The Mountain Takes: Part 2

He’s past the point of no return and the forest isn’t the only thing trying to break him.

Part 1

Donner Pass – Ghosts of History

Moving past the High Sierras might seem like a return to civilization. It is emptier.

The trail winded through some of the least visited places in the country, Truckee National Forest, Plumas National Forest, Lassen Volcanic National Park. Most hikers call this stretch the Northern Sierras. I think of it as something else. It is the wilderness.

This was the part of the trip I had been looking forward to the most.

I planned to gather what I needed at Boreal Ski Resort, then push through to Old Station without stopping. No supply drops. No civilization. Just me, the land, and whatever I could find along the way.

Boreal was dead. The parking lot empty, wrong. Two figures stood near the top of the lift, still and dark against the sky. Wide-brimmed hats. Motionless. Watching.

I turned away. Took in the vending machines, the bare shelves of the resort shop. Nothing. No real food. No protein. My stomach twisted. A foreign thought slid into my mind like it had always been. I understand why they did it. The ones stranded here in the winter of 1846. The mountain rebuked them. And when hunger stripped them to the bone, they survived.

Would I?

"No."

My father's voice answered before I could. For a moment, it was like my father was there with me.

The reflection in the vending machine wasn't me anymore. Replaced.

For the first time, I thought about quitting. About going home. Becoming what my father knew I was.

"You never follow through."

I saw his disappointment in my own reflection.

"This isn't your dream. You don't even get it."

His words clashed against the silence of the mountain, pulling me in two. The mountain pushed me forward. My father wanted me to stop. I didn't want anything anymore.

I took a detour. Soda Springs is just a mile and a half off-trail. It was better than starving or trying to hike on Doritos and Honey Buns.

Inside the small general store, racks of dehydrated meals and survival gear lined the walls. Water filters, fire starters, vacuum-sealed meat sticks. Everything I needed.

The highway was the last boundary. I stood on the north side of I-80, looking back at the scattered buildings. The last sign of civilization I would see for weeks. The sky pressed low.

I turned back to the trail.

There, just beyond the trees. A woman. Squat. Robust. Beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She stood still, watching. Her lips somewhere between a smirk and a smile. For a moment, she was topless. And then… gone.

Cars howled. I grabbed my father's ashes. Before I could think, I spread a handful onto the dirt. For a moment, I felt safe. I didn't know why. So, I kept walking.

And behind me, a big rig swallowed my offering.

Wilderness Night 1 – Lurking

The night was too quiet. No wind. No insects. No distant animal calls. Just a void where sound should be. I couldn't even hear my father's voice anymore.

Inside the thin walls of my tent, the silence pressed against me. Heavy. Suffocating. The air itself felt noxious, too thick in my lungs. I shifted in my sleeping bag. The tent felt small. The fabric pressed in. It felt as if it might collapse on me.

Something stirred outside.

So soft, I almost missed it. Something brushed against the fabric of my tent. Just once. Just enough. I held my breath. Listened.

Nothing.

Then again.

I exhaled slowly, desperately trying to think. A branch? No. I knew better. There was no wind.

But something in me wanted to believe it. Wanted to pretend.

The touch returned. Not a brush this time, a faint, deliberate scratch. Then another. Then another. Animals? Not claws. Fingertips. Soft. Not in one place. I was surrounded.

I sat up too fast, my vision swimming. My breath felt like it didn't belong to me. "Hey!" I meant to shout, but my voice barely carried. A child calling out in the dark.

The scratching stopped.

Silence, deeper than before. A silence that was waiting.

Then, just beyond the fabric, a sound. A whistling. Low. Soft. Inviting.

I had the sudden, irrational urge to unzip the tent. I needed to. Something in my chest pulled toward the night. My hands twitched toward the zipper. My mind rejected the moment, but to my body, it was real.

I clenched my teeth. Dug my nails into my arms. Shook my head hard. The sound stopped.

The silence returned. Deeper and darker than before. It was so silent that the forest seemed to pulse. No longer waiting, instead reaching out to me.

Wilderness Night 2 – Footprints in the Silence

The unnatural silence stretched through the next day's hike. The sun filtered through the trees, dull and gray. I tried to focus on my breath. But it was muted. It wasn't humid, but heavy air pressed against me like chains.

Beneath my feet, the earth felt fake. Hollow. Like I was walking over something that had been covered up. Someone spoke inside my mind, "Something old."

