“They Were Never Found”
Or, How I Nearly Died Chasing A Legend
The following is a true account of my harrowing day on Glastenbury Mountain in Vermont. These are the details as best as I can remember them from the trauma that ensued. While I insist that these are the events as they occurred, I am an unreliable narrator in this instance. I hope you enjoy it, Traveler.
I’m lucky enough to receive vacation days as a benefit from my job. They mean more to me than any other aspect of my job or any other job aspect I’ve ever had. As such, I don’t want to waste them in one place. Being paid to travel is me living the dream.
I plan to see as much as possible while chasing these ghosts until I am a ghost myself.
As a result, I don’t spend my vacation days the same way one typically does. Instead of one long vacation, I bundle them with my days off in a given week and take a mini three-day vacation every month. It’s been incredible for my mental health, and I might expand on this in another article or piece of writing.
This past month, June 2024, I had a predicament. Due to issues with work scheduling, I lost a day on my three-day vacation. I had another day off that week, and I was fine. But I couldn’t fly anywhere or stay overnight and then explore the next day as I’m accustomed to.
But, remember one of our tenets, Traveler: A Tourist Complains About A Travel Problem. A Traveler Knows That A Problem Just Makes For A Better Story.
And this week, I have the story to end all adventure stories.
A week before my vacation, I had no idea where I would go or what I would do. I scrolled one of my feeds one night, and I saw a story from Coast to Coast A.M. It was a little blurb regarding a ghost town I’d never heard of:
This couldn’t be! I’m the Reverend Victor S. Johnson! I’ve been everywhere! I’ve been places you’ve only read about!
So, if tenet number one is only a tourist complains, tenet number two is always leave a tip, tenet number three is always listen to the guide, then tenet number four will be There’s Always More to Learn.
And Vermont was the last state in New England I had yet to visit.
Monday after work, I drove through New York State toward my motel room in the back of the northwest corner of Massachusetts. I was 20 minutes from the mountain, and in the morning, I’d set out to make the climb.
I didn’t get much sleep that night, Traveler. All I had to eat was Chinese food (I had a fantastic shrimp roll, the best one of my life), and Shark Tank was on.
Before I went to sleep to the sound of the mosquitos in my room, I heard a familiar sound. I checked my phone, and a dear friend of mine was calling. They had pocket-dialed me (they usually do; it’s endearing, really), but at that moment, I realized something.
I would put everything I had into hiking up that mountain, but I couldn’t forget I had a reason to come back down.
The Lore
Glastenbury is as new to me as it might be to you, Traveler.
But as I dove into the lore headfirst, things got weirder. Dare I say it, stranger than Dudleytown.
Two things are proven about Glastenbury and the Bennington Triangle:
- After two significant periods of development over centuries of existence, the initial settlement and then a renaissance, it became a ghost town nearly abandoned high on the mountain of the same name. According to Wikipedia, Glastenbury was chartered in 1761, but the families who settled there kept leaving over the decades. After the conclusion of the Civil War, the timber business in nearby Bennington boomed, and Glastenbury became known for logging. Railroad tracks were soon installed, and now there was a way in and out. But soon, the timber ran dry, and in 1898, the town became a ski resort before an avalanche of snow buried the railroad. According to Wikipedia, the town was unincorporated in 1938, and an estimated seven families are left there.
- Between 1945 and 1950, three people wandered up the mountain and never returned. Two were never found. Middie Rivers, 74 years old and an avid hunter and woodsman who knew the mountain, vanished during a hunting trip in 1945. No trace of him was ever found other than a rifle cartridge. Paula Jean Wilden, who was 18 and a college student, disappeared on the Long Trail one night and has never been found. Two other hikers saw her on the trail. They seemingly watched her disappear on the mountain after Paula turned a corner off the trail and into the forest. Shirley Jackson wrote a book somewhat based on the disappearance. Frieda Langer died some indeterminate time after she fell into a shallow stream. She told a person in her group that she would change her clothes and meet them back at the campsite. Her body was found several months later. No cause of death could be determined.
