The Guardians of the Silent Peak: A Tale of the Pacific Northwest
The storm that rolled over the Cascades that November was not a typical autumn rain. It was a “widow-maker,” a violent, atmospheric river that turned the sky the color of a fresh bruise and sent the ancient Douglas firs groaning under the weight of unrelenting wind.
Jackson Boon, a 72-year-old retired forest ranger, stood by his window, watching the rain lash against the glass in rhythmic sheets. Jackson was a man etched from the very landscape he inhabited—his skin was weathered like cedar bark, and his eyes held the stillness of a mountain lake. Since the passing of his wife, Martha, ten years prior, the forest had become his primary interlocutor. He understood the language of the woods: the warning snap of a dry branch, the silence that precedes a predator’s strike, and the subtle shift in the wind that signaled a change in the seasons.
But as the thunder rattled the foundation of his hand-built cabin, Jackson heard something that didn’t belong to the repertoire of the storm.
I. The Discovery in the Deluge
Jackson grabbed his heavy oilskin coat and a high-powered lantern. His instincts, honed over four decades of service in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, told him a hiker might be stranded. He stepped out into the chaos. The rain was cold enough to bite, turning the forest floor into a treacherous slurry of mud and pine needles.
He pushed through a thicket of vine maple, the beam of his light cutting through the silver needles of rain. Then, he heard it again—a high-pitched, warbling cry. It wasn’t the scream of a cougar or the bark of an elk. It was rhythmic, desperate, and hauntingly infant-like.
Near the base of a hollowed-out cedar, Jackson found them.
At first, he thought they were bear cubs, but as he knelt, the light revealed something that defied every entry in his ranger manuals. Two small creatures, no more than four feet tall, were huddled together in the mud. They were covered in matted, reddish-brown fur, soaked to the skin, and trembling with such violence that their teeth chattered audibly. Their faces were more human than ape—flat noses, high foreheads, and wide, amber eyes filled with a terrifying intelligence.
They were covered in deep, jagged scratches, as if they had been thrown through a briar patch by a great force. One was whimpering, its tiny, five-fingered hand clutching the fur of the other.
“Easy now,” Jackson whispered, his voice barely audible over the gale. “I’ve got you.”
Without a second thought for his own safety or the scientific impossibility of the moment, Jackson scooped them up. They were surprisingly heavy, their muscles dense even at a young age. He wrapped them inside his oversized coat, feeling the heat of their frantic heartbeats against his chest, and fought his way back to the cabin.
II. The Cabin Sanctuary
Inside, the warmth of the woodstove greeted them. Jackson laid the creatures on a pile of dry blankets. Up close, the reality of what he had found hit him like a physical blow. These were Sasquatch infants—the “Bigfoot” of legend. In all his years, he had seen strange tracks and heard unidentifiable vocalizations, but he had never believed the legends were this… real.
He moved with methodical ranger precision. He heated water, cleaned the grit from their wounds, and applied a soothing salve of goldenseal and honey. The larger one, whom he would later call Stone, watched him with a wary, protective gaze, shielding the smaller one, Twig.
As the fire crackled, Jackson prepared a bowl of warm mash—oats, berries, and honey. Slowly, hesitantly, the infants began to eat. As the warmth soaked into their bones, the trembling stopped. Twig let out a soft, bird-like chirp and leaned her head against Jackson’s knee.
In that moment, the world outside—the scientists, the skeptics, the poachers—disappeared. There was only a man and two orphans of the wild. But as Jackson looked at the scratches on their backs, he realized they weren’t just lost. They were survivors of a tragedy.
III. The Mark of the Rogue
The next morning, the storm had broken, leaving the forest dripping and emerald-green. Jackson left the babies sleeping and trekked back to the hollow cedar. He needed to know what had happened to their mother.
He found the site of the struggle a quarter-mile up-slope. The devastation was chilling. Tree trunks the size of a man’s waist had been snapped. The ground was torn up as if by a plow. Jackson found patches of dark fur and deep, terrifying claw marks in the bark of a hemlock—marks that were nearly ten feet off the ground.
These weren’t the tracks of the mother. They were the tracks of a Rogue Male. In many primate species, an alpha male will sometimes kill the offspring of a rival or a female he intends to claim. The rogue was massive, perhaps nine or ten feet tall, and his tracks showed a slight limp in the left foot.
