Script

It’s Friday, October 25, 1974, around 4 p.m. In the remote Medicine Bow National Forest, south of Rawlins, Wyoming, Carl Higdon parks his truck—a sturdy Ford—at the end of a rough logging road before starting out to hunt for elk. The air is crisp, the temperature dipping into the low 50s, with the sun hanging low over the aspen groves and pine-covered ridges.   What Carl would find in the forest would change his life forever. 

I’m MF Thomas and this is My Dark Path.

There have been numerous reports over the decades of encounters between ordinary people and entities from realms beyond our comprehension, experiences that often blur the boundaries between the tangible world and the enigmatic vastness of the cosmos. These accounts frequently share haunting similarities: unexplained lights piercing the night sky, periods of lost time that defy recollection, invasive examinations conducted in sterile environments, and cryptic communications hinting at purposes far beyond human understanding. Many such stories emerge from isolated locations, where the veil between the everyday and the extraordinary seems thinnest—remote forests, desolate highways, or quiet rural towns. Yet, amid this tapestry of the unexplained, one incident stands out for its peculiar blend of the prosaic and the profoundly bizarre: the tale of how Carl’s routine pursuit of elk escalated into an interstellar voyage, complete with silent weaponry, transparent vessels, and a distant world where the light itself becomes a torment.

This narrative unfolds in the rugged expanse of Medicine Bow National Forest, a place where the whispers of wind through aspen and pine trees can mask deeper mysteries, and where solitude invites the unknown to intrude. It involves a gunshot that echoed no sound, a being that glided without footsteps, and a journey across unimaginable distances that left behind physical traces defying scientific explanation. At the center of it all is Carl Higdon, whose life was irrevocably altered by forces he could neither anticipate nor fully comprehend, leaving investigators, skeptics, and believers alike grappling with evidence that continues to elude easy resolution.

To fully appreciate the strangeness of Higdon's encounter, it is essential to situate it within the broader context of the 1970s, an era rife with UFO sightings and abduction claims that captured the public imagination. The decade had seen a surge in reports following the closure of Project Blue Book in 1969, the U.S. Air Force's official investigation into unidentified flying objects, which many viewed as a whitewash rather than a conclusion. Books like Erich von Däniken's Chariots of the Gods fueled speculation about ancient astronauts, while high-profile cases such as the Pascagoula Abduction of 1973, kept the topic alive in newspapers and on television. Against this backdrop, ordinary individuals like Higdon, far removed from the spotlight, found their personal experiences thrust into a larger narrative of cosmic intrigue, often met with equal parts fascination and derision.

It was against this cultural milieu that Carl Higdon, born in 1933 and a veteran of the Air Force with years spent laboring in Wyoming's oilfields, embarked on what should have been an unremarkable hunting trip. A devoted husband to his wife Margery and father to four children (and three more from a previous marriage), Higdon was known for his straightforward demeanor and practical outlook. He was not prone to flights of fancy; his days were filled with the gritty realities of manual work, and his leisure pursuits centered on the outdoors. On the morning of October 25, 1974, his plans for the day shifted unexpectedly when his work crew succumbed to the flu, granting him an rare free day and opportunity to hunt during prime elk season. Equipping himself with his trusted gear—a brand-new 7mm Remington Magnum rifle capable of felling game at impressive distances, binoculars for scouting, a sturdy hunting knife, and a thermos brimming with hot coffee—he set out in his reliable Ford truck, heading south from Rawlins toward the wilderness.

The drive itself held a few minor detours that, in retrospect, added layers to the day's unfolding mystery. Approximately 40 miles into his journey, Higdon encountered a group of fellow hunters whose vehicle had stalled. Ever the helpful sort, he pulled over to assist, engaging in conversation about the best hunting spots while they tinkered with the engine. Their advice swayed him from his original destination in McCarty Canyon to the denser forests of Medicine Bow, a decision that would prove pivotal. Continuing on, he navigated the rough terrain until parking at the end of a logging road around 4 p.m. As he sipped his coffee, preparing for the hike ahead, a game warden approached to check his permits, a brief exchange that grounded the afternoon in normalcy before the warden drove away.

Venturing on foot down a winding dirt path, Higdon immersed himself in the forest's autumnal beauty—the golden hues of aspen leaves contrasting with the evergreen pines, the crisp air carrying the faint scent of earth and decay. Yet, as he progressed deeper, approximately a mile from his truck, an unsettling quietude enveloped the landscape. The usual rustlings of wildlife, the distant calls of birds, even the whisper of wind through branches—all seemed muted, as if the woods itself held its breath. It was in this charged silence that Higdon spotted his quarry: a herd of five elk grazing peacefully in a small clearing, the bull presenting an ideal target at a reasonable distance.

