Just Creepy: Scary Stories - Something is stalking hikers in Utah's mountains

Episode Date: March 31, 2026

*Bonus Episode* 4 true stories from people who ventured into Utah's backcountry expecting to be completely alone, and discovered they weren't. From the Uinta Mountains to the slot canyons of Robbers Roost, these encounters will make you think twice before camping solo in the wilderness.Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Business inquiries:►[e-mail]#scarystories #horrorstories💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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infection. Tell your doctor your medical history, muscle or nerve conditions, including ALS-Lugherics disease, Myasthenia Gravis or Lambert Eaton syndrome, and medications, including botulinum toxins, as these may increase the risk of serious side effects. Why wait? Ask your doctor, visit Botox Chronic Migraine.com or call 1-800-44 Botox to learn more. Tonight, we've got four stories from people who walked into the Utah backcountry expecting solitude, expecting peace, expecting to be completely alone, and they got exactly what they asked for, except they weren't alone, not even close. And the fourth and final story on this list involves something so deeply disturbing that the person who lived through it still refuses to set

foot in the mountains. Not in Utah. Not anywhere. Not even once since it happened. But before we get into that, if you like scary stories, you are in the right spot. We drop new episodes every week, so if that's something you're interested in, please click that subscribe or follow button and the notification bell so you don't miss out on future uploads. Also, check out the Just Creepy podcast on Spotify and Apple Podcasts. All right, let's get into it. Story 1, The High Line.

In August of 2019, a 31-year-old man named Chris, who was an avid backpacker living in Salt Lake City, put in for 10 days of vacation from his job. His plan was to hike the High Line Trail, which runs east to west along the spine of the Uinta Range, roughly 80 miles through some of the most remote alpine terrain in the entire lower 48 states. Chris had done sections of this trail before, shorter trips, weekend stuff, but he'd never done the full through hike. This was going to be his big one, his reset, his escape from everything. Before he left, he told his sister he'd check in once a day by satellite messenger,

and beyond that, he wanted zero contact with the outside world, just him, the mountains, and 80 miles of trail. And for the first three days, that's exactly what he got. The weather was perfect, clear skies, mid-60s during the day, low 40s at night. He was averaging about nine miles a day, camping near high altitude lakes, filtering water, seeing almost nobody. On day two, he passed a couple heading the opposite direction, near a spot called Pigeon Milk Spring. They exchanged maybe 20 words.

And that was the last conversation Chris had with another human being for the next six days. Now, on the evening of day four, Chris set up camp at a small lake about a quarter mile south of the main town. trail. He'd found a flat spot nestled between two clusters of Engelman spruce, soft ground, blocked from wind, close to water. It was a perfect little campsite. He cooked dinner, hung his bear bag, and crawled into his tent around 8.30, feeling great. But around 11 that night, something woke him up. It was a sound, and at first Chris couldn't place it. It was rhythmic, steady, somewhere between a tap and a scrape, repeating every few seconds. He lay there in his sleeping bag trying to run through the possibilities.

Wind? No, there was no wind. The trees were still. An animal? Maybe, but the rhythm was too consistent. Too even. Too mechanical. Chris unzipped his tent just enough to look out. It was a full moon, so visibility was decent.

The lake was flat. The trees weren't moving. Nothing was visibly out there. But the sound kept going. Tap. Scrape. Tap. Scrape.

Coming from the tree line. to the north, maybe 80 yards from his tent. He grabbed his headlamp but didn't turn it on. He just sat there in the dark, listening. After about 10 minutes, the sound stopped. He waited another 20, heard nothing more, zipped the tent back up, and eventually drifted back to sleep. The next morning Chris packed up and got back on the trail. He told himself it was a porcupine chewing on a tree, or a branch rubbing against a rock. Nothing weird about that. The Uintas are full of wild life. He didn't give it another thought. Until that evening, day five, Chris set up camp near a meadow below Anderson Pass, again off trail, again totally alone, and again, right around 11 at night,

the same sound. Tap, scrape, tap, scrape, same rhythm, same cadence, same approximate distance away, except this time it was coming from the east instead of the north. Now here's the thing. Chris was roughly 11 miles from where he'd camped the night before. The idea that some animal had followed him 11 miles through alpine wilderness and was now making the exact same sound at the exact same time of night. That felt like a stretch. But Chris is a rational guy. He told himself it was a coincidence. Different animal. Similar behavior. Mountains are full of porcupines. No big deal. He did not sleep well that night. Day six, Chris pushed hard. Fourteen miles. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever pattern he thought he was picking up on.