Jackson felt a cold dread. The rogue was still out there, and he had likely been the one who had driven the infants into the storm. By saving them, Jackson had placed himself in the middle of a prehistoric blood feud.
IV. The Arrival of the Hunters
The forest was no longer a place of solitude. A few days later, the silence was shattered by the low rumble of an engine. A battered 4×4 truck pulled onto the old logging road near Jackson’s property. Three men stepped out, carrying heavy-caliber rifles and high-tech thermal optics.
The leader was Dale Riker, a man Jackson knew only too well. Riker was a “trophy hunter” who operated on the fringes of legality, rumored to sell rare pelts on the black market.
“Morning, Boon,” Riker called out, his voice oily. “We heard some strange calls up this way during the storm. Sounded like something big. You see anything unusual?”
“Just the wind, Dale,” Jackson replied, leaning against his porch railing, his shotgun within reach. “Why don’t you boys move along? You’re trespassing on private land.”
Riker smirked, his eyes scanning the cabin. “The forest belongs to whoever can take what’s in it, old man. We found some hair samples back at the ravine. Real interesting DNA. If you’re hiding something… well, that’s a lot of money to be sitting on.”
Riker’s greed was a different kind of predator, but just as dangerous as the rogue Bigfoot. Jackson knew he had to keep the babies hidden in the reinforced cellar he had built beneath the floorboards.
V. The Siege of the Silent Peak
For a week, the tension mounted. Jackson trained Twig and Stone to stay silent at the sound of a double-whistle. He taught them to hide in the cellar, a space lined with cedar to mask their scent.
One night, the forest went unnaturally quiet. No crickets, no owls. Jackson sat in his darkened cabin, his shotgun across his lap. Suddenly, the front door was kicked off its hinges. Riker and his men burst in, their faces covered in masks.
“Where are they, Boon?” Riker hissed.
A struggle ensued. Jackson, despite his age, fought with the strength of a man protecting his own flesh and blood. But he was outnumbered. A rifle butt caught him across the temple, and the world went grey.
As Riker moved toward the cellar door, a sound erupted that didn’t come from a human throat. It was a guttural, earth-shaking roar that seemed to vibrate the very nails out of the floorboards.
Stone had burst through the trapdoor. The young Sasquatch was no longer a shivering infant; he was a primal force. He tackled one of the hunters, his sheer mass sending the man through the window. Twig followed, emitting a piercing, high-frequency shriek that caused the hunters to drop their weapons in agony, clutching their ears.
Terrified by the supernatural ferocity of the creatures, Riker and his remaining man fled into the night, screaming that the woods were cursed.
VI. The Return of the Tribe
Jackson woke to the feeling of a large, warm hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes, expecting to see a hunter, but instead, he saw the Ancient.
The cabin was filled with shadows—massive, towering shadows. A tribe of Sasquatch had arrived. They had moved through the forest like ghosts, following the scent of their lost kin. At their head was a matriarch, her fur silvered like moonlight.
Stone and Twig ran to her, chirping and nuzzling into her side. The matriarch looked at Jackson. Her eyes were not those of an animal; they were deep, soulful, and filled with an ancient gratitude. She leaned down and touched the silver river-stone necklace Jackson had always kept on his mantle—a gift from his late wife. She let out a low, resonant hum.
The tribe didn’t just take the babies. They stayed until the sun rose, systematically dismantling the hunters’ camp nearby and ensuring the rogue male was driven far across the mountains.
VII. The Honor of the Woods
Jackson sat on his porch as the tribe prepared to leave. Stone stepped forward one last time. He placed a heavy hand on Jackson’s chest—a gesture of “heart-to-heart.” He then laid a smooth, carved piece of obsidian at Jackson’s feet. It was a tool, or perhaps a token, marked with a symbol that looked like a mountain peak.
The babies disappeared into the mist, following the silver matriarch.
Weeks later, Jackson noticed his cabin had been repaired. The broken door was replaced with a slab of solid oak, fitted perfectly into the frame. The firewood pile was always mysteriously replenished. And every morning, a fresh bundle of medicinal herbs—herbs that Jackson used for his aching joints—was left on his doorstep.
Jackson Boon was never lonely again. He realized that the statistics of the forest were far more complex than any census could record.
