Hidebehind Me

1/30/1995

I got him! Don’t ask me how I convinced him, but I did. Matthew and I are hitting the trail! The Superior Hiking Trail, that is! I’d consider the name hubris if it weren’t for the hike’s namesake, Lake Superior.

Matthew put up quite a fight about my timing, saying things like, “It’s dangerous to go hiking in the winter!” and “What if it snows?” But you know me, or, well, I know me. I could persuade dandelions to bloom in December, if only I had a reason. Still, I understand that he has a point. December hikes are not only disallowed by the park since an incident back in 86 (wonder where those kids wound up?), but they also carry their fair share of danger.

Nevertheless, I’m a prepper! A few curious looks at the general store, a few cautionary tales from the old cashier, and I’m ready to go. Matthew is less so, but I packed his bag all the same. Trail food, a thick tent, two sleeping bags, a lantern, lighters and matches, a compass, a hatchet, and a map (although who actually needs a map?). As far as I can tell, we’re good to go as long as we dress warm.

“Joshua,” he said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. If it weren’t for that damn know-it-all grin of yours, I’d never consider it, but . . . fine. What’s the worst that can happen?”

So, with the promise of views, chews, and, thanks to our lucky flasks, brews, we’ve agreed to leave today! Mr. Finely would be proud. He used to speak of this trail with such fondness. “It’ll be a great way to honor his memory,” I told Matthew. He just smiled. I know he misses the old coot. Who wouldn’t? He was the missable type.

No reason to get sad though. This’ll be a 300-mile long once in a lifetime adventure!

Triumphantly,

Joshua J.

1/31/1995

We made it to the trailhead around noon yesterday. I’m thankful it was so close! We left a letter back in the apartment in case someone comes looking for us. Not like they will, but even if they do, we’ll be back in a few days. They’ve nothing much to miss and not long to miss it!

I’m not one much for writing, by any means. Hell, I couldn’t even speak a coherent sentence until I was thirteen (a fact I wish Matthew would forget), but I’d be remiss to try. Who knows? This will be a great adventure to tell my kids one day, and I’ve got the memory of a goldfish. If I don’t write it, I’ll forget it.

It started well enough. We parked at an old, probably abandoned, gas station half a mile up the road from the trailhead. We hiked that distance with our packs, Matthew looking silly in his yellow puffer jacket and bright orange pack. “It’s for visibility,” he claimed, but I had the sneaking suspicion he liked the neon colors. I wish he’d have dressed like me. White on white! If a Park Ranger glanced my way, they’d never see me. You know how I know this? Because they didn’t! A large woman was doing some signage work on the trailhead as we approached it. She was hammering “Closed for Winter” and “Blizzard Warning” signs in front of the trail. Luckily, she didn’t catch us. Her animalistic grunts and the way she threw down that mallet made me nervous. All the same, we cut through the woods and hit the trail a quarter mile in.

It’s cold. Maybe colder than I had planned. And the idea of a blizzard sent, and I mean this with no small amount of irony, shivers down my spine. It shouldn’t though. With the way we’re dressed and my superior (hah!) packing skills, we’d be at home in the Arctic. Little Minnesota can’t hold a candle to us!

We hiked a long way before hitting the first campsite. I didn’t bother to keep track of the miles (not like I know how to other than to try to keep up with the half snow-covered mile markers). My cultured tastes are drawn instead to the trees and snow, much to Matthew’s chagrin. I think he’ll knock my lights out if I bump into him again. I’m just so easily distracted. But how can I help it? The trees here are gorgeous! Spindly, snow-capped deciduous trees reach up from the ground like lightning bolts on Opposite Day (although it isn’t Opposite Day, if you catch my drift), and the conifers remind me of Christmas. If only we had some string lights and presents! I could sing carols, but I reckon Matthew would kill me if I tried.

I will admit, though, that despite the beauty of the day, I don’t much like the night. Drifting clouds prevent much stargazing, and the full moon dominates the landscape. But it’s not those things that make my skin crawl. Last night, as we sat goofing off by the fire (that hatchet does a fine job even though it dulls quickly), I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I talked to Matthew about it, but he just scoffed. “Scared of the boogeyman?” He mocked my childhood fear. “It’s too early on the hike for you to chicken out!” He got a good laugh. I didn’t. He can be such a jerk sometimes.

Nature called late that night as Matthew slept. I slipped out of our tent and found a tree for a little bear-on-bark action. The cold made things difficult, the fire still radiated heat and smelled of smoke, but a sudden crack in the woods made things flow a lot freer. I jumped back from the tree, shooting haphazardly all over the snow (don’t eat the yellow snow!), and just about ruined my pants as a moose ran across our campsite!

