Micah

No mile markers, no campgrounds, nothing official.

Just trees swallowing the sky and the occasional tire track that reminded us someone had been there before, even if not recently.

We reached what Drew swore was the trailhead in the late afternoon.

There was no signage, no real indication that it was even a trail, just a narrow path cutting through the underbrush and winding uphill.

We parked at a small turnoff and started hiking.

I carried a standard pack tent feet gear.

Drew it a little more, including a bead of campy stove and a water purifier he wouldn't stop talking about.

The shrill crew steeper the farther we went, the woods got thicker.

We saw maybe two squirrels the whole hike, not a single bird, not even a mosquito.

That should have been a red flag.

By the time we reached the ridge, the sun was dipping behind the trees.

The whole area had a strange feeling, like we'd gone too far, like we had stepped into a place that didn't want us there.

But we were tired, and we were committed.

So we set up camp.

The ridge was much, just a flat stretch of ground with a view of trees in every direction.

No signs of past campers, no fire rings, no trash, just untouched ground.

We pitched our tents side by side, started a small fire, cooked something quick-ramen and beef jerky, I think.

For a while, everything felt normal, quiet, maybe too quiet, but peaceful.

It wasn't until later that I noticed how still everything was.

No crackling of twigs in the distance, no rustling leaves, just silence.