With practiced ease, Higdon shouldered his rifle, aligning the sights on the bull's vital area, planning a shot through the lungs and heart.  He exhaled steadily, then held his breath, squeezing the trigger in a motion honed by years of hunting. But what followed was not the expected thunderous report and the sharp kick against his shoulder. Instead, there was only profound silence. The bullet, a jacketed soft-point round engineered for maximum impact and expansion upon striking flesh, ejected from the barrel but traveled mere yards before decelerating inexplicably, as though encountering an unseen wall of resistance. It twisted in mid-air, crumpling upon itself, and plummeted to the ground with a soft thud, its form now distorted beyond recognition—flattened and misshapen, yet retaining the barrel's rifling marks as if it had been fired normally but then halted by some ethereal force.

The elk herd, astonishingly, showed no reaction; they continued grazing as if the shot had never occurred. Higdon stood frozen, his mind racing to process the anomaly. He lowered the rifle, approaching the fallen projectile with cautious steps. Picking it up, he examined its warped copper jacket, devoid of any lead core that should have been present, and free of scratches that might indicate impact with a solid surface like rock or tree. It was as if the bullet had been compressed by an invisible press, defying the laws of physics he understood. The forest's silence now felt heavier on him, almost oppressive, amplifying his growing unease.

It was then, amid his bewilderment, he heard a noise behind him, drawing his attention to the treeline approximately 75 yards distant. Turning slowly, Higdon beheld a figure standing in the shadows, its form silhouetted against the fading light. At first glance, it appeared human: tall, around six feet two inches, and clad in what resembled a black jumpsuit, form-fitting like a wetsuit worn by divers. Could it be another hunter, drawn by curiosity? Or perhaps the game warden, having followed him for some reason? These rational explanations flickered through his mind, offering fleeting comfort.

But as the figure began to approach, any semblance of normality evaporated. It did not walk with the familiar cadence of footsteps crunching on fallen leaves and twigs; instead, it glided smoothly over the ground, its bowed legs hovering just above the terrain, leaving no trail or sound in its wake. Drawing nearer, details emerged that chilled Higdon to his core: the absence of a neck, with the head merging seamlessly into broad shoulders; stiff, straw-like hair protruding upward like the bristles of a broom, crowned by two horn-like appendages on the forehead; a yellowish complexion framing slanted eyes, a diminutive mouth, and no discernible ears or chin. The jumpsuit's long sleeves terminated not in hands but in tapered, rod-like appendages, and around its waist hung a belt emblazoned with a six-pointed star over a jagged, cloud-like emblem. The face, eerie in its asymmetry, bore three large teeth visible in both upper and lower jaws, with no eyebrows to soften the gaze.

The being halted before him, its presence commanding yet silent. Communication ensued not through audible speech—its lips moved slightly, but no sound emerged—but via telepathy, the words forming directly in Higdon's mind with crystalline clarity. "How are you?" it inquired, the query hanging in the air like an unspoken command. Paralyzed by the surrealness, Higdon managed only a nod in response. Without awaiting further affirmation, the entity extended one of its rod-like appendages, tossing a small envelope or packet toward him. Inside were four translucent pills. "Take these," it instructed, and Higdon, feeling an inexplicable compulsion—as if his autonomy had been subtly overridden—swallowed one. Normally averse to even aspirin, he complied without resistance.  Later Carl reflecting that it felt like he was being controlled by an external will.

The being then identified itself as "Ausso One," its designation resonating in his thoughts. Ausso One watched as Carl consumed one of the pills.  Satisfied with Carl’s compliance, the alien being gestured to the side, showing Carl an anomaly—a seamless, transparent cube hovering silently above the ground, measuring approximately five by seven by five feet.  To Carl, it resembled a glass enclosure devoid of doors or seams.

Ausso One communicated again, an invitation but one that brooked no refusal: Carl must enter the craft and accompany him away from Earth. Raising its appendage, the entity pointed, and in a disorienting flash, Higdon found himself inside the vessel. From the outside, the craft was nearly invisible, but now he was inside, the craft was tangible.  He was seated in a high-backed chair equipped with armrests and restraints that secured him gently but firmly. A helmet was fastened over his head and strapped under his chin.  Six wires protruded from the helmet.

Inside the cabin, there were three other chairs, identical to the one he occupied.  Behind him, in a partitioned compartment, the five elk had also been transported inside the craft and seemingly miniaturized to be able to fit inside the craft.  They stood immobilized, their forms frozen. 

Two additional beings, identical to Ausso One in every detail, were already inside the cube.  The three sat down in the other chairs. In front of them, the wall featured a large screen and a control panel with levels below it.  One of Ausso One’s compatriots manipulated the controls and without any perceptible sound or vibration, the vessel ascended, lifting smoothly into the air. Through the transparent floor, Higdon witnessed the forest recede below—the clearing, his distant truck parked on the hillside, and soon the curvature of the Earth itself, shrinking to the size of a basketball against the star-studded blackness of space.

