Preston writes “This experience happened during an autumn fishing trip for brook trout in one of the most isolated regions of the Adirondack Mountains.
To reach this area is no small task. First, you have to cross a reservoir by boat an eight mile ride across water that itself lies nearly forty miles from the nearest town. Once across, you reach the trailhead. From there, the route winds past a series of ponds deeper into the wilderness.
The first leg is a 1.2 mile hike to the first lake. From there, you can either hike around it or paddle straight across. My fishing partner and I use Kevlar/carbon-fiber canoes light enough to carry, so if weather allows, we paddle the lake instead. That lake is roughly two miles long. After taking out on the far side, the trail continues another 1.5 miles into the Five Ponds Wilderness.
At the second lake, the trail turns north and becomes more of a bushwhack through old-growth timber, with mountains rising on both sides. That stretch is another two miles, heading deeper into the wilderness until you finally reach the destination lake. This area is considered one of the three most isolated locations in the entire Adirondack Park relative to civilization.
It’s an absolutely stunning place completely secluded, ringed by mountains, with water that looks glacial and holds trophy class brook trout. It’s truly one of my favorite places on Earth.
We arrived around mid-morning on the first day and immediately started fishing. We caught plenty of fish, and everything felt normal. As evening approached, we gathered firewood, set up our tents, cooked dinner, and sat around talking. At one point, I stood up and did a Bigfoot call followed by a loud tree knock. It was something we used to do as a joke in less remote areas to mess with other campers.
My buddy laughed, and we turned in for the night.
Sometime in the middle of the night, we were jolted awake by the sound of a large tree falling not far from camp. It scared the hell out of us. The night was completely calm no wind at all. What struck us immediately was the silence. No peeper frogs. No wood frogs. No loons on the lake. No breeze. Just absolute stillness. It felt wrong.
We stayed in our tents until around 4:30 a.m., when we were awakened again this time by a rhythmic pounding, like something repeatedly striking a tree. The hits were forceful, evenly spaced, about every three seconds. It continued steadily until after sunrise, coming from the direction of the trailhead.
We tried to rationalize it. I suggested a woodpecker, though I didn’t believe it. Then I floated the idea that maybe two moose were sparring since it was close to the rut but neither of us bought that either. The consistency and power of the blows didn’t feel natural. It also made us rethink the fallen tree from earlier. I wondered if it could’ve been a beaver, since they’re nocturnal and nearby ponds were close but none of it fully added up.
We eventually got moving, launched the canoes, and spent the day fishing. We practice catch and release unless a fish is mortally wounded, which unfortunately happened that day. We kept that fish, cooked it for dinner, then went back out on the water until dark.
As we paddled back to camp at twilight, I noticed what looked like a dark shape partially concealed behind a massive old-growth pine that leaned out over the lake. It was nearly night, and the woods were pitch black but whatever this was appeared darker than the surrounding darkness. I chalked it up to my imagination and kept paddling.
Later, as we were getting ready to crawl into our tents, I noticed lights hovering over the lake. I’d seen these before on a few occasions. There was one main light above the water, and smaller lights would split off from it, drifting away on either side. Eventually, the main light dimmed, and the smaller lights faded out entirely.
I’ll be honest I’m terrified of aliens, and having seen unexplained things before, I was already on edge. Lying in my tent, I suddenly felt heavy thuds on the ground. I yelled to Casey and grabbed my headlamp, assuming a black bear had wandered into camp.
When I stepped out, I found a snowshoe hare at my feet.
This was the largest hare I’ve ever seen and it showed absolutely no fear. It hopped right up to me and just sat there, right next to my boots. We couldn’t understand why a wild animal would act that way. It was as if it was seeking shelter. The hare stayed by the fire with us like it was an old friend. Eventually, I went back to my tent and left it there by the fire.
Later that night, another tree fell nearby. We lay in our tents talking quietly about it before eventually drifting off. Once again, near dawn, the tree pounding started same cadence, same duration continuing until the sun came up.
That day, we headed to the north end of the lake, where a massive dome-shaped mountain rises with cliffs and sweeping views. That end of the lake acts like a natural amphitheater. Casey decided to hike the mountain to try to get cell service and check the weather for our departure.
The climb is brutal you have to crawl on your hands and feet for much of it. The mountain rises about 3,000 feet, with sections that feel nearly vertical. On the back side is an exposed cliff overlooking other ponds, and that’s where you can sometimes get fleeting reception.
While Casey was climbing and calling his wife, I stayed behind fishing along the opposite shoreline, parallel to the mountain. At one point, I saw trees moving on the slope and assumed it was him. I yelled out his nickname.
What answered me was one of the most nerve wracking sounds I’ve ever heard a blood-curdling scream that sounded like a woman being murdered, assaulted, and losing a child all at once. I know that sounds extreme, but it’s the only way I can describe it.
Worse still, whatever made that sound was moving fast crashing through trees and running across terrain so steep we’d had to crawl up it earlier. The scream shook me to my core. I was convinced Casey was dying.
I gathered myself and paddled hard toward the sound, yelling his name. No response. Eventually, he came down the mountain. I confronted him, telling him not to mess around like that I thought he was in serious trouble.
He looked at me completely confused and said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
He told me he’d been on the far side of the mountain facing another pond. He heard something faint but assumed I’d hooked a big brook trout or was yelling in excitement.
That night was deeply unsettling. The woods felt wrong unnaturally silent. It sounded like people talking at the far end of the pond, always just out of earshot, followed by faint, distant screams throughout the night.
Morning couldn’t come fast enough.
We woke again to the same rhythmic tree pounding. This time, I decided to investigate. I headed toward the sound, crossing a creek and climbing a nearby hill. As soon as I reached the area where I believed it was coming from, it stopped instantly.
That was it. I packed up my gear and canoe, and we got out of there.
About a half mile down the trail on our way out, we passed through a muddy stretch between two hills. In the middle of the mud pit about twenty feet long and twelve feet wide was a single, distinct footprint. It looked as if something had stepped straight down into the mud from the hillside and climbed back out the other side.
I took a video, which I later lost when I misplaced the SD card, but I did save a screenshot that I still have. Inside the print was a mature beech leaf typically three to five inches long placing the track somewhere between twelve and fifteen inches in length.
I don’t know what was going on out there. I’ve spent my entire life in the woods, often solo, and had been to that lake many times before without issue. I’ve only returned once since, in 2018. Other hardcore backcountry anglers I know have mentioned strange feelings in that area, though nothing as intense.
This wasn’t the only odd experience I’ve had in that wilderness either. Another incident occurred even deeper in the Five Ponds Wilderness among untouched old growth forest stranger still. You couldn’t pay me to hike the one way, eleven plus miles back in there again.
Something is going on in that section of the Adirondacks. I’ve heard stories from others that only reinforce that feeling.
As a final oddity, on our way out that day, Casey and I ran into two armed military personnel carrying AR-style rifles. They were friendly, walked us back toward their camp, showed us around, and then escorted us partway before we continued to our vehicle.
The whole experience was strange, start to finish and it’s stayed with me ever since.”
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