Everything else is a literal mystery. Joseph Citro coined the term Bennington Triangle, which is the area between Bennington at the foot of the mountain, Glastenbury, and the unincorporated town of Somerset, Vermont. Sasquatches, UFOs, evil spirits, pick any of those, Traveler, and they’ve been attributed to the ongoing strangeness of the Bennington Triangle.
So, I decided on something in a short amount of time. Regardless of how I am seen as a ghost hunter, there is one about myself and my methods that I can say with pride. I will always, always, do everything I can to check out a place of legend.
And how many ghost hunters do you know who are willing to hike 12 miles up 3,000 feet of elevation just to do a dowsing rod session?
The Drive
When the day broke, I packed and left my room key in the express checkout box, and then I drove over the state line to Vermont. I stopped at Stewart’s Shop for a donut and energy drink. I pushed onward to the town of Bennington, which sits nestled at the base of Glastenbury Mountain and is part of the Bennington Triangle.
I passed through Glastenbury to the parking lot that was in the center of what is known as the Long Trail (yes, the same Long Trail where Paula vanished without a trace). I stopped to take some photos and shoot some footage, then organized my gear for the climb.
I took 70oz of water in two containers, sunblock, Off! with Deet to prevent ticks and mosquitos from swarming me, and my video equipment. I also packed some protein in the form of turkey jerky and tuna pouches.
And I brought Dudley with me as well.
I’ve hiked before, and I’ve camped before. I’ve gone up Devil’s Hole and the Red Rock in Nevada. I hiked up Dudleytown until I was overwhelmed. I’ve hiked to Concrete City and through Centralia in Pennsylvania. I work out three times a week, including cardio. I figured I could pull off this hike.
I left my tent and spare water in the car, and off we went towards the ghost town at the peak.
Oh, one more thing. I brought air in a can.
This product ended up on Shark Tank and is now for sale, and it’s very simple to the point of laughing about it. It’s called Boost Oxygen, and yes, I will post the affiliate link to make a purchase here. According to the can, Boost is 95% oxygen, with the rest being propellent. We get more oxygen from this can than we do our own air.
It’s good for the lungs during exercise and high altitudes and for the brain after a night on the town or a long flight.
Check out Boost Oxygen today. As you’re about to read, it saved my life. (I promise I won’t drop the link after this.)
The can is nearly weightless, so it packs light. I threw a 10-liter can into my pack, and we set out for the ghost town of Glastenbury.
Dudley and I planned to combine a two-day hike into one. That was our first mistake.
The Climb
The first 1.6 miles is a journey down a path, on a bridge over a stream, and then a vertical slog up a winding path towards the first shelter, the Melville Nauheim Shelter. The M-N Shelter is a small, covered building about two hundred feet from a mountain stream. I was greeted by a sign that reveals the distance to the next point of note. That would be the Goddard Shelter, and I’ll cover that shelter a bit more in a moment.
As this section’s title suggests, there is a climb before we get to the M-N. There is a long and winding path right up the side of the mountain. It loosely resembles a level from the old video game Marble Madness. In addition to being 1.6 miles long, it’s a few hundred feet up, which was okay for me. Again, I’m a hiker, and I’ve trained for this. Once I reached the top of the initial climb, however, problem number one arose.
I was down about 40 ounces of water.
Oops.
Still, I’d hit a milestone. 1.6 miles with several hundred feet of climb and a 15% or so incline is good to me, especially since this was my first time in Vermont.
The path up was tranquil, as well! The air felt nice and cool. The sun hadn’t been up long, and I felt good despite a lack of sleep and a head cold. I even used the opportunity to take some voice notes for a new book (finally!), and I enjoyed my solitude and my commune with nature. I also took pictures and videos.
Once I hit the first signpost informing me of the M-N, I took a moment to celebrate. I ran into my first camper on the trail. He was sourcing stream water for his filter set-up.
This will matter shortly.