The journey, spanning what Ausso One described as 163,000 light years—a distance that boggled the mind—felt instantaneous, devoid of any sense of acceleration or passage of time. Upon arrival at their destination, the cube descended into an environment bathed in an intense, blinding light that pierced Carl’s eyes, forcing him to shield them instinctively. This intense light seemed to emanate from the planet's sun as Ausso One communicated that it affected their species similarly, explaining their preference for shaded environs and protective garb.

After landing and exiting the craft, Carl glimpsed enclosures housing familiar Earth fauna—deer, bison, and perhaps other creatures—suggesting a systematic animal husbandry operation. But the sight that unsettled him most was the presence of several humans in the vicinity: adults and children clad in everyday terrestrial clothing, wandering with an air of calm resignation. Among them, a gray-haired man struck a chord of vague familiarity, as if Higdon had encountered him before in some forgotten context. Were these individuals captives, collaborators, or something else entirely? The Ausso One offered no explanation, he and his fellow aliens remained clinical and detached.

Escorted from the cube, Higdon was led toward an imposing structure: a tall tower, spiraling in design, reminding him of the Seattle Space Needle.  Its surface adorned with colored strips that pulsed faintly. Entering via a three-foot-wide elevator—activated without buttons, rising swiftly to an upper level—they arrived in a large, empty room measuring roughly 24 by 30 feet with an eight-foot ceiling. Here, a dozen or more beings similar to Ausso One awaited, their collective gaze turning upon him. Strapped to a platform, Higdon underwent a scanning procedure: devices hovered over him, emitting pressures and readings that felt invasive, as if probing his very essence. The process was brief but intense, culminating in Ausso One's telepathic verdict: Higdon was "not what we need."

The rejection carried an undercurrent of finality, prompting Higdon to later ponder its implications. What criteria had he failed? In hindsight, he speculated that his vasectomy—undertaken after fathering seven children—or perhaps his age rendered him unsuitable for whatever genetic or experimental purposes they pursued.

After the testing, Ausso One elaborated on their circumstances: their planet's harsh environment induced mutations, necessitating periodic forays to Earth for fresh biological material—animals for sustenance, fish for variety, and humans for more complex studies. They had been visiting for centuries, operating as "hunters" in a cosmic sense, much like Higdon in his forest. The pills, derived from earthly specimens, provided concentrated nutrition sufficient for days, a testament to their advanced biochemistry. Ausso One even displayed a map of their solar system.  It had nine planets like that of Carl’s that orbited a volatile star.  Ausso One revealed that his race harnessed magnetic energies of the solar system for power, a technology far beyond terrestrial capabilities.

With the examination concluded, Higdon was returned to the cube alongside Ausso One and the others. As the vessel prepared for departure, a final exchange occurred: small talk about hunting and fishing on Earth. Then, pointing its appendage once more, Ausso One induced a blackout.

Carl awoke sprawled face-down on the cold forest floor, night having enveloped the landscape, his neck and shoulders throbbing as if from a significant fall. Disorientation clouded his mind; he struggled to recall his name, location, or the events that had transpired, knowing only that he was terrified and chilled to the bone.

Stumbling through the darkness, guided by fragmented instincts, Higdon located his truck.  But it was not at the logging road where he had parked it, but three miles away in a treacherous muddy ravine, its position defying logic for a two-wheel-drive vehicle. No tire tracks led to the spot; it appeared as though the truck had been airlifted and deposited there. Panicked and confused, he climbed inside, fumbling with the manual transmission and CB radio as if they were alien artifacts. Gradually, memories trickled back, and he managed to broadcast a distress call, his voice strained and halting.

Meanwhile, back in Rawlins, Margery Higdon had returned from her job at a heating and plumbing company around 4 p.m., an uneasy intuition gnawing at her. Carl had mentioned heading south to hunt, but as evening deepened without his return, her worry intensified. A call from his boss around 6:30 p.m. heightened the alarm: a garbled transmission on the company radio suggested someone—possibly Carl—was injured in the national forest. By midnight, a search party including the sheriff converged on his location, marveling at the truck's improbable embedding in the ravine. Driven to his location by friends, Margery arrived to find her husband in a state of profound agitation, his face contorted in fear as he ranted about "them" taking his elk, refusing physical contact until she draped her coat over his shoulders.

