All Who Wander

By EJ Trask and Sean Thomas McDonnell

and

Oct 01, 2024

The hike was supposed to take four hours. Tori nervously checked her phone. It had been five and change. The pack rubbed her shoulders and she felt cold spots where she had sweat through her t-shirt, even in the cool fall air. Her toes, scrunched down in her brand-new hiking boots, screamed for a break.

She stopped in the middle of the trail and pulled one headphone out of her ear. She wasn’t supposed to wear headphones on this trip; they had been instructed to leave music behind and spend time with themselves. But Tori was not great at directions.

Now she pulled the other one out. She didn’t know what she was listening for, but feeling lost, she had the instinct to engage all her senses. She stilled, hearing the forest for the first time, trying to discern some signal that would tell her she was headed the right direction.

No signal came. But now that she was paying attention, she noticed two things: the woods smelled like Christmas, and the light was rapidly leaking out of the sky. Both made her anxious.

Familiar sensations kicked up— the quickening pulse of panic, followed by the rushing heat of anger in her cheeks.

I can’t die out here, can I?

How could those jerks at the YMCA send me out here with no help? They didn’t teach me anything!

She tried to remember how she was supposed to find the campsite, and realized she had no idea. In truth, she hadn’t paid attention for one second of that seminar. She had a picture of a hiking map on her phone, but she didn’t know which colored snaking line was hers, and there was no signal at all. She had to find her campsite before the sun disappeared.

Ken ran his hand over the bark of the redwood tree, feeling the wood fibers against his fingertips. He peeled off an already-loose chunk of husk, dropping it to the ground where his piss pooled in a root hollow at the base of the tree, the red bark darkening as the urine splashed on it. He thought about the date he’d circled on his calendar back home: October 9th; one week until the big day.

It had been some time since he’d been to the woods, and he’d forgotten how inspiring nature could be: the scent of the dirt and the damp, the stillness—

“Ken, let’s go! Time to praise God for all of this!”

“I’m going to the bathroom, one second!”

“What?”

“I’m peeing!”

”What are you seeing?”

“No—I’m taking a piss!”

“Oh, sorry!”

Ken shook off the remaining drops and zipped up his jeans. He was already regretting coming on this men’s prayer weekend camping trip with a few of the men from the church he’d joined not more than two months ago, and only accepted because he was desperate—it was the same reason he went to art school; the same reason he took up running: he was searching for the profound. Every poem read or written, every painting painted, and now, as a member of Rugged Cross Baptist, every prayer prayed. It all left him empty and starving—nothing satisfied him.

He read countless essays about how to feel at peace in this world, but he suspected that nobody was telling the truth. It all seemed like a gift basket of platitudes on a blanket of crinkle paper, all expertly wrapped in zen cellophane. Still, every morning at his computer, he’d rip open those baskets, just in case, and even spend the little money he had on the paid articles, which were better-looking baskets, but no less trite.

Ken knew, deep down, that religion wouldn’t be much different, but it was the only thing left for him to try; this would either work or, on October 9th, he’d force the significance himself—he’d force profundity.

As he trudged back to the campsite, twigs and leaves crunched beneath Ken’s feet. He wasn’t sure why Martin, the church choir director, had chosen a spot so secluded, as if God was like a deer, easily spooked by humans.

Tori had never been on the right path a single time in her life. Why would this be any different?

What if…what if I walk out of this forest right now? She thought, grabbing at solutions.

I could leave this backpack for someone who knows how to use it…that’s…that’s actually a random act of kindness! Without all this weight I can probably get back to my car in…three hours?

But it would be dark long before she got there. She knew this even as she fantasized a way out.

A well-trod crossroads: bad options all around. Her mother— the one who raised her, not the one who birthed her— had taught her only to curl up and cry, to wait for rescue or die waiting. But Tori was working to kill those habits.

“Ok, what are we doing? What’s our move?” Tori spoke aloud and appreciated the warm sound of her own voice in the quiet. She scanned the area around her for some clue.

“Don’t be dumb, for once in your life.”

To one side of the trail, she spotted a circular clearing. The flat ground was cushioned in brown pine needles, and the dying light coming through the leaves spotlighted it just for her.

“Ah-ha!” She shouted in an exaggerated, cartoonish attempt to cheer herself.

No one’s going to know if you don’t make it all the way to your precious campsite. This spot is literally just as good! Stop right now, put your feet up, and still get credit for the whole thing.

She hooked a thumb under her backpack strap and let it fall to the ground. It hit hard, rattling on impact. The sound made her jump and she froze, alert for a response, like maybe she had disturbed the trees themselves. This time she heard something. It sounded like a voice but she couldn’t make out words. She craned her neck, looking for movement in the woods, but the sound passed. Only the wind.

