On an October morning, crisp and clear,
In nineteen-ninety, the trail drew near.
Lee Honsho, thirty, with friends in tow,
Climbed Beu Mountain, steps burning slow.
For hours they pushed as muscles screamed,
Till rocky ridges in sunlight gleamed.
They stopped to breathe where the cold wind sighed,
A bank man by trade, but a hiker inside.
This climb was a rite, both feared and famed,
Eight hours round, where the bold were named.
Rough terrain crowned this tourist’s test,
Yet oddly that day, the trail lay at rest.
No voices echoed, no boots in sight,
On weekend paths bathed in perfect light.
They drank, they snacked, then onward they sped,
For the summit still towered high overhead.
At last they reached the rope-bound wall,
So steep it made the bravest stall.
One by one they climbed, then turned to pose,
Each frozen in grit as the camera froze.
They laughed and climbed till the summit was won,
Snapped fleeting shots beneath the sun.
No time to linger, the daylight waned,
So down they went on the path they’d gained.
But descent brings cracks where strength gives way,
And Lee fell behind, worn thin by the day.
“Go on,” he said, “I’ll follow slow—
We’ll meet by the car. I know the road.”
Hours passed as the distance grew,
Till worry bloomed in the fading blue.
One friend turned back on the darkening track,
Calling Lee’s name, but he answered not back.
An hour uphill, still no sign,
So he turned once more as the sun declined.
“Perhaps he’s ahead, perhaps took a bend,”
They told themselves as trails seemed to end.
At the car came dusk, then fear set in—
Lee wasn’t there, the night closed in.
Police were called, the search unfurled,
Boots combed the mountain, teams scoured the world.
A week went by, then hope wore thin,
The search fell silent, no trace of him.
Questions lingered, cruel and wide—
Do you mourn the lost, or hope they hide?
Four months passed in aching gray,
Till hikers strayed from the marked-out way.
There Lee was found, against stone he lay,
Pack at his side, as if resting away.
No wounds, no fall, no reason shown,
No cause of death the doctors had known.
Supplies intact, compass and light—
Why stop there alone and give up the fight?
Then the photos came, developed slow,
From that rope-climb day long ago.
In Lee’s own picture, high above,
Stood a figure watching, silent, unmoved.
A young girl clad in a jacket red,
Looking down where the men had tread.
No one saw her, not then, not there,
Yet only in Lee’s photo did she appear.
And whispers rose of an old mountain tale,
Of spirits who lure when hikers fail—
They lead you astray, off trail, off friend,
Till you sit, you wait, and you meet your end.
Perhaps on that slope, beneath silent sky,
Lee met her gaze as the others passed by.
And Beu Mountain kept what it chose that day—
A man, a mystery, led gently away.