In the meantime, I congratulated myself, drank some more water, refilled my canned oxygen, and rested. Then, I started the trail toward my next stop, the Goddard Shelter.
I needed water, and I hoped they had a pump. Especially since the Goddard was 8.5 miles away with an additional elevational climb.
The Path Forward
The journey through the woods on the side of the mountain was pleasant. As I mentioned, I was able to clear my mind and even come up with a few ideas as to what I wanted to do with all of this legend tripping when I made it off the mountain. The nature around me was incredible, especially the stream as I made it farther up the mountain. But here’s the thing, Traveler, even though this is a state park, it is not maintained. That’s by design, and I agree with that and accept it. Everything is done with the honor system, and there are no rangers. But there are always friendly hikers going up and coming down, and I was glad to be one of them.
However, that also means there is no trail maintenance. Downed trees, rough conditions in the dirt, hopping through streams, and ducking poison ivy were common themes on my journey. What’s more, there were points where my cell phone service went out, but only a few points, which I was grateful for. And even though the trail was treacherous, at least it was there and marked.
Eventually, I reached a down-sloping field for power lines. Once I climbed past that, I reached Porcupine Lookout, a beautiful clearing where I could stare down into the valley below me and rest for a moment.
By this point, Traveler, I started to hurt. My quads, knees, and shoulders were feeling it. Remember, I was carrying about 15–20 pounds of gear, most of it photography equipment. This would be a big mistake, as most of the media I took involved my cellphone. Nevertheless, I pressed on toward the Goddard Shelter, hoping for water.
And then, tragedy struck me on my leg.
The Fall
I was entirely out of water about three or four miles from Goddard. I drank my reserves around Porcupine Lookout, and now I was down to protein and oxygen. The air was thinner, the sun was brighter, and the sweat from my body was all over my clothes. Onward, I went towards Goddard and then Glastenbury.
There was another downed tree trunk on the path, Traveler. I saw it, and it was impossible to miss.
However, The quadriceps in both legs did not get the memo.
I went to step over it, but my left leg just couldn’t lift. I fell forward with all of the weight of my body landing on my camera bag, which I wore around my chest to counterbalance my backpack. As for my body, I landed on my left shin, left knee, and forehead. I couldn’t move for a couple of seconds.
I yelled out to no one. I sat up and took a second to get myself right. I performed a rudimentary concussion check on myself. Though my forehead hurt, there wasn’t much pain compared to my leg.
There was a gash about an inch-long on my shin. Today, I look down at the scar as I write. I had no rubbing alcohol or prep pads of any kind. Now I know to bring a first aid kid when I hike.
Everything in my body seemed to work, and the pain wasn’t bad at that moment, but I was scared. I had cell service, so I made a video and texted my friends. I told them there was a problem and that I was alone and low on supplies on the mountain but had my faculties. I checked the time and gave them a deadline of two hours for me to text them again to let them know that I was okay. I also sent the video to them, just in case authorities needed to know where to look for me. I gave my last location as the Long Trail and north about half a mile from Porcupine Lookout.
I told my friends I was pressing onward to the Goddard Shelter. They wished me luck, and off I went.
The Voices
I stayed on the path forward for another mile by my own estimate. While I made significant ground, I had a nagging problem that was only getting worse. It wasn’t just that I was out of water or that I was hurt; two issues I really hadn’t counted on were now present and working against me. First, the path kept going up. The elevation continued to climb no matter how much farther I went up. Every time I crossed an incline, there was another one 20 feet later. The second issue I had, a problem that no one in Vermont was prepared for, was the heat wave.
It jumped to 90 degrees, Traveler. In mid-June, in Vermont.
But funny enough, according to Google Maps, I’d passed the heart of the Bennington Triangle about half an hour earlier. So, at least I can write that I made it to the Triangle!
That might have something to do with what came next.
