My name is Patrick Kind.

I have no proof of what happened to me in December of 1990, 24 years ago now.

When I was 20 years old, I wanted to tell a story one more time before even more detail

is lost to me.

On a Sunday morning, I think it was about the eighth.

I drove my old dots and for hours into the mountains of West Virginia to this place as

remote as I'd ever been, a very small town called Gerenza, about 30 miles east of Elkins.

I'd booked a room in an old bed and breakfast for a couple of days during winter break from

college.

My favorite thing to do back then was head off somewhere all alone, a couple of books,

just disappear for two days or so.

I was too young and dumb to cancel the trip, even when I got a weather report for Gerenza

and the surrounding area that was promising significant snowfall.

The last hour and a half of driving was all isolated mountain roads and by noon the car

was slipping because the snow was packed hard on the pavement.

Sometimes getting really worried but I'd reached a point where going back seemed it would

be as dicey as going forward so I just pushed on.

The last 10 miles took me 45 minutes to travel.

I was scared to go any faster because I was afraid of wrecking.

It felt like I was the only one on the road.

I saw two plows going in the other direction that was it.

I barely realized it when I entered Gerenza.

...