Final Excursion: The Hill Beyond Alsea

We left before dawn. Just the six of us now—those who could take the time, who hadn’t already had plans booked, or flown home to return to jobs, and the burden of normalcy. The others sent their goodbyes by phone last night, and we held no grudges. These kinds of expeditions have a way of thinning crowds. This one lasted longer with all of us than I had anticipated.

Santa-Pops didn’t say much on the drive. Just told us to follow him. We headed west from Corvallis, past Philomath, through the early fog toward the Coast Range. At a half-rotted sign marked Redding Mill, he turned off the highway onto gravel, then dirt, then barely a path at all.

We parked in a clearing near a ridge of second-growth Douglas firs. The place felt old, though the trees weren’t. No real trail. Just wet bracken, moss, and a low fog rolling uphill against the wind.

“This isn’t a spot I found in a book,” S.P. finally said as we gathered our gear. “It found me. Winter of 1953. I was hiking with a field radio and a thermos of soup. Only ever came back twice since.”

We didn’t press him. We followed.

The Summit

The hike was just under a mile—steep and soaked, but manageable. At the top, the trees thinned and opened into an unexpected meadow. Oval-shaped, maybe 60 yards across. Bone dry at its center despite the dew everywhere else.

“This is it.”

No features. No markings. No old fire rings, no logging scars. Just flattened grass and silence. Real silence.

And then I, standing maybe twenty feet out, said quietly:

“It’s humming.”

At first, I didn’t hear it. But once I said it, it came to life: low, warm, like the hum inside an airplane when you stop trying to tune it out. Not coming from one direction. All around us. Felt more than heard.

Vernon’s compass spun slowly, without jerking.

Josh checked the EMF—flat. Jennifer set up a directional mic but it picked up nothing unusual.

And then, like someone flipping a switch, it stopped.

No wind. No birds. Just a stillness that felt full.

Something Left Behind

S.P. knelt near the center and pressed his palm to the soil. “It wasn’t like this the first time,” he said. “I used to think it was a weather anomaly. But I’ve since come to believe this place is watching.”

We asked: Watching what?

He smiled. “Us. Maybe not with eyes. But intent.”

Mathew quietly asked if this was where he’d seen “them.” Santa-Pops didn’t answer. He just stood, patted his coat pocket, and said, “Leave no samples. Leave no trace.”

So we didn’t.

We stayed another hour. No more hums. But the air remained dense with some kind of charge—psychological or real, I don’t know. It felt like a place you weren’t supposed to be aware of. A place that worked best in the background of memory.

Before we left, I asked S.P. what he called this place.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t have a name. Not one I’d give it. But it’s been waiting here longer than any of us. That’s all I’m certain of.”

Back at the Vans

Nobody spoke much on the drive back to Corvallis. At one point, Josh said something about how places can carry echoes, and maybe this was one of those places. Donna replied with a quiet “maybe.”

Me? I kept looking out the window, watching the trees slip past like final pages.

Conclusion

We came looking for evidence. We leave with fragments: sounds without sources, footprints without paths, people with stories too aligned to dismiss but too distant to prove.

We didn’t find the answer.

But maybe the point wasn’t to solve anything.

Maybe the point was to listen—to the hills, the forests, the people who’ve seen things they can’t explain—and then write it down anyway.

Because something is happening.

And silence has never meant nothing.

End of Field Season

Location: Coastal Foothills near Alsea, Oregon