A campfire story

When I was younger (but not that young, this was just a decade ago) I converted my Prius into a camper and toured the United States for about a year. It was a really fun experience, and you can read some more about some of my reflections on the experience here.

I was reflecting on that part of my life earlier this morning, and I remembered a story I think you might enjoy. It’s a bit creepy, and it’s definitely up there with scary stories you tell by the campfire - but I promise it’s nothing but the truth!

There’s this remote campground half way between San Francisco and Los Angeles that I really like. It’s not too far from a highway, but roads aren’t great, and there’s quite a bit of elevation to climb - it takes a good hour to get to the top of the hill where the campground’s located. It’s managed by the Bureau of Land Management (for those in the know - it’s a BLM campsite), meaning that it’s free, there are some basic amenities (read: a composting toilet), but it doesn’t have any on-site staff, and tends to not have many visitors. No cell service, either. Park rangers check in once a week to make sure all is well.

You do get gorgeous views in 360 degrees around you, and it’s a great place to be alone with your thoughts, or maybe to make a new friend - isolation does tend to bring people closer.

I pulled to the campsite in the late afternoon: it’s a small 10-site space, with each site having a space for a car, a firepit, and a camping table. There was one other camper - a weathered trailer hidden away behind a tree.

By the evening, another camper arrived - an old Toyota RV. A friendly guy in his early sixties politely introduced himself and invited me to a campfire later tonight. This is common in remote campsites - he gave me good vibes, and I joined him for some campfire stories, beer, and dessert.

We got to talking, and the guy - George (name changed for privacy) - told me his life story. It was fascinating, and I wish I’d written it down there and then: he was a professional navigator, taking scientists, film crews, and various explorers through hard to reach places: be it through the Amazon jungle knee-deep in rainfall, driving through permafrost in specialized vehicles, or leading a trek into the heart of the desert. I don’t know if George exaggerated or not - and I don’t really care - he was a fantastic storyteller, and I was engrossed in his stories.

Now that I reflect back, I think at some point he talked about wrestling a bear. That’s fine, tell your tales, gleeman - I’m all ears.

Hours passed, and George noticed something odd - it’s been dark for some time, but the other camper’s got no lights on. Given how remote we were, it was worth making sure the only other inhabitant of the campsite’s doing well.

We grabbed our flashlights, and made our way to the camper. A few friendly “hey, just checking in that you’re doing well” yielded no response. Oh well, I was ready to head back, but George decided to knock. He did, and the door just swung wide open.

Okay, that’s definitely weird. Well, back to the campfire, right?

George had a different idea. In we go. Well, you’re the adventurer, George, although I’m pretty sure that’s trespassing. We get inside the old trailer: it’s definitely got a lived-in feel: you can see some clothes on a bed, books, food on the table… Yeah, a plate with an unfinished meal - some hardly recognizable gruel, with a piece of unfinished apple next to it. That’s like a still from Resident Evil, thanks - I hate it.

The apple started decomposing but isn’t quite rotten: the meal’s a few days old, and the person clearly left in a hurry. “Park rangers check in weekly, and they make sure the campers don’t outstay the limit. So something happened recently. We should investigate.” - says George.

Well, George, this is creepy. Investigate what? Let’s head back to the campfire, have a last round of drinks, and maybe be extra vigilant through the rest of the night. Right?

Nope, George has gotten interested in trying to figure out what’s going on. He tells me of stories of people wandering off from the campsites, and how we need to see if there’s any information here that could hint at the person’s whereabouts - maybe we could send help.

A rational person in me wanted nothing to do with this, head back to my car, and lock the doors. So we started looking through the trailer. I’m sure I rationalized that somehow in the moment.

Let me paint the picture for you: it’s pitch black, there’s not a living soul for miles around and two men with flashlights are looking through a decrepit trailer. Yeah, it’s weird, I know. I mean at this point George is in a full detective mode trying to find any indication on what happened to the person. I’m probably an accomplice to some crime by now.

And we do.

There’s a stack of papers on the table. Naturally, George dives in, I’m reluctantly looking over his shoulder. Bills, receipts. It’s a woman, in her fifties. A-ha - a journal. Open on the last page. Lots of ramblings about what I could only assume to be a boyfriend. But the last line stands out:

“I’m not safe anymore, I think he found me. I should run.”

Now, this is too creepy even for George. We nope out, head back to our own vehicles, lock the doors, and aim to reconvene in the morning.

In the morning, we have a huddle. Naturally, no one came back to the camper. George tried to get his satellite phone to work through the night - but couldn’t. We both were planning to leave the campsite today, and decided whoever gets out first will call in the authorities. George was planning to leave right after our chat, so we’ve decided he’ll make the call.

I don’t have a satisfying conclusion for you. George headed down the mountain to call the authorities, and I left shortly after. I’ve tried searching for her name a few times over the years, but never found a trace.

The questions are all that remain. Did she simply drive off, leaving a strange scene behind? Did she wander into the unforgiving wilderness? Or did “he” find her? Was it a story of mental illness, a paranoid fantasy, or the final moments of a lonely, horrifying reality? I’ll never know.