That evening, instead of tucking into a tree-sheltered spot, he chose a campsite on a rocky shelf above a creek drainage. Exposed, not ideal for warmth or comfort, but it had clear sight lines in every direction. Nothing could approach from any angle without him seeing it. He stayed up until midnight. No sound. Nothing. The mountains were silent. silent. Chris sat there and actually felt foolish. He'd been scaring himself over nothing. He went to

sleep almost laughing at his own paranoia. At 2.15 in the morning, Chris woke up. Something was outside his tent, not 80 yards away, not in the tree line, right outside. He could hear breathing, slow, measured breathing, and then, a single tap on the rainfly of his tent, one finger, then nothing. Chris did not move. He did not breathe. He lay there with every muscle locked, staring at the ceiling of his tent, his heart going about 200 beats a minute, just waiting. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably about five minutes, he heard footsteps moving away. And these were not animal footsteps. These were human footsteps. Two feet, walking at a calm, unhurried pace, heading south toward the creek drainage.

No rush, no stumbling, just a person walking away from his tent in the middle of the night at 10,000 feet in the Uinta Mountains. Chris stayed in his tent until sunrise. When he finally climbed out, he checked the ground around his campsite. Most of the shelf was bare rock, so there weren't clear prints. But in one small patch of dried mud near his tent stakes, there was a boot print, size 11 or 12, lug sole pattern, fresh. Chris packed his gear in nine minutes flat and hiked 17 miles that day to reach the Mirror Lake Highway.

He flagged down a car, got a ride to his truck, and drove home without stopping. The following week, he filed a report with the Forest Service. The ranger he spoke with was polite, took his information, but didn't seem particularly alarmed. She told Chris there had actually been a few reports over the previous two summers of hikers on the high line, feeling like they were being followed. One couple had found what appeared to be a small camp off trail near Dead Horse Lake. No tent, no visible gear, just a tarp, a pile of clothes, and a collection of rocks arranged in a perfect circle.

No fire ring. No food waste. Just the rocks. She said they'd sent someone out to investigate and found the camp abandoned. No identification. No way to determine who had been staying there. She told Chris to always hike with a partner in the Uintas going forward. Chris has not been back to the Highline Trail since.

He's thought about it. He's pulled up the maps, checked the weather forecast, started packing his bag. But every single time, he hears that sound in his head, tap, scrape, tap, scrape, and he puts the bag away. Story 2. The Swell. Yamava Resort and Casino at San Manuel is California's number one entertainment. destination for today's superstars. Catch the Jonas Brothers return to the Yamava Theater stage on April 30th,

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It matters where you stay. Hilton for the stay. In October of 2021, a couple named Marcus and Megan loaded up their truck and drove out to the San Rafael Swell for a long weekend. Now, if you've never heard of the San Rafael Swell, it's this massive dome of exposed sandstone in central Utah, about 75 miles long, 40 miles wide, and most of it is completely empty. No services, no cell coverage, no running water. You bring what you need, or you go without. And for a lot of people, that's exactly the appeal. Marcus and Megan had been there once before and loved it. This time, they planned to camp near a rock formation called Window Blind Peak, off a dirt road

about 22 miles from the nearest highway. They arrived Friday afternoon, found a flat spot behind a sandstone ridge and set up camp. The nearest marked campsite was at least six miles away. They hadn't passed another vehicle in over an hour. They were, for all practical purposes, completely alone in the desert. Friday night was perfect. They cooked dinner on a camp stove, watched the star of the star, come out, and out there, the stars are absolutely insane. No light pollution for 50 miles in any direction.