Jackson leaned back in his chair, the obsidian stone cool in his hand. He looked toward the tree line, where two shadows—one slightly larger than the other—stood watching over him. He was the Elder Friend, the protected ward of the most powerful tribe in the Pacific Northwest.
The forest had returned the favor, and Jackson Boon was finally home.
Part VIII: The Winter of the Unseen Watchers
As the first snows of December began to dust the needles of the towering hemlocks, Jackson noticed a profound change in the atmosphere surrounding his cabin. The forest was no longer just a collection of trees and wildlife; it had become a fortress.
One morning, Jackson stepped out to find a massive elk carcass lying thirty yards from his porch. It hadn’t been killed by a cougar or a wolf; the neck had been snapped with a strength that suggested a sudden, overwhelming force. There were no bite marks—just the silent offering of protein for a long winter. Jackson understood. The tribe knew he was old. They knew his hunts were getting shorter and his breath thinner. They were feeding the man who had fed their young.
The Return of Dale Riker
However, greed is a parasite that doesn’t die easily. Dale Riker, humiliated and nursing a broken collarbone from Stone’s tackle, had not gone to the police—he couldn’t explain his presence on Jackson’s land without incriminating himself. Instead, he had recruited a team of “specialists” from the city: men with thermal drones and tranquilizer rifles.
They set up a base camp three miles down-ridge, hidden in a deep draw. They didn’t realize that in these woods, there were no secrets.
IX: The Shadow War
Jackson saw the drones first—small, buzzing hornets of plastic and lithium, hovering over the canopy. He knew they were looking for the heat signatures of the tribe.
He didn’t have to wait long for the forest to respond. That night, the sky was filled with the sound of “wood-knocking”—heavy, rhythmic strikes of stone against wood that echoed like gunfire from the mountain peaks. It was a tactical communication Jackson had studied for years, but now it sounded like a war drum.
The next morning, Riker’s drones were found smashed in a neat pile at the edge of the logging road. Not shot down, but plucked from the air by something that could jump twenty feet into the lower branches.
The Tribe’s Defensive Tactics:
Scent Masking: The Sasquatch began moving through the creeks, leaving no trail for the hunters’ hounds.
Psychological Pressure: At 3:00 AM every morning, the tribe would surround Riker’s camp and emit a low-frequency infrasound—a sound humans can’t hear but can feel. it induces a sense of overwhelming dread and nausea.
The Perimeter: Jackson noticed that Stone and Twig were often the ones tasked with watching his cabin. He would see their amber eyes reflecting his lantern light from the treeline—silent sentinels of the Silent Peak.
X: The Final Confrontation at the Ravine
Riker, driven to the brink of madness by the infrasound and the loss of his equipment, made a final, desperate move. He realized that the only way to catch a Sasquatch was to use Jackson as bait.
He intercepted Jackson while the old ranger was checking his perimeter. “Last chance, old man,” Riker snarled, pressing a pistol to Jackson’s temple. “Call them. Make that whistling sound you used. If they don’t show, you’re just another missing person in the Cascades.”
Jackson looked Riker in the eye. “You don’t understand, Dale. You think you’re the hunter. But you’ve already walked into the trap.”
A low rumble started beneath their feet. It wasn’t an earthquake; it was the sound of twenty massive creatures moving in unison. From the shadows of the ravine, the Silver Matriarch emerged. She didn’t roar this time. She simply stood there, nine feet of muscle and ancient wisdom, silhouetted against the grey sky.
Behind her, Stone—now noticeably larger and broader—stepped into the light. He carried a massive branch of mountain mahogany. He looked at Jackson, then at Riker. The recognition was instant.
Riker fired a shot into the air, panic finally taking hold. But before he could level the gun, the forest itself seemed to swallow the hunters. The tribe didn’t use teeth or claws; they used the terrain. They triggered a controlled rockslide that swept the hunters’ gear into the ravine.
Riker and his men were left standing in their shirtsleeves in the freezing rain, their weapons gone, their transport crushed. The Matriarch let out a single, sharp bark. The tribe parted, leaving a clear path toward the highway—ten miles away through the deepest, darkest part of the woods.
Riker didn’t look back. He ran. He would never return to the Gifford Pinchot.