Full disclosure, Traveler: By this point, I’m obviously not physically or mentally in the best shape. I’m thirsty, tired, and hurt, with soreness all over my body. I’m hungry, and the air is only getting thinner. I was alone, and I hadn’t seen anyone in about 25 minutes at this point. I can’t really say what my mental state was at this point, but it couldn’t have been good.
About two miles away from the Goddard Shelter, I heard them.
It was an adult woman first, and then a man joined her. They had a jovial, friendly tone. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone. Something occurred to me even during my state at that moment.
They’re talking backward.
Or, maybe it was some kind of gibberish, but all of it was unintelligible. Then, another man and a woman joined in, and then two more. I counted eight different voices, but again, I’m an unreliable narrator.
My eyes darted around as I looked through the trees. It was like they were hiding in the forest, and right as I saw one, they disappeared.
Then it got sinister. The voices deepened, and I still couldn’t understand what they said. That was until they all started to laugh.
The laughter was creepy and unnerving at first. It just seemed so out of place. It reminded me of an early 1960s cocktail party, except instead of a swinger’s den, I was on a mountain known for disappearances and UFO activity.
Then I started to panic, and the laughter turned sinister. While I had no idea where it came from, I finally understood what they meant.
You’re alone up here, and no one’s coming.
I shook it off, and I kept pushing forward. But the inclines kept coming, and so did that damn maniacal laughter.
Where are they? Are they following me?
Another flat path, another downed tree, and when I checked my map, another…two miles to the Goddard Shelter.
Wait, I thought I had just hiked for the last half hour. It has to be up ahead.
And they kept laughing, and I kept moving forward.
I made it over one more incline. It felt like a 15-degree angle. I knew I was close. I put the laughter behind me and kept pushing onward, even running on my bad knee until I finally saw it, Traveler!
Another trail incline, and this time, it looked like a stairway to nowhere, just like that Creepypasta. Except instead of literal stairs, it was just the path.
And I was finished.
I screamed at the incline, and then I laughed manically. I sat on a log and took a breath. They were so close now; I heard them all around me. My head was swimming. I tried to cobble two pieces of logic together. Do I wait for someone to come? What happens if they do? What do I say? Do I tell my friends to send help? What do I tell the help?
I looked around, trying to find these evil people who followed me up this mountain just to watch me suffer.
Before I left, I told my family I loved them, even though i thought I was probably coming back. I always do when I go on an adventure because I never know when my next time out is the last time out, Traveler. We all die. I hate to break it to you, but I have always wondered how I’ll die. There’s a line in one of my favorite films, Synecdoche, New York, by Charlie Kaufman.
“It’s a big decision, how one prefers to die.”
I don’t want to have a stroke, and I don’t want to have a heart attack. If I could choose how I physically leave this world, I can’t think of a more beautiful way than to disappear off of the face of the Earth. Like my literary hero Ambrose Bierce, I want to get lost and never be found.
I told a member of my family this very thing before I left for Vermont when they showed reluctance for my trip and how concerned they were for my well-being.
If I die on one of my adventures, please know that I died happy, was what I told them.
I thought about all of this, interspersed with my own panic and insanity, while I sat on the log. And that damned laughter became louder and more sinister, and it echoed around my head. But I just couldn’t see anybody else. I wanted to scream at whoever was laughing at me, but I couldn’t see them.
I’m alone.
I recognized that voice. It was my voice. I sounded too small, weak, and scared. I had nothing left. I ran out of ideas for the first time in a long time. I had nothing to go back down for.
The Adventurer had met his match.
I wiped my brow, and I remembered something. The memory was so powerful that the laughter stopped. It was just suddenly gone.
In a moment of crisis, it was so important that I just have to laugh now.
I have to flash forward for a moment. I promise I won’t do this again in the article. Still, in a crisis, you learn much about yourself, life, and the universe, Traveler.
I haven’t been the best human. None of us have because none of us really know how to be. There’s no guidebook on it; we rely on those who came before us. But now I know that before my trip to Vermont, I didn’t know how to appreciate and live in the moment.
