A Wendigo Hunted Our Logging Crew for Seven Days
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What does Dan recall about his experience with logging stories and why does he keep this account private?
I've listened to stories like this for years, usually with one playing through a speaker while I worked alone in my garage. Whenever a narrator brought up logging or heavy equipment, I'd catch myself checking the details. A skitter would do something it couldn't do, or a remote camp would be described as a few tents with no emergency equipment. That's probably why I kept this to myself. If somebody else had sent in what happened at Black Ridge, I would have assumed they'd made most of it up. I'm leaving out the company's name, and I've changed the surnames and the name of the logging lease. My first name is Dan. Seven men died during the week I'm going to describe. The official report blamed a wildlife attack, severe weather, equipment accidents, and mistakes made under stress.
That report is the reason I finally wrote this down. Down. It left out everything that mattered. I was 44 that autumn and had worked as a heavy equipment mechanic for nearly 23 years. Most of my jobs were in places where calling a tow truck wasn't an option. I'd repaired skidders in deep mud, changed hydraulic pumps in bitter cold, and once crawled under a loaded forwarder after its parking brake failed on a grade. I knew the machine was a little bit of a Machines at Black Ridge, and I knew what they could and couldn't do. By that Monday, we'd already been at the camp for six weeks. The contract was supposed to last eleven. We were opening a new cut in the Canadian Rockies of eastern British Columbia before the deep winter snow arrived.
The camp sat forty-three miles from the nearest paved road, on a shelf above a narrow valley. The only maintained route crossed A steel bridge over Miller Creek and continued through two mountain passes. In good weather, driving out took a little over three hours. In November, it could take twice that. There were nine of us at the camp. Frank Coulter was the foreman. He was fifty-six, broad through the chest, and had spent so many winters outdoors that the skin around his eyes had become permanently creased. Amy Shaw ran the processor and served as our first aid attendant. Rick Danner and Owen Hale were our fallers. Mason Pike was a 22-year-old rigging hand on his first remote contract. Neil Barber drove the haul truck.
Vic Laird operated the excavator and dozer. Curtis Bell cooked, kept track of supplies, and handled the daily paperwork. I maintained everything. With tracks, wheels, hoses, or an engine. The camp had three bunk trailers, a kitchen and dry room unit, Frank's office, a generator shed, and my maintenance shop. The shop was a steel building bolted to a concrete pad left from an older operation. A bulk diesel tank stood behind it inside a containment wall. We had a satellite connection, an emergency beacon. A repeater on the South Ridge, two company pickups, a service truck, and enough food and fuel to stay for weeks. I'm explaining all of that because we weren't camping and we weren't unprepared. When things started going wrong, we had equipment, communications, trained people, and more than one way to call for help.
The first sign that none of it would be enough appeared before breakfast on Monday. Monday. The temperature was 25 degrees Fahrenheit when I left my bunk shortly after 5. Low cloud covered the upper half of Black Ridge, and new snow showed between the spruce trunks above camp. It wasn't unusual weather for the time of year. Curtis already had the kitchen lights on, and the smell of coffee and bacon carried across the yard. Our floodlights only reached the edge of the grated. Shelf. Beyond them, the land dropped into thick timber and steep rock. I'd crossed that yard in darkness every morning for six weeks. I knew the outline of every fuel drum, parked machine, and storage crate. That morning, something at the far end of the maintenance shop caught my eye.
It was taller than the eaves. I stopped with one boot on the shop step and waited for my eyes to settle. The shape stood beside the rear corner, narrow at the base and wider near the top. I thought a strip of roofing had peeled loose and hung down.
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Chapters
8 chapters
1
What does Dan recall about his experience with logging stories and why does he keep this account private?
0:22–5:18
2
How does Dan describe the remote camp’s layout, crew members, and equipment before the first signs of trouble?
5:18–15:52
3
What unsettling discovery does Dan make in the maintenance shop that leads to the first report of bones and animal remains?
15:52–45:16
4
How does the night‑time creature attack unfold, from the generator failure to the violent encounter in the kitchen?
45:16–56:03
5
How does the crew first realize the creature is inside the camp and what happens during the initial attack?
56:03–1:12:32
6
What plan do the survivors devise to repair the forwarder and use it to escape the wilderness?
1:12:32–1:28:00
7
How do the survivors finally confront the creature at the old bridge and defeat it?
1:28:00–1:43:31
8
What is the aftermath of the rescue – who is found, what is left behind, and how do the survivors cope?
1:43:31–1:48:48
Speakers
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