I've been a lurker here for years, and I've always read the creepy camping encounter stories with a mix of fascination and

skepticism. You always think, that wouldn't happen to me. I'm too experienced. I'd know what to do.

I was wrong. This happened to me and my girlfriend Sarah two years ago. We're married now,

and we haven't set foot in the Great Smoky Mountains

National Park since. We probably never will. First, some context. Sarah and I are not rookie

hikers. We're both gear nerds. We do multi-day backcountry trips in the Rockies, the Cascades,

you name it. We know how to read a topo map, how to use our gear,

and how to handle wildlife. We carry a GPS, a satellite messenger, bear spray, the whole nine

yards. The smokies were practically our backyard. We'd been dozens of times. This trip was in late

October. The leaf peepers, tourists who come for the fall

colors, were mostly gone, especially on the weekdays. We'd planned a three-day loop starting from

a less popular trailhead on the North Carolina side. The weather was perfect, crisp, clear, and cold

at night. The first day was incredible, 10 out of 10. We

hiked about nine miles, saw maybe two other people on the trail, and found a perfect spot

to make camp. The rules in the smokies are that you're supposed to stay in designated backcountry

sites or shelters. We weren't. We were about half a mile off the main trail,

down in a small, flat hollow, next to a creek. It was textbook Leave No Trace camping.

We were quiet. We had our bear bag, and we felt like we were the only two people on earth.

We made dinner, cleaned up, and got a small, responsible fire going.

We sat there for an hour, just talking and enjoying the absolute perfect silence.

The kind of silence that's so deep it almost has a sound.

Around 8.30 at night, the fire was down to embers.

...