Campfire Stories: Scooby Doo Scare At Pinnacles
Intro to new occasional series and getting some good 'ol heebie-jeebies at Pinnacles National Park.
Welcome to Campfire Stories! This is a little series I’ve been wanting to start here to break up the Logbook entries and life updates. This is going to be a fun place for one-off stories from outdoor endeavors, travel happenings, lessons learned, and the like. I’m not sure how often I’ll contribute to it— ideally it’ll turn into a regular, entertaining space to share others women’s stories as well. But for now stay tuned.
I thought this recent spooky story would be a good one to kick things off!
Pro tip: Before sprinting into the wilderness off-trail to rescue a ‘woman in distress’, consider the possibility that she might actually be a very amorous fox. We learned this lesson the hard way. But don’t worry— no people or canines were harmed in the making of this slightly terrifying story.
We arrived at Pinnacles National Park in the evening, ready to spend a couple days camping and hiking. This was our final stop on our California park trifecta— Sequoia, Yosemite, and now Pinnacles. Eager to see what this lesser-known gem had in store, our sights were set on caves, condors, and beautiful high peaks.
Sunset was approaching, so we decided Bear Gulch Trail would be a perfect introduction before setting up camp. This breezy hike winds through a small bat cave, before opening up at a serene reservoir, framed by picturesque rock formations and dense shrubbery.
With one headlamp and a phone flashlight we scrambled our way through the cave. Once in a while spotting a teeny, adorable bat squinting at us. I thought we must look pretty funny upside down!
At the end I stood at the edge of the reservoir, taking in the scenery. Everything was turning that perfect, blueish purple just before dark. The birds had quieted, the moon was bright, and bats grazed the water below.
And then it happened— a shrill scream from somewhere in the hills above. It bounced off the surrounding rocks, lingering in the air and ringing across the water.
Frozen in place, we scanned the dusky landscape. Nothing. No movement, no shadows, not even a rustle of leaves.
Then the sound came again— high pitched and breathy, it echoed through the hills, unsettling and unrelenting.
Kirk called back like a crow, testing for a response. When it happened again, he shouted, “Hello! Anybody there?”
Quiet.
But only for a moment. Another piercing, almost human wail rang through the night.
Then the calls came sporadically, stretching over minutes. Maybe a climber had fallen, too winded to yell for long? A woman in distress? An injured deer left for dead?
At first we exchanged some uneasy giggles and glances. But our amusement quickly faded at the possibility of someone being in danger.
Kirk, already in motion, asked if we should check it out and before I could think twice I heard myself answer “yes”. Just like that we were scrambling through brush towards the sound. The only sign I spotted along the way was a hiker symbol slashed through with an X. No trail.
But we weren’t far from the reservoir. And we were already too deep into the mystery to turn back.
My mind raced. No cell service. No way to call for help if someone was in danger. And we weren’t exactly prepared for a rescue mission— no backpack, no first aid, no bear spray. Super!
I don’t consider myself reckless when it comes to the outdoors. I don’t like inserting myself into chaos without knowing how I can actually help. But in the wild, you don’t always get the luxury of a plan.
Still, as avid hikers— able-bodied, aware— there’s an undeniable instinct to help when something feels off. So, without questioning (and with Kirk leading the way), we pushed forward.
Looking back, if this night taught me anything, it’s that the wilderness doesn’t care if you’re prepared. But you’ll sure wish you were.
Dusk was finished— we were now in the dark. Kirk continued calling and whatever-it-was seemed to respond. The closer we got, the more animal the sound became. Finally, we got as close as we dared— maybe sixty feet, Kirk says.
And then, it stopped.
Moments felt like minutes as we stood breathing heavy and staring perplexed into the brush. Kirk let out a final, “We’re leaving! Goodnight!” When no response came, we hightailed it out of there.
Hiking at night is freaky to me. I’ve never done it on purpose; only finding my way back after sunset. There’s always that unsettling feeling, like I’m being watched. Tonight was no exception. The goosebumps on my neck didn’t fade until we reached the car.
It was funny how much quieter we’d become on the way back. Kirk pointed out how at night, your focus shrinks to just what’s immediately in front of you. You move a little faster. That’s when I finally noticed my adrenaline. I was going to be glad to be done with this night. We were a regular pair of spooked-out Scooby Doo characters scrambling back to the safety of the Mystery Machine (aka, the Honda Element).
But we wanted answers! What let out that strange wail? Had we encountered a bizarre, Californian cryptid?
On our way back, we encountered another group of after-dark hikers in the cave. They lost their way to the reservoir for stargazing. Already on edge, Kirk made certain they had the correct directions to and from their destination, and warned them of the sound. We promised to check the parking around 10pm, when they said they’d be getting back. Sure enough, we caught them as they were loading back into the last car in the lot right on time. We slept a little better knowing they were safe.
(But they never heard anything!)
The next morning called for research. We were determined to discover some sort of relief. That we were crazy for hearing a mythic call and there was never anyone in danger… that we were never in any danger.
At the Visitor Center, Kirk rattled off our odd encounter to the cashier, who seemed equally perplexed. Fellow campers overheard the story and informed us, rather matter-of-factly, that we had heard a mountain lion. Nice! So we had successfully pursued an apex predator with nothing to defend ourselves.
Needing to verify for ourselves, we turned to the only sources any good detective can really count on: YouTube and Reddit.
Cue the wild frenzy of audio comparisons. Growls, calls, and screams of cougars, bobcats, and foxes (oh my). It’s amazing how similar they all sound. It’s amazing that an animal can sound as human-like as it did!
After a Goldilocks-esque process of elimination, we made our decision. The cougar’s scream is too meow-y, the bobcat’s is too gruff, but the fox’s was juust right.
We concluded that the bone-chilling shriek was only the sappy, soft beckon of a fox in heat to its mate. Yup, that’s right— a fox’s sweet nothings happen to sound exactly like a woman screaming for her life! We had risked bushwhacking through the dark to investigate a lovesick critter.
So our tension could finally give way to laughter. Looking back, I don’t regret that we went to investigate, granted I felt much safer with Kirk there. But I know now to be more ready. Especially to young women in the outdoors— let this be a lesson. I’d never want to be caught in a legitimate emergency with such little confidence or preparedness.
The wilderness will always surprise you— sometimes in terrifying ways, and sometimes in hilarious ones. And if you ever hear a bloodcurdling scream in the middle of nowhere? Well, you’ve been warned…