Micah

I figured, if nothing else, at least I'd get some fall colors.

I didn't even tell anyone exactly where I was going.

I left a note with a rough outline of the trail route in case something went wrong.

Otherwise, I just left.

The first weird moment happened before I even reached the trailhead.

There's a little diner outside Ironbale, a squat white building with a peeling sign that just says grub.

I stopped there for dinner before heading into the woods, figured I'd want something hot before switching to packets of dehydrated beef stew.

The place was almost empty, just me and two guys in flannel hunched over a chessboard.

The woman behind the counter looked like someone's grandmother, short, wiry, and not interested in small talk.

She poured me a mug of coffee and asked where I was headed.

I told her one of the ridge trails may be overnighting in Berger Hollow if the weather held.

As soon as I said Berger, she froze.

She actually paused mid-step, coffee pot halfway back to the burner.

Then she turned, faced me directly, and said, very quietly, don't stay out there after dark.

I thought maybe she misheard me.

Where?

Berger, she repeated, saw this time.

You don't want to be there at night.

She didn't explain.

Just set my coffee down harder than necessary.