The Ghost on the Forest Trail
A lone rider’s remains, discovered near Enumclaw, spark a haunting reflection on the anonymous lives lost in the rush to settle the wild West.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
A few days ago, a skeleton was found on a lonely forest trail near Enumclaw. The head was gone and the bones were scattered; falling to earth, the body was wrapped in a rotting blanket. In the pockets of the torn and faded clothing which encased the bones were a few trinkets, tarnished and covered with mold. Near the dead man were the bones of his faithful dog, which had died at its master's side, standing near the inanimate form through days and longer nights until hunger and thirst had done their work and the end had followed its master within the impenetrable shadow. What a sad mystery this is! Think of it, men and women of our busy world. Think of it, idlers to whom life’s shadow is a summer cloud. Think of it, wife of the lost husband, mother of the wandering boy. Think of it, you who labor and you who play. You cannot win the mystery, but your heart will be more tender, and with God’s help maybe more true, if you pause and spare a thought to the horseman who rode up the forest trail. Who was he? Whence had he come? On what mission was he bent when his life was ended as by a dash of lightning? Into whose ears did he murmur his last words? Whose hands were last pressed to his? Who missed him his last farewell? Not the rag-cloth on the skeleton, not the beast's whitened bones, answer these questions. Did he die without pain and without warning, himself not knowing how the veil between mortality and immortality was torn away? Or did he lie in the hard road through hours of keenest anguish, with no care save that the brute dared to die by his side and no sound to break the lonely death! Let us hope that the whisper of the pines was Nature’s prayer for his passing soul.
“The world has little time to devote to the rider who returns to the light or to the rider whose steed stumbles and falls. The horseman who never returns... these stand for those who ride into life's forest and sink before the sunlight greets them.”
In 1890, the forests of King County still held untracked mysteries and the remains of prospectors or pioneers lost to the wilderness. Today, while the 'lonely forest trail' has largely been replaced by dense suburban growth and protected parklands, the haunting sense of anonymity in a booming, transient city remains a central feature of the Seattle experience.
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