[tense music] The road trip's not going anywhere.
The next state's already picked, and the next town's already on the map, and we'll get there.
But the inbox is filled up, and there's a stack of emails in there that don't belong to any town.
Nobody built a statue for these.
Nobody put them on a welcome sign.
Every one of them is one person on one night in the woods or on a road through the woods, and most of them have never told anyone about it but me.
They come in late.
I'll sit down at my desk out in the studio and open my email.
The timestamps say one, two, three in the morning, and the first line is some version of the same thing every time.
"I've never told anyone this.
I don't know why I'm writing you.
I saw the show and figured you'd at least read it." Tonight I've got six of them.
They're not the kind of people who write things like this.
That's the thing you notice reading them.
A trapper, a nurse's worth of night shifts behind a bar, a long-haul driver, a woman who's hiked alone for fifteen years, and a man who's hunted the same elk drainage for nine.
People who know what the woods sound like at night and what a deer looks like and what a bear looks like standing up and who spent years not telling anybody because they knew exactly how it'd sound.
One's a Dogman.
The other four I don't have a name for, and neither did the people who saw them.
Let's start with Nathan.
[tense music] The road trip's not going anywhere.
The next state's already picked, and the next town's already on the map, and we'll get there.
But the inbox is filled up, and there's a stack of emails in there that don't belong to any town.
Nobody built a statue for these.
Nobody put them on a welcome sign.
Every one of them is one person on one night in the woods or on a road through the woods, and most of them have never told anyone about it but me.
They come in late.
I'll sit down at my desk out in the studio and open my email.
The timestamps say one, two, three in the morning, and the first line is some version of the same thing every time.
"I've never told anyone this.
I don't know why I'm writing you.
I saw the show and figured you'd at least read it." Tonight I've got six of them.
They're not the kind of people who write things like this.
That's the thing you notice reading them.
A trapper, a nurse's worth of night shifts behind a bar, a long-haul driver, a woman who's hiked alone for fifteen years, and a man who's hunted the same elk drainage for nine.
People who know what the woods sound like at night and what a deer looks like and what a bear looks like standing up and who spent years not telling anybody because they knew exactly how it'd sound.
One's a Dogman.
The other four I don't have a name for, and neither did the people who saw them.
Let's start with Nathan.
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