The tension and fear slowly dissipated as we drove on in silence and the miles passed without anything to suggest that the demons had reached that far south. I became aware of the rugged beauty of the Brooks Range. It was the middle of August and autumn in the Alaskan mountains. The yellow leaves of the short quaking aspen and occasional balsam poplar brightened the dark green of the tall and narrow black spruce trees that covered the valleys between the majestic bare mountains. I leaned back in my seat and forgot for a while the painful cuts on my thighs and the dangers, natural and supernatural, that hid in the surrounding forest.
Our next potential stop came at Sukapak Mountain. There was nothing there but a restroom that we no longer needed. Though we saw no signs of demons, we drove