They went to bed around 10, happy, relaxed, looking forward to a full day of exploring on Saturday. Saturday morning, Megan walked over to the truck to grab their water jugs from the five-gallon container they kept in the bed. She came back with a look on her face that Marcus recognized immediately. Something was wrong. Someone was here. Someone was here. last night, she said. She walked him around to the passenger side of the truck, the side that had been facing away from their tent all night, and showed him. Someone had drawn a line in the dust on the window, not a word, not a shape, not a drawing, just a single straight line, about ten inches long, traced with a fingertip, clean, precise, centered on the glass. The rest of the dust

on that side of the truck was completely undisturbed. They hadn't heard a thing, no end up, engine, no footsteps, no voices, nothing, and their camp was on hard-pan sandstone, so there were no footprints anywhere. Now Marcus's first instinct was to rationalize it. Maybe he'd brushed against the truck himself and didn't remember. Maybe the wind had dragged something across the glass, but the line was too perfect, too centered, and there was nothing, no branches, no brush, no debris of any kind, anywhere near the passenger side of the truck. Still, they decided to stay. They'd driven a long way, and it was probably nothing. They hiked all day Saturday, came back to camp around five, cooked dinner, went to bed. But before he turned in, Marcus set his

phone alarm for three in the morning. He didn't tell Megan why. He couldn't even fully explain it to himself. He just felt like he needed to check. When that alarm, he was a lot of went off in the pitch dark, Marcus slid out of the tent as quietly as he could and walked to the truck. He went around to the passenger side, and on the same window, directly below the first line, there was now a second line, same length, same finger width, perfectly parallel. Marcus stood there for a long time. The desert around him was dead silent, no wind, no insects, no coyotes, nothing. He turned on his headlamp and scanned in a full 360. Sandstone, scrub brush, open ground in every direction, all the way to the horizon.

No person, no vehicle, no distant campfire, just nothing. He went back to the tent and lay there until sunrise with his eyes open. Sunday morning, he told Megan what he'd found. They agreed immediately. Pack up, get out. But first, Marcus wanted to walk a perimeter around the camp. If someone was coming to their truck in the middle of the night, they had to be somewhere nearby. About 300 yards south of their campsite, on the backside of a low

sandstone ledge, Marcus found a shallow depression in the rock that had been cleared of all loose debris. Sitting in that depression were a sleeping bag, a plastic jug of water, a pair of binoculars, and a spiral-bound notebook. The sleeping bag was warm. Marcus opened the notebook. The first few pages had hand-drawn maps, rough but detailed scale, sketches of the surrounding terrain, with distances marked in steps, not yards, not meters, steps. One of the maps had a small rectangle labeled truck, with two stick figures drawn next to it. Below the rectangle, in neat block letters, were three lines, night one, night two, night three. They were on the morning of day three. Marcus did not touch anything else. He did not take the

notebook. He and Megan packed the truck in under 15 minutes and drove out of there as fast as the dirt road would allow. On the way to the highway, they passed a single vehicle heading in. A white panel van with no license plates parked at an angle on the shoulder. Nobody was inside it. They called the Emory County Sheriff's Department the moment they got cell service. A deputy took their full statement over the phone and said he'd send someone out to the campsite. Marcus called back three days later to check. The deputy told him they'd found the depression in the rock, but everything was gone. The sleeping bag, the water, the binoculars, the notebook, all of it, cleared out. He said that without evidence of a specific crime, there wasn't much they could do.

