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Speaker 1: You're listening to The Missing Hunter Part three. But they

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found too late. Time didn't erase Wade Harlan, it softened him.

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That's what happens when a man disappears into the woods

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instead of into the ground. There's no grave to tend,

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no marker to visit, no final certainty to press against.

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Over the years, Wade became a collection of remembered gestures.

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A way he stood at the counter, the way he

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tilted his head when he listened, the way his eyes

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always seemed to track the tree line, even when he

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was indoors. In town. People spoke of him in the past, tense,

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but never quite as a dead man. He used to

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hunt up slate ridge. He liked to keep to himself.

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He saw things sometimes, That last line depending on who

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was speaking. For some, it was a joke. For others,

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it was a warning. The woods kept their silence. Seasons passed,

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Winters laid snow thick enough to smooth over ruts and

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tracks alike. Springs flooded the creek and rearranged the banks.

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Summers brought insects and growth that swallowed old paths. The

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logging spur faded, until only those who remembered it could

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find where it had once been. Slate Ridge stayed avoided

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but not abandoned. Hunters skirted it, Campers kept their distance,

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and every once in a while, usually late in the day,

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when light went thin, someone would report seeing a shape

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standing where the ridge dropped toward the creek, always still,

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always watching, never close enough to touch. Five years after

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Wade vanished, a storm changed everything. It came hard and

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fast in late October, the kind of storm that pulls

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trees up by their roots and tear's limbs loose like

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match sticks. Rain hammered the hills for hours, swelling the

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creek until it spilled over its banks and carved new

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channels through the bottom land. When the water finally receded,

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it left, the woods, rearranged, trails were gone, new ones appeared,

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and things that had been hidden were suddenly exposed. A

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week after the storm, a man named Howard Bell took

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his son up into the hills to check on an

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old fence line. Howard wasn't hunting slate ridge, not officially,

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but the damage had pushed him farther than he intended,

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and by late afternoon he found himself cutting across ground

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he hadn't set foot on in years. The ravine was

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steeper than he remembered, the soil slick with mud and

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fallen leaves. Howard slipped once, caught himself on a root,

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and cursed under his breath. That's when he saw it,

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something pale against the dark earth. At first he thought

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it was a piece of driftwood washed up by the flood.

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Then he realized it didn't curve right, didn't branch right.

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It was bone. Howard froze. He told his son to

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stay put and climbed carefully down into the ravine. Then,

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half embedded in mud and leaf litter, were more pieces,

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not scattered the way animals leave, things, not chewed, not

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dragged placed. Howard backed away slowly, his pulse loud in

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his ears. He didn't shout, he didn't touch anything else.

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He climbed back up and told his son they were

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leaving that night. He called the sheriff. The deputy who

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answered the call wasn't Finch. Finch had transferred by then,

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his name already fading from local memory. The new deputy

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was younger, sharper around the edges, and far less interested

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in reopening old stories. Probably just an old burial, he

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said at first, or maybe animal remains. Howard's voice stayed steady.

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You should come look, he said, and they did. By

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the following afternoon, the ravine was taped off with faded

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yellow ribbon that fluttered uselessly in the breeze. Men gathered

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at the edge, some curious, some uneasy, some drawn by

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something they didn't want to name. No forensics team arrived,

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No specialists drove in from the city. This was still

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a small county, and the budget reflected it. What they

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had was shovels, note books, and memories. They recovered what

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they could a skull, weathered and cracked but unmistakably human,

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long bones, bleached pale, fragments of clothing, rotted fabric, rusted snaps.

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Some one found a boot's sole down hill, separated from

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its upper, the tread worn smooth by years of weather.

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The sheriff, an older man who'd been on the force

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when Wade vanished, stood over the remains with his hat

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in his hands. He didn't need to ask whose they were.

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Everybody already knew. They laid the bones out on a

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tarp at the edge of the ravine. Men stood around

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in silence, hats off, eyes lowered, No one cracked jokes.

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No one speculated out loud. The woods around them felt tight,

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not silent exactly, but restrained, as if sound itself were

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waiting for permission. The sheriff cleared his throat. We'll document

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what we can, he asked, But after this long he

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didn't finish the sentence. They didn't need him to. Still,

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there were things that bothered him. The bones showed no

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sign of gnawing, no tooth marks, no scatter pattern that

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suggested animals had dragged them apart. Whatever had happened to Wade,

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it hadn't ended with his body being torn apart and

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fed upon. And then there were the cuts. Not every

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one saw them at first. You had to look closely

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in the right light. Shallow lines along one of the

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long bones, too straight to be cracks, too consistent to

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be weather damage. The sheriff traced one gently with a

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gloved finger and frowned. Could be tool marks, some one said,

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could be, the sheriff replied, or could be something else.