She crept to the ground and leaned back against the bag, still straining her ears. Could she really sleep out here?

“Grow up Tori,” she said under her breath. “It’s just trees.”

Ken thought he’d heard something to the west, like a shout, and a rattle, but the only other campsite in this area was a good mile to the east, so he figured it must be an animal.

But Ken’s mind went to those old horror movies his brother Jim used to watch when they were children. Movies his brother would force him to look at, holding Ken’s head straight and peeling open his eyes while cackling like a bully from an 80s movie. His brother still laughed about this when they spoke on the phone, and so did Ken. Still, he gets nervous walking alone at night, and occasionally, he’ll look beneath his bed before going to sleep.

“There he is,” said Martin. “We were beginning to think a bear got you.”

The other two men, Phil and Jack, laughed along.

“No, just using the restroom.”

“Wait, which tree did you use? The big one was mine,” said Jack, snickering at his own joke.

“It’ll be tough to find another tree out here, Jack,” said Phil, laying another log on the fire.

The sun had begun to set, and the only sound was the sap spitting and crackling from the wood in the campfire. The smoke curled up toward the tops of the redwoods, unfolding and reaching like a gentle hand before dissipating in the soft purple of dusk.

As the men began their bible discussion, Ken’s mind returned to those things that go bump in the night. He thought about Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Leatherface, and how scary it would be to meet one of them out here in the woods at night. It was interesting to him that they all wore masks—they weren’t interested in notoriety. Maybe he’d wear a mask, too, he thought.

“Ken?” said Martin.

“Yes?”

“We were wondering what you think of that?”

“Think of what?”

“What do you think the responsibility is for a man to his wife?”

“I’m not married.”

“Yes, we know, but one day you’ll marry….what do you think your responsibilities should be to your wife?”

“I’m not looking for a wife.”

“But one day, you might. Right?”

“Sure, sure,” Ken said, nodding. But meeting a woman was the furthest thing from his mind. The void required something of a larger magnitude to plug it up—something charged with emotion—real emotion, something taboo—or God.

“I’m not giving up,” Tori whispered.

“I’m not giving up!” She shouted it into the leaves, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“I’m going to camp the hell out of this place,” she added, dragging the pack in front of her with shaky hands. “Watch me.”

Tori had recently located her birth mother. She was cut deep to find a beautiful and happy-looking college professor, beaming out of the computer screen with straight white teeth and a perfect silver bob. She had three other kids, now in their twenties. Tori’s half siblings. Their photos showed athletic, smiling people, riding bikes and skiing.

Half siblings, whole strangers.

As she slid the tent out of her backpack, the smell of nylon took her back to the camping store, to a day of unlimited possibility. At the camping store you could trade money for dreams. She dumped the poles and spikes out on the ground and considered them, trying to see them with the same optimism now.

She had stalked her new family online for weeks but couldn’t bring herself to reach out. Tori was a mess. Anxious, brittle– imperfect, the self-help books would say. If she crashed into their lives, she would make everyone uncomfortable. They would be polite, probably, but no one would want her around. No, she needed to become a slightly better person first, a person her birth mother would regret letting go.

A weekend seminar at the YMCA had promised a start. With just one night of practice, and a healing solo camping trip in the majestic redwoods, she would have “a new sense of independence and self-reliance.” Her mother told her she was nuts, she had no business going out in the woods where anything could happen. But Tori suspected she was feeling insecure about Tori meeting her blood relatives. She knew she could become the kind of person they would want to meet.

Now she thought of Beth, the older woman who helped set up the tent on practice night. She could precisely see Beth’s lined face, her weird puffed-up hair dyed way too dark. But she could not recall what Beth was doing with her hands. Tori grabbed a couple poles and tried to connect them, but the jumble seemed hopeless.

Maybe if she ate something she could figure it out. She turned her attention to her camping stove, shiny as a brand-new quarter. As she unfolded its flimsy legs, she swore she could already smell smoke, the cozy scents of a fireplace wafting around her head. Her stomach growled; she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

She found the plastic envelope of freeze-dried chili she packed. Standing in the camping store, she had pictured herself slurping this chili under the stoic, life-affirming redwoods. She whistled a few notes now, feeling more cheerful with dinner on the way.

She would wear hiking boots and a golden tan when she met them, her new family.

The chili package said to mix with water, so she reached for her water bottle. But when she grabbed it, the bottle felt light. Of course it did– she had been drinking from it for five hours. The memory hit her like a slap in the face: her campsite would have had a spigot. Suddenly her mouth was dry.

Tori was a fraud. She had no business being here. Tears burned the backs of her eyes and her chest felt tight.

