You DON’T Want to Meet This Man When You’re Camping…
“Bubba”
Back in October of 2016, I went on a backpacking expedition with some of my fraternity brothers. It was an annual tradition of ours to embark on a fall camping trip. In total, there were ten of us in attendance this year. Our destination this time was Zaleski State Park, located in the Appalachian foothills of southeastern Ohio. The Ohio Department of Natural Resources (ODNR) offers this description of the venue:
“The 27,822-acre Zaleski State Forest is the second largest forest in Ohio’s system of state forests… Historic Moonville Tunnel is located within Zaleski State Forest on the Moonville Rail Trail right-of-way.”
I’ve been there many times, and it’s one of my favorite outdoor destinations. The scenery there is gorgeous. Surrounding us was a diverse mix of luscious broadleaf deciduous trees and stoic evergreen fir trees, as well as steep, rolling hills. A dense blanket of foliage blots out the entire sun. It was almost as if the treacherous landscape was this place’s way of deterring unwanted visitors. I once heard a legend that told of a curse the native people had put on this land in retaliation to the increasing presence of pioneers.
We arrived there on Friday afternoon and hastily began our journey. After hiking about seven miles uphill, we set up camp at the top of the mountain. So far, the voyage was a total success — we were all enjoying the great outdoors and having a good time. But alas, little did we know what horrors awaited us out in those woods…
While we were setting up camp, we reluctantly made a new friend. A man wandered out of nowhere into our campsite while I was making a fire, and I jumped when I saw him. The others turned to look at what the commotion was, and they were spooked too.
“Howdy y’all,” the man said, “I’m from the campsite down the way from here. I ain’t mean to startle y’all, I only wanted to meet the neighbors.”
We relaxed a bit thereafter — this was only a harmless, nosy neighbor coming to check us out.
The man said his name was “Bubba,” and he looked like a wild mountain man. Bubba was short and stocky, with full sleeves tattooed on both his arms. A gruff, black beard covered his face. Additionally, Bubba spoke with a thick southern drawl, which made him difficult to understand at times.
We initially trusted him because he was young — probably a few years older than us. He seemed friendly, so we chatted him up. Bubba told us that he recently retired from the Army (“dishonorable discharge,” according to him). Despite Bubba’s quirkiness, we still admired him for his service, no matter how sketchy it sounded to us.
Admittedly, Bubba charmed me with his folksy demeanor — there was something endearing about him. So, we invited Bubba back to our camp later that night for a beer by the fire. When night fell, Bubba returned to our camp and joined us around the fire with a gallon-sized bottle of Fireball whiskey. So much for just sharing a beer. It looks like we have a long night ahead of ourselves, I thought.
In between heavy swigs of Fireball straight from the bottle, Bubba bragged about his time in the service. He even boasted about killing civilians in Iraq. This remark drew uneasy laughter from one of us. Bubba stared at the culprit and threatened him. “Don’t ya e’er disrespect muh like dat again, boy!” he hissed lowly. As he became more inebriated, his voice devolved further into a deep, southern twang. (I am still unsure if any of Bubba’s war stories were true, or was it all bullshit?)
Finally, Bubba composed himself, resuming an amiable demeanor in a way that felt unnatural. He lit another cigarette and offered us a fat blunt, which we passed around in a circle. Now he called our attention so he could tell us a campfire story. “Gather ‘round boys, I gots a ghost story for y’all,” he said, beckoning us to come closer. We scooched in and listened closely to Bubba’s tale…
The Moonville Ghost
Bubba told us that, during the previous night, he had been hiking at a nearby spot on an unmarked trail. This unmarked trail, he explained, leads to the Moonville Tunnel — an abandoned railroad tunnel with a haunted past. Bubba explained that the Moonville Tunnel is a historic location of ghost sightings in Ohio. Bubba even claimed to have seen the ghost himself. “I ain’t know what the hell to do, so I shot the damn thing and ran like hell,” he said, nonchalantly.
According to the local lore, the tunnel has a dark history spanning over a century. Many claim to have witnessed the “Moonville Ghost.” Additionally, ODNR offers some backstory on the legend of the Moonville Tunnel:
“Moonville Tunnel near Zaleski State Forest is one of few reminders of the ghost town of Moonville… Despite being a ghost town, Moonville remains well known due to its reputation of being haunted. Believers say that ghosts of railroad workers struck down by a train in the Moonville Tunnel still wave their lanterns in the abandoned tunnel.”
I wanted to know more, so I asked Bubba about the location of the Tunnel. Bubba attempted to recite the directions, but we were all drunk, so I didn’t remember them. However, I later discovered the directions online from a website dedicated to the Moonville Tunnel:
“You can visit Moonville — It is along the Vinton County Rail Trail which is tucked into Zaleski State Forest… The main road is paved, but the last mile is a raggedy dirt and gravel and, in some places, only wide enough for one car. There are a couple areas that run along a high cliff edge along Raccoon Creek. And during the winter, at times, the icy or snow-covered road can be impassable for vehicles. When you get to Moonville, there is a small parking area and you can see the tunnel across the bridge that was once a train trestle. It is only a short hike to the tunnel.”
This story fascinated me, and the image of a ghostly old railroad tunnel burrowed its way into my brain. Bubba’s tale of haunted railroad tunnels tugged at the dark corners of my imagination for several years following that encounter. Years later, my girlfriend, Catt, and I embarked to nearby Lake Hope State Park — seeking out the mysteries of the Moonville Tunnel (but that is a story for another time).
Coyote Hunt
Later that night, after some of the guys had gone to sleep, Bubba challenged the rest of us to a tomahawk throwing competition. He unclipped a hatchet from his utility belt and handed it off to someone, directing him to throw it at a nearby tree trunk. Then we all took turns chucking the hatchet at the tree. This went on until Bubba missed the tree and his stray tomahawk hit an occupied tent, waking its unsuspecting occupants.
After that, only a handful of us were still awake. Bubba suggested we go on a night hike to look for coyotes. “Let’s go coyote hunting,” he said, wielding his hatchet like a battle axe. According to him, there are “big ol’ packs” of them in the area.
So, in our drunken state, we decided that it was a good idea to follow this stranger into the forest at 3:00 AM in search of coyotes. Bubba led the pack of coyote hunters. We followed him over to the other side of the mountaintop and up another peak, where the forest opened into a vast expanse of wild backcountry. Below us, there was a massive scrubland. A thick maze of thorny underbrush descended the steep, grassy hillside. Sure enough, this was prime coyote habitat.
Bubba howled at the moon, and we listened as far-off coyotes cried back, more of them joining in with each call. It sounded like some of the coyotes were less than one hundred yards away.
After a few more howls back-and-forth, Bubba drew a pistol from his utility belt. “Heyuh, check out this here Colt .38 Special,” he said, coolly displaying the pistol for us to admire. It glistened in the moonlight.
No one said anything. The coyotes had even stopped howling. By this point, we all wanted to get the hell out of there.
Bubba pointed the gun in the air and shot off six rounds in rapid succession — BANG! — BANG! — BANG! — BANG! — BANG! — BANG!
In reaction, we all scattered, fleeing into the pitch-black forest. We ran as far away from Bubba as we could get before our lungs gave out, and we couldn’t breathe anymore.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. None of us did. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, it occurred to me that perhaps Bubba was the Moonville Ghost all along…
In the morning, we awoke very early to pack up camp (to ensure we would not run into Bubba on our way out), and we never saw Bubba again.
But he’s still out there somewhere…
