Report 25062: Cave explorers recall bizarre experiences while camping in the Seneca Creek Backcountry

On November 5th, 1994, I and six other cavers got together to do some ridgewalking and camping along several miles of limestone exposed on the east side of Seneca Creek, in the Seneca Creek Back Country. This is a remote and heavily forested section of the Monongahela National Forest, and lies on the western flanks of Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia. We planned a through hike, so I pre-positioned my vehicle down stream at the public parking area near the intersection of White's Run and Seneca Creek. Then we drove around and upstream to the ****** trail head where we started out. Hiking along or off to the side of the trail we passed the entrances of a few caves that were located on previous trips (we'd been working this area for a few months already). The area is heavily forested with second growth hard woods that have grown up since the virgin timber was clear cut in the 1890-1912 logging era. We worked our way north toward and through a region known for a series of large, open meadows in the forest, left behind by homesteaders in the early part of the 1900s. We eventually found a number of small caves in that area, but none large enough that we could easily enter them (most would require some digging). About halfway through these meadows we left the trail completely as it wandered up the mountain and away from the limestone. We continued north and across the last of the meadows, then into the trees. We crossed a couple more ravines and finally, at the end of the day, found a nice flat bench on a remote ridge to set up our camp. We were six or seven miles in from the trailhead and still had five miles to go before reaching my SUV at White's Run. It was four miles or so as the crow flies to the nearest houses, on the far side of a big mountain. We were about as remote as you can get in that area. That night we built a small fire and sat up to about 11 p.m., talking. The night was dark, clear skies but the moon had set, and not much starlight in the thick forest. We all backpack light so our light sources were no more than our head lamps and the firelight. The camp was dim. It was around 10:30 when I had just finished telling something of a spooky story. Everyone was a little keyed up I guess. About 30 seconds after I finished the story, a single scream rang out from the woods behind me. It sounded to be 200 yards or more north, across the next ravine and on the next ridge we would head for the following morning. It was loud, but not incredibly so. It was unlike any cry I'd ever heard in the woods, and didn't sound like a bird call to me. More like a mammal, reminiscent of a woman's scream (but nothing like a cat's scream). It started low and rose in scale, lasting about 3 to 4 seconds. It really caught our attention since we were all on edge from the story I'd told. It caused a bit of nervous laughter and discussion, and some of us decided it must have been some kind of screech owl. (I've bought land in that area since then and hear screech owls all the time. They sound nothing like that scream.) We never heard it again, and by 11 p.m. we were all sacked out. The next morning we got up and decided we had ridgewalked enough. It was Sunday and we had 5 miles of rough terrain to hike before getting to the car, then a long drive home. So we never visited the area from where this sound came. Instead we dropped down off our ridge to the trail following Seneca Creek, and back to my car. I've not been back to that particular spot since, and would never have thought much more about it. But the event has stuck in my mind for fourteen years. When I found the BFRO website this year, read reports about screams in the night, and then noted how many sitings were occuring within a 10 mile radius of this area, I thought it might be worth mentioning. Certainly not a strong report, but possibly more evidence in the growing collection for that region of Pendleton County.