My friend, the one from earlier, also knows this about me. During our friendship, they always told me I needed to live now, not worry about the future, and not dwell on the past.
Well, later, when I was in my tent at the campground (spoiler: I didn’t die, sorry), I reached out to this friend and told them what happened. They freaked out like I figured they would, so I didn’t text them while trapped on Glastenbury Mountain.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you,” they told me. “I’ve been so busy…”
And I laughed.
“Are you kidding?” I asked back. “Of course, you were there. You’ve been here since last night.”
And I told them what I’m about to write to you, Traveler.
The memory that cleared my head and stopped the voices at that moment was my friend’s pocket dial to me the night before. I thought about that missed phone call that let me know I still existed to someone else, someone near and dear.
And I now had to go back down. I did have a reason to go back down.
I heard one more voice in my mind. This one was familiar, too, but it was out of character.
It was my voice again. But when I talk to myself, I usually blame myself for something, feel down on myself, and second-guess myself. Nothing good ever comes from talking to myself. Hell, not more than a few moments ago, I reminded myself that I was all alone.
While I sat on the log, I spoke to myself again, but it was my polar opposite this time.
Hey Vic, you made it! I said. You climbed the mountain, buddy! Not bad for an asthmatic kid, huh? Well, aren’t you gonna go back down? We have to get to the campground before eight.
I don’t know why; I may never know, but this worked.
I’m alone, and I’m going to pull myself off of this damned cursed mountain.
The Way Back
I got off the log, took some canned air, and pulled out my phone. I messaged the friends I’d notified about my fall, providing my new plan and timetable, and I started hiking again.
Many things worked against me on the way down: it wasn’t so simple. There were a lot of peaks and valleys on the trail, and through the flat path, there was a lot of downward movement on the way up. So now, I don’t have the benefit of a straight downward slope on the way back.
This would’ve been fine, Traveler. Sore calves and quads be damned, I could make it. Lack of water and an unusually high heat index in Vermont, be damned, I could make it.
But the adrenaline from the fall wore off, and suddenly, my left knee didn’t work correctly. I’d find out later that I had a deep bone bruise in my left knee, which I’d also had surgery on 24 years ago to remove the meniscus. The pain was so bad it basically seized up, and I could barely bend.
My bad knee, the heatwave, the lack of water, and the occasional elevation on the way down were working against me, and it was not good.
The pain picked up really bad when I made it back to Porcupine Lookout. I had another three to four miles to go until I reached the Nauheim Shelter, and hopefully, there was a water pump when I reached it.
But first things first, I had to make it to the Nauheim Shelter.
At times, I felt like I was floating away, falling asleep while walking, like my spirit was trying to leave my body and get off that mountain without the rest of me.
The painful reminder in my left knee brought my spirit back down to me, just like the hanging albatross in The Mariner. Funny enough, I owe that painful fall from my own hiking hubris my life.
Now I dragged my left leg behind me, Traveler. I can run at a top speed of about nine miles an hour, according to a Planet Fitness treadmill and my 5K times. I can jog at up to four and a half miles an hour. I can hike an elevation incline of 10–15 degrees at about 2.7 miles per hour on natural terrain.
According to the steps app I downloaded before this journey, my pace was .9 miles an hour.
I could’ve crawled faster down the mountain. Maybe I should’ve tried that in retrospect.
I made it back to the stream, and I had never wanted a drink of water so much in my entire life. But even in my state, I knew I had to look up whether or not drinking from the stream was a good idea.
It was not a good idea. I had one of my empty bottles, and I filled it for that moment. The water had a yellow tinge to it. The National Park Services website told me that the bacteria in the stream needed a portable water filter; otherwise, it would do a number on my intestines.
I resolved that if I didn’t want to die of thirst trapped on the mountain, I also didn’t want to die of dysentery near the stream. I let out a frustrated sigh, and instead, I dumped the stream water in the bottle onto my head and into my headband. Then, I crossed the stream on one leg and kept going.
