Out in the shadowed timberlands beyond Big Springs Sno Park, where the forest hums with secrets and the air tastes faintly of pine resin and gunpowder. we stumbled into a hunter’s fever dream. A skull lashed to the tree like some tribal warning to the weak-hearted, its hollow eyes staring down centuries of instinct and madness. Moss draped over bone like the last ragged banner of a forgotten kingdom.

The campsite was quiet now, save for the buzzing of flies and the slow creak of the wind moving through dead branches. You could almost hear the echo of rifle shots and bootsteps in the dirt… or maybe that was just the woods whispering their ugly truths. This was no tourist trail, this was where the wild still claws back. We didn’t linger. Some things out here aren’t meant to be disturbed for long.