Aaron Miller

speaker

190 appearances 1 recordings 1 series first heard Jun 2025 last heard Jun 2025

Aaron Miller’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.

Trend

recordings per month · last 12 months

No recordings in the last 12 months.Older appearances are listed below; set an alert to hear about the next one.

Appearances

newest first · ▶ plays the moment

Just Creepy: Scary Stories · 4 Scary DEEP WOODS Stories to Listen to While Outside · 4 Jun 2025 podcast

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I shook my head, annoyed at myself for letting imagination take control. This was still the CDT, a marked, mapped, and thoroughly explored route. I was a rational, experienced outdoorsman, not someone prone to panicking over minor technical issues. Pushing forward seemed the best choice. Eventually the ridge would crest and I'd have a clear vantage point. So, I pressed on.

The next few hours felt like a dream, or perhaps more accurately, a nightmare. The terrain never changed significantly, despite my climbing. Switchbacks became monotonous repetitions of themselves. Trees, rocks, and the steepening path appeared identical to what I'd already traversed.

I placed deliberate markers along the trail, stones stacked conspicuously, distinct pieces of brightly colored flagging tape wrapped around branches. Yet no matter how far I climbed, I seemed trapped in the same stretch of forest. As evening approached, darkness seeped into the valley beneath the thick branches, shadows spreading like ink.

A chill ran through me as I radioed the nearest ranger station. My voice was tight and measured, masking the anxiety I felt. This is Aaron Miller, solo hiker on the CDT south of Gibbons Pass, I began. My coordinates aren't updating. My GPS is frozen. Compass is acting erratically. Elevation unchanged despite hiking steadily uphill.

I'm not sure what's happening, but I'm going to set up camp and reassess in the morning. Static crackled back at me. After an unsettling pause, a distant, slightly distorted reply came through. Copy that, Miller. Coordinates received. Signal clear. Keep radio handy overnight. I made camp quickly, picking a spot beside a familiar boulder, despite my unease.

By firelight, the rock's shadow stretched out, resembling something misshapen and ominous.

the forest around me was strangely silent no wind rustled the leaves no birds called it felt unnatural oppressive just before i turned in i radioed one more time my voice dropping to a tense whisper despite myself i don't know if you're hearing this clearly but something feels off i'll check again at first light

I lay in my sleeping bag, staring at the thin fabric of my tent, heart thrumming rapidly. Rational explanations slipped away like sand through my fingers. Tomorrow, I promised myself, things would look clearer. They didn't. I awoke to daylight filtering through the tent, dim and gray. It wasn't the crisp mountain morning I'd expected. It felt diluted, washed out somehow.

i rolled over checking my watch just past nine my phone lying beside my sleeping bag still read seven twelve a m frozen like the gps i sat up quickly a surge of nausea rising outside the tent the forest remained impossibly silent No rustling leaves, no bird calls, no distant trickle of water. Only a heavy, unnatural quiet.

I stepped out carefully, half expecting the landscape to have changed overnight. But the same cluster of larch trees stood watch, and that tilted boulder was still positioned exactly as I'd seen it yesterday. I moved toward the campfire ring I'd hastily constructed on a patch of flat bedrock. Ashes lay cold, undisturbed. I crouched, running my fingers through the remnants.

Showing 1–20 of 190 · page 1 of 10