Micah

I knew I wouldn't make it to the main overlook before sunset, so I planned to hike a few miles and encamp at the first flood clearing I found.

The trail was narrow and steep, weaving through patches of pine and broken shale.

Every step forward felt like work.

After an ire, I hit a series of sharp switchbacks that dragged me up and over a ridge.

When I finally crested the last one, I looked down into a shallow, circular hollow ringed with trees older than anything around them.

That was Beardjaw.

And it was quiet, not peaceful quiet.

Just from.

No birds, no birds, no wind, no rustle of branches.

Only me, my breath, and the sound of my boots on stone.

I walked down into the clearing, scanning for a place to pitch the tent, when I noticed the first pile of stones.

At first, I thought it was natural, a can left behind by another hiker.

But then I saw another.

And another.

They were everywhere, dozens of them, each about waist-high, carefully stacked in rough circles around the clearing, some looked new.

Others were crumbling, but none of them stood in the center.

That spot was clear, like they were framing it.

I told myself it was nothing.

Maybe trail markers.

Maybe something left by hunters or rangers, or even some art project, but it didn't feel like any of those things.