I work at a national park you’ve never heard of. If you come once, you won’t come again

Visitors to Ebony Gorge never come a second time.

Compared to other National Parks, we’re relatively small. We only have one campground, and there’s less division of roles between rangers like there would be at somewhere like Yosemite. That being said, we still get a steady daily flow of guests.

Families, climbers, college kids, couples―they stream past our entrance station with maps spread across the dashboard, bouncing with questions and eyes glued to the layers of sandstone strata in the canyon walls. When the exit lane fills up around dusk, they’re considerably less energetic, but just as content, full of promises to return on their family trip next year.

They never do.

They don’t post nature selfies on Instagram. They don’t leave reviews or call about early reservations. Ebony Gorge doesn’t exist online. There’s no mention of it in the NPS directory, nor ratings for our hikes on AllTrails. And yet, as perplexing as it is why visitors stay away, that’s not the question that tickles my mind as I undress at the end of a long day, that gasps me to alertness seconds before I can fall asleep.

To the outside world, Ebony Gorge doesn’t exist.

So how did they find us in the first place?

—————————————–

Part 1 | Part 2 

If I’d thought our shared encounter with the white chapel would turn Lenore and I into besties, I would have been wrong―luckily, I never did think that. 

Lenore was, well, Lenore, after all. We may have shared a few begrudging words of solidarity next to a fire, words fueled by the adrenaline of a near-death experience, but the next day she was her brooding, scowling self again. We hiked the two days to civilization in uncomfortable silence, and once we were back, she treated me just like before: ignoring me and forgetting I existed.

At least to my face.

The day after returning, the chief called me into her office. “You’re up for rotation next.”

“Rotation?”

“The doors? This Saturday night? Next quarter moon? Goodness, if you can’t remember simple things, buy yourself a pocketbook from the visitor’s center.”

“Not at our prices, I won’t.”

She stared at me.

“I mean, uh, right. Yes. I’ll be there.”

She was stony throughout the whole interaction, but I understood the exchange for what it was. An olive branch. If Winona was putting me back in rotation for the doors, that meant she was no longer planning to fire me, not soon anyways. I more than suspected Lenore had something to do with that.

Things settled. 

I did my shifts at the permitting desk and helped clean up overgrown trails. I trained visitors on what to do during mountain lion sightings, and when my shift came to lock the doors, I completed my rounds without incident (yes, the correct night this time). Even Winona and the veteran rangers stopped disappearing so often. Whatever harm I’d caused my first rotation seemed to be settling.

I started noticing the other quirks of Ebony.

Weeds would resurrect. One morning, I passed a patch of frail, dried thistles. That evening the stalks were green and strong.

You would find odd coins in the sand: sometimes Mexican pesos or Chinese yuan, but more commonly coins I couldn’t find matches to online, scribbled with illegible symbols.

Occasionally, fake trails would even sprout up on the park map.

“Hangman’s arch?” I asked a coworker, pointing at a dashed line near the north entrance. I read the description. “‘An easy 2.3 mile loop, with stunning desert views, perfect for families with small children.’ Is this a new version of the brochure or something?”

He snatched it from me, scanned it, then tossed the whole stack of guides into the trash. “Cover me,” he called as he marched from the visitor center. “Need to make sure nobody got fooled.”

When I asked him about it later, he just shrugged. “Happens sometimes.”

That was the common sentiment. The other rangers noticed these things, but they didn’t seem to mind. You’d think normal people would be foaming at the mouth for answers. That they’d be investigating in their off hours, or researching, or pounding at Winona’s door with questions―except these weren’t normal people. 

There was nothing wrong with them. They weren’t dangerous or hermits, but the longer I worked at Ebony, the image of it all sharpened into focus. 

While Lenore was right―I wasn’t a pushover under normal circumstances―I was a chronic people-pleaser. With that came a certain understanding. I got people. Read them intuitively, and it wasn’t long before I was sure my intuition was the truth. The other rangers didn’t care about answers, because they were like me. Hiding.

Unlike them, however, I was new, stupidly naive, and recklessly curious. 

“I already know you’re going to tell me ‘no’,” I said as Winona and I were locking up the permit office, “but I’m going to ask you about the park.”

“No.”

