Weatherman & The Cuyahago Valley Buzzer (National Park)

This story was not told to me by a hiker like most of my others, but rather was witnessed by myself firsthand. This encounter occurred very close to my home woods of Ohio, way up North in Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Cuyahoga Valley is a smaller park, one of the few parks in the East Coast area (comparatively), and doesn’t get near as much love as it should. This being said, it’s somewhat of a private heaven for those of us who take the trip into the valley, escaping the more populous of parks.

To lay some basis for this tale, I will describe its characters. Due to the nature of the sites at the Valley, having two to three people per group can be optimal. I had ached for a return to the forest, as it had been a fair amount of time since my last excursion. So, after some convincing, I managed to call up an old friend of the area and convince him to take the hike with me. He wasn’t a camper at all; 90% of what he carried that weekend was gear borrowed from me.

I was excited to take him on the trip with me. For those less experienced in the world of the outdoors, a big tradition and rite of passage for any novice outdoorsman to earn a “trail name,” a unique nickname given by other, more experienced hikers, usually in reference to an event at a camp out or something like that. My trail name is Spades, due to some card game fun on one of my first long hikes. The reason I am explaining all of this is because I had decided to take it upon myself to find an appropriate trailname for my friend. I had assumed it would be something silly, like a friend of mine who’s name was Ramen-bomben, following his creation of an instant ramen – potato – spam creation.

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Skinwalker?

This is actually a story from my brother, Pete. Back in 2012 him and my grandpa used to hunt off the Dueber Extension in a large area of woods. I should mention that both Pete and my grandpa were qualified army sharpshooters as it’s important info later.

The woods they hunt in don’t have many houses or anything around except a small unmarked graveyard with about 10 graves in it. They were squirrel hunting and Pete heard something. He turned to see what looked like a large dog with mange. It either didn’t have a tail or it was tucked between its legs. They weren’t sure. It walked across the path and into the woods. Our grandpa decided to call it a hell hound.

A few weeks later my brother was hunting by himself and he saw it again. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with it so he decided to try and put it out of its misery so shot it a few times but said it never even flinched. He knows he hit it because it wasn’t standing very far from him. It ran from him and he followed for a bit but never saw any evidence of it or any blood.

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Stay out of the woods of Ohio

I grew up in the city, my parents were both backwoods people but when my sister and I were born they’d been forced to move, so as soon as we were old enough my parents quickly sought out a large plot of land and started building a log cabin like they’d always planned.

Having finished my last year of high school I’d spent most of my time working odd jobs around the property with my dad until College started in the fall, and this night like many others I’d just pulled into the drive from the drive to town with a bag of stuff for my dad. It was late and we were going to finish the project in the morning so I set the parts in the barn, locked my truck and went up to bed.

Sleep had come quickly after the long day but it’d only been an hour before I heard a familiar noise, rustling. living next to a large plot of woods and with a number of cats on the property working as mousers it wasn’t uncommon for there to be coyotes on the property, so I got out of bed, grabbed my dad’s old rifle, a 30-30 caliber lever action that we kept for these occasions and stepped outside.

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