Into the Heart of Darkness
People think we're crazy, and perhaps they're right. It's easy to sit back in the warmth of your suburban home and scoff at the thought of such a creature as Bigfoot existing.
Into the Heart of Darkness
People think we're crazy, and perhaps they're right. It's easy to sit back in the warmth of your suburban home and scoff at the thought of such a creature as Bigfoot existing. It's easy to call us fools, chasing shadows and howling at the wind. But we know differently—we're different. We're the ones who pack up our gear and head out, away from the comforts of home, to march headlong into the wild in search of proof of something elusive, yet wholly real.
To the outside world, we're fanatics—a motley group of eccentric oddities making for the heart of darkness. That's what my friend termed it when I informed him of another expedition I was about to join. "Why do you always go back?" he asked. "You're wasting your life on this madness. It's a myth, a ghost story to scare kids."
But I'd seen things. We all had. Once you've seen them—those signs, those flickering instants of truth—you can never go back. You don't just unsee a set of tracks, each print bigger than your head, deep in the mud, far beyond any human trail. It's that guttural call, something so primeval tearing through a night's silence and sending shivers down your spine, like some predator that stalks the dark.
We are not driven by some flight of fancy. No, we are driven by that need to know, to dig out that knowledge which nibbles at us from the dark corners of our mind. And that need takes us into the deepest, most remote corners of the forest—places unsullied by the touch of time, places that seem as though they've never known the step of man. The locals don't say anything about it, but something in their eyes, some quiet terror maybe. They've heard it, too. They feel its presence in those woods. They won't say so, but they know something is there.
So, we go where others dare not tread. The deeper we trek—the more isolated we are—the more your mind just starts to come apart. My friend's right about that much: you lose a piece of yourself out here. There's something about these woods, the heavy silence, the way the shadows move, that makes you question literally everything. At night, with that canopy above you, the darkness swallows you up, and the only thing holding your feet to the ground is the hope that far off into that void is your proof you have been seeking for years.
Venturing deep into the wilderness comes with the thrill of discovery, but it also means facing some of nature's most formidable creatures. Grizzly bears, for instance, are powerful and unpredictable, and their immense size alone makes any encounter potentially dangerous. Moose, despite their calm appearance, can be surprisingly aggressive, especially during mating season or if they feel threatened. Cougars, with their stealth and agility, are silent hunters, rarely seen until it's too late. Each of these animals commands respect and caution. Being in their territory requires constant vigilance, as even the most seasoned adventurers know that the wild holds its own rules.
Skeptics say that we chase fairy tales, but if ever you had managed to stand in those woods, all by yourself, with nothing but the whispered wind and the cracking of branches around, then you would know that there's more than what meets the eye. And the fact is, we are not crazy. The crazy ones are people who don't listen, who won't see—who dismiss everything because it doesn't fit neatly into their version of reality. We are the ones brave enough to keep looking. Crazy, sure, but brave.
There's often a powerful pull to return to places that challenge us, even when we know it can be crazy or even dangerous.