Rushed to Carbon County Memorial Hospital, Higdon underwent immediate evaluation. Blood tests excluded drugs or alcohol, but revealed dehydration, elevated vitals, and confusion. More astonishingly, X-rays showed the complete absence of old tuberculosis scars from his lungs—marks from a childhood illness that had been documented for years—and his chronic kidney stones had vanished without trace. But other issues emerged. Ordinary room lights caused him excruciating pain.  Unable to dim the lights, nurses addressed his pain with a damp cloth over his eyes. Dr. Tongco, the attending physician, confided that the findings resembled something from a science fiction narrative, defying medical explanation.

Amnesia gripped Carl initially, lifting only when his daughter entered the room, triggering a flood of fragmented recollections. He spent several days recovering, during which reports trickled in from locals who had observed anomalous lights in the sky that evening—flashing red, green, and white in unnatural arcs for over 20 minutes. Word of the incident spread rapidly in the tight-knit community of Rawlins, population around 10,000, eliciting a mix of curiosity, mockery, and concern. Coworkers teased him as "the spaceman," and the stress contributed to his eventual job loss at the oil company.

Urged by Margery to seek clarity, Higdon contacted Dr. Leo Sprinkle, a psychologist at the University of Wyoming renowned for his work with abductees, including hypnotic regressions on cases like that of Betty and Barney Hill. Sprinkle’s sessions with Carl, conducted on November 2 and 17, 1974, at the Higdon home, employed pendulum techniques for ideomotor responses and deep hypnosis to unearth buried memories. Participants in the sessions included family members, an art teacher for sketches, and a vocational counselor, all witnessing Higdon's vivid recollections of the evenings—crying out at the tower's lights, describing the aliens as "pretty good guys" yet clinical explorers.

The regressions yielded consistent details: the bullet's anomaly, Ausso One's appearance and telepathic commands, the cube's dematerialization entry, the sensations of the interstellar journey, his examination and ultimate rejection, and his return's disorienting aftermath. Polygraph tests, while inconclusive on minor points due to emotional trauma, showed no signs of deception. Sprinkle, in his 1979 publication UFO Phenomena and the Behavioral Scientist, concluded there was no evidence of hoax or psychosis, deeming the experience genuine.

Further bolstering the case, investigators from the Aerial Phenomena Research Organization (APRO) analyzed the deformed bullet, noting its lack of lead core and absence of impact scratches, as if compressed by an unknown force. Grass samples from the clearing appeared wilted, suggestive of radiation exposure. Subtle government involvement materialized in early 1975, when two men in suits—claiming Air Force ties—visited Higdon, interrogating him.  The bullet later disappeared from it’s storage at the University of Wyoming.

Media attention of course followed: the Casper Star-Tribune published accounts in November 1974, followed by national features in UFO Report Magazine and a 1978 episode of In Search Of..., where Higdon reenacted the hunt and Sprinkle affirmed his belief in the account's veracity. Yet Higdon avoided exploitation of the events, authoring no books himself—though Margery penned Alien Abduction of the Wyoming Hunter in 2017, detailing the family's struggles, including bullying of their children and Carl's improved health as "proof."  It’s a short book – and worth a read.

Skeptics, such as Joe Nickell in Skeptical Inquirer, proposed terrestrial explanations: hallucinations induced by high-altitude hypoxia or carbon monoxide from the truck's exhaust, a fugue state accounting for the relocated vehicle and lost time. The bullet's condition might stem from mishandling or a manufacturing defect, the healed ailments coincidental or psychosomatic. Carl’s story had parallels to science fiction, like Maurice Renard's 1911 novel Le Péril Bleu with its invisible traps and floating abductions, suggested cultural contamination could have influenced Higdon's narrative.

Proponents of the alien abduction theory countered with the evidence's robustness: passed polygraphs, unexplained medical healings confirmed by doctors, the bullet's anomalous metallurgy, and witness corroborations of lights and the truck's position. Comparisons to other cases—such as the 1975 Travis Walton abduction, involving a logger taken aboard a craft—highlighted patterns of rejection, genetic interest, and physical aftereffects.

A fourth hypothesis lingers: a government experiment amid the MKUltra era's mind-control programs. The "pills" could represent hallucinogens administered covertly, the encounter a staged psychological test. Yet no concrete proof supports this, leaving it in the realm of speculation.

Carl Higdon passed away in 1981 at age 48 from unrelated causes, his story preserved in UFO annals. Whether an authentic extraterrestrial incursion or a profound enigma of the human psyche, it compels us to question the unseen forces at play. If advanced intelligences roam the stars, harvesting from our world with clinical precision, what unseen criteria govern their selections? And in the silent depths of the wilderness, where the ordinary can twist into the extraordinary without warning, who among us might next hear a telepathic whisper, beckoning toward an unknown destiny?

Thank you for joining me on this dark path through the fringes the unexplained. I’m MF Thomas. Until next time, good night.