Marcus has looked at that area on satellite imagery since then, zoomed in as far as the resolution allows. There's nothing there. Just rock and sand and empty, desert in every direction. But someone was sleeping 300 yards from them, watching them through binoculars, drawing maps of their campsite, and counting down the nights to something. And Marcus and Megan left on the morning of night three. Whatever was supposed to happen that night, whatever the plan was, they will never know. And honestly, that might be the most unsettling part of this whole story, not knowing. Story 3. The Slot In March of 2018, a guy named Ryan and two of his friends, Jake and Tyler, drove down to

southern Utah for a canyineering trip in an area called Robbers Roost. Now, if you're not familiar with Robbers Roost, it's this labyrinth of narrow sandstone slot canyons, carved into a plateau south of the tiny town of Hanksville. It gets its name from Butch Cassidy, who supposedly used the area as a hideout, and once Once you see the terrain, you understand why. The canyons are so tight and so disorienting that a search party could pass within a hundred feet of someone hiding down there and never know it. Ryan, Jake, and Tyler had planned a two-day descent through a technical canyon that required

three rappels, the longest being about 90 feet. The canyon itself was narrow, in certain sections you could touch both walls with your elbows at the same time. The floor was mostly dry sand with occasional pools of standing water that ranged from ankle-deep to chest-deep. The walls rose 200 feet straight up on either side, and the sky above was nothing but a thin blue ribbon. They started the descent around 9 in the morning. First rappel went smooth, no issues. The second, about an hour later, was tighter. They had to thread the rope through a crack and descend sideways because the slot was too narrow to face

the wall directly, but they got through it. Everything was going according to plan. At the bottom of the second rappel, Tyler noticed something strange. There was an object wedged into a crack in the canyon wall, right around head height. It was a plastic bag, nodded at the top, and tucked into the rock in a way that you'd only see it if you were standing in exactly the right spot. Tyler pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a Ziploc bag containing two things, a folded piece of paper and a silver ring. Tyler unfolded the paper. It was a handwritten note, and Ryan, who was standing right there, later said he will never forget what it said. He actually took a photo of it on his phone. It read,

If you found this, I am still down here. Go back. Do not come any further. No name, no date. The handwriting was shaky but legible. Now the three of them just stood there in this narrow slot, staring at each other. The canyon ahead of them narrowed even further and curved to the left, so they couldn't see what was beyond the bend. Behind them, the only way out was to climb back up the two repels they'd already descended, totally doable, but time-consuming and exhausting. Jake wanted to keep going. His reasoning was straightforward. The note could be years old, could be a prank, could be anything. Tyler wasn't sure. Ryan wasn't sure either. But here's the thing that stuck with Ryan. There was a ring in that bag. People don't leave jewelry behind as a

joke. That ring meant something to whoever left it there. They decided to press forward, but slowly and cautiously. Ryan went first. Past the bend, the canyon opened up slightly into a chamber roughly 15 feet across. The floor was covered in standing water, maybe two feet deep deep deep deep, and the water was dark, stained deep brown from tannins and sediment. It looked almost black. And on the far side of the chamber, just above the waterline, there was gear, A climbing harness still clipped to a carabiner, still attached to a bolt anchor drilled into the canyon wall. A coiled rope, half submerged in the dark water. A backpack sitting on a narrow rock ledge, its straps dangling into the pool below.

The pack was unzipped, and Ryan could see a headlamp, a water bottle, and what looked like a soggy paperback book inside, everything, all of it, was covered in a thin layer of dried mud. It had clearly been there for a while. Ryan waited through the chest-deep water to the backpack and looked inside. There was a wallet. He opened it. Inside was a Utah driver's license. A man, 34 years old.

A dress in Moab. $67 in cash. Two credit cards. A punch card for a coffee shop with eight out of ten holes punched. Ryan looked back at the harness clipped to the wall. The rope was still threaded through a repelled of. device. The bolt anchor was about 20 feet up. Whoever this man was, he'd been in the process of rappelling into this chamber. It would have been a short, easy repel. Nothing technical, nothing that should have

been a problem. But the harness was empty. No one was in it. The three of them searched the chamber. There was only one way forward from where they stood, a narrow crack at the far end that dropped into another pool of water. This pool was deeper, much deeper. and completely dark. They couldn't see the bottom. They couldn't see where it led. Jake pulled out his phone and aimed the flashlight down into the water. The beam made it about four feet before the sediment swallowed it whole.

