Back in 1990, I used to work for the Forest Service Department. It was my dream job. I loved spending my days deep in the woods. But eventually… I had to leave that job. I never talk about why, because I know people don't believe in things like this.
A few days ago, my 20-year-old niece told me she wants to become a forest ranger. She started asking me about my experiences in the woods. But after everything I saw in those forests, I don't want her anywhere near that job.
I sat with her for a long time, trying to convince her not to do it. And while talking to her… all those memories I had buried for years came rushing back.
Before I go any further, there's something you should know. Among forest rangers, there's an unspoken rule—we never talk about certain things. You may not understand what I mean right now. But by the end of this story… you will.
This happened around 1996, about thirty years ago. That's when I joined the Superior National Forest in Minnesota as a forest ranger.
And before I continue, let me make one thing clear. I drink now… but back then, I didn't. I didn't do drugs. I didn't have any mental issues. What I'm about to tell you wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't my imagination.
It was real.
It was the summer of 1996. I had just graduated from college at 23 with a degree in forestry when I got the job. For me, becoming a forest ranger right after earning my degree was a dream come true.
My older brother David—eight years older than me—had been working in the same forest for seven or eight years. He was the one who encouraged me to apply.
When I got the job, I thought I would spend my entire career there. Far from the chaos and noise of the world.
But that's not what happened.
Just a few months later… I had to run.
The forest itself stretches across nearly a million acres, from the U.S. all the way to the Canadian border. Alongside it runs a massive body of water known as Lake Superior.
The forest is so dense that in many areas, the only way to travel is on foot or by small boat. Back then, mobile phones were rare. We relied on radio communication—and even those signals would drop in certain parts of the forest.
There were areas where no human had set foot in years.
When I first joined, I reported to the main ranger station—a small building with a few offices and rooms where rangers stayed.
There were seven of us in total.
My brother David, who was also my supervisor. He was extremely serious—always followed every instruction carefully. Very responsible. That's probably why he had already been promoted twice.
Then there was our station chief, Henry. Around fifty years old. He had spent his entire life in that forest. His hands were as rough as wood, his skin thick, his face lined with years of experience.
Next was Sarah—the only female ranger at the station. Since many tourists were women, at least one female ranger was always required. After Henry, she was the most experienced ranger. She had transferred here after her divorce.
Then came John—the funniest ranger among us. Always had a joke ready for any situation. During long boat patrols, his jokes kept us sane.
William was the oldest—around 65 and close to retirement. He had worked in that forest for 30 years. He was always quiet. It felt like he was constantly listening… not to us, but to the forest itself.
The last two rangers were temporary postings. They don't matter much to this story.
For the first month, everything was exactly how I imagined it would be. Patrolling different areas. Checking on campers and hikers. Keeping an eye on reckless tourists. Moving quietly through rivers in our boats.
It felt like stepping into another beautiful world.
The work was exhausting—but I loved it.
But soon… I would learn what kind of dangerous secrets were hidden behind that beauty.