XI: The Bond of the Ancients
The winter passed into a glorious, blooming spring. Jackson’s health began to fail him—a heart that had seen too many winters was starting to slow. He spent most of his days on the porch, wrapped in the blankets he had once used to save Stone and Twig.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the Silent Peak, Twig approached the porch alone. She was almost an adult now, her movements graceful and fluid. She carried a small bundle of dry moss and a strange, glowing fungus that Jackson had never seen in any botany book.
She sat on the steps and began to sing. It wasn’t a song with words, but a series of melodic hums and clicks. It was a “Passing Song.”
Jackson felt a profound peace wash over him. He wasn’t afraid. He looked into the forest and saw the entire tribe standing at the edge of the clearing. They weren’t hiding anymore. They were showing themselves to him, a final salute to the human who had seen them not as monsters, but as family.
The Legacy of Jackson Boon
When the state rangers finally came to check on Jackson a week later, they found the cabin in perfect order. Jackson was sitting in his chair on the porch, a peaceful smile on his face, looking out toward the mountains.
The rangers were baffled by several things:
The Repairs: The cabin was in better shape than when it was built, with structural supports made of wood no human could have lifted.
The Surroundings: Not a single predator track was found within a mile of the property, but there were massive, human-like prints everywhere.
The Gift: In Jackson’s cold hand, he held a necklace of polished river-stones and a single, fresh wildflower that only grew on the highest, most inaccessible peaks of the Cascades.
They officially listed his death as “natural causes,” but the locals knew better. They say that if you hike near the Silent Peak and you get lost in a storm, you might hear a double-whistle through the wind. And if you’re lucky, two shadows—one named Stone and one named Twig—will guide you back to the light.
Part XII: The Hidden Chronicles of the Silent Peak
The story of Jackson Boon didn’t end with his final breath on that porch. In the weeks following his passing, the Gifford Pinchot National Forest became the subject of an intensive, yet strangely frustrated, federal investigation. The “Boon File,” as it became known in the back offices of the Department of the Interior, contained details that challenged the very boundaries of biology.
State Ranger Marcus Thorne, a man who had known Jackson for twenty years, was the lead officer on the scene. As he walked the perimeter of the property, he noticed things that didn’t make it into the official press release.
The “Infrasound” Anomalies
Thorne’s team brought in acoustic sensors to monitor the area. They recorded persistent, low-frequency vibrations—pulses at $15\text{ Hz}$—well below the threshold of human hearing but powerful enough to cause physical discomfort in the younger deputies.
“It felt like the air was heavy,” Thorne wrote in his private journal. “Like the forest was breathing down our necks, warning us that we were guests on a clock that was ticking down.”
XIII: The Mystery of the Stone Garden
Behind the cabin, where Jackson’s wife Martha was buried, the rangers found something staggering. Over the course of the winter, the “tribe” had created a sprawling mosaic of river stones around the grave. Thousands of stones, sorted perfectly by color—deep obsidians, milky quartz, and jasper reds—formed a pattern that, when viewed from the cabin roof, looked remarkably like a topographical map of the Cascades.
At the center of this “Stone Garden” sat the obsidian tool Stone had given Jackson. It had been placed upright, acting as a gnomon for a sundial.
Observations from the Grave Site:
Soil Health: The earth around the cabin was richer than the surrounding forest, supplemented with organic matter that seemed intentionally placed.
Flora: Rare mountain orchids, which usually only bloom above $6,000$ feet, were growing in the low-elevation garden.
The “Guardians” Mark: A large, silver-grey hair sample was snagged on a nearby branch. DNA analysis came back “inconclusive,” showing markers for both higher primates and a lineage that predated the fossil record by a million years.
XIV: The Final Vanishing
As the state prepared to auction off the property, a series of “natural” events made the cabin inaccessible. A massive mudslide took out the only access road. Two bridges were washed away in a freak flash flood that seemed to target only the infrastructure leading to Jackson’s land.
The forest was reclaiming its own.
The last person to see Twig and Stone was Marcus Thorne. On his final day of patrol before the area was officially closed to the public, he looked up at the ridge of the Silent Peak. Through his binoculars, he saw two massive figures standing against the sky. They weren’t hiding anymore. They stood tall, their fur rippling in the mountain wind. One of them—the larger one, Stone—raised a hand in a slow, deliberate movement.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a farewell.