He looked at Ryan, looked at Tyler, and slowly shook his head. They turned around. They ascended both rappels, hiked out to their vehicle, and drove straight to the Wayne County Sheriff's Office in the town of Loa. They told the deputy everything and showed him, the photo of the note in the driver's license. The deputy pulled up a missing person's report. The name on the license matched a man who had been reported missing nine months earlier by his roommate back in Moab. The missing man had told his roommate he was heading out to Robbers' Roost

for a solo canyaneering trip and would be back in three days. He never came back. Search and rescue had gone looking, but the area is enormous. Hundreds of square miles of identical looking slot canyons, And without knowing his exact route, the search was basically impossible. A specialized recovery team went into the canyon the following week. Ryan doesn't know exactly what they found down in that dark water, but he knows they found him. The deputy who'd taken their initial report called Ryan about a month later and said the man's family wanted to pass along their thanks.

He said the family finally had closure and that it meant everything to them. Ryan said he was glad, and he meant it. But he hasn't been back to robber's roost, and he thinks about that note more than he'd like to. If you found this, I am still down here. That man wrote those words knowing he wasn't getting out. He took off his ring, put it in a bag with that note, and wedged it into the wall where someone might find it. He didn't write a goodbye to his family. He didn't write his name. The only thing he spent his last effort on was a warning to the next person who came through.

Go back. Do not come any further. That's what he chose to leave behind. Not a farewell, a warning. Story 4. The Cabin. All right, so this is the one I said I'd save for last, and I want to be up front about something. When I first heard this story, parts of it sounded almost too extreme to be real, but everything I'm about to tell you checks out, and the Garfield County Sheriff's Department has a file on this incident.

As far as anyone knows, no one has ever been charged. In November of 2017, a man named Dale, an experienced hunter in his late 40s, drove out to the Henry Mountains in southern Utah for a five-day solo elk hunt. Now the Henry Mountains are worth pausing on for a second, because most people have never heard of them, and that's kind of the point. The Henry's were the last mountain range in the contiguous United States to be named and mapped by European explorers. Today, they are still extraordinarily remote. The nearest town is Hanksville, which has a population of roughly 200 people.

From the trailhead where Dale parked his truck, it was an eight-mile hike through rugged terrain to the area where he planned to set up a base camp. Dale made camp at about 9,000 feet in a grove of Douglas fir and spent the first couple of days doing what elk hunters do, glassing meadows at dawn and dusk, covering ground in between, trying to find sign. By day three, he hadn't seen. spotted a single elk, so he decided to push deeper into the range. He headed south along a ridge he'd never explored before, into country he'd never laid eyes on. Around midday, Dale crested a rise and looked down into a small clearing below him. Sitting in that clearing was a log cabin.

Now, Dale's first thought was that it was a historic sheepherders cabin, which are pretty common in that part of Utah. Some of them date back to the 1800s. Ranchers and herders built them as seasonal shelters, and a lot of them are still standing, weathered, collapsing, slowly returning to the earth. So Dale figured he'd hike down and take a look. Maybe eat lunch inside, get out of the wind for a while. But as he got closer, he realized this cabin was in much better condition than he'd assumed. What he'd thought was a collapsed section was actually a lean-to addition built off the back wall. The main structure, the original cabin, was solid, logs in good shape. roof intact. The door was a heavy plank door, closed but not locked, just a simple wooden latch.

Dale pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was a single room, maybe 12 feet by 14 feet. In one corner there was a wood-burning stove. Against one wall, a plywood table. Against another wall, a cot with a sleeping bag on it. The sleeping bag was clean. The stove had ash in it, gray and powdery, which meant it had been used recently, but not that day. On the table, there were canned goods, beans, soup, tuna, a half-full gallon jug of water, a kerosene lantern, and stacked against the far wall from floor to ceiling, were plastic storage bins, eight of them. Now Dale will be the first to tell you, he should have turned around right then.

