Death visited late in the day. I came upon the human tragedy the following morning.
Near Kitsuma’s summit, a steady breeze rustled trees and bushes hugging the mountainside. Spring in North Carolina meant comfortable temperatures during daylight. Standing there, I felt the night’s lingering chill.
Years had passed—fifty or more—since I’d tramped the mountain’s footpaths.
Two dozen of us searched the area late the previous evening but had gotten nowhere near the summit. We resumed our task along the rigorous trail on the Old Fort side well before dawn.
Our group, split into twos and threes, made our way farther toward the top by driving to an access point halfway up the mountain. Others had started at the base. We covered areas unreachable in the previous night’s outing. Two hours later, I came upon the campground, forty yards down a side trail and near a cove of rhododendron and mountain laurel.
The scene’s horror struck deep, painted in strokes of surreal hues. The blood, in the dim light, bore a black pigmentation. One young man’s skin tone paled to a faint glow reflecting his orange rain parka.
Two light-green pup tents stood side by side. One caved in toward the back; the other seemed undisturbed.
I looked around for the second camp counselor. Raking the mountainside, my gaze focused on something resembling a yellow night safety vest. I made my way downhill.
Soon enough, I came across another grisly scene. The young man’s head cocked at a strange, unnatural angle as he sprawled belly down in the bushes and leaves. The blood wasn’t as apparent with him as the fluid had seeped into leaves and pine needles beneath him.
Something tilted out of his left hand—a cell phone.
I stood there, observing, before heading back to the campsite. A helicopter droned not far away, and I remembered the other ground searchers.
Ward Jefferson, an old friend and search party member, descended the hill and walked up beside me. I pointed out the victims, and he slowly approached, paused, and observed each one before coming back to me. “Oh my God,” he said. “Who would do that to Jeff Collins and Wally Durrand?” Ward, tall and gray-haired, gave the impression of a strong, aging man. His lips quivered, and his hand shook as he scratched his right cheek. He started crying.
I put an arm around Ward’s shoulder and tugged. He turned and stepped away for a moment.
“You knew both these young men, Ward?”
He looked off in the other direction as if he could remove himself to a safer part of the mountain, one undisturbed by the horror before us. “Yes, but it’s a long story, Red. Can’t talk about it now. I witnessed it all years ago. But these two went through hell once already. Now this.”
The breeze caressed the silence. The light green of new spring leafing on some trees contrasted with the mature evergreen shades.
The sound of voices emerged from down the main trail.
“Over here,” I shouted. My voice tore through the quiet and rippled across the mountainside.
Searchers, led by a sheriff’s deputy, walked up behind us. Many others were probably two or three miles away.
Soon, several searchers congregated around Ward and me. Their chatter calmed to silence upon seeing the death scene.
I announced they should stay away from the campsite to preserve evidence for the crime scene team.
I called the sheriff on my walkie-talkie and gave him the coordinates. Then I spoke to the deputy. “Both young men are dead. No one could have survived what appear to be deep gashes and loss of blood. They camped off the main trail. I’m keeping people out of the area. Also, tell your crime scene folks there’s a cell phone with the body down the hill.”
I moved the group back. “Sheriff said he’d be up the trail shortly,” I told them.
The deputy reached into his backpack and, with a roll of crime scene tape, encircled the area in ten-yard stretches, wrapping the yellow ribbon around trees and across each side of the trail.
I walked back over to him.
Ward shook his head. “Two fine young men.”
The helicopter found us, its engines roaring and whirring prop rustling the trees and bushes.
Standing outside the taped boundary, I took photos of the two pup tents and Collins’ body. Several yards from Durrand’s body, I shot several more pictures on my phone.
My eyes caught the blade stuck in a sweetgum tree trunk as I turned. It was a bloody tomahawk of the type used in throwing contests.
Several more photos.
