I've always felt a deep connection to the wilderness, a bond that's hard to explain.

It's like a call that only I can hear, beckoning me to the untamed parts of the world.

My name's not important, but what is important is that I've been a camper and mountain rescue worker for over a decade.

This story, well, it's about one of those trips, the kind that makes you question everything.

It was a crisp autumn afternoon when I packed my 2007 Scoda Octavia with camping gear.

I had everything I needed, a sturdy tent, a reliable

backpack, emergency gear including a flare gun, and a blank firing pistol for signaling in case of

danger. I was set for a weekend of solitude in an unnamed national park, a place I chose because it promised isolation

and peace. The drive to the park was uneventful but filled with anticipation. As I pulled into

the gravel car park, I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the sight of the towering fir trees.

They stood like sentinels guarding the secrets of the forest.

The sun was already low, casting long shadows and bathing the valley in a golden hue.

There were a few cars scattered around, belonging to other nature lovers like me, but I didn't mind.

I was there for the solitude, not for company.

I took a deep breath of the fresh, pine-scented air as I stepped out of my car.

There's something about the scent of the forest that calms the mind.

I walked around to the trunk, pulled out my backpack, and slung it over my shoulders.

With my bedroll under one arm, I locked the car and set off towards

the trailhead. I nodded to a couple of hikers along the way, exchanging brief smiles.

I've been hiking and camping since I was a kid, and with every step, I felt the stress

of everyday life melting away. After about 30 minutes of walking, I decided to leave the marked trail.

That's the way I liked it, off the beaten path, finding my own spot in the heart of the woods.

...