– October 2021 –
I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to share with your our spookiest travel experience to date. To preface this story: At the end of the day, for possibly the first time in the history of the Walmart parking-lot, I uttered the words “This is so much better than the other camping spot.”
It all began as we drove through the county line and into the small town of Cumberland, Kentucky. A gray Tacoma that had been behind us for about an hour was still on our tail even after a gas station stop. Annoying. We continue on towards the camping spot for the night and get to an even smaller town called Lynch, however, we only know it’s name from the signs. Neither of us have service and for some reason the town doesn’t exist on either of our pre-downloaded maps. Whatever, not the first time that’s happened, but the moment we got to this town, something felt off. The only signs of life here is the gray Tacoma, there are no other cars on the road, no lights on in any houses, no one walking around. The buildings in Lynch are dense, shiny school buses are crammed next to the decrepit remains of a coal mine which is pushed right up next to rows of houses and ivy-covered brick buildings. We stop in front of one of the abandoned buildings next to a well-manicured little park and take some photos with the creepy backdrop, I want to keep pushing into the town and taking more photos, Austin wants to leave, he just doesn’t feel right.
By this point we had been here 20-30 minutes and still haven’t seen so much as a butterfly. To be clear, it not as though this town looked like it had been sitting abandoned for years, it was as though everyone had spontaneously disappeared in a puff of smoke. We’re sure it’s just a weird coincidence that no one is around right now, but we leave anyway. As we make our way out of the little town the Tacoma suddenly appears behind us again. We hadn’t thought anything of it before, but what are the odds that this person was in this empty town for exactly the same amount of time as we were?
As we make our way up to the marked spot on IOverlander, coincidentally the tallest point in Kentucky, Mako starts to overheat. We pull over to the shoulder of the road thinking we’d hit two birds with one stone, cool the engine and be rid of our follower. But that doesn’t happen. The gray Tacoma pulls over at another pull-off 100 yards ahead of us and parks awkwardly so that they’re now facing us. Of course, for all we know, the driver of the gray Tacoma could be the grim reaper and we’d be none the wiser with windows that heavily tinted, so we just sit there. There is no way in hell I’m leaving before this weirdo and leading them to our camping spot. Nearly a full hour and about 3 seconds from losing my sanity later, the gray Tacoma eases onto the hwy and takes back off the way we came while we fixedly stare straight ahead and try to look as though this a totally normal day. Everything should be okay now, right? Nope.
About 15 minutes later, we get to the trailhead and begin maneuvering our way through the rocky ruts, desperate to be somewhere secluded and safe. Once we arrive, however, that gut-feeling doesn’t ease. There are a few overgrown shacks hidden amongst the trees, clearly nothing has been here in a long time and yet, inexplicably, one of the shacks is emitting a strange humming sound, a bit like a generator. I let Ivy out but she refuses to go anywhere near the tree line, I’m officially terrified, by all appearances we are alone and yet somehow it doesn’t feel that way. Austin and I keep glancing at each other as we busy ourselves with setting up Mako for the night, finally I say: “You know, at the expo some of the speakers at the Women in Overlanding Panel mentioned that they have a rule, if either of them feels like something is off they will leave, no questions asked.” Austin: “hmm that seems like a really good rule, we should do that” a beat of silence and I continue: “Unrelated, I’m pretty sure an axe murderer is going to kill us if we stay so I would like to maybe leave now” Austin: “oh thank god, this place is freaking me out and all I can think about is that the way we came in is the only way out.” Me: “ The mountain men could be barricading us in as we speak!” with that thought now out in the open, we packed up in record time despite the darkness and the fact that we had no idea where we were going. An hour later and I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see the Wal-mart sign glowing in the darkness. It shone like a beacon of safety, or at least witnesses, as we pulled in and let out a sigh of relief.
This marked the first time since leaving home that we’ve ever experienced that “gut-feeling” and for Austin, it was the first time in his life. It was a healthy lesson in always being aware of our surroundings and while I don’t know that we would have done anything different, it prompted an overdue conversation that the two of us needed to have about safety. We now have a code word for sketchy situations, a backup plan for when things go sideways, and have fleshed out some more precise boundaries going forward. Have you ever experienced that sinking feeling? What happened and what did you do?