Navajo Elder Warned Me: Never Camp Near the Uinta Basin
I’m not much of a camper. Not anymore, anyway. Not after what happened the last time. I’ve had my share of strange nights outdoors, things I brushed off with laughter or blamed on beer. But what happened in the Untan Basin didn’t leave room for jokes. It took something from me. And no matter what I try, I can’t forget it.
The plan started like so many others, a group chat full of friends itching to escape their routines. I tossed out the idea of a weekend camping trip on my uncle’s remote patch of land in the Uinta Basin. Private property, total solitude, and enough room to unwind. Everyone said they were in.
But, one by one, excuses came: family emergencies, last-minute work calls, sick kids. In the end, it was just me and Chris.
Chris and I had been friends since middle school. The kind of guy who’d drink warm beer with a smile and sleep under the stars like it was a five-star resort. He was always down for an adventure, which is probably why I didn’t think twice when it came down to just the two of us. We’d camped together before, and always had a great time.
My uncle’s property had always been a bit of a mystery. He bought the land years ago, said he planned to build a small getaway cabin. But then one day, out of the blue, he changed his mind. No explanation, no construction, just silence. He never sold it, either. Said it was better left alone. I remembered thinking that was odd. Land like that isn’t cheap, and he wasn’t exactly rolling in money. But when I asked him about using it for a quick weekend trip, he said yes. Hesitated for a moment, but said yes.
Only asked one question, just one. “You going alone?” I told him Chris was definitely coming, and maybe a few other people. At that point, some of the others hadn’t backed out yet. That seemed to relax him a little, but he still paused before hanging up. “Just… keep it close to the fire,” he said. “And if anything feels off, pack up and leave. Don’t wait.” That stuck with me more than I expected.
Chris met me at my house early Friday morning. We started loading up, we had two coolers, a tent big enough for both of us, a Bluetooth speaker, and enough whisky to kill a bear. The drive out was full of good vibes and music, exactly what I’d wanted. Clear skies, no cell service, and a weekend off the grid. On the way, we stopped at a supply store near the basin. We figured we’d grab ice, some extra propane, snacks, and maybe a couple of beers to accompany the whisky.
That’s when we met the old man. He ran the register, long gray braid, skin like worn leather, eyes that felt too sharp to belong in a place that sold beef jerky and energy drinks. He rang us up in silence, but when he saw our gear, his gaze locked onto mine. “You boys camping up in the Basin?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a couple nights. Private land. My uncle owns it.” His face didn’t change, but his hands paused over the register. “Stay close to the fire,” he said, echoing my uncle. Then his voice dropped even lower. “And don’t listen to the voices.
Chris smirked. “You going to tell us there’s skinwalkers or something?”
The man didn’t laugh. His gaze locked onto mine, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and flat. “Don’t joke about them. You hear anything out there at night, talking, laughing, calling your name, you keep your mouth shut. You don’t answer.”
I gave a polite nod, trying not to seem rattled. But something about the man’s tone hit deeper than any touristy ghost story.
He slid the bag across the counter but kept one hand on it. “They hunt out there in twos or threes. Circle you. One distracts while the others wait. And if they’ve taken a liking to your voice, they’ll wear it. Use it. Try to make you step out.”
Chris said, “Thanks for the advice, sarcastically”, but the elder wasn’t done. “They’ll wear the ones you trust like skin. But it ain’t them. If you answer, they’ll come inside..Just wait ‘til dawn.”
Chris gave me a look as we walked out, half amusement, half concern. “You always get the cryptic prophets, or is this just a Utah thing?” I laughed it off, but the elder’s words lingered in the back of my mind. It’s one thing to hear campfire stories from friends. It’s another when a stranger with eyes like stone tells you not to answer voices in the dark.
The drive into the basin took another forty minutes. The landscape changed slowly, rolling desert hills giving way to jagged rock and gnarled junipers. We passed a few old fences, a rusted-out trailer, and then nothing but open land. My uncle’s plot sat on a slight rise, surrounded by emptiness. No neighbors. No structures. Just space.
We parked by the old boundary marker, a bent T-post wrapped in orange tape, and started unloading. The sun was already low, casting long shadows that stretched across the red dirt. We set up quickly. The tent went up, the chairs came out, and Chris lit the first fire. I cracked a beer and leaned back, already feeling like I’d made the right call.
That first night felt normal. We stayed up late, trading stories, laughing about the elder’s warning, and cooking two perfect rib-eye stakes on the fire. Before long, it was late, our large fire reduced to just coals. The air turned cold fast, and by the time we zipped up the tent, the sky was glittering with stars. Not a single cloud. Not a sound beyond the wind and our own tired breathing.
The next morning, we hiked the ridgeline to get a view of the canyon mouth. It was beautiful in a raw, untouched way, burnt orange rock, dry creek beds, the kind of silence that presses on your chest. Chris took a few pictures on his phone. I just watched the horizon. Something about the way the light moved didn’t feel right. Like the shadows didn’t completely match the landscape.
On the way back, we found animal tracks in the dirt. Hoof prints. Then paw prints. Then… something else. Long, narrow impressions like fingers dragging through sand. Chris said it was probably just erosion or runoff. I nodded, but I didn’t believe it.
We spent the afternoon exploring the dry wash behind my uncle’s plot. Around dusk, Chris wandered off to gather kindling, and I heard him yell something, just one word. It sounded like my name. I called back, but he didn’t respond. When I found him a few minutes later, he was standing completely still, staring into a stand of trees.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Thought I saw someone,” he muttered, not looking at me. “But… I think” then he paused, “Aw, never mind.”
That night, we didn’t joke as much. The fire felt smaller, the wind louder. Chris kept checking over his shoulder, swearing he heard footsteps out past the brush line, beyond the reach of the fire’s light. I tried to reassure him, told him desert acoustics can play tricks, but even I wasn’t convinced. We decided to turn in for the evening; it was getting late, and we were leaving in the morning.
