A Story By: Benjamin Groff II© Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures

The wind howled through the pines as Boy Scout Troop 159 huddled together, trying to keep warm. Their campfire flickered weakly in the clearing, barely enough to fight the growing cold. The storm was coming, the first winter blast of the season. It had crept in on them like an ambush, driven by the low-pressure system spinning in from California’s Baja Peninsula.

Scoutmaster Pearson sat by the fire, pale and shivering. He’d confidently led them into the wilds of Mount Sopris, but now he looked lost, his breaths shallow. His assistant, Mr. Haines, leaned against a tree, coughing into a handkerchief. The boys had whispered that it could be Covid-19, but no one wanted to say it aloud.

“We sleep here,” Pearson rasped, his voice barely louder than the crackling fire. The boys exchanged worried glances, unsure of what to do.

“Shouldn’t we move, sir?” asked Danny, the oldest scout, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “Get lower before the snow hits?”

Pearson shook his head weakly. “Too far… it’s… it’s better to stay.”

They had marched for hours, though the cold terrain made it feel like days. Each step felt heavier as they passed by the marker where it was said John Denver had written “Rocky Mountain High.” The mountains loomed like sentinels in the fading light, watching the troops struggle.

But it wasn’t the storm that haunted their thoughts. It was the legend.

As they had set out that morning, Mr. Haines had told stories of Earl and Maynard, the two mysterious backwoodsmen who supposedly lived on the mountain. Most people thought they were fictional characters, spun from the drunken memories of old-timers in Carbondale’s pubs, but the boys had listened with wide eyes as Haines spoke, their imaginations running wild with the possibilities.

“No one ever sees ’em,” Haines had said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “But those who’ve been lost on this mountain and lived to tell the tale always say they felt… something. It’s like someone was watching. Some even claim Earl and Maynard saved them.”

With the snow already beginning to fall, Danny thought back to that tale. His gut twisted with uncertainty. Was there any truth to it?

“Come on, guys, get your sleeping bags out,” Danny urged, trying to sound calm despite his racing heart. The sky had darkened, and the storm clouds were heavy with snow. The wind snapped through the clearing like the mountain was breathing down on them. Fear and uncertainty hung in the air, thick and palpable.

Something rustled in the trees as the boys settled in for the night. Danny jerked his head up, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fire. He strained to listen, but the wind masked everything.

“Did you hear that?” one of the younger boys, Jacob, whispered.

Danny shook his head, not wanting to frighten the others, but deep down, he had heard it too. Something—or someone—was out there.

Hours passed, and the storm hit hard. Snow piled up quickly, covering their small camp in a thick, white blanket. The fire had gone out, and the temperature dropped below freezing. Danny shivered uncontrollably in his sleeping bag, his mind racing through every possible scenario. They were lost. They had sick leaders. And the storm was only getting worse.

Then, something changed.

In the middle of the night, Danny sat up when the wind howled loudest. The air felt different—calmer, almost still. He blinked in the dim light and noticed something strange. Just beyond the edge of their clearing, the snow had been disturbed. Large footprints—deep, wide, and unmistakable—led from the forest to the edge of their camp.

His heart pounded as he nudged Jacob awake. “Look at that,” Danny whispered, pointing to the unmistakable footprints. Jacob’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “Who-what is that? No one’s been out here!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of fear and wonder.

Jacob’s eyes widened. “Who—what is that? No one’s been out here!”

Suddenly, the sound of snapping branches filled the air. The boys froze, their breath catching in their throats. The smell of wood smoke drifted through the clearing from the shadows, though their own fire had long since died out.

“Come on,” Danny said, his voice shaky but determined. He grabbed a flashlight and motioned for Jacob to follow. “We’ve got to see where this leads.” Their fear was palpable, but they refused to let it paralyze them.

They followed the tracks, their boots crunching in the snow. The prints led them deeper into the woods, winding through the trees. The further they walked, the more a strange warmth surrounded them—almost unnatural, given the biting cold of the storm.

Then, they saw it.

An old cabin stood nestled between the trees, its roof sagging under the weight of the snow, but smoke curled from its chimney. The door creaked open slightly as if someone had left in a hurry.

Without thinking, Danny pushed the door wider. Inside, there was no one. But there was warmth. A fire roared in the stone hearth, and two tin mugs of coffee steamed on the table. More importantly, there were blankets, canned food, and an old map tacked to the wall with a safe path marked in pencil that led directly back to the mountain’s base.

The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances. “Who… who do you think was here?” Jacob whispered.

Danny shook his head slowly. His eyes drifted to the wall, where a small, yellowed note was pinned next to the map. Scrawled in faded ink were the initials, E&M.

“Do you think…?” Jacob began, but Danny cut him off with a glance. He didn’t know what to think.

The boys gathered supplies and hurried back to camp, guiding the others to the cabin. By dawn, the storm had eased, and they began their descent down the mountain, safe and warm.

No one spoke of the tracks, the fire, the cabin, or the initials on the wall.

But as they reached the base of the mountain, the legend of Earl and Maynard lived on—alive, as ever, in the back of their minds.