coyote. The bear. The elk-thing. With that single question, I asked about all of it.

So he told me.

And he didn’t know much more than I did. But that night as I cocooned myself in the cabin’s sumptuous bedding, I figured that it was like this: We learn in school that the Parks preserve nature; they keep people out to prevent them from spoiling the natural beauty. But that’s not all they do.

Somehow, by some law I can’t understand, the Parks keep things in, as well.

And like an old couple in Big Bend. Like a grey-eyed man in Shenandoah. Like my guide. And like my Dad. I was going to help keep it that way.

---

Isle Royale

“How far are we?”

The roar of the small boat’s twin motors, coupled with the howling storm, nearly drowned out my voice, and I had to shout to be heard over the din.

“About a mile and half.” The captain’s poncho whipped loosely about his body and he squinted into the wind. Just as I opened my mouth to respond, the park service boat crashed into a wave. I slipped on the rain-slick deck and stumbled backwards as a spray of freezing lake water stung my eyes.

A handrail saved me from going over the edge. As I turned to huddle closer under the small awning, I found the captain, hair streaming, laughing at my display. His mouth moved, and I heard the deep timbre of his voice, but in the commotion, whatever he’d said was lost to the wind.

“What?” I yelled. But the noise drowned me out. The captain just shook his head, giving up, as I had, on any hope of conversation. I followed his lead and turned my eyes forward.

Isle Royale grew large in the distance. A crash of thunder and bolt of lightning lit up the far-off pines. Twin beams of light, illuminated in the late afternoon storm, shone through the rain to signal the approaching shoreline. We rounded a jagged edge of rock into a long natural harbor, and the straight lines of man-made construction came slowly into focus. The captain slowed.

“Is there anyone at the Lodge?” I shouted the question, hopeful that I could now be heard over the storm and the motors.

“Damn son, you don’t have to shout.” He bobbed his head backward as if struck by my voice.

“Sorry.” I repeated the question more softly. “Is anyone stationed at the lodge?”

“Nope.” He kept his eyes on the shoreline ahead. “The staff is home for the winter. Park’s been officially closed for weeks.”

I didn’t respond, but my chattering teeth betrayed me.

“We’ve got the generator running. You won’t freeze to death.” As if on cue, a blast of wind howled across the bow and stole the breath from my lungs. The frozen gust seemed to cut straight through my clothing, but if the captain felt the cold, he didn’t react.

A line of ragged, wooden docks, and a vaguely human form materialized in the distance. The captain guided the craft slowly toward the shore as our waiting companion came into view.

“Chilly?” A familiar voice called out as we sidled up to the wood. Its owner ambled toward us in a shambling half-limp.

The captain handed me a rope, and as we got close enough, I tossed it toward the dock. A splash, followed by a disappointed grunt, informed me that I’d missed. I hauled the dripping, and now much heavier line back on board.

Our guide had reached the boat by now, and he placed a leathery hand on the gunwale.

“Get off of that tub and tie her up.” He gave the command in a familiar rasping grumble, and I scrambled to follow his orders.

As I climbed the side of the boat, I paused briefly, with my foot above the dock.

But before I could think better of once again setting foot on National Park land, the choppy lake made my decision for me. A wave rocked the boat, and the motion pitched me facedown onto the dock. A chorus of old-man laughter followed. I lifted myself to my knees and a calloused hand reached down. I took it and with surprising strength, the old guide hauled me to my feet.

“The rangers should be getting to Windigo about now.”

The name of the other, smaller harbor across the island brought to mind for a moment a snowy October day, and the last time I’d seen the guide. The two of stared at one another, until a question from the boat interrupted my reverie.

“So. This kid like you said?” The captain climbed from the boat to join us, frost clinging stubbornly to his beard.

“Pretty sure.” The two old men shook hands.

“Let’s hope so.” The captain took the rope, which, to that point, I’d been holding, limp, in my shivering hands. He tied up the boat in a single, practiced motion, and the three of us started toward a lit building in the distance.

Inside, the guide provided me with a new, dry set of clothes: A heavy canvas jacket, similarly constructed pants, and thick, cable-knit sweater. I changed, and did my best to warm up and dry off.

Twenty or so minutes later, I sat at a chipping wood-laminate table with a steaming cup of coffee. I pulled on a pair of wool socks, and laced up my Duck boots as the old men joined me.

“How was the trip in?”

I stared at the guide vacantly. My drowned-rat visage seemed to provide answer enough, because he dropped the question.

“What’s happening on the other side of the island.” The captain got straight to the point.

The guide set his coffee on the table. He looked us both in the eye.

