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I was dropped off in the woods for three days. Something followed me out

In the early days of February, just before my senior year. I was prompted by my father to undertake a right of passage as he called it. I was to be left alone to fend for myself in a section of Tennessee's Cherokee National Forest for three days and two nights.

I was against the trip from the beginning. Sure, I liked hunting and camping, but this was extreme, too extreme for my tastes. But it was tradition; passed down from father to son in my family for generations.

Who was I to break tradition?

So, against my reservations, and against the feeling that this was a stupid idea, I packed up my backpack, grabbed my .30-06 bolt action rifle and climbed into the cab of my dad's pickup.

It was a long drive, broken only by stilted attempts at conversation and the heater going full blast as the tires rolled past endless concrete. I was a little pissed that my dad was basically forcing this on me, and our uneasy silence only made the hours feel like days.

We only stopped once at a gas station about ten miles from our cabin. The stench of unleaded, and a cheap, convenience store hamburger would be the last remnants of civilization I'd see for the next three days. I mechanically swallowed my burger and slurped down the watery coke filled with too much ice as we turned off the highway and got on the rural backroads.

It was fifteen miles of dirt to my dads' cabin that his grandfather had left him, which would, in turn, be left to me. It was tradition, after all.

But I wouldn't be getting the luxury of a cabin, no. We were parking the truck, and my father was driving me up deeper into the woods on a four-wheeler to a random, undisclosed point. I would then have three days to find my way back.

If I succeeded, I'd become a man in my dads' eyes, and we'd also be getting a new swimming pool for the summer. It was bribery, but I would be going into my senior year in August, and having a big pool would cement my popularity. It was vain, and I was doing this for mostly selfish reasons, but I also wanted to make my dad proud.

I stepped out of the toasted truck to the calm, frigid forest air. The cabin was a small two-story log affair, worn from age, but obviously well maintained. A new wooden wraparound porch had been built last summer and was in need of staining that we'd never gotten around to, but otherwise, the cabin was pristine.

It was a tremendously peaceful place, far removed from the troubles of civilization, and I felt like I was intruding on hallowed ground. I brushed off the shiver that clawed down my spine and buttoned my long coat to my neck. Immediately most of the chill went away, and I shook off my unease.

I didn't want to admit it, but a part of me was looking forward to the trip, some primal part of me relished the opportunity to put all the survival skills I'd been taught over the years to the test.

Before I could take a step to the cabin, my dad came around the front of the truck and held put his hand.

"Thomas, hand me your bag," he demanded, in a curt, no-nonsense tone.

My dad and I looked so much alike in the face, the same unruly dark hair and deep-set eyes, but I could never hope to measure up to his terrifying drill sergeant voice.

As he told me to hand him my backpack, I did so without question, and he immediately went inside, telling me to wait on the porch. I marched across the wood and sat in the rocking chair while my dad bustled around inside. Pots and pans clanged, and metal scraped against metal as he worked, breaking the sounds of the forest around me.

For half an hour, my dad busied himself with my bag before the screen door creaked as he ambled back outside.

"I loaded everything you'll need for three days in the bag. You have a couple days of food, but its only for an emergency, I also added a flare gun for an actual emergency."