XIV: The Final Vanishing
As the state prepared to auction off the property, a series of “natural” events made the cabin inaccessible. A massive mudslide took out the only access road. Two bridges were washed away in a freak flash flood that seemed to target only the infrastructure leading to Jackson’s land.
The forest was reclaiming its own.
The last person to see Twig and Stone was Marcus Thorne. On his final day of patrol before the area was officially closed to the public, he looked up at the ridge of the Silent Peak. Through his binoculars, he saw two massive figures standing against the sky. They weren’t hiding anymore. They stood tall, their fur rippling in the mountain wind. One of them—the larger one, Stone—raised a hand in a slow, deliberate movement.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a farewell.
XV: The Legacy of the Elder Friend
To the world, Jackson Boon was just a retired ranger who lived a quiet life. But to the silent giants of the mountains, he was the Bridge. He was the man who proved that the gap between species could be crossed with a simple act of mercy in a rainstorm.
Today, the Silent Peak remains one of the most mysterious “Dead Zones” in the Pacific Northwest. Drones often lose signal when flying over the coordinates. Compasses spin aimlessly near the site of the old cabin.
But for those who know the story, these aren’t technical glitches. They are the “Equality Clause” of the forest—a boundary set by a tribe to protect the memory of the human who saved their children.
Epilogue: The Whisper in the Pine
If you ever find yourself deep in the Gifford Pinchot, and the air suddenly feels thick and heavy, do not be afraid. If you see a shadow that moves too fast for a bear and stands too tall for a man, remember the name Jackson Boon.
The forest is not a dark, empty place. It is a home. And as long as the Silent Peak stands, the story of the man and the two babies he wrapped in his coat will be whispered by the wind through the pines. The orphans of the storm are now the kings of the mountain, and they never forget a debt.
XIII: The Mystery of the Stone Garden
Behind the cabin, where Jackson’s wife Martha was buried, the rangers found something staggering. Over the course of the winter, the “tribe” had created a sprawling mosaic of river stones around the grave. Thousands of stones, sorted perfectly by color—deep obsidians, milky quartz, and jasper reds—formed a pattern that, when viewed from the cabin roof, looked remarkably like a topographical map of the Cascades.
At the center of this “Stone Garden” sat the obsidian tool Stone had given Jackson. It had been placed upright, acting as a gnomon for a sundial.
Observations from the Grave Site:
Soil Health: The earth around the cabin was richer than the surrounding forest, supplemented with organic matter that seemed intentionally placed.
Flora: Rare mountain orchids, which usually only bloom above $6,000$ feet, were growing in the low-elevation garden.
The “Guardians” Mark: A large, silver-grey hair sample was snagged on a nearby branch. DNA analysis came back “inconclusive,” showing markers for both higher primates and a lineage that predated the fossil record by a million years.
XIV: The Final Vanishing
As the state prepared to auction off the property, a series of “natural” events made the cabin inaccessible. A massive mudslide took out the only access road. Two bridges were washed away in a freak flash flood that seemed to target only the infrastructure leading to Jackson’s land.
The forest was reclaiming its own.
The last person to see Twig and Stone was Marcus Thorne. On his final day of patrol before the area was officially closed to the public, he looked up at the ridge of the Silent Peak. Through his binoculars, he saw two massive figures standing against the sky. They weren’t hiding anymore. They stood tall, their fur rippling in the mountain wind. One of them—the larger one, Stone—raised a hand in a slow, deliberate movement.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a farewell.
XIV: The Final Vanishing
As the state prepared to auction off the property, a series of “natural” events made the cabin inaccessible. A massive mudslide took out the only access road. Two bridges were washed away in a freak flash flood that seemed to target only the infrastructure leading to Jackson’s land.
The forest was reclaiming its own.
The last person to see Twig and Stone was Marcus Thorne. On his final day of patrol before the area was officially closed to the public, he looked up at the ridge of the Silent Peak. Through his binoculars, he saw two massive figures standing against the sky. They weren’t hiding anymore. They stood tall, their fur rippling in the mountain wind. One of them—the larger one, Stone—raised a hand in a slow, deliberate movement.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a farewell.
XV: The Legacy of the Elder Friend
To the world, Jackson Boon was just a retired ranger who lived a quiet life. But to the silent giants of the mountains, he was the Bridge. He was the man who proved that the gap between species could be crossed with a simple act of mercy in a rainstorm.