“Those folks are cornered.” He stared into mug. “The rangers ought to be with them by now. But they can’t get nowhere.”

“I thought the park was closed.”

“It is.” The guide shook his head. “But every year there’s a few hikers that think the rules don’t apply to them. They take a private boat out to the island and they get themselves stuck.”

He’d told me as much on the phone that morning, before the government-escorted, mad dash from my D.C. apartment to middle-of-nowhere Michigan. But I still didn’t completely understand the situation.

“Okay. So why can’t they just wait until the storm lets up . . .” I let the question trail off.

The ranger looked up, and we locked eyes.

“Do you think I would have called you about a storm?”

I thought of a twisted coyote with blue eyes, too similar to my own. I thought of my 4Runner, and her last, desperate sprint down Skyline Drive. And I all but heard the whining bugle of a vull elk.

And I didn’t have to answer.

“What’s the plan?”

He told me.

I didn’t like it.

Our boat idled at the edge of the Park’s natural harbor. The captain had flicked on its powerful spotlight to illuminate the surrounding water and the twin engines burbled eagerly.

Neither I nor the captain spoke. But he wore a look of grim determination that I could only aspire to. I held my blue hat in front of me, wringing its battered bill this way and that. If I didn’t, I knew my hands would be shaking.

A burst of static across the captain’s radio interrupted my nervous fiddling. The guide’s voice crackled through.

“We’re moving. Time to go.”

The captain didn’t waste any time. The puttering engines roared to life and the small Park Service craft shot forward. My hat nearly flew from my hands and I put it on, backwards, to keep it from flying away.

I gripped tightly to an upright handhold and squinted into the wind. The storm had mostly let up, and the water was placid. But a thick fog had settled in over the lake, and visibility wasn’t much better now than it had been earlier in the evening. The frozen wind still stung.

We rounded the jagged edge of the harbor and the captain aimed the boat toward Michigan. All I could do was hold on for dear life, and wait.

And I didn’t have to wait long.

In the distance, through the gathering fog, I spotted it. It looked at first like the wake of fast-moving motor boat: twin waves cresting in white foam. But there was no boat.

I pointed it out to captain. He nodded, and set his jaw, but didn’t say anything. I turned back to the phantom wake. Now, at its peak, I saw a shadow, just beneath the water.

The shadow, of something massive. Hurtling toward us.

Once, in college, a friend had taken me to visit his family in Miami. We’d gone out on his Dad’s speedboat. The craft had flown across the water fast enough to take my breath away.

The shadow and its wake were moving faster.

The captain kept his hand steady, and the throttle forward. I turned back to the water. The wake was gone. And the shadow with it. I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, and relaxed my grip on the handrail.

Just as something massive struck the boat.

The impact rocked our small craft. The engines roared , lifting partially from the water, and a wave crashed onto the deck as we keeled to the right. I lost my grip on the handhold and stumbled sideways. The captain, scrambling to find his footing, let up on the throttle. Then, the boat rocked again, righting itself.

This second motion was too much. I stumbled, back to the left, and the boat’s side rail caught me about the middle. My boots, made for rain and not open water, found no purchase on the deck. And I pitched, headfirst, into the icy blue waters of Lake Superior.

The freezing impact stole the breath from my lungs as my whole body plunged into the Lake. I floundered madly, thrashing my limbs under the surface. I realized, in a panic, that my eyes were still closed. I opened them into the blue-gray murk.

It took me a moment even to figure out which way was up. But light, above me, signaled the surface to be just out of reach. I kicked upward, but my soaked winter clothes weighed me down. Desperately, I shrugged out of the canvas jacket as my lungs began to burn.

My lungs cried out for oxygen, and my entire body screamed at me to inhale. Just as I succumbed, my head broke the surface. I gulped desperately, inhaling equal parts chilly November air and icy lake water. Spluttering, I fought to remain above water. After a moment, though, I stabilized, bobbing up and down in the freezing lake.

I looked around. The boat and its captain were nowhere to be seen.

I worked furiously to stay above water, and the rest of my clothing still weighed me down. I reached down and struggled to untie one boot, then the other. Numb fingers fumbled with the laces, and I had to kick, intermittently to remain above water. Finally though I managed to rid myself of the heavy rain boots.

Next, I shucked the corded sweater. I dunked my head under the water again to pull it off, plunging again under the freezing lake. With some effort, I managed to wrestle free of the heavy garment.

I watched it sink, slowly into the depths. And I remembered.

There was something in the water with me.

Panic redoubled.

Something brushed my foot.

I splashed, madly and my limbs grew increasingly heavy with the effort.

Then I spotted it.