You are pathetic, she told herself. She kicked the stove and it clanged across the clearing. Meanwhile, the night sky seemed to float down from the trees to wrap her in darkness.

She heard the crack of a dry twig and flinched. Was it only the sounds of the woods, or was it a footstep?

Tori tore through the backpack. At the very bottom, she found a yellow-handled pocket knife and wrapped her fingers around it. The knife felt comfortable and cozy, the only thing in her backpack that worked.

Still, her muscles tensed at every sound: the groan of massive branches moving against each other, the pitter-patter of falling leaves. After a while, the trees themselves seemed to take on voices, moaning and grunting. She was certain she could hear breathing when the wind blew. A shiver passed through her and she wrapped her arms around her knees, listening with an attentiveness she had never before attempted.

“Can I ask you guys a question?” said Ken.

The men leaned forward.

Ken continued, “Has God ever spoken to you?”

The men nodded. Martin was the first to respond, “God speaks, but only if we are open to what He has to say.”

“Martin is right,” said Jack. “You have to be open. But I have good news, brother. I think God has put you on a path right here, tonight.” Jack placed his hand on Ken’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

Ken liked the sound of that, although he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. With October 9th looming, God was running out of time. The oppressive darkness—this swirling abyss of nothingness—was too much to bear.

“Can we pray about it?” asked Ken.

The men bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

“Dear heavenly Father, up in heaven,” said Ken, “hallowed be thy name. I ask that you speak with me…to let me know you’re there…and to…and to fill up this hole within me.” Ken began to weep. “If it be Your will, save me from myself…if it be Your will…”

The other men opened their eyes but kept their heads bowed.

Ken continued, his voice now strained and growing louder, until he was nearly shouting, “And Lord, if it be Your will, please stop me from doing harm. Stop me from being harmful and doing harm. Stop me from thinking about what I’ve been thinking about…” He paused, and in his mind, the circled date pulsed steadily along like a heartbeat. “Stop me, Lord! If it be Your will.” Ken heard his voice as if it were coming from within the woods and not from his own mouth. He closed his eyelids so tight he thought they might crush his eyeballs. “And Lord God almighty, up in heaven, on Your throne, looking down on me, looking down on us all…why don’t You come down here and stop us? Come down here, won’t You? And fill us with…fill us with something! Why don’t You—”

Martin coughed.

Ken opened his eyes. The men were staring at him. The fire spit and popped.

“Stop you from doing what, Ken?” asked Martin.

Ken shook his head, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Nothing, I’m just feeling…do you ever wonder why the world is violent?”

“Well, I suppose I wonder why God allows bad things to happen. Is that what you mean?”

The men nodded along.

Ken looked up at the stars. “No. Not really. I guess what I mean is, do you think that maybe satisfaction can only be obtained through brutality? That maybe there’s something in violence that…I don’t know…that brings us closer to our true nature?”

“How do you mean?” asked Jack.

“All these school shootings…like, don’t you think there’s a reason why there’s been an uptick?”

“I think it’s social media,” said Phil.

“We could use common sense gun laws in this country,” replied Martin.

Jack scoffed.

“Yeah,” said Ken, “maybe. Or maybe it’s because people want something big to happen–something to cut through the nothingness.”

The men nodded, but nobody spoke.

Ken forced a smile, “I’m going to grab myself a beverage. Anyone need anything?”

“I’ll take a Pepsi,” said Jack, then dropped his shoulders as if he had commanded himself to look casual. “Mind bringing me my bag on your way back. I brought something I want to show you guys.”

Ken walked over to the cooler and grabbed a couple sodas. Behind him, he heard the men speaking in hushed tones.

CRACK.

A sound came from within the woods. Ken peered through the trees but didn’t see anything moving. He listened for a moment and heard it again. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was bigger than a raccoon.

“I think I just heard a bear out in the woods,” Ken said, handing the bag and soda over to Jack.

“Well, I have just the thing to scare it off,” said Jack, unzipping his backpack. He reached in and pulled out a large shell. “My nephew brought this back from Hawaii for me. It’s called a conch shell.” He put the shell to his mouth and blew.

Doooohooooo. Doooohooooooooo.

“Pretty cool, right?” he said.

A sound rolled through the forest that turned Tori’s insides to water. A loud, eerie bellow. It came from every direction at once, the wail of a thousand ghouls moving through the trees. Her skin turned to ice.

She scrambled to her feet, fumbling her knife. It bounced off the toe of her boot and she dove for it. Her hand was slippery on the plastic handle but she aimed it out into the dark.

“Those are blown at luaus, right?” said Phil.

Martin chimed in, “One of my favorite instruments. Sounds otherworldly, don’t it? They’re blown for many reasons: luaus, yes, but also weddings, entering sacred spaces, and funerals.”