I was about two miles away from the Nauheim Shelter when I ran out of canned air. That hurt more than it might seem. I only had my asthma inhaler left to work with, and my lungs were on fire from the heat index and climbing up a mountain all morning. Past the stream, I had to stop after every slight incline and rest on a rock or a tree trunk to slow my heart and catch my breath.
I made it through the powerline field, which was a mile and a half from the shelter. I checked in with my friends again and pulled my leg towards the shelter. I swear I broke into a trot for the first time in hours! It was 4:30 p.m. I left the trail to find a water supply at the Nauheim Shelter.
Give Me Shelter
It was a wash, Traveler.
There was a water supply, sure. But when I arrived at the shelter, I learned a hard lesson. The water supply was the stream I kept coming across on my journey. That’s the same stream that, moments ago, I couldn’t drink from, thanks to the possibility of cholera.
If nothing else, I learned a lot about the importance of portable water filters on this trip.
The shelter was a small, open building in a clearing off the Long Trail. Two rows of hard planks made makeshift bed frames for weary hikers like myself. Off to the side was a picnic table and a camp stove area.
I was thirsty and physically exhausted. I laid on the bunk for a while, but this wasn’t the best for my shoulders and back since I didn’t have a bedroll.
However, my salvation came in the form of communalism.
There were other hikers there who, mercifully, were just beginning their journey. They took their time and performed the entire hike over two days instead of my mad dash to the top in a single day. They had water, and one even had a water filter.
That 16 ounces of water, eight from the stream but thankfully filtered, was the best water I’ve ever had.
I thanked them all, took my bows, and made my way back down the beginning of the trail, dragging one leg behind me. I had 1.6 miles left to descend, but there were no more elevation gains.
The Descent
Something else I hadn’t planned on was my kneecap locking up entirely to the point where it couldn’t handle my body weight. As I made my way down, I had to put all my weight on my right knee, stop my gait, and double-step over the boulders that made up this trail. So it went, and I continued, meeting new people on the way up this late evening.
The path down wasn’t straightforward, either. When I first climbed, it was a zig-zag trail, something that resembled a level from an old Donkey Kong video game. I winced, gasped, and even screamed my way back down the sloping part of the Long Trail.
But eventually, I crossed the MacArthur Bridge and lurched towards my car in the parking lot.
Despite the Off! spray, I was covered in sweat and bug bites. I was exhausted and dehydrated, but I was alive.
I opened my trunk and threw my two packs in. I immediately went for the water I had in the car, caught my breath, and then drove into Bennington.
The Campground
Six o’clock, p.m., Traveler: I’d been on this mountain for 11.5 hours. I watched the sunrise when I started, and now I drove towards the sunset. At the time, I felt like I’d been hit by a car, and then the car backed up over me. I had a strange cough (I’d find out later that this was a poorly-timed respiratory infection, thank you, Massachusetts), and I couldn’t lift my arms over my head. My knee could barely help my foot operate the brake pedal.
But I was alive and had money in my bank account to head to Stewart’s Shop in Bennington. Unfortunately, this location had no fresh pizza, so I ordered from my phone at the nearby Subway. At the same time, I sat and drank cold water. No, it wasn’t my first choice, but this was an any port in a storm situation, Traveler.
I wasn’t the only one in town who wanted a hoagie. The Subway was packed, backed up on orders, and a shoestring staff tried desperately to get everything out the door to everyone who ordered. Still, I was grateful when my sandwich came to me at 7:03 p.m., as I’d eat that night and make the campground! But speaking of, I had a reservation to check in at, and I had to make tracks.
Greenwood Lodge and Campsites is the best campground I’ve stayed at, Traveler. Chris, the son of the two original owners, checked me in and gave me an excellent souvenir map of the campground.
“Are you okay going upstairs?” he asked me, taking me to the registration desk.
“Yes,” I replied. “But I’m going to be a little slow going up if that’s okay. I just need a minute. I fell while hiking today, and my knee is killing me.”
