Aaron Miller

My name is Aaron Miller, and I've hiked hundreds of miles alone through some of America's wildest country. Solitude never bothered me. It energized me. I was a wildlife photographer by trade, so hiking solo was less a hobby than a profession. I'd trekked through Glacier, explored Yellowstone's backcountry, and navigated the Bob Marshall Wilderness without incident.

My name is Aaron Miller, and I've hiked hundreds of miles alone through some of America's wildest country. Solitude never bothered me. It energized me. I was a wildlife photographer by trade, so hiking solo was less a hobby than a profession. I'd trekked through Glacier, explored Yellowstone's backcountry, and navigated the Bob Marshall Wilderness without incident.

But the Continental Divide Trail had a different aura, especially where it sliced through the rugged Bitterroot Mountains along the Montana-Idaho border. It was wild, remote, and notoriously disorienting. I'd begun this particular section at Chief Joseph Pass. It was early October, the air was crisp and clear, and larch trees shimmered gold amid the dark green of the pines.

But the Continental Divide Trail had a different aura, especially where it sliced through the rugged Bitterroot Mountains along the Montana-Idaho border. It was wild, remote, and notoriously disorienting. I'd begun this particular section at Chief Joseph Pass. It was early October, the air was crisp and clear, and larch trees shimmered gold amid the dark green of the pines.

My goal was straightforward. Three days hiking southbound toward Lemhi Pass. The first few hours passed without issue. I adjusted my pack, kept my camera accessible, and moved at a steady pace, feeling confident and alive as the forest thickened around me. By mid-morning, the trail had become a relentless climb, switchbacks carved steeply into loose shale and gravel.

My goal was straightforward. Three days hiking southbound toward Lemhi Pass. The first few hours passed without issue. I adjusted my pack, kept my camera accessible, and moved at a steady pace, feeling confident and alive as the forest thickened around me. By mid-morning, the trail had become a relentless climb, switchbacks carved steeply into loose shale and gravel.

My thighs burned slightly with exertion, but I embraced it. This was why I was out here, to push my boundaries and capture images of untouched wilderness. I paused to check my progress on the Garmin GPS clipped to my chest strap. That was when I first felt something was off. According to the GPS, my elevation was exactly 7,552 feet.

My thighs burned slightly with exertion, but I embraced it. This was why I was out here, to push my boundaries and capture images of untouched wilderness. I paused to check my progress on the Garmin GPS clipped to my chest strap. That was when I first felt something was off. According to the GPS, my elevation was exactly 7,552 feet.

The coordinates hadn't budged since the last check nearly two hours ago. That didn't make sense. I'd been steadily gaining altitude for at least two miles, yet the device said otherwise. I frowned, checking the signal strength. Full bars, clear satellite connection, but the coordinates stubbornly remained the same. Has to be a glitch, I muttered, slipping the device back into its holder.

The coordinates hadn't budged since the last check nearly two hours ago. That didn't make sense. I'd been steadily gaining altitude for at least two miles, yet the device said otherwise. I frowned, checking the signal strength. Full bars, clear satellite connection, but the coordinates stubbornly remained the same. Has to be a glitch, I muttered, slipping the device back into its holder.

It happens sometimes in the mountains. Magnetic anomalies, rock interference, signal shadowing. Nothing to worry about, or so I told myself. I glanced up at the trail ahead, still rising, still twisting back and forth like a serpent. But the landscape was somehow identical to what I'd already passed through. Large boulders, twisted fallen logs, familiar clusters of larch trees.

It happens sometimes in the mountains. Magnetic anomalies, rock interference, signal shadowing. Nothing to worry about, or so I told myself. I glanced up at the trail ahead, still rising, still twisting back and forth like a serpent. But the landscape was somehow identical to what I'd already passed through. Large boulders, twisted fallen logs, familiar clusters of larch trees.

I shook off the uneasy feeling. All forests can look similar when fatigue sets in. By noon, the shadows deepened slightly, despite clear skies overhead. I stopped to eat lunch, leaning against a boulder that jutted from the ground at an odd angle. As I bit into a granola bar, a strange feeling of familiarity hit me.

I shook off the uneasy feeling. All forests can look similar when fatigue sets in. By noon, the shadows deepened slightly, despite clear skies overhead. I stopped to eat lunch, leaning against a boulder that jutted from the ground at an odd angle. As I bit into a granola bar, a strange feeling of familiarity hit me.

This particular rock, angular and leaning precariously as if it would topple under its own weight, seemed strangely recognizable. But that was impossible. I'd been ascending for hours, and there had been no loop on the map. I pulled out my compass, hoping for reassurance. Instead, the needle spun lazily, drifting between random directions before finally settling on south.

This particular rock, angular and leaning precariously as if it would topple under its own weight, seemed strangely recognizable. But that was impossible. I'd been ascending for hours, and there had been no loop on the map. I pulled out my compass, hoping for reassurance. Instead, the needle spun lazily, drifting between random directions before finally settling on south.

I turned, pointed it in various directions, walked several feet, nothing changed. South every time. What the hell, I muttered, anxiety creeping into my chest. Magnetic interference from mineral-rich mountains was one thing, but a compass stuck facing south no matter where I pointed it was alarming. Something wasn't right. I fumbled again with my GPS. Still, no change in coordinates or elevation.

I turned, pointed it in various directions, walked several feet, nothing changed. South every time. What the hell, I muttered, anxiety creeping into my chest. Magnetic interference from mineral-rich mountains was one thing, but a compass stuck facing south no matter where I pointed it was alarming. Something wasn't right. I fumbled again with my GPS. Still, no change in coordinates or elevation.

frustrated i rebooted it hoping it was just a software error when it came back online my stomach knotted same coordinates same altitude no change at all it was as though i hadn't moved in hours despite knowing i'd covered significant ground I considered backtracking, but when I turned around, the trail I'd just climbed seemed foreign and vaguely menacing. An irrational unease settled over me.

frustrated i rebooted it hoping it was just a software error when it came back online my stomach knotted same coordinates same altitude no change at all it was as though i hadn't moved in hours despite knowing i'd covered significant ground I considered backtracking, but when I turned around, the trail I'd just climbed seemed foreign and vaguely menacing. An irrational unease settled over me.