“Where is the roasted pig, Jack?” said Phil. They all laughed, all but Ken, who poked at the fire with a stick, watching the embers rise and then vanish like they’d never existed.

The dark came on quickly, and the trees beyond the firelight’s reach soon disappeared into nothingness. Having discussed their duties as Christian husbands and as men of God, in more of a general sense, the men filed off to their tents to sleep. As a joke, Jack blew on the conch shell once more.

Doooohooooo. Doooohooooooooo.

The sound came again, a loud, moaning cry that shook the air around her. Terror stiffened her arms and legs, her feet frozen in place. The noise was so horrible, she wanted to cover her ears against it. But instead she swung her hand blindly, the knife slicing through black space. Her panicked brain struggled to come up with any possible explanation for that otherworldly cry.

A dusting of moonlight reflected off the ground, allowing her to see to the edge of her improvised camp. She gripped the knife so hard her knuckles cramped. She crept to the edge of the clearing and strained her senses.

Ken stared into the fire, watching the flames writhe and buckle, stretch and yield, and when he’d played out October 9th in his head for the third time, his heart frantically thrumming from anticipation and dread, he stood, poured the remainder of his soda over the fire, and walked into the forest to find his pissing tree.

The moon chose the path for Ken, and he felt a primal gratitude for this kindness. It struck him that maybe God was real and, perhaps, here with him now. He felt sublime, and in this sublimity, he felt acknowledged by a higher power. Instead of stopping to pee, he kept walking and walking—and as he moved further and further away from camp, the pulsing date in his mind slowed until there was no longer a question; the date was set. He stopped walking. He felt one with the night and an indifference to the world of men so satisfying that a smile spread across his face. Jack was right; God had put him on this path.

Tori paced the clearing, burning off adrenaline. Could she have imagined that noise? Nothing else made sense. She already couldn’t remember what it sounded like, its strange contours like water in her hands.

Then she heard rustling. There was something out there.

She smelled something strange. It was familiar, yeasty and sour with a halo of spice. Not the forest but–

Old Spice. She froze. There was a man out there, hiding beyond her sight, hunting her down. Could he have made that sound to scare her?

She thought she saw a form– a blank space, a shadow– move through the trees.

When it stopped just beyond her, she felt her trembling fear swallowed by a desperate sadness, a yawning hole in the middle of her chest. She was finally on her way to becoming someone better. She was on her way to meet her family. And now some creep in the woods was coming to take it all away.

Her senses taut, she heard him take a single breath.

No. You aren’t going to take it away, she thought, and she lunged into the darkness, bringing the knife up, connecting with something heavy and thick.

Ken took a breath and, before he could figure out what was happening, felt a biting pain followed by pressure beneath his ribs.

The shadow gurgled and windmilled its arms. Tori panicked. Her mind went to those slasher movie monsters, impossible to kill.

He tried to shout, but when he opened his mouth, his words came out wet and rusty.

For a moment, he watched the silhouette—was it Voorhees?—backing away.

The moon had abandoned him; a cruel trick. He blindly flailed his arms, his knuckles smacking and raking against the spongey bark of a redwood tree. He felt the life draining from him. Something protruded from his belly. It was a knife.

The date in his mind jumped to late October, then November, December—July!—then it was gone.

He felt a cozy, wonderful sensation—a warmth expanding throughout his body—it was God.

God was here to speak to him!

She pulled the knife out, feeling her hand slip over the blade, slicing open her palm. She roared and swung her hand out wide to the right, shoving the knife toward what she thought was his face. She heard a crunch, and his body crumpled onto her, knocking her to the ground.

In his final moments, Ken heard a chorus of angels singing.

Lying underneath her attacker, Tori felt his blood drip onto her face. But he didn’t make a sound. She could see the handle of her knife sticking out of his ear and she reached up and jerked it free.

She shoved him off her and stood, her muscles twitching.

She rifled through her pack once more, coming out with a first aid kit still swathed in its retail plastic. Tori wiped the bloody blade on her jeans and used it to slice open the package. She found a strip of clean, white gauze which she wrapped around her wound, tucking the end neatly under. As her pulse slowed, her mind was quiet, maybe for the first time in her life.

She looked at the dead man but felt no regrets.

Maybe I’m in shock, she thought. But she wasn’t shaky or lightheaded. She noticed the pristine beauty of the clearing for the first time. The soft white moon, the crunchy pine needles, the ancient trees that smelled like Christmas. She felt radically, lucidly calm.

Whatever was coming next– maybe the dead guy’s partner would come barreling through the trees or the police would jump out of a helicopter with searchlights to take her away– she wasn’t afraid.

She could handle it.