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The Burdale Historical Association
Silas Hale's 1902 "Vision Quest"
As a young man, Silas Hale was restless. Though born and raised in a modest household, his heart longed for something deeper than the ordinary routines of life. A fascination with the natural world had always lived within him, but it was not until a pivotal experience during his early adulthood that he would discover his true calling. For a brief bio on Silas Hale, please click here.
At the age of 20, Hale embarked on a solitary journey into the forests that bordered Burdale, a journey that would change his life forever. He did not call it a vision quest at the time, but in retrospect, he would come to view it as a deeply spiritual and transformative moment. After his death in 1964, a journal was discovered among his possessions - this journal, written by Hale, detailed his account of this journey. The following is a transcript of those pages.
May 12, 1902
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The decision to leave behind the comfort of home has been made. I will walk into the woods and spend the days and nights there, alone. There is something in me that calls for this—something deeper than the fields, deeper than the town, even deeper than the family I’ve always known. I need to be still. I need to listen to what is out there, and to hear what is inside of me. I do not know what will come of this, but I feel it is necessary.
May 14, 1902
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The forest is alive. Not just in the way that plants grow or animals wander, but in the way that it speaks, if one listens carefully enough. The trees—oak, pine, and maple—seem to have their own rhythm, their own breath. There are moments, when the wind stirs through the leaves, that I can almost hear their stories, as though they have watched the world for centuries. The birds, too, have a language I now begin to understand, though it is fleeting, as if they speak in a code only known to the wilderness.
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I have chosen a spot near the creek to make camp. The sound of the water rushing over stones is constant, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. I will stay here for the next few days, and already I feel as though I am shedding parts of myself—parts that no longer fit the person I’ll be when I return.
May 16, 1902
A strange thing happened today. As I was walking along the creek, something made me stop in my tracks. The woods around me became very still, and for a moment, I thought perhaps I had imagined it. But no—I was not alone. A large, grey wolf emerged from the underbrush, its coat thick and its eyes sharp. We stood there, facing one another for what felt like a lifetime, though I know it could not have been more than a few minutes. There was no fear, only a deep, ancient recognition. It was as if the wolf and I had always known one another.
The wolf did not move toward me, nor did it run away. It simply watched, and I watched it in return. There was a moment when I understood, in the most profound sense, that this forest—the trees, the animals, the air and water—was not just a collection of things. It was a living, breathing organism, and I was part of it, connected to it in a way that words could not describe.
When the wolf finally turned and vanished into the trees, I felt a deep sense of peace. It was as if something had been confirmed to me. The forest is not just a place to visit, it is a place to be. This is where I belong.
May 18, 1902
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The forest has been quieter today, in a way I can’t quite explain. I spent the morning walking along the old deer trails near the creek, listening to the wind in the pines and watching the play of light through the canopy. There’s a certain peace in those moments—an understanding that the world doesn’t need to be rushed, that nature moves on its own time.
But something is off today.
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I found what looked like a small fire ring, half-hidden under a cluster of ferns and low-hanging branches. It wasn’t a big fire, nor a recent one—it had been used some time ago, I suspect, perhaps just a few days back. The stones were cool to the touch, but the earth around them was disturbed, as if someone had recently dug a hole or moved something heavy. That, in itself, is not unusual. Trappers or hunters might leave such marks. But then I found something else—a piece of handwoven cloth, tangled in the brush, brightly colored and patterned. Not a scrap of anything I’ve seen before.
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As I moved deeper into the thicket, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye—something, or someone, darting quickly between the trees. I stopped, my heart thumping in my chest. I waited for several minutes, listening, but heard nothing—only the steady rhythm of the wind and the distant calls of birds. There was no sound of footsteps, no rustle of underbrush. Yet, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
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Later, while I rested by the creek, I noticed more signs—oddly shaped sticks tied together in a crude but deliberate fashion, placed high in the branches of a young birch. I’ve seen such things in old stories—remnants of rituals, or perhaps markers, left by people who know the forest better than I.
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I cannot shake the feeling that I am being watched. At first, I thought it was only the usual feeling one gets in the woods—those fleeting moments when the mind plays tricks. But now I’m not so sure. The quiet has deepened. There are no animal sounds around me, no chatter of squirrels or rustle of leaves. Just a profound stillness that hangs in the air like a shroud.
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As the light began to fade, I saw another glimpse—just a shadow, at the edge of my vision, too fleeting to be certain. I don’t know if it was a person or simply a trick of the twilight. But it’s enough to make me uneasy.
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Perhaps I am only imagining it. Perhaps these are signs of some long-forgotten wanderers—trappers, or even just a group of hunters who used this place before me. But part of me thinks I’ve stumbled into something older—something that might not be so easily explained. I’ve heard stories of tribes that used to roam these woods, but I’ve always dismissed them as superstition. Now, I wonder if there’s truth to the whispers.
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Tomorrow, I will venture deeper into the forest. I can’t leave without understanding what is happening here. I am certain I will find more clues—though whether they will lead me to answers or to more questions, I do not know.
May 20, 1902
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I have decided to stay another week. Something in me is changing. It’s hard to explain, but I feel as though I am beginning to understand the language of the trees, the pulse of the earth beneath my feet. The days pass slowly here, and yet they seem full of meaning. I wake with the sun and fall asleep with the moon.
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Last night, I had a dream. I was standing on a great hill, looking out over a valley of trees that stretched beyond the horizon. And in the dream, I knew that I was meant to protect this land—to safeguard it from harm. I do not know how or why, but it is clear to me now. This is my path.
May 22, 1902
I met one of them today.