“Cool. Now that that’s out of the way―”

“Really, no.”

“Chief, this conversation is going to happen eventually. You don’t strike me as the type to procrastinate.”

She finished locking the back entrance and sighed. Which was fair. I was being quite unreasonable.

“I can’t give you what you want,” she said. “Tidbits and advice, sure―want to hear encounters of the white chapel? Horror stories about what happens to people who touch the doors? You’re annoying enough I’m sure you could draw a few of those out of me, but that’s not what you want, is it? You want the why behind it all. That I can’t give you.”

“You must have your own theories.”

“Sure. But those are my own. My best advice? Keep yourself good and distracted.”

That advice was torture for me. I’d never been good at waiting for Christmas presents as a kid. I would hunt them down every year, remove the wrapping paper, then gently tape them closed. I would do the sudoku puzzle in the Sunday paper each week, even if it took me hours and even though I always hated Sudoku, because the alternative was incompletion. Uncertainty. Not knowing. I’d never been able to live with that.

I attempted Winona’s advice anyway.

The other rangers were secretive, but they were also outdoor junkies like myself. You don’t get into this job, even as an escape, without having achieved a certain level of granola, and joint granola-ing we did. They showed me the best bouldering routes, climbing ravines, and fishing holes. One girl in particular, another seasonal ranger named Heather, seemed particularly willing to show me around Ebony―an enthusiasm that made more sense on our first solo outing when she pushed me against a slot canyon wall and started kissing my neck.

While I am good at reading people, romantic attraction is the exception.

Not that there was necessarily anything romantic between Heather and I. From my understanding, this is pretty common in the NPS. You take a handful of single twenty-to-thirties, seclude them at the end of the world, then bunk them right next to each other. One guess what happens next.

It wasn’t serious. We would make-out occasionally. Go climbing sometimes. Grab food from the local burger place. Heather and I weren’t dating, and neither of us wanted to be. That was obvious from the beginning.

“I should be transparent,” she told me the first time we hung out in my housing unit. We were on the couch. My hand was tangled in her hair. “I’m not looking for anything official.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ve been in enough serious relationships to know I never want another.”

I smiled sadly. Golden sunlight fell on us through the window. “I was engaged once. That’s not something I plan to do again.”

“Good.”

We kept kissing.

I did what Winona advised. I kept myself busy, moving, and distracted by a dozen silly things―all until the morning I knocked on Heather’s unit door and she didn’t answer. I knocked again. Still nothing.

“She’s gone,” somebody called from behind. Lenore, I realized. This was one of the few times we’d talked since our backpacking trip. A repelling bag was slung over her shoulder.

“Gone where?”

“Quit last night. Said she’s leaving for good.” She shrugged and kept walking.

Odd. Heather hadn’t mentioned anything to me, and she hadn’t seemed like she was struggling. Both of us had the next two days off. We’d planned on spending them fishing at the river, but instead she was just… gone.

Confused as I was, a small part of me was relieved. Where was the risk in getting too attached to somebody when you would never see them again? Unfortunately, her leaving did mean I had two entire days off and absolutely no plans.

So I did the thing Winona told me not to.

I got bored.

 

—————————————–

 

Kurtville. That was the name of the town just outside of Ebony.

Strange as the canyon might be, the town outside of it was a fairly typical representation of what you’d usually find outside a National Park. There were themed motels, eateries, even a museum or two, with a well-kept main street that slowly petered to run-down trailer parks and sagebrush. There were no doors near Kurtville, nor anything remotely alarming. The townspeople refused to visit the park entirely. They were a safe, tight-knit community, perfectly safe, and perfectly removed from the dangers of Ebony Gorge.

In other words, they were lying.

I drove past the Native American Heritage Center, the sort fairly typical in the rural Intermountain West, to one of Kurtville’s local history museums. 

The white chapel had been similar in architecture to other structures left behind from the pioneer days. We had a few early remnants within Ebony itself―a school, a barn, an orchard, etc.― but nothing more than vague plaques to explain their history. I figured Kurtville would have more information on the founding of Ebony.

I figured wrong.

I couldn’t name what was off at first. Kurtville Pioneer Courthouse was how you would expect a museum to be. There were displays, old carpentry tools and hand-stitched leather boots, even a reconstructed wagon from the 1800s. It all looked correct, until you squinted.