Talk about a close encounter! That sucker was huge! Bigger than what you’re thinking, I promise. If you haven’t seen one in person, you have no clue just how big they are. Nevertheless, it was magnificent, even if it did catch me with my zipper down. Nature can be scary, but I suppose that, in a way, that fear is also beautiful. Or maybe it’s natural to be afraid of beautiful things (is that why women are so difficult?). Who knows?

Matthew was so jealous. He’s always wanted to see a moose.

Excitedly,

Joshua J.

2/1/1995

Today was a good day, even if a tad solemn. The trail snakes through the woods, but occasionally it breaks onto rock outcroppings and sweeping views of Lake Superior. It was on one of these rocky bald spots that Matthew and I stopped. The lake stretched out impossibly far, a thin line of land marking the Red Cliffs in the distance. The whole panorama reminded me of Mr. Finely. He’d tell us of views like this. How they make us feel small and remind us that our problems aren’t always as big as we make them.

We did the unthinkable, but I think it was the right thing (I’m not saying this because it was my idea, although it was). Our flasks, Matthew’s ace silver flask and my green one, were filled with Irish whiskey. I say filled, because, in honor of the late Mr. Finley, we emptied them into the lake. I just know that there’s some Irish fish down there having the best winter of its life. Manna from heaven? Nah, this fish got whiskey.

Matthew wanted to give the old coot some parting words. “In honor of the best Irishman to ever cross the Atlantic,” he said. I just listened. Matthew and I didn’t have parents, but Mr. Finley made the orphanage as much home as anything could be. We may not have a family, but we had each other and Mr. Finley. Now we just have each other.

When we left the orphanage a few years back, I promised I’d visit the old man. I wish I had. I know I should’ve.

We didn’t go much further. Emotions have a way of weighing a man down.

With love,

Joshua J.

2/3/1995

No, thank you, this place is officially freakier than it has any reason to be. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Something was outside the tent! I know there was. There was a noise, something cawing out in the woods, and then bam! A perfectly hand-shaped print pressed against the tent. I saw it! I know I did. I was up reading the trail guide, and the lantern showed me everything.

I shook Matthew awake. He scoffed, saying it was either another moose or, with a mischievous smile, wolves. Nah uh. No sir. Not okay. I’m the mischievous one, not him! I managed to convince him to go check. With a sigh, he grabbed his flashlight and the bear spray, then unzipped the tent. I’ll be honest, I hesitated to follow him. Nevertheless, when I didn’t hear the desperate sound of battle, I mustered the courage to do so. He was scanning the woods, and I joined him. Leafless trees stood like skeletal hands, and the still-green conifers were shadowy bears. We held our breath, letting the forest do the talking.

God, I wish I weren’t so brave.

Please don’t think I’m insane, I get enough of that already from Matthew, but I swear I saw something behind him. He stood facing me, his face a mixture of concern for our safety and worry for whatever expression my face held. I’ve never been good at poker. My emotions are on my sleeve, right where my words are. There was a white bark tree behind him, my lantern just barely illuminated it, but his flashlight stayed on me.

I swear, and I mean it, that there was a hand reaching around the tree. It was like something was hugging it from behind, but, oh God, I don’t like writing this, but it had claws. I promise you that it did. Matthew doesn’t believe me. The thing slipped out of view before he could turn. He even checked behind the tree. Nothing.

He thinks I’m crazy. He accused me of saving some liquor and having a bit too much, but I know what I saw, and I am not drunk. After what seemed like an hour of bickering, he agreed, for my sanity if not for our safety, that tomorrow we would hike to a road and hitchhike back to town.

But it’s snowing now. If the roads are anything like the forest, they’re under at least a few feet of powder. What if they’re closed? What if no one comes to our rescue?

What was that thing?

With more than a few manly tears,

Joshua J.

2/4/1995

Matthew is pissed and I mean pissed. He didn’t get any sleep because I didn’t get any sleep. How could I? Each creak and rattle of the trees hid killer animals. I hugged the bear spray so tight that I think I have a permanent imprint of the canister in my palm, but that’s not why Matthew’s pissed. No, he’s mad because I forgot my backpack at the previous campsite. Or so he thinks. I could’ve sworn that I had it on me today. Perhaps a white backpack in the middle of a snowy forest wasn’t such a good idea.

How could I be so careless?