Around midnight, something passed behind the tent. We heard it. A slow, dragging step in the dirt, just a few feet from where we sat. Chris froze mid-sentence. I turned down the lantern, and we sat in the dark, listening.
No breathing. No footsteps. Just the scrape of something dry across canvas, like claws or nails.
Then, from just outside the tent wall, a voice: “Hey… you guys got any water?”
It was a man’s voice, casual, like someone wandering in off the road. But we hadn’t seen a soul all day. No cars. No hikers. Nothing. Chris whispered, “Did someone find our camp?” I didn’t answer. I was too busy staring at the zipper, watching it twitch. Not unzip. Just tremble slightly. Like something was testing it from the outside.
We didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Whoever it was didn’t call again, just stood there.
Then the voice came back, slightly different this time. Slower. Less sure.
“Hey… you guys got any… water?”
It repeated itself, same words, same cadence, like it was replaying a recording that had started to degrade. The voice wavered between tones, like someone trying on different masks.
Chris leaned close. “That’s not right,” he mouthed.
A few seconds passed. Then the voice changed again.
This time, it sounded exactly like Chris.
“Open up. It’s me. I forgot my lighter.”
He was sitting right next to me.
Our eyes widened, and my chest tightened. Chris was pale as ash, staring at the tent wall where the voice had come from. He shook his head slowly, terrified. I held my breath, listening as the voice mimicked him again, this time adding a low laugh. A sound I’d heard him make a hundred times before. But this wasn’t him.
I reached for the zipper of the tent, not to open it, just to make sure it was still closed. My fingers trembled. Chris mouthed, “Don’t.” We sat frozen, the only sound our breath and the faint crackling of the fire outside.
Then came a third voice, this time my sister’s.
Soft. Familiar.
“Hey… It’s me. Can you help me?”
She lived three states away.
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. The elder’s warning rang in my ears: They’ll wear the ones you trust like skin. But it ain’t them. If you answer, they’ll come inside.
Chris finally whispered, “We need to go. We can’t wait till morning.”
I nodded. I started to move as quietly as I could, reaching for my boots, then the keys, then my flashlight. Outside, the voices were still circling. Whispering. Mimicking.
Then, from the other side of the tent—
“Chris… why’d you leave me out here?”
It was my voice.
Chris jolted. Eyes wide. “What the hell is that?”
We didn’t speak after that.
We unzipped the tent slowly, together. Whatever was out there, we didn’t want it to hear the zippers. Chris took the lead with the flashlight, and I followed close behind. The fire had burned low, but it was still glowing enough to cast strange, jumping shadows on the rocks around us.
The wind had completely stopped.
We moved in silence toward the truck, twenty, maybe thirty yards away. I counted every step. At ten steps, I heard a voice call Chris’s name. From behind us. His real name. The way his dad used to say it when he was angry. “Christopher”
Chris froze. “Keep going,” I hissed. “That’s not him.”
We were maybe fifteen feet from the truck when I realized the air felt wrong. Too cold, stale. Like it had weight to it. Then Chris stopped again. His flashlight flickering.
“There’s something behind the fire,” he said. “I saw it move.”
I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I just kept my eyes on the truck, the metal shining faintly in the dark. Almost there.
Then Chris screamed.
It wasn’t a long scream. It cut off mid-breath, sharp and wet, like someone had yanked the air out of him. I spun around, flashlight up, just in time to see the shape pull him backward into the darkness behind the fire pit.
I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I ran.
I didn’t try to follow. I didn’t try to be a hero. I ran like my life depended on it, because it did. I hit the truck door so hard I nearly bounced off it. Threw myself inside. Locked it. Hands shaking so bad I dropped the keys. Found them again. Jammed them in.
The engine didn’t turn over the first time. Or the second.
That’s when I saw them in the rearview mirror. Shapes at the edge of the firelight, hunched and shifting. One stood on two legs, but leaned too far forward, like its bones weren’t right. The fire behind them died in an instant.
Then the engine roared to life.
I punched the gas and tore out of there, gravel flying as the truck fishtailed onto the dirt road. I didn’t look back. Not when the firelight vanished behind me. Not when I hit the main road. I kept driving until dawn. When the sky was a pale bruise over the horizon.
That’s when I finally felt somewhat safe. I pulled over, put the truck in park, and called my uncle. He picked up, my voice cracked when I said, “Chris is gone.”
There was a pause. Then he answered, quietly:
“You made it out… I hoped you would.”, “I knew you would never believe me, you had to experience it for yourself, like I did”
The police report lists Chris as missing. They sent out a search team, helicopters, dogs, the whole nine. But they never found the tent. Or his body. Just an old, rusted T-post with a strip of orange tape fluttering in the wind and the fire pit.
I told them what I could. That we heard voices. That things followed us back from our hike. That they used our names and sounded like people we loved. They wrote it down, nodded politely. But I saw it in their eyes, they didn’t believe a word. I was their only suspect.
I wouldn’t believe either. If it hadn’t looked like me when it whispered my name.
I’ve moved since then. To North Carolina, I couldn’t be anywhere near that place. Can’t stand to hear the wind at night, or the smell of campfires. They remind me of what’s still out there.
I don’t go camping anymore. I don’t leave my home after nightfall. And I don’t answer voices in the dark. Even when they sound like home.
This is Pale Lantern Media.
If you’re ever camping near the Uinta Basin and hear your own voice call out from the dark—
Don’t answer.
Don’t look.
And don’t wait to find out what’s calling.
Like it, share it, and subscribe for more voices that speak without ever showing themselves.
And we’ll keep the lantern lit, for as long as we can.