Again, a wake without a boat. But this time, closer. And At its crest, instead of a shadow, a hump of leprous gray hide poked through the surface of the lake. A tail. Straight, broad, and muscular like an eel’s, whipped the water to white froth. And while I couldn’t see clearly, the creature appeared nearly the size of a city bus. It was headed straight for me.

The beast dove.

I fought to stay above water. Exhaustion, and the icy cold sank deep into my bones. Never in my life had I been so thoroughly helpless. Between the fog and the water in my eyes I could see nothing but my own thrashing limbs. I wasn’t treading water now. Just floundering madly, and fighting the very lake around me.

Water filled my mouth and I spluttered, hacking madly.

Then, it filled my nose.

And I sank.

And a shadow filled my vision below my kicking feet.

Rising from the depths.

Coming closer.

Slowly, inexorably, closer.

And in the void I made out the glint of massive teeth, each nearly the size of full-grown man.

And a monstrous yellow eye with a black-slit pupil.

Then, suddenly, a splash from above, and a brilliant light snapped me out of the daze.

With my last ounce of willpower I fought again to the surface. The red-white ring of a life preserver–illuminated in a brilliant beam–bobbed just out of reach. I thrashed and kicked toward the light. My fingers brushed it. But didn’t grasp it. And I sank again beneath the surface.

One more burst of effort. I drew deeply from reserves long-depleted. And I got an arm through the hole.

A powerful force yanked me through the water. I had nothing left. I allowed myself to be pulled like a rag doll through the lake.

I opened my eyes.

To the captain’s wind-burned ruddy face. He pulled me, bodily on board. And as I lay on the soaking deck, unable even to stand, he throttled the small craft forward. I fought to my knees just in time to see an explosion of water. In the spot where I had just been treading.

The creature didn’t remain above water for long. But in the moment before it dove again into below the icy lake, I stared deep into the slit of a single, massive eye. An eye that looked–somehow–feline.

Before I could process this bizarre feature, the beast was gone.

Our craft tore away into the night and I saw, in the distance that we were approaching the Park’s edge. Like a line in the trees that I’d crossed at the border of Yellowstone, I couldn’t identify just what it was. The water didn’t look different. No rocks or buoys marked the limit. But, from somewhere deep within my animal brain, I knew. And as we crossed the waterborne edges of Isle Royale National Park, I knew again that I was safe.

I spared one last look toward the lake behind me. And in the distance, the gray mottled flesh of a massive tail, no longer thrashing, sank slowly, into the depths.

The cold set in. My fingertips began to turn blue, and my chattering teeth slowed. I remembered from my father’s long-ago lessons that this was a bad sign.

The captain didn’t slow, even as we left the park boundaries. When we reached Copper Harbor, he passed me off immediately to the same ranger who had picked me up in Washington earlier that day. After a brief car ride to a grassy peninsula, I found myself shuffled through the door of a yellow-brick lighthouse. I shucked my soaked and freezing clothes, and dried, numbly with a towel. The ranger brought me a pair of loose-fitting sweats–my third set of clothes for the day¬–and a pile of blankets. I wrapped them around myself and fell, exhausted onto a sofa.

I awoke with a start some time later. The guide sat in a leather armchair, reading an honest-to-goodness newspaper. My hat, soaked and practically unrecognizable, sat on a side table next to him. He folded the paper when I woke.

“You look better.”

I didn’t respond. He handed me a cup of a coffee and I noticed, vaguely, that the sun shone through the lighthouse’s small window.

“Cap told me what happened.” I sipped my coffee.

“Five people are alive because of what you did.” He fixed me with intense stare, and I looked up.

“Those folks were on Park Land without permission. And well . . . they wouldn’t have been allowed to leave. Not until you showed up.”

I nodded. And we sat in silence for a few moments. I sipped my coffee and he looked, mildly, out the window. After I while, I asked the question that had plagued my mind since Yellowstone.

“Why do those things . . . come after me?” I stared into my coffee as I asked.

"Can't say for sure.” I searched the old man's worn features.

“But if you want to hear what I think . . .” He trailed off, then turned back to me. “I think it has something to do with your father.”

“My Dad?” I looked up, suddenly alert.

We locked eyes. And then, slowly, carefully, he told me.

“Your Dad’s the only person that ever killed one of them.”

---

Mammoth cave

I sank back into the sofa, coffee cooling and forgotten as I processed the old guide's words.

Then I said, “Tell me.”

And in his slow careful croak of a drawl, he did.

Your old man and I were both members of the National Park Service Investigative Services Branch. If you ask a hundred people, ninety-nine don’t know the Parks have their own little FBI. But they do, and you can imagine what that job entailed.