Not literally. But the actual brochure, wall panels, and display plaques, were empty, hollow bits of information.

It was like the slop you get near the end of a lengthy AI explanation. It feels intelligent, but when you really dust away the buzzwords and academic phrasings, the text is meaningless. The actual historical details were written for people who only wanted to pretend they were learning. Tourists who could ‘hmmm’ and ‘oh, interesting’ after a quick scan, before moving to the next plaque to fake learn something from that one too. 

There were no clear dates. Nothing about the founding of Kurtville. No recountings of the early pioneers, old Native American tribes, Ebony Gorge, or―well, anything. Instead, there were phrases like “grueling frontier life”, “western expansion”, and “interpretive historical preservation movement.”

I ended my failed attempt at research at a local pizza parlor, thoroughly frustrated. At least, there was pizza.

The only happening of import that day occurred as I wiped the crumbs from my table, just before I left.

“Are you enjoying your time in Kurtsville?” the cashier asked a bearded man.

“Absolutely. Getting ready to head into the park this afternoon.”

“I’ve heard it’s beautiful this time of year.”

“It is,” the bearded man said. “I came this month last year. Couldn’t believe how much green there was in a desert like this.”

The cashier sucked in a breath. So did I. This man was claiming he was back to Ebony Gorge for a second time. I’d never heard of that happening. Based on the cashier’s reaction, they hadn’t either.

It wasn’t even a decision whether or not to talk to him. I’d been able to push down my desperate, obsessive need for answers while Heather was here, but that didn’t mean the pressure hadn’t been building. I was a charismatic guy, par for the course when you care desperately that people like you. It wouldn’t be hard to weasel my way into a conversation and interrogate the bearded man. 

I waited for him to sit down. Instead, he accepted a pizza box and walked out a side door. By the time I dashed outside behind him, he was gone.

My second day off, I visited the two remaining local history museums, which proved the same amount of helpful as the day before: not at all. They featured artifacts within historical buildings that made no attempt to explain their existence. 

Occasionally, there was an educational display. In the old blacksmith shop, a guide demonstrated how they used to forge tools. One plaque described the local flora and fauna, but these displays were embellishment. General pioneer factoids that distracted from the lack of any true historical account. 

Once again, I ended my search in frustration, but this time, I wasn’t satisfied to stuff myself with pizza and return. There was a buzzing in the back of my head, hot and red and impulsive. It wouldn’t settle until I got what I wanted.

I approached the older lady at the ticket desk.

“Hi. Excuse me. I’m sure you’re very busy―” (she was doom-scrolling) “―but I’ve been wondering. Do you know anything about the early pioneers here? Specifically, why they came?”

She didn’t even look up, just handed me a brochure.

I didn’t take it. “Yeah, I’ve read that. It doesn’t say much.”

“Read the signs.”

“I’ve read those too. I’ve read everything. None of it says anything helpful.” When she still ignored me, I leaned across the counter, close enough my breath fogged up her phone screen. “This entire museum is absolute garbage, and you know that.”

She looked up, frowning slightly. Her eyebrows narrowed. “Most people are more interested in seeing bonnets than paying for a history lesson. I advise you to feel the same.”

It was so intentionally provocative―and the buzzing in my head was so intense―I nearly resorted to something drastic to force out information, either ripping the phone from her hand or something worse: full-on flirting with a middle-aged woman. Before I was forced to decide, the door behind us gave a jangle. A man walked in. A bearded man to be specific. My stomach flipped.

I stood awkwardly as he purchased a wristband and ambled into the maze of displays. Only once he was gone from sight did I stick out my tongue at the lady and follow him.

“Hey!” I caught up near a display case of uncovered arrowheads. “This might sound odd. I promise I’m not stalking you or, uh, anything, but I happened to hear you say you were heading into Ebony yesterday. Did you end up going?”

He smiled warmly. That was one thing I loved about living in the middle of nowhere. The further people traveled from home, the more willing they were to talk with strangers. “Planning to visit yourself?” he asked.

“Something like that. The weather was nice though? Not too crowded?”

“I…” His smile faltered. His eyes went slightly unfocused. “I didn’t end up making it. Ended up busy. Thought today would work better.”