He was standing in someone's living space, uninvited, eight miles from the nearest road in one of the most isolated locations in the country. Everything about this situation said leave, but curiosity is a powerful thing, and Dale reached for the lid of the top bin and opened it. It was full of identification documents. Drivers licenses, passports, social security cards, birth certificates, not a few, not a dozen, dozens upon dozens, maybe over a hundred, all belonging to different people, all from different States. Some of the licenses were expired. Some were current. The photos showed men, women, young people, old people. There was no visible pattern, no common thread, just a massive collection of other people's identities stuffed into a plastic bin in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Dale opened the second bin. This one had electronics, mostly cell phones, old flip phones, newer smartphones, some with cracked screens, some in perfect condition. Mixed in with the phones were wallets, empty wallets, no cash, no cards, just the leather and nylon shells, and car keys, a lot of car keys, loose, piled up, tangled together, dozens of them. Dale stopped. He did not open a third bin. He pulled out his phone and took three photos, one of the cabin's exterior, one of the room, and one of the open bin full of IDs. Then he set the lids back, latched the door, and left. He did not go back to his base camp. He did not collect his gear. He hiked straight out, eight miles to his truck, drove to Hanksville, and then continued all the way to the Garfield

County Sheriff's Office and Pangwich, which is the county seat. Dale showed the photos to a deputy, and according to Dale, the deputy's expression changed instantly. The deputy left the room, and came back with a senior officer. They sat Dale down and asked him to describe the location in as much detail as he could. He gave them the GPS coordinates from his phone. They asked if he'd touched anything, if he'd been seen, if he'd noticed any vehicles or other people on his way in or out. He said no to everything. Then they told him something that stopped him cold. They told him not to go back to the Henry Mountains. They didn't explain why. They took his contact information and said someone would be in touch. Ten days later, Dale got a call from an investigator with the Utah

Division of Criminal Investigation, the state-level agency. She asked him to walk through the entire story again from the beginning. He did. She asked if he would be willing to physically guide a team back to the cabin. Dale said yes. They set a date. The day before the scheduled trip, she called back and said the operation had been postponed. She didn't explain why. One week of after that, she called again, and this time her tone was different. She told Dale the cabin had been located, but it was empty. Everything was gone. The stove, the cot, the table, the bins, all of it. The entire structure had been stripped clean. Nothing remained except the log walls and the roof. She said the investigation was ongoing and that she couldn't share specific details. She thanked

Dale for the report. And that was the last time anyone from law enforcement ever contacted him. That was over eight years ago. Dale has searched news archives, court records, and missing persons databases. He has found nothing that connects to what he saw in that cabin. Eight bins full of stolen identifications, dozens of cell phones, piles of empty wallets and car keys, all of it in a location so remote that you would need to know exactly where the cabin was to find it. And someone cleaned it out in the narrow window between Dale's visit and law enforcement's arrival, which means one of two things. Either whoever was using that cabin had some form of surveillance on it, a trail camera, a motion sensor, something, and they saw Dale go in, or the timing was pure

coincidence. Dale doesn't believe in coincidences, not out there. He stopped hunting in the Henry Mountains after that. He stopped hunting alone entirely, and he says there are nights, not every night, but some, where he lies in bed and thinks about those driver's license photos. All those faces staring up at him from that plastic bin, all those names, all those people, and he wonders how many of them know that their identity wound up in a storage container in a cabin that doesn't officially exist. In a mountain range, most Americans couldn't find on a map. And he wonders how many of them are still alive. Four people, four trips into the Utah backcountry, and four encounters that reminded every single one of them

that being alone in the wilderness doesn't mean no one else is out there. It just means there's no one around to help you. Utah is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places on this planet. The landscapes out there are so vast and so ancient that you can stand on a ridge line and feel the full weight of just how small you really are. And that feeling, that smallness, that insignificance, that's exactly what draws people to these places. But it's also what makes them dangerous, because in 26 million acres of open wilderness,

there is room for anything, and anyone. If you made it all the way to the end of this video, thank you. Seriously, that means a lot. Drop a comment and let me know which of these four stories was your favorite. If you're new to this channel, you'll find hundreds of other episodes waiting for you. Hit subscribe and the notification bell so you don't miss the next one. and don't forget to check out the Just Creepy podcast on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. Until next time, be safe out there.

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