Today, the Silent Peak remains one of the most mysterious “Dead Zones” in the Pacific Northwest. Drones often lose signal when flying over the coordinates. Compasses spin aimlessly near the site of the old cabin.
But for those who know the story, these aren’t technical glitches. They are the “Equality Clause” of the forest—a boundary set by a tribe to protect the memory of the human who saved their children.
Epilogue: The Whisper in the Pine
If you ever find yourself deep in the Gifford Pinchot, and the air suddenly feels thick and heavy, do not be afraid. If you see a shadow that moves too fast for a bear and stands too tall for a man, remember the name Jackson Boon.
The forest is not a dark, empty place. It is a home. And as long as the Silent Peak stands, the story of the man and the two babies he wrapped in his coat will be whispered by the wind through the pines. The orphans of the storm are now the kings of the mountain, and they never forget a debt.
XIII: The Mystery of the Stone Garden
Behind the cabin, where Jackson’s wife Martha was buried, the rangers found something staggering. Over the course of the winter, the “tribe” had created a sprawling mosaic of river stones around the grave. Thousands of stones, sorted perfectly by color—deep obsidians, milky quartz, and jasper reds—formed a pattern that, when viewed from the cabin roof, looked remarkably like a topographical map of the Cascades.
At the center of this “Stone Garden” sat the obsidian tool Stone had given Jackson. It had been placed upright, acting as a gnomon for a sundial.
Observations from the Grave Site:
Soil Health: The earth around the cabin was richer than the surrounding forest, supplemented with organic matter that seemed intentionally placed.
Flora: Rare mountain orchids, which usually only bloom above $6,000$ feet, were growing in the low-elevation garden.
The “Guardians” Mark: A large, silver-grey hair sample was snagged on a nearby branch. DNA analysis came back “inconclusive,” showing markers for both higher primates and a lineage that predated the fossil record by a million years.
XIV: The Final Vanishing
As the state prepared to auction off the property, a series of “natural” events made the cabin inaccessible. A massive mudslide took out the only access road. Two bridges were washed away in a freak flash flood that seemed to target only the infrastructure leading to Jackson’s land.
The forest was reclaiming its own.
The last person to see Twig and Stone was Marcus Thorne. On his final day of patrol before the area was officially closed to the public, he looked up at the ridge of the Silent Peak. Through his binoculars, he saw two massive figures standing against the sky. They weren’t hiding anymore. They stood tall, their fur rippling in the mountain wind. One of them—the larger one, Stone—raised a hand in a slow, deliberate movement.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a farewell.
XIV: The Final Vanishing
As the state prepared to auction off the property, a series of “natural” events made the cabin inaccessible. A massive mudslide took out the only access road. Two bridges were washed away in a freak flash flood that seemed to target only the infrastructure leading to Jackson’s land.
The forest was reclaiming its own.
The last person to see Twig and Stone was Marcus Thorne. On his final day of patrol before the area was officially closed to the public, he looked up at the ridge of the Silent Peak. Through his binoculars, he saw two massive figures standing against the sky. They weren’t hiding anymore. They stood tall, their fur rippling in the mountain wind. One of them—the larger one, Stone—raised a hand in a slow, deliberate movement.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a farewell.
XV: The Legacy of the Elder Friend
To the world, Jackson Boon was just a retired ranger who lived a quiet life. But to the silent giants of the mountains, he was the Bridge. He was the man who proved that the gap between species could be crossed with a simple act of mercy in a rainstorm.
Today, the Silent Peak remains one of the most mysterious “Dead Zones” in the Pacific Northwest. Drones often lose signal when flying over the coordinates. Compasses spin aimlessly near the site of the old cabin.
But for those who know the story, these aren’t technical glitches. They are the “Equality Clause” of the forest—a boundary set by a tribe to protect the memory of the human who saved their children.
Epilogue: The Whisper in the Pine
If you ever find yourself deep in the Gifford Pinchot, and the air suddenly feels thick and heavy, do not be afraid. If you see a shadow that moves too fast for a bear and stands too tall for a man, remember the name Jackson Boon.
The forest is not a dark, empty place. It is a home. And as long as the Silent Peak stands, the story of the man and the two babies he wrapped in his coat will be whispered by the wind through the pines. The orphans of the storm are now the kings of the mountain, and they never forget a debt.
