The Twice-Seen Travelers

The Fraser Canyon stretched before us like a wound in the earth, its walls sheer and black against the last smears of dusk. My daughter Maya and I were heading to my sister’s cabin on Salt Spring Island, taking the scenic route through the Coast Mountains. The plan was to reach Lillooet by nightfall, but the highway had other ideas—a landslide had closed the main road, forcing a detour down an unmarked logging road that wound through the Cascades. It was past nine when we finally rolled into the sleepy town of Lillooet, our headlights illuminating a single gas station that seemed to be the only sign of life.

We pulled in, the pump’s fluorescent glow buzzing overhead. Maya stirred from her backseat nap, rubbing her eyes. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice groggy.

‘Lillooet,’ I said, stepping out into the cool mountain air. The station was deserted except for a grizzled attendant who shuffled out to take our payment. As I filled the tank, I noticed two figures near the edge of the lot, huddled over backpacks. They were dressed in crisp, olive-green uniforms—like old-school Boy Scouts, with kerchiefs and wide-brimmed hats. They had no car, just the packs and a cardboard sign that read ‘Anywhere.’ I felt a prickle of unease but dismissed it as paranoia. We paid, grabbed snacks, and got back on the road.

About an hour later, the highway narrowed to two lanes, dense pine forests pressing in on both sides. The radio had faded to static, and the only sound was the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of gravel under the tires. Maya was dozing again. I drove in silence, scanning the empty road. No headlights ahead, none behind. That was odd for a Friday night, but I didn’t think much of it—until we rounded a bend and there they were.

The two figures stood at the shoulder, thumbs out, their faces half-shrouded in darkness. The same uniforms, the same packs. They were in the middle of nowhere, miles from any town, and we hadn’t passed a single car since leaving Lillooet. Yet there they were, as if they’d simply materialized from the forest. My heart did a nervous flip. I pressed the accelerator, and the car surged past them. I glanced in the rearview mirror—they had turned to watch us, their faces impassive, not a hint of disappointment.

‘Did you see them?’ I asked Maya, but she was asleep. I kept driving, my knuckles white on the wheel. The road twisted through a valley, and I tried to rationalize: maybe they had a friend who’d dropped them off from a side road I hadn’t noticed. But I knew that was false—the forest was impenetrable, and we hadn’t passed any turnoffs.

Another hour passed. We drove through the tiny hamlet of Seton Portage, its few streetlights a welcome sight, then continued toward the mountains. The time was 12:30 when we approached the outskirts of Whistler, the signs for the ski resort promising civilization. My eyes were heavy, but I forced them open. And then, just as the glow of Whistler’s lights appeared ahead, I saw them again.

They were standing on a gravel overlook, still in their scout uniforms, still with their packs. They didn’t have their thumbs out this time—they just stood there, watching the road, as if waiting for us. I slammed on the accelerator, the engine roaring as I sped past. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it. Maya woke up, startled. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, just a couple of hitchhikers,’ I said, trying to steady my voice. ‘Go back to sleep.’ But she was already looking out the rear window. ‘They’re still there,’ she said, her voice flat. I didn’t look. I just drove.

We reached Whistler proper, and I pulled into a well-lit gas station, my hands shaking. I told Maya we were taking a break. I went inside to get coffee, and when I came back, she was staring out the window, pale. ‘Dad, they’re here,’ she said.

I followed her gaze. Across the street, under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, the two figures stood. They hadn’t moved—they were just watching us. I grabbed Maya’s hand and got back in the car. ‘We’re leaving now.’

We drove through Whistler, and I didn’t stop until we were on the Sea to Sky Highway, the cliffs on one side and the dark water on the other. It was almost 2 AM. Maya was less asleep, but I kept glancing in the mirror. No headlights. No figures. The rest of the drive to the ferry terminal was uneventful, but the image of those two men burned in my mind.

We caught the morning ferry to Salt Spring, and I told my sister everything over coffee. She listened, her face grim. ‘You knew about the Thompson Road disappearances?’ she asked. I shook my head. ‘Last fall, a father and son vanished near Lillooet. They were on a camping trip. Search parties found their tent, but no trace. The locals say there are things in those mountains that lure you.’

I stared at my coffee, the memory of their faces—not angry, not desperate, just patient—flooding back. Later, Maya and I took a walk to the shoreline. She was quiet, kicking at the pebbles. Finally, she said, ‘Dad, I saw them in the backseat the whole time.’

I froze. ‘What?’

‘When you were stopping at the gas station, I saw them behind us,’ she whispered. ‘They were in the car.’

I turned to her, my blood cold. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I thought they were your friends,’ she said. ‘They kept smiling.’

I looked around the empty beach, half expecting to see two figures in olive uniforms standing among the driftwood. But there was nothing. Only the whitecaps on the water, rolling in like a slow, patient tide.

I never took that route again. And to this day, I still check the backseat before I start the engine. But sometimes, at night, I catch a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision—two shapes, standing still, watching. And I know they’re still waiting, ready to be seen.

We never spoke of it again, but Maya started sleeping with the lights on. And every time I see a boy scout uniform, my stomach drops. The mountains keep their secrets, and some travelers are never meant to be found.