I Joined a Search Party in the Snowy Mountains. I Saw Something I Can't Explain.

Forty-seven volunteers had gathered to search twelve square miles of mountain forest for missing people. None of us had training or experience. We wore whatever bright winter clothing we owned—orange jackets, yellow parkas, red coats—so helicopters could spot us. Nobody looked like the sort of person who ought to be sent into a mountain forest to find someone. But we were the ones who showed up.

By afternoon, I was in a five-person team. There was a woman in a yellow jacket with ash-blonde hair tucked under a wool cap, a man in his thirties wearing a red jacket and headlamp, an older man in a lime green parka who kept his shoulders squared against the cold, and another volunteer I hadn't spoken to much. We entered the trees together, staying close enough to see one another's bright jackets between the trunks.

The Tunnels

Late in the day, we found a dark opening partly blocked by rocks—three feet wide, four feet high, with trees so close we nearly passed it. The woman ducked in first. The man in red followed. I came behind them, bending to keep my shoulders from scraping the rock. The older man and the fifth searcher entered more slowly.