✈️ Story – The Wrong Turn in the Alps

This happened in the summer after my sophomore year of college. A friend and I had decided to backpack through Europe, hopping from country to country with cheap train passes and whatever hostels we could afford. Most nights were noisy bunks in overcrowded dorm rooms, but sometimes we got creative — sleeping on benches, taking overnight trains just to save money on lodging, and, in one case, camping behind a gas station.

One evening in Switzerland, we’d been hiking outside a small alpine town when a couple of locals told us about a cabin up in the hills. “Free place to sleep,” one of them said, pointing toward the ridge. “Travelers use it all the time.” It sounded like a gift. We were broke, tired, and the thought of a quiet mountain hut away from snoring hostel roommates sounded perfect.

We started the climb late in the afternoon, the sun already hanging low. At first the trail was wide and marked, winding through open meadows dotted with wildflowers. The air smelled sharp and clean, and we could hear cowbells clanging faintly in the distance. It felt safe — almost idyllic.

After about forty minutes we reached a fork. The map we had was barely more than a tourist pamphlet, and it didn’t show this split. One path curved right, still wide and sloping gently uphill. The other cut left into the trees, narrower and steeper. My buddy thought the left trail looked more promising. “If it’s hidden,” he said, “it’s gotta be up there.”

I wasn’t so sure, but he was confident, so I followed.

The deeper we went, the quieter it became. The bells faded. Even the wind seemed to die down, swallowed by the trees. About twenty minutes later, just as I was starting to think we’d made a mistake, we saw it: a shack tucked between the pines, a dim yellow glow flickering from inside.

At first we thought we’d found the cabin. But as we got closer, little details made my stomach tighten. The building was small, almost too small for more than one or two people. The wood was dark and rotting in places. Rusted metal traps hung from nails outside, and leaning against the doorframe was what looked like a butcher’s hook.

My friend slowed down. “This… doesn’t look right.”

Before we could turn back, the lantern light shifted. Someone was inside.

The door creaked open and a man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his beard unkempt, clothes dirty like he’d been living rough. In one hand he held an axe, resting it casually against his shoulder. He didn’t say a word — just stared at us.

My friend tried to break the silence, stumbling through a few words of broken German, asking if this was the hut for travelers. The man didn’t answer. His eyes flicked between us, then back toward the trail we’d come from. Slowly, very slowly, he smiled.

Then he pointed. One long finger back down the path.

That was all the signal we needed. We muttered a quick “danke” and started backing away. He didn’t move at first, just stood there with that grin. But as we turned, I heard the crunch of his boots on the dirt.

He was following us.

We didn’t wait to find out how far he’d go. The second we were out of his sight, we ran. Branches whipped at our arms, rocks slid under our boots, and the slope felt twice as steep going down. At one point I tripped and nearly rolled down the trail, but adrenaline yanked me back to my feet.

I don’t know how long we ran, but by the time we stumbled out of the trees and onto the main road where we’d started, we were drenched in sweat and gasping for air. The man was nowhere behind us. Just the quiet hum of crickets and the faraway clang of cowbells again.

We never found the real cabin. That night we slept in the train station, lights buzzing overhead, and I’ve never been so grateful for the presence of strangers around me.

I still don’t know who that man was, or why he was waiting out there with an axe and those traps. Maybe he was just a hunter. Maybe he wasn’t. But to this day, I think about what could have happened if we’d gone inside, or if we hadn’t turned around when we did. And I don’t think I ever want to know.