High Trail Warning

I took a day hike into the Eastern Sierra Mountains—not that far from home. Just a short three-mile loop from the parking lot, a modest climb up and down the ridgeline, meant more for stretching the legs than seeking adventure.

It was one of those perfect days–sky so blue it seemed painted on, sunshine filtering through pine needles, and a light breeze that carried the clean scent of earth and granite. I had the dogs with me—our German Shorthair mix, Buddy, always brave, and Honey, our American Staffordshire Terrier, the more cautious soul.

As we approached the summit, both dogs stopped dead in their tracks. Buddy’s hackles rose from the nape of his neck down his spine, and Honey’s tail shot out straight, rigid as a stick. I know their body language well.

They weren’t scared. They were warning me.

“Bear,” I thought immediately, tensing as I scanned the brush ahead.

That’s when I heard it. A heavy crack, like something huge, shifting its weight in the thicket.

Then silence. Not a birdcall or the breeze. The hairs on my neck stood up.

I tightened the leashes and pulled the dogs back gently, pivoting to retrace our steps down the path we had climbed. I didn’t speak. I didn’t run. I didn’t want to set off the dogs’ instincts or whatever was out there watching.

My senses sharpened with every step—ears twitching at every branch creak, eyes darting to catch shadows. But it was my nose that warned me the most.

The breeze carried a stench—rotten eggs, moldy leaves, and something else. Something foul and decaying.

I’d smelled it before.

If you’ve ever been close to a place where something not quite right is hunting, you never forget it. Some say it’s a territorial musk. Others claim it’s just the scent of death.

But I knew at that moment, somewhere up that trail, there was a Sasquatch. Probably following the deer migration, maybe circling the area for a kill. I didn’t need to see it—I could feel it.

Nearly back to the parking lot, when my old truck was parked, waiting faithfully, a young couple with a child started up the trail. They looked like they belonged in an outdoor catalog—matching packs, bright smiles, eager to touch the wild.

They must have seen something in my face.

“Is everything okay?” the woman asked.

“Now it is,” I said, glancing back toward the path. “But I wouldn’t go up there if I were you. Not today.”

“Why?” the man asked, half a grin forming.

“I think I just walked into Bigfoot’s backyard,” I said.

They laughed. The way people laugh when they think you’re crazy.

I gave a short nod and left them to it, loading the dogs into the back cab behind my seat. I sat there for a while, listening to the wind, thinking about that smell.

Then I heard footsteps—rapid ones. The couple came jogging down the path, the kid clutched tightly between them, their earlier smiles replaced with wide, panicked eyes.

They didn’t look at me as they rushed to their compact foreign car and didn’t say a word. But the man’s hands were trembling as he fumbled for his keys.

I turned my engine over and watched in the rearview as they tore out of the lot, gravel spitting behind their tires. They quickly passed me, flying down the mountain road like they were trying to outrun something they didn’t believe in until then.

Some trails lead you to peace, while others remind you that the wilderness still keeps secrets—and one of them walks on two feet.