We were too tired to travel far. We didn’t stop to admire any views and couldn’t have cared less about any outcroppings over Lake Superior. The wind howled. The snow was on and off in flurries. My nose was (is) too frozen to smell anything.

But I just know that something was watching us. And I know Matthew feels it too, although he didn’t want to admit it. He moved warily today, cautiously as if the slightest sound would cause us trouble. He’d glance back at me occasionally, staring down the trail.

I see that hand in the corner of my eye. It hugs trees, always out of sight. Not just a hand, but worse. There’s something attached to the hand. It’s large. Covered with fur. It’s tall. Maybe eight feet or more. I can’t seem to catch a clear glimpse of it; the thing always slips from view. Matthew sees it too. I can tell by the fear in his eyes.

I think I saw it smiling.

I thought smiles were supposed to be comforting.

While we rested at the next campsite, I managed to get Matthew to talk about it. “It’s probably just a person,” he reassured me, “If they get too close, we’ll spray them and beat them senseless. Bear spray is no joke.” He’d have been encouraging if it weren’t for the way his lips quivered slightly. We decided to hike through the night. We only had his flashlight left, but if we stay close together, it shouldn’t be a problem. We didn’t hit the road today, but we can’t be lost (although I left the trail guide in my pack). It’s a one-way trail! Matthew thinks there’s a town up ahead. He has a “hunch” (which means he did his own research to make up for my folly). I hope he’s right. I don’t think that thing is a person.

Panicked,

Joshua J.

3/5/1995

I am not okay.

We found an abandoned campsite. Two tents, large enough for four people apiece, with torn canvas sides. A smoldering fire as if someone were here just hours ago. A roasted weenie sat upon a skewer, far too overcooked. Red, fresh stains streaked out of the tents and into trees, travelling up and up and up before vanishing. It was as if... no, I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t want to know what it’s like.

Matthew and I accept that we are being stalked by something evil. He sees it too. Just fleeting glances, never a full look. It hides behind trees and bushes and mounds of snow, but if we check … nothing. How can it be nothing?

But that’s not the worst thing. We searched the abandoned campsite. There was nothing. Or, at least, nothing that should be there. No, Matthew found my bag. How the hell did it get here?! It doesn’t make sense! I don’t want it to make sense! God. Don’t make it make sense! Everything is there, though. My trail guide. My hatchet. My name, Joshua J., is stitched into the tag. I took the hatchet, threw on the pack, and demanded we keep going. There was no way we’d stay there for long. Not with that thing following us.

We ran. Straight up sprinted through the trees. Trail or no trail, we just need to find the town. I got cut on a branch, but we don’t have time to patch it. We both breathed a sigh of relief when we finally reached the top of a hill that overlooked a small town. Just twenty houses or so, a gas station, a few small stores, and a pharmacy. By the time we found it, the streetlights were flickering to life. Some of the houses had lights on too. We thought people were home, but we were wrong. Snow climbed up the sides of buildings and swallowed cars whole. Matthew knocked on four houses before finally breaking down the door to one.

There was no one home, even though the lights were on. The fridge was open, and the light inside buzzed. An uneaten sandwich sat on the dinner table, and a pile of clothes lay nearby.

He had the bear spray, I had my hatchet, but neither of us had any confidence. We ran from house to house, then store to store, until finally reaching the diner. It was unlocked, thankfully, and warmer than the other places.

Shockingly, we found Matthew’s ace flask on the counter. Neither of us questioned it. He grabbed it and took a swig (and he accused me of saving liquor?).

The sun set. Locking the door, we decided it best to stay in the diner for the night. Surely that thing can’t get inside. Hopefully, someone comes to our rescue soon.

Terrified,

Joshua J.

3/6/1995

I fell asleep, and now Matthew is gone. The back door is open. Why didn’t we check for a backdoor?! Too exhausted. We are too exhausted. It’s still open, mud streaking in and crimson streaking out.

I am not brave, but I have to be. My brother is out there, even if he doesn’t share any blood or DNA with me.

I see the creature. It peaks from behind streetlamps, beneath windows, and even behind the mop in the corner. It’s inside with me. It knows I see it. It knows I know where it is.

Where is Matthew? Where did it take him? This hatchet may be dull, but it’ll still hurt whatever I hit. I can do this. I can do this! Just follow the mud. Follow the blo-

Blood.

Matthew, if you’re reading this, I went outside to find you. I took the hatchet. I left some of my food in the fridge (save me some, I’m hungry). Don’t worry. I have a plan!

I love you, brother.

With regrets,

Joshua J.