There’s a beautiful trail in the mountains, which feels a world away from civilization. Cedars wider than an arm span grow by a small stream, and the top offers views over the city to the south and the desert to the north. It’s normally crowded, but in winter becomes icy and treacherous. On the windy mountain tops, right before sunset, the only voice you’re likely to hear is your own echoing back across the valley.
It was there that I saw the only thing in my life which I would call supernatural.
People have died on a narrow ridge with cliffs to either side, slipping on the ice and sliding faster and faster down the steepening rocks. I remember one especially tragic incident, where a member of a search party even fell to their death.
After that event the forest service started posting rangers where the snow started, who wouldn’t let you pass unless you had spikes or crampons. There were a lot of people who didn’t fully understand the risks.
This was my favorite trail, and only about forty five minutes from my work. My first time seeing this ranger in the early evening, I was surprised. She was friendly, but asked to see some type of foot traction before allowing me to pass. I proceeded to put the spikes on, and continue on my way. I didn’t do the dangerous section, mind you, I only went to what was called the saddle. There was plenty of ice and snow, but no cliffs.
I went about once a week; it was a necessity for me. People talk about the value of spending time in “nature”. As an ecologist, I somewhat object to that terminology. Perhaps it’s a grim way of looking at the world, but to me cities are dead, artificial patches of concrete. When you get out somewhere that the hum of cars on the road is replaced by wind through branches and the calls of Steller's jays, that’s not “nature”. It’s just reality.
A few weeks into winter, I’d developed a rapport with the ranger. Putting my spikes on, we would talk about birds, or mountain lions, or the rare subspecies of mountain kingsnake endemic to the range we were in. As much as she loved the mountains, it was a cold and lonely post, and she seemed to enjoy a bit of company.
I’d stayed a bit longer than usual, since she had heard a white-headed woodpecker, a bird I’d never seen before. Listening for the call again, we both froze.
Something else whispered through the pine needles, barely audible above the wind. It sounded like a voice, but was unintelligible. Both of our heads turned in that direction at the same time, facing the highest peak of the whole range.
There was a trail there, but it was incredibly dangerous this time of year. If the ranger had not seen someone come up this side, it meant they would be coming down from the other side, after miles and miles of perilous ice and deep snow obscuring what was sure footing from what was a fall to certain death.
The sound was so faint, we couldn’t be sure it wasn’t imagined, or just echoing from somewhere down the valley. She radioed the station, but no one had told the rangers they were doing the hike that day. Staying completely silent, we heard the woodpecker again, but didn’t look. Our eyes searched the ridge above, waiting for a different call that never returned.
In the rush of work and life, I had forgotten about the voice until the next week, when I saw the ranger again. As we began to talk, I asked if she had seen anything. I was referring to wildlife, but a serious look set onto her face.
She asked if I remembered the voice on the wind.
I did, but the implication was ominous. Standing there surrounded by pines and oaks, with only the chipping of birds, she told me that she’d heard another voice from up the mountain the day before. This time, it was clearly someone yelling for help. It was easy to see she was still upset about it.
Apparently she’d run up the trail as fast as she could, yelling to try and locate the person, but could not. She’d seen no one go up that day, no one had mentioned a hiking trip at the station, and another ranger had checked the trailhead at the other side. The other ranger had said there were no tracks in the snow, so it was impossible anyone had gone up that way.
She made me promise to be extra careful, and not to continue if the snow got deep at all. Her anxiety unsettled me, but my hike was easy and tranquil, with the fresh snow making the forested canyon as quiet as I’d ever heard, pure white capping the tree branches and rocks.
The part that I can’t explain happened the next week. I was talking with the ranger when we heard a loud, clear cry echoing across the steep walls of the canyon.
“Help! Help!”
Immediately, we both began to run up the mountain. I threw my pack to the ground, to go faster. The ranger was ahead of me, my lungs and legs immediately starting to burn. The trail was steep and slick, and we were at elevation. I heard the call again, and looked up.
Both the ranger and I saw the man between the trees, in a bright yellow jacket, coming down the mountain. His footfalls were clumsy and exhausted, his voice desperate. He was perhaps two switchbacks above us, a bright yellow figure among dark trees and white snow.
I ran as fast as I could, knowing something terrible had happened. The ranger was well ahead of me now, and rounded a corner obscured by shrubs. When I caught up, she stood completely still, breath fogging in front of her.
This was where we had seen the man, and he’d been running toward us. We should have seen him by now, even if he had slipped and fallen. The ranger’s gaze locked on the fresh snow ahead of her, which had no tracks.
She asked me to stay where I was, as she continued up the trail. After fifteen minutes, she came back.
There were no tracks anywhere.
I was instructed to go back down the mountain, carefully and slowly. She was going to call in a helicopter to help search. From the trailhead, I saw the helicopter tracing the ridge line, turning on its search light as it began to grow dark. More rangers showed up in the parking lot, then hurried up the mountain carrying ropes and other gear. Concerned, I waited for a couple of hours.
When the ranger returned, she looked confused. Seeing me, she quickly walked over. They’d found nothing; no tracks, no man in a yellow jacket. She was glad I was there to corroborate her story, which I could only assume was drawing skepticism from the other rangers. She wrote down my statement, and took my name and number.
As much as the situation upset me, I tried to go about my normal life. The man yelling and running would cross my mind often, and I would dream about him. The raw desperation in the voice reverberated through my mind, woke me from my sleep. It was impossible to let it go, no matter how many times I told myself I had to.
I was in my work truck on break when I saw the story. A freak wind storm had caught six experienced mountaineers on the exposed ridge, with gusts over a hundred miles per hour. They had been tied together, and five had fallen to their deaths. The sixth had been forced to cut his rope, or be pulled off the cliff himself.
His picture was there, right at the top of the article. He was wearing the bright yellow jacket, tears streaming down his grief torn face.
I wished I could have done something, could have warned them. But how? What could I have done or said? Every night, I ask myself those questions. I ask myself what it was that I heard, that I saw that day.
There’s no explanation. In my heart, I know it wasn’t a coincidence. I know it wasn’t a hallucination, because the ranger saw and heard the exact same thing. It drives my logical mind mad.
Yet it happened. Up there, in the snowy mountains, where the terrain separates you from the mundane world we’ve built, the birds still call. The trees still grow. The high peaks stand as they have for millions of years, unaware of logic or science, or even our existence.
To them, it was only another echo.