It was early this morning, just as the light was beginning to filter through the trees. I had decided to return to the area where I found the fire ring yesterday, hoping to learn more about whoever—or whatever—had left their mark. The forest was still and quiet, as it had been the day before, but something in the air felt different. There was a tension, an unspoken awareness that I could not shake.
As I approached the creek, I noticed movement in the distance. At first, I thought it was a deer, but the figure was too upright, too deliberate in its pace. It moved with a grace I’ve never seen in the animals of this land. I stopped, hiding behind a thick cluster of brambles, and watched.
A man emerged from the underbrush, walking through the ferns and tall grass. He was tall, perhaps as tall as I am, but more muscled, built for the wilderness in a way that seemed… primal. His skin was dark, not from the sun, but from the earth itself, as if he had lived here for as long as the trees had stood. His hair was long, tangled, and matted with the forest’s dust. His clothes, if you could call them that, were made from hide—roughly stitched, but practical, a patchwork of leaves and animal furs.
He didn’t see me—at least, I don’t think he did at first. He moved slowly, deliberately, as though he was aware of every rustling leaf, every shift of the wind. The moment I thought he might notice me, he stopped and looked around, his head turning in a way that seemed too sharp, too animalistic. It sent a chill down my spine.
For a long while, I thought he might approach, but he didn’t. Instead, he knelt by the creek, scooping up water with his hands, drinking deeply. The way he did it—no rush, just patient, as if the act was sacred—struck me. There was something about him that felt both ancient and timeless, as though he was part of the forest, a part of the land itself.
When he stood again, he looked in my direction. I was likely too far away for him to have seen me clearly, but I felt his gaze. It was unsettling. A silent acknowledgment, as if he knew I was there, but chose not to react. His eyes were dark, almost black, and there was something wise in them, something that made me question everything I thought I understood about this place.
Without a sound, he turned and disappeared into the trees.
I waited for some time after, but he did not return. My heart still pounds in my chest at the thought of him.
May 23, 1902
I don’t know if it’s the woods playing tricks on my mind, but I saw something else yesterday—something even stranger. At first I didn’t want to write about it because… I don’t know, perhaps I was unsure as to whether or not I even saw what I saw. But now that I’ve had time to reflect, I think it’s important to document.
I had spent the remainder of the day walking deeper into the forest, trying to shake the lingering image of the man by the creek from my mind. The sun was low, and the shadows stretched long across the ground. I had been following some kind of naturally occuring trail when something caught my eye—a large shape moving through the trees. I paused, certain I had seen something shift between the trunks, something large. At first I thought it may be my new friend from the creek, but this… this was moving with a kind of heaviness that didn’t fit the usual creatures of the woods or the man from the creek.
At first, I thought it was a bear, but the shape was too tall—too upright. I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, but the moment I tried to focus, it disappeared into the thicket.
It was massive—bigger than any man, more like a shadow of something wild. It was covered in thick, matted hair, and though I couldn’t make out the details, it moved with an unsettling fluidity. I had only glimpsed it for a moment—just enough to see its broad shoulders and long limbs—but it left an impression on me that I can’t shake.
I think I saw its eyes, too, but they were lost in the shadow. There was a glimmer, a reflection of light that made them seem almost human, but not quite.
I don’t know what to call it yet, but the image is clear in my mind. Something ancient, something primal that walks the woods. I think I’ll call it The Wildwood Man.
I can’t explain it, but I feel certain now that the forest is not as empty as I once believed. There are things here—hidden, watching, waiting. I don’t know if they’ve always been here, or if I’ve stumbled upon something forgotten, but the feeling of being observed, of being watched, is stronger than ever.
May 24, 1902
I am returning to Burdale today, but I feel changed. The days I’ve spent here, in the depths of the forest, have been filled with moments both quiet and profound—moments when I felt as though I was hearing the heartbeat of the earth itself. The trees, the creek, the wind—they all speak in their own way, and I am beginning to listen. I cannot explain it fully, but I know now that this land, these woods, are not just a place I walk through—they are part of me, and I, in turn, am part of them.
The forest has a way of getting into your soul, of calling to you in ways you can’t ignore. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I have truly understood something—something about the world, about the land, and about myself.
But there are questions now—questions I cannot shake. I think I have seen something else in these woods.
I cannot help but wonder if the two figures I encountered are connected—whether the man and the creature are part of the same story, part of the forest’s deeper mysteries. I do not know what they are but I cannot ignore them.
There is much I still do not understand, but I feel something stirring inside me—a calling, perhaps—to protect this place, to ensure that whatever lives here continues to do so in peace. The forest, with all its strange inhabitants and hidden wonders, has taught me a lesson I will carry with me always: that we are not alone in this world. The land is alive, not just with trees and animals, but with something older, something that calls out to those who are willing to listen.
I don’t know if I will ever understand all the secrets the forest holds, but I feel certain now that I must continue to protect it. There is much more to discover here—things that might forever remain a mystery, and things that might yet reveal themselves to me in time.
For now, I return to Burdale. But a part of me will always remain here, in the woods, with the trees, and with the Wildwood Man, and whatever else may be watching from the shadows.
Afterword
The vision quest Silas Hale took in 1902 marked the beginning of his lifelong commitment to preserving the natural world around Burdale. The deep spiritual connection he formed with the forest in those 12 days led to a passion that would drive him to establish the parks and protected lands that Burdale would come to cherish. Hale’s understanding of the interconnectedness of life—what he would later describe as a “calling”—became the foundation of his life's work. By the time he established Hale Forest Park in 1913, his vision was clear: to protect the wilderness and allow future generations to experience the same profound connection to nature that he had discovered during his time alone in the forest.
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