The field season was off to a fantastic start. Training had gone well, and I was feeling strong and confident. I had gone for a satisfying trail run on a new trail system and spent quality time with a lizard—an excellent day by any measure. It was a real shame I was going to die momentarily.
The murderer showed up just after midnight. The crunching of gravel under his tires betrayed him and I shot awake to see his car driving up the dirt road and park next to my Forerunner, where I had been sleeping in the back. Here’s how I knew he was coming to murder me: 1) He got to the trailhead past midnight and 2) The parking lot was big enough for 8-10 cars, yet he parked directly next to mine. There is no reason to park next to the only car in an otherwise empty parking lot unless you are a psychopath. Which this man clearly had to be. I peered over the rim of the window to get a better look. The driver was sitting inside his Prius with the overhead light on and the pump-up music playing. Great. I was going to be murdered by someone driving a Prius. This was really going to set back the environmental movement’s reputation.
The murderer spent a few minutes on his phone (possibly trying to update his social media to say something like “My next TikTok is going to kill it”) before putting it down out of frustration at the lack of cell service. He got out of the Prius, put on a headlamp, and opened the trunk to look for something (presumably a weapon). I fumbled for the key fob to the Forerunner and pressed a button to surreptitiously lock the doors.
The wailing of the car alarm cut through the night. In a combination of fear and clumsiness, I had pressed the wrong button. The murderer jumped and looked over at me peeking out above the rim of the window in the back of the Forerunner and for a brief but intensely awkward moment, we made eye contact. I ducked down and frantically pawed at the key fob until the car doors locked and the alarm turned off again.
I laid back down, heart pounding. I counted out thirty seconds and then propped myself up on an elbow to look outside again and see where he was. If he was going to murder me, I wanted him to hurry up and get it over with. The stress of the waiting for my death was going to kill me. Instead of smashing one of the Forerunner’s windows with a blunt instrument, the man shook his head in exasperation and trotted off down the trail, presumably to dig a hole to dispose of my corpse. I had to give it to him, he planned ahead. I waited with bated breath and my bear spray in hand. The one saving grace of my imminent death was that I also had no cell service, so at least I didn’t have to make a phone call to try and get someone to save me. Being murdered was still preferable to making a phone call.
The beam of a headlamp came up the trail again ten minutes later (he must have finished digging the unmarked grave), this time followed by an accomplice pushing a dirt bike. That seemed inefficient – they could have carpooled. I expected more from an environmentalist. Then again, I’d never murdered anyone, so maybe this was standard practice. I watched over the rim of the window as the two fiddled with the engine of the dirt bike. The murderer opened the trunk of his car to get some tools and used them to work on the bike. After fifteen minutes the dirt bike’s engine rumbled to life and the murderer and his accomplice high-fived. The accomplice got on the bike and rode off. Maybe the Prius driver had been helping a friend get out of trouble. That wasn’t mutually exclusive with him being a murderer—maybe he was indulging in a hobby and also helping a buddy. The Prius driver got back in his car and drove off, going slowly to avoid the larger rocks. The night was quiet and dark again, and I had survived my first night camping by myself.
Had I been listening to too many true crime podcasts? Unlikely.
Wow, glad you got out alive!