I set up camp farther from the trail than usual. Maybe this would help. Distance meant safety, maybe.

Inside my tent, the fabric felt thinner than before. The poles felt weak. The only thing separating me from the night was a barrier too fragile to stop anything larger than a beetle. I closed my eyes. Forced my body still. Sleep. I just needed sleep. My exhaustion hung on me like shackles.

Pulling me into the hard dirt beneath my tent. I began to drift off.

A brush against the fabric. My eyes snapped open.

Then, again.

Slowly, the brushing gave way to scratching. Soft at first, like before. But this time, it built into a rhythm. Coordinated. Precise. Complex. Almost tribal. I could taste the sound, my mind racing, fighting itself. Wind would be random. Animals wouldn't move in sync.

A new sound. Soft. A whisper just outside the tent. I couldn't make out the words, but it was human? There shouldn't be anyone here. No signs of people. No distant flashlights. No crunch of footsteps approaching.

The tent was a tomb. Thin fabric. Flimsy poles. The forest was trying to swallow me whole, to bury me in this tomb.

My pulse pounded through my body. Soundless. Intense. My soul strained against its physical bounds.

The whistle. Not soft. Loud. Structured. Matched by a low, rhythmic thudding. Like knocking on a hollow thing.

How did my hand get to the tent zipper? I clenched my teeth. Tore my fingers away. The cold air stung my skin. My throat locked. I was ready to die. The zipper moved slightly. More a jiggle. It was a hand inside the tent. My hand? Maybe yours? The hand retracted sharply. The zipper continued to move. Just a little.

The first rays of sunlight woke me. I didn't remember falling asleep.

Had I dreamed it? Had I imagined everything? I stepped outside and collapsed immediately.

Footprints.

Everywhere.

I crouched, pressing my fingers into the dirt. Five distinct toes. Barefoot humans. Too many. I felt dizzy. Trying to stand, I stepped up, and my legs folded. My body hit the dirt before my mind caught up.

Rising to my feet, I surveyed the campsite. The prints were everywhere. Some ended abruptly at trees, as if the person had walked into the trunk and disappeared. Others mocked me from impossible places, perched on cliffs I could never reach. Or running vertically up an unpassable grade.

A perfect ring of them circled my tent. Too regular for chance. They had been standing right there. Waiting for me. A damp chill crawled over my skin.

The forest wanted something. It wanted me. Part of me wanted it, too.

And I was still there.

Wilderness Night 3 – The Weight of Silence

Cold. Still. Repulsive. Dread of the night. Shadows pulsed around me. The forest breathed in anger.

Along the trail, there was a large tree, roots upturned by a wild force. Small spring-colored spheres perched in the gnarled roots. The roots reached out to me. Wanting to hold me in an embrace. I retreated to the other side of the trail, shaking, moving faster. Around the next turn, there was the same tree. The same roots. And a third time. And a fourth. I stopped, riddled with exhaustion.

My thoughts were no longer my own. Lean in. I did. Trying to identify the intrusive spheres. Easter eggs. A dozen decorated Easter eggs. On the root of the fallen tree. They had strange symbols on them. Dashes and dots and circles. The symbols shifted. Betraying comprehension. The forest turned dark as a moonless night.

Tempting whistles from below the tree. Sweet. Demanding. My eyes fixed on a small cave or burrow running under the log. Come. The whistles beckoned. I wanted to climb in; it seemed I could just fit. Warm. From somewhere.

Down

Down

Down.

Then I was somewhere else. Some time else. Later. Dark. Time to set up camp. How long had it been? Did I crawl into the barrow?

The tent was no shelter. Inside, there was no safety. They were coming. They were always coming.

Come, they did.

The rhythm was beautiful and terrifying. Terrifying in a way that only the truest beauty can be. But there, hidden inside the beauty, they had become impatient. My resistance would be punished.

The fabric around me began to sink in. Deliberate. Outlines of hands reaching to me. The tent turned liquid. Hands reached.

I panted like a dog. No. Not a dog. Nothing natural. My muscles contracted. They could almost touch me now. I could only rock. As my head pulsed. Blackness enclosed me. The taste metallic. That is all I remember.

Wilderness Night 5 – Space

Eyes darted. The trail not real. Only the forest. The forest in them. No. They are the forest. It is them.