And yet, here he still was. Outside the park, at a run-down museum in Kurtville. 

His expression was slightly glazed. Like if I didn’t snap my fingers, he would just stand there for hours, in a trance.

I made a decision.

“Care for a ride?” I asked

“A ride?”

“I’m heading there myself. I’m a ranger actually. I could give you a personal tour to some of our most popular spots. I’d love company for the drive.”

The bearded man hesitated. Something flashed across his face (was it fear?), then his jaw set. “Why not? I’m heading up anyway. Saves gas this way. Wouldn’t make sense to come all this way and not make it to the park.”

I laughed amicably. “It wouldn’t.”

As we drove, I did my best to lead the conversation. Where was he from? Did he work? What did he do on his weekends? Why did he decide to come to Ebony Gorge?

He was happy to talk about his family and hobbies. Visitors always were. It was only when we approached topics related to the park that the muscles in their neck would tense. Their words would slow, jumble incoherently, like their thoughts were forcing their way through the holes of a strainer. The bearded man was no different.

“How did you find out about the park last year?” I asked.

“I…” His eyebrows knit in confusion. “Just thought it would be a good idea to come.”

“Why didn’t you end up going yesterday?”

“I felt… I got tired.”

It didn’t matter. Questioning him wasn’t important. Getting to the park―that was what really mattered. The closer we did get, the more agitated he grew. 

Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He stopped responding to my questions entirely, a grunt or an ‘uh-huh’ at most.

His eyes darted around my car, not really seeing it. He tapped his fingers on the dashboard, faster and faster.

Still, I drove.

“No,” he muttered to himself. “Not today. Tomorrow. Another day.”

The bearded man started rubbing at his arm. Then scratching. 

“It’s alright,” I reassured. “Calm down. You’re safe.”

The welcome sign came into view.

“No,” he whimpered. “No, no, no. Please.”

“We’re almost there. It’s just ahead.”

I should have stopped. I should have listened to his moaning and pulled over, turned around, driven back to town. Instead, I allowed the adrenaline to take over. I stepped on the gas.

The man full-force howled. He clutched at his head and shrieked. 

I slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop meters from the entrance. He rocked back and forth.

“It’s okay.” I pried his hands from his face. “Nothing’s going to―”

Blood streamed from his eyes. It streaked down his cheeks and bloomed in flower patterns across his shirts. His pupils were fully dilated. The veins in his neck and forearms pulsed black.

“I won’t. Don’t make me. Can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t―”

The bearded man fumbled with the passenger door and threw himself from the car.

“Hey wait!”

I drove alongside him as he stumbled and lurched along the shoulder of the road, back in the direction of town. As many times as I called to him, he wouldn’t acknowledge me. 

The bleeding from his eyes slowed. His gaze focused, and his gait grew consistent. Without the blood, he might have been a pedestrian on a pleasant afternoon hike, but still, he wouldn’t respond when I begged him to get in the car. It must have been over two hours that I trailed alongside him at a sloth’s pace with my hazard lights flashing.

Was he angry? Or did he really not notice me?

We reached a motel at the edge of town. I watched him march to a room, unlock it, and stumble inside. Not once did he look back.

The only evidence he’d ever ridden in my car was the streaks of blood on the passenger door handle.

 

—————————————–

 

I considered finding Lenore, but she would only brush me off. I considered talking to Winona, but of course, she’d warned me not to get obsessed with the park. Frazzled as I was, I wouldn’t risk falling back onto her blacklist. My top priority was still securing a long-term job here.

Instead, I called Heather.

I should have done it earlier. The moment I heard she quit, I should have phoned her to make sure she was alright, but I’d been too distracted by my own curiosity. It wasn’t normal what she’d done: leaving like that. There had to be a reason. Maybe that reason would be one of the answers I was looking for.

My phone rang against my ear as I fiddled with the lock for my apartment. Mentally, I prepared my list of questions to ask. I walked inside and―

Ringing.

I lowered my phone. Still, the chimes of a ringtone were audible. Sure enough, when I reached into a gap in the couch, my fingers closed around something rectangular and buzzing. My own name stared up at me on the caller ID, and a thought struck me, distant, clinical, and detached.

Visitors never come back. 

But what if some never even leave?