I'd been planning this backpacking trip through Idaho's Sawtooth Wilderness for months.

As someone who spent a summer interning with the Forest Service, I prided myself on navigating remote areas,

and I chose our rote carefully, a four-day loop that started near Redfish Lake, wound through Alpine Lake, and dipped

into the rugged solitude of Hell-Rooring Canyon. My fiancé, Tasha, along with our friends

Milo and Erica, agreed enthusiastically. We needed a break, a taste of wilderness untouched

by crowds and civilization. The first morning felt promising.

A thin layer of smoke from distant wildfires hazed the horizon,

giving the jagged granite peaks a surreal glow.

We adjusted our packs at the trailhead, Milo cracking jokes to mask his inexperience,

while Erica, a trauma nurse who always exuded quiet confidence,

triple-checked our medical kit. Tasha's camera shutter clicked rhythmically, capturing photos

of the trailhead sign and the distant alpine landscape. Within hours we settled into an easy rhythm.

The air was crisp, scented by pine and dry earth, and we passed the

occasional hiker on our way to Alpine Lake. But soon the trail became ours alone. By late

afternoon we made camp beside a clearing rimmed by old towering lodgepole pines. The wind picked up as

evening approached, rustling through branches, carrying the smoky scent

more strongly.

As dusk fell, I wandered a short distance to scout our route for the following day.

The setting sun cast long, deep shadows across the trail, and as I walked, something caught

my eye.

Off to my right, parallel to our route, fresh boot prints cut through the soft dirt. I knelt to examine them closely. The tread pattern wasn't familiar, not mine, not Toshas, not Milos, nor Erika's. I stood slowly scanning the thickening forest around me. It wasn't unheard of to find prints out here,

but these felt close, oddly aligned with our path. A twinge of unease curled inside my gut,

...