One day in the dead heat of summer, a call comes through the Washington Office. A kid went missing in Mammoth Cave. Something didn’t smell right, and they wanted one of our boys on it. So a couple hours later, the two of us find ourselves driving a banged up Park Service cop car through the Kentucky woods with our sirens blaring.

When we got to the cave entrance, the ranger in charge - a big hulk of a guy - met us out front. That place is eerie during the best of times, but that day was another story. There’s this long concrete staircase that cuts down the hill into the mouth of the cave. Now stairs in the woods are always a bad sign, but, these . . . they look almost like the ground is swallowing the steps whole. On top of that, the place was crawling with rangers, and the entire scene gave me a bad feeling.

“What did they tell you?” The big guy asks us, cutting right to the chase. Truth was, not much. So he filled us in.

“Robby Abbott, six years old. He’s on summer vacation, and his parents take him for a tour of the caves.” He pointed to a young couple, sitting on the stairs, all huddled together.

"The Abbotts go in around 10:00AM. At 11:10AM, Mrs. Abbott comes out panicked. She flags down the nearest ranger and tells him their boy went missing, and that Mr. Abbott is still inside looking for him. Ranger goes in at 11:15. Comes out with Mr. Abbott, but no sign of the kid."

"Eventually Mr. and Mrs. calm down, but it took a while. Once they start giving details, things stop adding up. According to the Abbots, they were in a side cave, just off the main path, and Mr. Abbot was holding little Robby’s hand. He turns to Mrs. Abbot, and while the two of them are chatting, he lets go for a minute. They turn back, and little Robby is gone. No trace. Like he melted right into the rocks."

By the time he got done talking, I could tell the Abbotts were listening in. So we thanked the big ranger and went over to the couple. The two of them seemed pretty broken up. They told us near exactly the same story they’d given the big guy. After going down a side path, the kid lets go of Mr. Abbot’s hand, then he’s gone without a trace. But the mom mentioned that their boy was wearing his brand new pair of red light up shoes, which the ranger hadn't mentioned.

Your Dad and I talked privately for a minute. We agreed something seemed funny, but we decided to ask if they could show us the place where it happened. When we asked the couple, Mr. Abbot put on a brave face, and says “I’ll go.” And the big ranger agreed to let him show us the spot, but he insisted on coming with us as well, to make sure we didn’t get ourselves lost.

So we each took a lantern, and on the four of us went. Down that staircase, and into the cave.

The guide paused here for a moment, and sighed heavily. Then he stood and crossed the small living room to a corner cabinet. After rustling inside for a moment, he came away with a tall amber bottle. Still silent, he poured a few swallows of the stuff into his coffee, then returned, liquor in hand, to his place on the chair.

He offered me the bottle. I was still cold to my bones from my trip to Isle Royal, so I accepted and poured a bit into my own mug. Then the old man continued.

I said earlier, that the mouth of that cave is eerie in the best of times. Well . . . these weren’t the best of times. The entrance looks like a big, black hole in the earth. And it always seems to be dripping, even on a clear summer day like that one. It’s also cool down there. Chilly even. And for whatever reason there's always a breeze blowing out of the cave. Out of the cave. Not into it. So when we went down those stairs, into the Earth, I had this creeping sensation like . . . like I was walking into my own grave.

Once we got inside, Abbot and the ranger led us at a quick march through the Caves. We took a right out of the entrance, and ended up in a cavern so big they built a staircase in it. Thing goes back and forth in a zig zag four or five times. The call it the Tower. The entryway and a lot of the more developed areas are hung with these electric lights. So the Tower is lit up like the front, but gets darker as you go down. We took a left off of that staircase, but after that, I can’t tell you where we went. I did my best to keep track, but I figured we had the lead guy with us and he knew his way around.

After a while, maybe twenty thirty minutes of walking, Mr. Abbott stopped us and says “It was here. The electricity had ended a few turns prior, so we only had light from our lanterns. Cave-dark is a different kind of dark. Usually, you can see outlines, and movement. Down there, under the rocks, it presses in on you like it's a living thing. So it seemed awfully strange that someone would bring their kid down one of these back ways.

But we got to looking around. Your old man asked the ranger and Mr. Abbott to step back, and we scanned the ground for any sign of the kid. But after at least half an hour of looking, the two of us hadn’t turned up one trace of that boy. Your Dad asked Mr. Abbott if he was positive this is where it had happened. He said he was “quite sure.”

Then, after your Dad asked the question, he turned back around, and held his lantern up high. And Abbott got right up behind him. Inches away. I can still see the picture, clear as I'm seeing you. The man had gone pale. Ghost-white. And his eyes. . .

