Stranger In The Woods
There is a road that climbs up a dense forest mountain. It is everything medieval but without the hustle and bustle of people. Or so I thought.
We were driving on a forest road in the middle of Lincoln National Forest, scouting for another campsite. We had been exploring these parts for about a week and felt the need to set up Basecamp. When we lost internet service, I felt a strange mix of anxiety and freedom. Without the constant notifications and digital noise, we were forced to navigate using only Gaia Maps and our instincts. It was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating.
As we ascended to 8000 feet, we passed a deserted car off the trail. It appeared to have slid into a ditch. I wondered how a vehicle like that made it up the mountain. "This is a strange place to see a car like that," I said to my wife, for the trail was rugged, narrow, and dark.
In my Chevy Colorado, we made our way up the mountain, passing melting snow drifts. But in the distance, a figure emerged from the forest. It was hard to see, but the silhouette indicated it was a man. He walked onto the trail and positioned himself toward our truck. Suddenly, he started waving us off, making sounds and moving his arms violently. My senses heightened, sweat bubbled on my brow, my wife became worried, and "Rusty," my Jack Russell, started to growl. I did not accept the stranger's gesture. So I continued onward, passing him and ignoring his intent to stop us.
As we advanced, we noticed fallen snow was thickening on the trail. A risk that I did not anticipate. "I don't want to get stuck!" My wife said. I agreed; we turned back and proceeded down the mountain.
On the descent, the man appeared again. But this time, passing the deserted car, he jumped out from the trunk and screamed at me. "I lost my keys!" But his trunk was open. The stranger pounded on my truck, indicating I had to stop. My pulse raced, and for a moment, I hesitated, torn between wanting to help and the nagging suspicion that something was off. Nervously, I asked my wife if it was ok to stop. But she declared that was NOT OK. As we pressed on down the mountain, my thoughts circled: Was he truly in trouble, or was it a setup? Guilt began to creep in, mixing with relief and worry. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, trying to convince myself we had made the right choice. The doubt lingered, and I couldn't escape the uncomfortable feeling that maybe, just maybe, I had failed someone in need.
After arriving on a flat and smooth road out of the forest, we made our way to the Ranger Station. We reported what had happened and learned it was not the first time folks had reported this. Weird huh? The Chief Ranger radioed two forestry guys to make themselves ready and investigate the Forest Road we had just traversed. They said, "We will take care of it from here; thank you."
Knowing that others had encountered the same man gave me a strange sense of relief, but it also deepened my curiosity. I felt less alone in my worry, yet I kept wondering about his true intentions and whether he would ever be found. I never did learn what happened next, but that uncertainty has stuck with me, lingering each time I think back to that mountain road.
Who is my neighbor? A better question about solitude, nature, and the human condition is, was I merciful?
Mercy in the wilderness is a risky calculation. Surrounded by towering trees and endless quiet, the rules of trust blur. Should I have risked our safety to help a stranger, or was caution a different kind of kindness toward those I love? Out here, solitude makes decisions feel sharper, heavier. Did I fail at compassion, or did I do the only thing I could in the wild where trust and suspicion live side by side? I keep asking myself whether real mercy is always safe, or whether sometimes keeping distance is its own act of care.
What do you think?