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He let the ambiguity stand, because ambiguity was safer. Word

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traveled fast. By the next morning, the diner buzzed with conversation.

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Some people cried openly Others shook their heads and said

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they'd known all along. A few clung to the old

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explanation with renewed certainty. Bear probably dragged him. Bigfoot makes sense,

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doesn't it. Those woods have always been wrong. The sheriff

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gave a statement to the local paper. It was careful measured,

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It used phrasing like remains consistent with prolo, long exposure,

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and no definitive cause of death determined. He did not

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mention the cuts, he did not mention the placement, and

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he did not mention the tracks, because tracks had appeared

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again that evening. Two men walking the ridge reported impressions

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in the damp earth near where the ravine opened, large ones,

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clear ones, facing outward away from the site. They told

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the sheriff quietly. The sheriff listened. Then he said, I

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don't want this turning into a circus, and just like that,

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the direction of the story was set. The bones were

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buried in a small cemetery outside town, no marker yet,

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a temporary wooden stake with Wade's name written in black ink.

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A short service followed, a few words spoken, a lot

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left unsaid. Afterward, people stood around awkwardly, unsure had to

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grieve a man who had been gone for years already.

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Cal Morris attended the burial. He hadn't been back to

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Slate Ridge since the season wade vanished. He'd aged noticeably,

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shoulders stooped, hair gone white, but his eyes were the same.

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After the service, he stood apart from the others, staring

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toward the hills. You think they told the whole truth,

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someone asked them quietly. Col didn't answer it first, Then

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he said they told the truth that lets them sleep.

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That night, Cal did something he hadn't done in years.

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He went back to the ridge. He didn't tell any one.

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He didn't bring a rifle, just a lantern and his

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own stubborn need to understand. The woods greeted him the

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way they always had. Reluctantly. He followed the old trail

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until the lantern light fell away behind him and the

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ridge opened out. The moon hung low, pale and thin,

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casting just enough light to make shapes deceptive. Cal stopped

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where the trail bent and the ravine dropped away. He waited.

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Minutes passed. The woods breathed around him, wind stirred leaves.

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Somewhere far off, an owl called, Then slowly the sounds thinned.

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Cal felt it in his chest before his ears caught

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up the stillness, and then a shape emerged at the

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far edge of the ridge, tall, broad, upright. It didn't rush,

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didn't hide, didn't announce itself. It simply stood. Cal didn't

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raise the lantern. He didn't step back. He stood where

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he was, hart pounding every instinct, screaming at him to leave,

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but he stayed. The figure shifted slightly, weight settling, as

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if it had been standing there a long time. Already

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Cal caught the faint outline of a shoulder, the suggestion

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of a head. They regarded one another across the open ground. Finally,

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Coal spoke, You saw it, he said, quietly. The woods

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didn't answer. The figure didn't move. You saw what happened

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to him, Cal continued, didn't you. Something in the air changed,

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not sound, not movement, but attention. Cal felt it settle

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on him, like a hand on the shoulder. I don't

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know why you let it happen, he said, but I

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know you didn't do it. The figure shifted again, not

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toward cow, not away, toward the ravine. Cowl swallowed. He

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stood there until his legs shook, then until the cold

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crept in deep When he finally turned to leave. The

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ridge was empty again, but in the deep soil near

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where he'd stood, a single impression had appeared, large, deep

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facing the ravine. Cow never told any one about that night,

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not the sheriff, not the paper, not even his family,

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because he understood something then that he hadn't before. The

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Woods hadn't killed Wade Harlan, but they had witnessed it.

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And when the truth finally surfaced, years too late, worn

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down by weather and silence, it was already shaped into

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something else, something easier. Bigfoot became the explanation that closed

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the case without opening wounds. The official record remained unresolved. Unofficially,

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people slept better believing the woods had taken Wade, rather

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than admitting someone they might have shared coffee with had

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done it instead. And somewhere on Slate Ridge, something older

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than all of them continued to stand watch, waiting. Thanks

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for listening to Part three of the Missing Hunter. Part four,

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The Story People Chose to Keep, is coming up next Sunday.

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Be sure to follow Bigfoot's Wilderness so you don't miss

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next Sunday story. And if you're new here, Bigfoot's Wilderness

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is where eyewitness stories and history meet the camp fire,

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have a great night,