Some animals have this reflective layer behind their eyeballs. It’s why you can see a cat's eyes in the dark. But humans don't have it. It's why you get red eye in a camera flash. There's nothing behind our eyeballs, so the light goes right through, and you can actually see the capillariesand the blood.

But when your dad held up that lantern, Abbot's eyes flashed yellow-green. Like an animal's.

My stomach dropped. But before I could say anything to your old man, or even tell Abbott to back up, we heard something, echoing around the cave. I shushed everyone, and we all waited, silent and huddled around. Then we heard it again. It was more clear the second time:

Hello?

It was a high, panicked shout. Like a lost little kid. It had to be Robby. I’d all but forgotten about Abbott, and his creepy eyes, so I called back.

“Robby?” I yelled. “Robby we’re here to help you.”

Who's there?

The voice called out again. Excited, but still scared.

“Robby,” I tell him, “We’re park rangers. Your dad is here with us.” I nudged Abbott and he called out too. He says “Robby it’s Dad. We’re going to come get you. Keep yelling and stay where you are." And the four of us went deeper into the caves, following that voice.

After a bit, through dark, in the distance, I spotted a pair of blinking, flashing, red lights, just a few inches off the ground. Like a little kid's light up shoes. The four of us dashed toward them, into the dark. But they kept getting further away, like Robby was running. We kept calling though, and he kept answering

The ranger and Abbot got ahead of us. Abbot couldn't be slowed, and the ranger kept up with him. Your Dad and I fell a bit behind as the two of them turned a sharp corner ahead of us. The tunnel had gotten tighter. We had to go one by one now and the both of us were crouching down. But when we rounded the bend, we came right up on a big pile of rocks in our way. There was only a small gap, set a bit off of the ground, and we’d have to go through at an angle. I held up my lantern, but couldn’t see much past the rocks. We called out, and the ranger's voice answered:

Through there

I tried to picture a big guy like him squeezing through that tiny gap. But I figured he had plenty of experience in the caves and didn’t think much more about it. Then your dad says to me “I’ll go first.” He didn’t wait for me to agree, he just started climbing, and before I knew it, he’d squeezed right through that gap. I waited a beat.

Then, from the other side, he gave a shout, and I heard a clatter of rocks. I rushed to squeeze through after him and climbed up the rocks. I got my head and shoulder into the gap, then tried to use my feet to push the rest of my body through after. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, and for a minute I was properly stuck. My heart started going as the rocks felt like they were squeezing me. But after a beat, my uniform shifted, and I got through.

It took me a moment to get my bearings on the other side. I held up my lantern, and the cavern was so big I couldn’t see the walls. I thought I heard the rush of water, somewhere nearby, but I can't be sure. Your dad was just ahead of the gap and he had his lantern held up high. But he was just . . . standing there.

“Danny,” I said to him. “What’s going on, do we have the kid.” He didn’t answer. He was looking at something on the ground. So I came up next to him, and I saw what he was looking at. It makes my stomach churn, just thinking about it.

On the ground, was the ranger. Or . . . parts of him. The only word I can think of to describe that mess was a . . . pile . . . The ranger was in a wet, shredded, pile on the cave floor. And on top of that pile, stacked neatly, almost, was a pair of blinking, red, light up shoes.

There was no sign of Abbot. I stopped and stood next to your Dad and just stared for a minute. Until a voice interrupted us.

Over here.

It was the kid’s voice again. But it echoed and bounced off the walls of the cavern so loud that I couldn’t tell where it came from. Then again. But a different voice

We’re over here.

Mr. Abbott’s this time. I stepped deeper into the cave, and pulled my flashlight from my belt and I shined it all around that cave. Your Dad made like he was going to answer. But I stopped him. Because my light hit something, moving, by the cave wall. I tried to follow it, but it lost me. Your dad kept his lantern up in one hand, and pulled his own flashlight out in the other. He shined it all around the cave too. And then two things happened, one right after the other.

First, the kid's voice called out again.

Hello?

And second, my light found what that voice came from. And it sure as hell wasn’t Robby Abbott. Clinging to the wall, high up in the cavern, was a pale, white, thing. Its body was long, shapeless, and fleshy, like some kind of overgrown maggot. It hung on to the wall with four thin, double jointed arms that stuck to the rocks with these long, almost human fingers. And its face. . . It had two beady little black eyes on either side of a big round head. And in between them were two long, jagged slits. Nostrils I assume. But most of that head was mouth. A giant mouth filled with needles for teeth. And when I shined my light over its eyes, they flashed, yellow-green, like an animal. And when it opened that mouth, Robby’s voice came out again and said:

Who’s there

I froze. And all I could do was stare. Until another voice, from somewhere else in the cave called out.