No signs of people. No footprints. No broken branches. No signs. People are clumsy. How could they hide?

I saw terrifying nothingness. Edges of my vision grew dark. With every stop, my pack got heavier. Too heavy. Too much.

I had no sense of direction. Far too often, I checked my map and compass. Putting faith in my equipment even when I couldn't find faith in myself. The trail was gone. It was a cave. A prison.

The silence was all-encompassing. The cracking of a stick. The crunch of a leaf. No matter how far I wandered in the direction of the sound, there was nothing there. Just mountain, tree, silence, darkness, nothing. Nothing at all.

Where was I? Why? Thoughts float away on butterfly wings. How long had I been walking?

The cloudless sky released a light rain. Lighting flashed. Small creatures riding the incoming storm. Water fell in sheets. Were these my tormentors?

I almost missed it. A small side trail down the ridge. To the east. Unmarked. Unofficial? It was dark. Shelter. I followed. The wind howled, pushing me down the path. Shelter. A path to shelter. Have I been here before? How did I know?

The trail cut down a steep ravine. Rocky cliffs covered two sides, and a large rock outcropping stood on the third. The night was here.

Why was there a flower in my pack? Something strange. Twisted petals. Mangled unnatural.

White. Streaks of red. A mockery of purity. I held it in my hand. Petals melting. Dripping cold lava. Was this a gift or an omen?

My camp was set up. How? I had only just arrived. The fire was out. A few glowing embers. When did it start? How late was it? Too late. The rain came again. Harder.

Movement in the dark. Slow. Patient. Calm. Stalking. Shadows take vague shape. Human? Not quite. Almost. On the cliffs. Watching. Waiting. Judging. Me.

Shadows crawled over rocks. Jumped from cliffs. Everywhere. I was surrounded. No escape. No refuge. Closer. I could smell them. Subtle. Sweet. I wanted more. More. More. It filled my lungs, wrapped around my being. I couldn't get enough. Was I smiling?

At some point, I vomited. Was I shaking? Skin standing up, dancing in the moonlight. Eyes wide. Breath? It didn't matter. Lights danced in my vision. A celebration? I was their's?

The shadow figures grew. They stretched and contorted toward me. Almost on me. I could touch them. I wanted. I was afraid. What should I do?

Then a voice. Not a whisper. English. A high-pitched roar, "Get in the tent." Why? It hadn't helped before.

Again.

"Get in the tent!" It was my father's voice, but it wasn't. It was higher. Broken. Painful to my ears. It invaded my mind. Twisted my body.

I was a child. Child desperate for approval. I obeyed. Like a good boy, I obeyed. Do not question. Do not fret. Obey.

I woke before the sun. Did I sleep at all? What had happened? They were there. I saw them for the first time. Where were they now?

Slowly, hand shaking, I opened my tent. Cautious. I stepped out into the open. It couldn't be.

I was on the main trail. Directly. On. The trail. Tent in the middle. No cliffs. No shelter. Truly open. On cue, the wind picked up. Thrashing my tent. It was alive. A profane thing. Breathing. Pulsing. A thing that should not be. Could not be. But is.

I turned to the east. Wilderness. No trail. Dense. No one had been through there in some time. No. No. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. The cliffs were here. I had just seen them. Last night? Where did I sleep?

In the pines. In the pines.

I shivered the whole night through.

Falling to my knees, the mud soaked into my pants. I was sinking. Slow. Too slow. Falling in a dream. It was pulling me. I was defeated. I was dead.

Unknown – No rest for the wicked.

I floated above the body. The known unknowable. No longer me. No longer.

The body moved forward. Mindless flesh. Autonomous meat.

Did it stop? Did it eat? Did it sleep? Driving forward.

Day, now night. Trees moved. Creatures watched. The forest was alive.

Shift fields of view. Unknowable things. Numb. Lost.

Moving on.

One step.

Another.

Forward.

From where? To where?

How many days? Weeks?

We passed here before? No, it's different. Is it?

Judgment.

What was I? The meat hesitated. A sign. Letters, symbols. Meaning. Recognition clawed its way up from the void. Something... familiar.

Closer

Closer

Back to something. Back to me.

There was no indication of how long I had been there. There I was, looking at the simple wooden sign. It told me I was entering Lassen Volcanic National Park.

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If the wilderness frightened you, don’t you dare enter the white room.
The Mountain Takes: Part 3