The truck ride up the forest service road was longer than I remembered. Gravel and dust stretched for miles, winding up the ridge like it didn't want anyone to get there. I hadn't been assigned to Black Hollow Lookout Tower in years. Last time I'd come, I was a fresh recruit, fumbling with maps and binoculars, trying not to look like I had no idea what I was doing. Now, with two decades of ranger work behind me, I felt the kind of tired confidence that comes from knowing you've seen worse.
The tower came into view in the late afternoon sun. Rusted steel beams held a tiny cabin above the trees, a ladder clinging to the side like a spine. I parked the truck on the small flat patch at the base, engine cutting off with a final, reluctant cough. The silence hit me immediately, thick and heavy. No birds calling, no wind in the trees, no faint hum of far-off highways. Just quiet, stretching out in every direction.
I opened the back of the truck and started unloading my gear: three weeks' worth of food, my sleeping bag, extra blankets, my camp stove, water, and the small bag with my personal items. I checked off everything mentally as I carried it up the ladder. The steps creaked under my weight, metal against metal, and I reminded myself to be careful — it's easy to twist an ankle climbing a hundred feet up with a backpack.
Once inside, I dropped my pack against the far wall and looked around. The tower cabin was small but functional. A narrow cot in the corner, a metal desk bolted to the floor, shelves with old maps, and a small propane heater that looked like it hadn't been used in months. I ran my hands over the desk, checking for dust or damage. Everything seemed serviceable.
The first thing I did was check the radio. I flipped the switch, hearing the familiar static buzz. A few crackles later, I caught Carter's voice from the main station.
"Black Hollow, this is Base. Go ahead, Holt."
"Base, this is Holt. I'm on site, everything secure."
There was a pause. Static made it hard to hear clearly.
"Copy, Holt. Make sure you check in twice a day. Weather looks clear. Over."
"Will do."
I flipped the radio off and set it on the desk, taking a deep breath. I liked the routine of these rotations. Three weeks alone in a tower gave me time to think, time to get away from the noise of everything else. The solitude wasn't lonely — it was quiet, and quiet was something I didn't get enough of in the office.
Next, I unpacked my food. Cans of beans, oatmeal, jerky, instant coffee, powdered milk. I arranged them neatly on the small counter by the window. My diet wasn't exciting, but I wasn't here to be gourmet. I wanted to eat, stay alert, and not have to think too much. I unpacked the sleeping bag and blankets, making the cot as comfortable as it could be.
I pulled out my journal and pen. This was something I always did when I was on lookout duty. Not for anyone else — just me. A record of the days, weather, wildlife, the occasional oddity. I liked the act of writing, the way it slowed my mind and let me organize my thoughts.
I wrote the first entry slowly, careful, savoring the quiet.
Day One. Arrival. Tower secure. Weather clear. Supplies checked. Two weeks alone ahead. Feeling good about it. Silence is… surprisingly welcome.
I paused, looking out the window. The sun was dipping behind the western ridge, turning the forest gold. It looked endless, unbroken, perfect in its quiet. I could see the tops of the trees swaying gently, a hint of movement in the canopy. No animals yet, but it was early. I made a mental note to check for deer tracks in the morning.
By the time I finished my journal entry, twilight had settled in. I decided to make dinner — beans heated over the small propane stove, with a slice of jerky to make it feel more like a meal. The smell was comforting, familiar. I sat on the cot with my back to the window, eating slowly and listening to the quiet. It was so quiet I could hear my own breathing, the faint drip of condensation from the cabin roof, even the occasional creak of the tower swaying slightly in the wind.
After eating, I cleaned up and made sure everything was secure. I checked the fire extinguisher — old, but functional. The flashlight batteries were fresh. The map and compass were on the desk, along with the binoculars. I ran through a mental checklist of emergencies: if there was a fire, if someone injured themselves, if a storm rolled in. Everything seemed accounted for.
I moved to the window, binoculars in hand, scanning the ridge and valleys. It was all forest, uninterrupted. No lights, no movement, nothing out of place. I noted a few points in the valley I'd want to mark tomorrow — a clear overlook, a small stream, a cluster of trees that might be good for deer spotting.
As darkness fell fully, I lit a small battery lamp on the desk. The glow was soft, warm, and it made the cabin feel less empty. I leaned back in the chair, stretching my arms, feeling the stiffness from the climb. My mind was calm, wandering over the last few days leading up to this rotation. No emergencies, no paperwork, no calls from dispatch except the brief check-ins. Just this. Two weeks of being the only person for miles, the only witness to the forest waking and sleeping.
By ten o'clock, I was tired. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and crawled into the cot. I left the window cracked a little, letting in the cool night air. The forest outside was dark, but I could see the faint outline of the nearest ridge against the stars. No wind, no animals, no sounds besides the occasional rustle of leaves and my own heartbeat.
Sleep didn't come immediately, but that was fine. I lay there, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, listening, absorbing the quiet. There was a sense of anticipation, though I didn't know why. Maybe it was just being somewhere isolated again. Maybe it was the new rotation, a fresh start. Or maybe it was the forest itself, holding its secrets close.
Eventually, my breathing slowed, and I drifted off.
Tomorrow, I'd check the perimeter, scout the valley from the tower, and start my real watch.