Over here

In Mr. Abbott’s voice.

And then another:

Through there

In the ranger’s.

Then a chorus of voices sounded from all around us. Louder and louder, echoing off the walls. I heard the ranger. I heard Mr. Abbot. I heard little Robby. Then, I heard a woman, shrieking loudly, “where’s my son?” And I heard the heaving sobs of a little kid. And I heard all three of those voices, screaming, crying, and screeching through the caves like they were being torn apart.

That was enough for me. I shouted at your Dad. Told him to go. And he did. I’d gone a little deeper into the cavern when I was shining my light around, and your dad was closer to the gap we’d come through. He bolted toward it. And around us, the skittering crawl of fingers against rock seemed to come from every direction as those awful voices echoed and bounced off the walls.

Your Dad squeezed through the gap, and I followed after. I climbed up, and again, I got my head and shoulders through. But I couldn’t get my chest or my midsection past those rocks. I pushed off the walls again, but I couldn’t get a good enough angle. The skittering sound, and those echoing voices seemed like they were right behind me and again the rocks felt like they were crushing me down. But your dad got ahold of my vest. And he yanked me right through, just when I felt the brush of fingers against my ankles

The both of us of took off. I couldn’t for the life of me remember where we’d come from. But your dad did. And we flew through those caves. All while that skittering sound, and those wailing voices followed us, just on our heels.

We reached The Tower and the both of us took the stairs two at a time. When we reached the entrance, I was breathing heavy, and whatever had chased seemed to be gone. I stopped. And for a second, I looked back into the cave. And I could swear I saw a pair of flashing yellow-green eyes, right behind us. But I turned back around, and by then, your Dad was already out of the cave and halfway to Mrs. Abbot.

He says to her, “Ma’am for your safety, you have to come with us.”

She protested, of course. Asked where her husband was. Where her son was. But your Dad stayed quiet, and all he would say is “please come this way” while he marched her to the car and put her in the back. I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. But I knew that I trusted your dad. And so I got in the passenger seat, while he threw on the sirens, and we high-tailed out of the park.

Once we got going she kept firing questions at us from back there. “Where are you taking me.” “Where’s my husband?” “Where’s my boy?” And we couldn’t’ answer. But when we got close to the exit, with the ranger booth in the distance, she really started to lose it. She started screeching. Started wailing. I tried to tell her to keep calm, that everything was going to be okay. By now we were going about sixty.

And when I turned around, what I saw was not a scared mother. She’d gone pale. Just like her husband had in the cave. And her neck seemed too long now. And she started thrashing, and kicking at the window. And her voice started to change too. First it was her own, scared mother routine. Then the quiet, heaving sobs, of a lost little kid. Then, the angry shout of a grown man.

And then, just as we were about to cross out of the park, with some animal strength that I have never seen anywhere else, she kicked right through the safety glass cop car window and launched herself out. Your Dad slammed on the brakes and I damn near went through the windshield.

She landed a few yards away. Your Dad sprinted over to her and I scrambled to unbuckle my seatbelt and follow him. By the time I got there, the two of them were wrestling on the ground. Her mouth had gotten twice the size of a human’s, and those teeth had gone needly sharp. And the two of them were rolling on the asphalt, her kicking, screaming, snapping those jaws. And him, huffing to wrestle her down.

She got her teeth into him. Bit him real bad on the shoulder, right near his throat. But your dad hauled that thing to the ranger's booth. And she fought him for every inch. And by the time he got her there, she’d gone all the way back to one of those fleshy, maggoty, things we’d seen down there, underground.

But he dragged her over the edge of the Park. Just by a bit. And when he did, that thing stopped dead still. And let out this awful, high piercing wail, somewhere between a bobcat scream and metal scraping down an old chalkboard. Then, like a plant dying in double time, she withered to a brown, shriveled up husk. Then a breeze blew in, and she floated away, like dust in the wind.

We got your Dad fixed up. Then we called our office that afternoon. And your Dad told them everything that happened. Every word. The Abbotts never turned up. But I can guarantee there wasn't a thing about it in the news. And if you ask around, nobody's going to tell you a thing.

The guide let this final line trail off into a whisper. He’d barely moved throughout the story, but when he finished, he sunk into the chair, deflated, as if the tale had drained him of some essential life energy. Finally, after a long pause, we locked eyes, and in his dry croak, voice nearly gone, the old man finished.

“You want to know why those things come after you?” He took a final sip of his coffee.

“Your dad dragged one of them, kicking and screaming out of the Parks with his bare hands. And I don’t think they can just forget about that.”