“Oh,” he replied with a look of genuine concern. “Do you need first aid? I have ice upstairs.”
“That’s okay,” I foolishly replied. “I think I’ll be good with some rest, and then I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”
“Which mountain did you hike?” he asked me.
“Glastenbury,” I replied. “I almost made it to Goddard.”
He winced, showed me the bathroom, and finished explaining the campground rules. With that, I bid my sincerest goodbye and drove to Campsite 13. I was offered free upgrades all over the camp as it was slow, but, well, if I’m going to have any belief in numerology, I’m going to believe in the number 13.
I threw my pop-up tent and bedroll inside, grabbed a light, and settled in for the night.
Epilogue
While Greenwood is a beautiful campsite, I had some issues sleeping. Mainly because my body was so shot I could only really lay in one direction and just hope for the best, Traveler.
I slept ten hours.
I woke up early in the morning. I had nodded off at about 8:30, and when I awoke, it was about three a.m.
I’d told a few family and friends that I made it down and was at the campsite. I specifically told friends that I barely made it to the campsite. That said, there was one person I’d planned on telling when I made it home. But as they’d likely be up, I checked in with my friend.
The one who pocket-dialed me two nights ago, which helped me down the cursed mountain.
The conversation I posted above happened, more or less, but I also promised not to try the mountain again for the rest of the year. I plan on keeping that promise.
We said our immediate goodbyes, and I tried to roll over again, but a feeling hit me. I needed to use the restroom.
I drove to the office and did what I had to do, then went back and parked. Once inside my tent, I rolled back over and set an alarm. As I tried to doze, I heard a noise. It was a thunk sound, like someone trying the door handle on my car.
I shot up from my bedroll and shined my flashlight outside on my car. There was nothing over there. I looked around as best I could with a bad knee, bad back, bad quads, and bad shoulders, but I didn’t see anything. I gave it a few minutes and then shut the light out. I zipped my mosquito net and rolled back into the lone comfortable position.
I then heard someone, or something, run around in the leave next to my tent.
My eyes shot open, and my pulse quickened. I waited with bated breath as the footsteps moved around my tent, paused, and then moved farther down the campsite. I sat up on my bedroll for a few moments. Those footsteps kept going in the distance, so I grabbed my knife.
I closed my eyes and thought, if something is going to attack me, I’m in no shape to fight anyway. Weirdly, this calmed me down, and I went back to sleep.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
I woke up sore and sick, but I did wake up.
I stretched what my body would allow me and brushed my teeth. I set my Maps coordinates for home and collapsed my tent.
As I loaded the car, I got a good look at what was prowling around my tent the night before.
On the hill in my campsite was a big grey fox. We have red foxes where I’m from, but this is the first time I’ve seen a grey fox. I had never seen a grey fox, not even at a wildlife sanctuary.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on me, Traveler. According to Astrology.com, the grey fox has a pretty apt spiritual meaning.
“The gray fox is a symbol of adaptability, wisdom, and courage. Its ability to blend in with its surroundings and its elusive nature represent the importance of changing with the times and being resourceful in navigating life’s challenges,” the website reads.
If I do say so myself, that about sums it up.
The rest of the trip is uneventful. I went to work the day after I came home, sick and hurt, but at least I could move my knee. I took a moment to be grateful to my friends and family and made a few changes.
I try not to let the little things get to me anymore. I found mantras. I want to live in the moment as much as I can while I can, Traveler. I’m in a Nashville airport, finishing this and preparing to lay the groundwork for my next book.
Tenet number 4, Traveler: There’s always more to learn.
And I did learn. I learned a lot about myself and how good my survival instincts are. I also indirectly learned a lot about water filtration filters for camping and stream water.
After I had to survive, Traveler, the little things seemed to have less weight. I finally believed in myself at the most important time.
And next year, I’m climbing that damn mountain again, and this time I’m going to Glastenbury itself.
I won’t be bested twice by any ghost town.
But until again,
Safe Travels, Traveler.
The Reverend Victor S. Johnson
