This happened in November of '96. I'd been planning this hunting trip for months. Elk season. My hunting partner had to bail last minute. Family emergency. So it was just me out there. I had this old camper van. Nothing fancy, just a converted Chevy cargo van with a bed in the back, little propane stove. Perfect for a week in the woods. I'd used it maybe a dozen times before. Knew every rattle and creak in that thing. I drove up into the Cascades, about forty miles past Cle Elum. Logging road that barely qualified as a road anymore. Found a clearing maybe half a mile off the main trail. Good spot. Dense forest all around, but open enough to park. I'd been there before, couple years back. Quiet area. Hardly anyone came through.
I got there around 4 in the afternoon. Sun was already getting low. November days are short up there. Sun was completely down by 6:30. Pitch black by 7. hunting takes guts - Rick' I spent the rest of the daylight setting up camp. Not much to do, really. Park the van, check the propane, make sure everything was secure. The temperature was dropping fast. I could see my breath even before sunset. I wasn't planning to hunt that evening. Just wanted to get settled, have some dinner, get some sleep. Start fresh in the morning when I could actually see what I was doing.
So I made dinner inside the van. Kept the back doors closed because of the cold. I had the propane stove going, heating up some chili from a can. Nothing fancy. The van was warm, almost too warm with the stove running. I remember I was listening to the radio. Some country station out of Yakima, fading in and out. The reception was terrible but it was better than complete silence. That's when I first heard it. This sound outside. Like something moving through the brush. Heavy footsteps. But not deer. I know what deer sound like. This was heavier. More deliberate.
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