---

Yosemite

“You’ll be safe here tonight.” The old guide nodded firmly as he spoke, and I wondered for a moment whether he meant to encourage me or himself.

“You’re sure?” My voice trembled. But I swallowed my fear and matched the other man’s gaze.

“We don’t know much about them. But we know they can’t leave the Parks, and we know they can’t get inside ranger property.” I thought for a moment about a too-tall bear standing outside my window in Shenandoah. And I nodded.

“I won’t be back until the morning.” He turned toward the ranger cabin’s door, then paused for a moment with his hand on the knob. “If we get those folks out of here, kid, it will be because of you.” The old man pushed the door open, and walked into the waning, golden light of the late afternoon. After a moment, I heard the rumble of his pickup truck, and then the scatter of pebbles. Then, through the window, I watched him pull away.

I bolted the door and turned the knob’s lock. The small ranger’s hut offered little in the way of entertainment. It’s wood-paneled walls were adorned only by the large window, next to a fireplace. Against the opposite wall sat a brown leather couch, faded and worn no doubt by generations of rangers. Past the living room, a wood fire stove took up most of the kitchen, and a spartan bedroom contained only a cot. The window, at least, offered a view. Past the cabin’s gravel driveway, I looked out the glass to the edges of a dense forest, as the sinking summer sun shone bright through the trees.

I tried to keep busy, at first, and found small meaningless tasks to occupy my time. I set a fire in the fireplace. I chopped up some vegetables. I swept the cabin’s already-pristine floor. As I worked, I allowed myself to entertain the notion that perhaps the night would go on without disruption. But when I sunk into the faded couch with a book, I knew deep down that I wouldn’t be so lucky.

I struggled to focus. Words seemed to dance around the pages, and I re-read the same passages over and over. Soon I gave up and flipped open my computer. It came as no surprise that the little ranger cabin didn’t have wi-fi, but in this part of the valley, I had enough cell service to use my phone’s hotspot. So I connected, and scrawled, halfheartedly, through the news.

It was, as it always seemed to be these days, bad.

Out of curiosity, I paged through the Park websites. Across the country they’ve been opening and closing to varying degrees, and with all sorts of conditions. It was this confused set of rules that brought to me to Yosemite, and again to the Parks.

When the old guide called me, I’d not been surprised. More confused, rather, that he hadn’t called sooner. The patchwork of rules had led to confusion amongst hikers, campers, and those who enjoyed the outdoors, so inevitably, some people ended up in places they didn’t have permission to be. And they ran afoul of the . . . things . . . that called the Parks home.

A knock on the door jolted me from the screen. My heart leapt to my throat, and I looked through the window to see that the sun had now sunk beneath the trees. I got carefully to my feet, and crossed the small living room. The knock came again.

“Who’s there?” I called through the door and my voice again shook.

“It’s me kid, open up.” The guide’s croaking drawl sounded muffled and annoyed, from the other side. I let out a deep breath. But as I reached for the bolt, with my hand on the cool metal slider, I paused. The cabin’s door didn’t have a peephole. But through the window on the far wall, where I’d watched him drive away, I saw no sign of the guide’s aging pickup. And I thought of a bull elk’s bugle echoing through Yellowstone. I pulled my hand form the bolt, and stepped back. The voice came again through the door.

“What’s the holdup kid?"

Warily, I responded.

“You were a guide in Wyoming. What was the name of the ranch?” There was a long pause from the other side.

“You serious kid?” The voice sounded exasperated now. It was still the guide’s slow creaking drawl, but there was something ragged, and strained about it. I stayed silent, unmoving by the door. Then, the voice came again. But different this time.

No longer the guide’s steady baritone, the voice sounded now like the impression of a human, performed by something that had heard people talk, but didn’t have the right vocal cords to produce human speech. Or like the words were compiled from sound clips and played through whiny, rattling speakers.

“Have it your way.”

I heard the crunch of gravel as whatever produced that voice walked away. First, with the steady impact of two feet. Then, with the skittering scramble of several. I managed to steady my breathing, and dropped back to the couch. Studying the door for a moment, I wondered just how sure the ranger had been when he promised the cabin was safe. I wondered too, what the Park would throw at me next.

As to the first question, I still can’t be sure. As to the second, I had only to wait a few moments. Through the window on the far wall of the cabin, I spotted the tiny form of a child, crawling from the darkened edge of the forest

“Please . . . Please help me.” I couldn’t make out the kid’s face, but I could hear his voice clearly enough. And it sounded tortured and scared. For the briefest of moments, some part of me thought that maybe this really was a child, seriously hurt. And maybe I should go outside and help him. But as the form dragged itself from the woods, I dismissed that notion.

Because the kid didn’t have legs.

The back half of him, below the waist, was just a formless mass of blue, roughly the color of denim. And it seemed to smear on the ground as the kid dragged himself onward. I shook my head and stood to pull the blinds closed.

Whatever impersonated the kid must have realized its performance was unconvincing. Because as I stood, the child’s form lifted itself on two hands, and faster than should have been possible, it used them to scramble back into the woods. I turned my eyes briefly to the door, to make sure the bolt was still locked.

And when I turned back to the window, the thing was right there.

The pale figure kept the general shape of a human, but only just. It had all the right features: two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. But nearly every one of those features was wrong, somehow. The head itself was too big. Round, broad, and fleshy, it lacked any definition of the sort that would come from a human skeleton. Instead, it looked like a ball of clay that a child halfheartedly shaped into a face, then stuck to a sculpture. Its eyes, tiny, beady, and all-black, were set wide on either side of the formless head. Its mouth, no more than a razor-thin gash, cut across the broad width of the too-big face. But its nose, somehow, was flawless. Like the creature had mastered a single aspect of human anatomy, and replicated it perfectly.

As I reached the window, the thing pressed its horrifying face up against the glass. And I could only stare, frozen, at the horror in front of me. Then all of the sudden it snapped its head back toward the woods. Toward something moving behind it. And I could swear that, just for a moment, it looked . . . scared.

Soon I saw what had frightened the beast. From the ragged edge of the forest, what looked like a man emerged slowly into the light. He had a long mane of gray hair, though he seemed to have done his best to tie it back neatly. His beard, too was overgrown, but again, it had the look of some effort at maintenance and care. He strode, calm and confident, toward the little ranger’s cabin, and the thing at my window bolted.

The man seemed hardly to notice. And as he got closer, I forgot about the beast that had, until that moment, frozen me solid. Because as the old man’s features came more sharply into view, and I met his piercing blue eyes—the exact same shade as my own—I realized that I recognized him. I recognized the man who had struck fear into one of the things that haunted the parks. Still not sure it was true, I said aloud:

“Dad?”

And the old man just smiled.


It was all too much to process. In a matter of minutes, I’d seen one of those thing change from a tortured, mangled little kid, to a horror-show of a clay-doll nightmare. Then my father, years since presumed dead, had wandered out of the forest, and scared it away. He came around to the front door. Wary, still, of those nightmares and their tricks, in a shaking voice I tried desperately to come up with a question that only my Dad could answer.

“What’d you get me for my 16th birthday”

“A gray 4Runner”

He answered calmly, in the deep bass rumble I’d inherited.

“That thing still run?”

I spluttered and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Fortunately, the old man spoke again, and I didn’t have to fill the silence.

“Listen I know every trick those things pull. If I was you I probably wouldn’t let me in either. So how about we sit, and we talk. And if you decide I’m me and not one of them, you let me in whenever you please.”

Still at a loss for words I nodded. And then realized that he couldn’t see me, so I managed a pathetic “okay.” I sunk down against the cabin door. Outside, I heard him do the same. And we sat like that, for hours. Just talking. I told him about my life. Where I’d been. What I’d seen. At one point, I even grabbed my computer from its place on the couch, and read him a few of my stories from the parks.

And he told me a bit too.

And I dozed off there, somewhere. And he did the same.

I can hear his snores now, though the door, as I type out this post. Hearing that old man’s wheezing again feels like traveling back in time, to the late nights and weekend mornings of my childhood. To a simple, easy, happy time. Over those hours of conversation, I hadn’t been sure. I hadn’t been one hundred percent positive. But when I heard those snores I knew. And I know now.

The man outside is my Dad.

----

July 31st

I suppose i should tell you I'm not the kid who told this story. He called me "the guide", so i suppose you folks can call me that too.
I read though most of what the kid wrote. He changed some details around, mostly it seems like so nobody could figure out who he was. Everything else, though . . . It's all true. Sorry to say it.

You might have noticed I said “was.” See, when I came back today, ready to pick the kid up and talk about the lives he’d saved, the cabin was empty. No sign of the kid, and no sign of the old man. Only thing I found was a backpack with a change of clothes, and his computer.

So I guess it’s up to me to finish the story. I wish I could tell you all just what happened to the kid, but I don’t know. Maybe the person outside that door really was his old man. Maybe the two of them are off in the woods together now.

But I don’t think so.

So if you ever go to Yosemite, and you see a hiker with piercing blue eyes, and a navy hat pulled down low. And if, when he talks to you, he talks in a deep rumbling voice. Well I think it’s best if you don’t answer.

Because I can tell you this much.

The National Parks aren’t just there to preserve nature....