The Unexpected Journey of Ghost
Taylor Morrison, known colloquially as Ghost, earned this nickname not due to his pale eyes or white beard, which aged him prematurely, but because he seemed to vanish from the lives of those around him. His companions — wife, child, and friends from his biker days — had all drifted away. This wasn’t out of spite; rather, life’s harsh lessons had shown him that solitude was less painful.
Residing in a modest trailer on the fringes of Denver, every weekend, he would journey into the mountains seeking not only the thrill of wind on his face but also the sound of anything but silence.
This particular Saturday, he opted for a new route, a rugged dirt path winding through the majestic Rockies. The sign ahead bluntly warned, “Not maintained. Travel at your own risk.”
He shrugged off the warning. “Isn’t that just like life?” he scoffed under his breath, as he rode on.
As the hours rolled by, a thick fog enveloped him, and suddenly, his GPS flickered, turning a glaring red before shutting down entirely.
Stopping the motorcycle, he checked his smartphone — a disheartening zero for signal strength.
The surroundings were still, filled only with trees swaying in the wind, accompanied by the faint noise of his cooling engine.
Then, out of the mist, a hint of color caught his eye. Purple.
Initially, he considered ignoring it—perhaps just a piece of trash. However, something compelled him to investigate.
Upon moving closer to the edge of the path, he spotted a steep ravine, nearly thirty feet deep.
There, at the bottom, the purple hue reappeared alongside something alarming.
Noteworthy handprints were imprinted in the dirt.
They traced downwards.
A chill ran down his spine. His heart raced.
This backpack looked familiar.
He had seen it on the evening news.
“MISSING: TINA DAVID, AGE 8.”
She was the young girl last seen on a family camping trip, alarmingly close to where he stood.
His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the vicinity — no vehicles, no distant voices, only the whisper of pine needles swaying in the gentle breeze.
Ghost inhaled deeply, removed his jacket, and carefully began his descent.
The earth was unstable, slick with decaying leaves. Halfway down, his foot slipped, scraping his arm against a rugged rock, with blood trickling down his wrist.
“Take it easy, old man,” he warned himself. “Don’t end up as a cautionary tale.”
Once he reached the bottom, he called out,
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
No response came. The only sound was the serene flow of a nearby stream.
Then — a barely audible noise.
A whimper.
Turning around, he caught sight of her.
The small girl lay curled up beneath a fallen log, trembling, her face smeared with dirt. Her lips were chapped, and her voice barely rose above a hush.
“Please… help me.”
Ghost sank to his knees. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re safe now.”
Though she recoiled at first, she eventually grasped his hand with faint strength.
He checked her pulse — it was weak but consistent.
Her backpack was torn, and her legs bore scratches, yet she was alive.
He enveloped her in his leather jacket, whispering,
“Hold on, kiddo. We’re getting you out.”
The ascent back to the road nearly overcame him. The ground seemed to betray him, threatening to give way. On two occasions, he almost lost his footing. At one harrowing moment, the girl began to lose consciousness, prompting him to pause and check her breathing.
By the time he reached the road, his hands were raw, and his knees was bloodied. He carefully placed her on the asphalt, rummaged through his saddlebag, and retrieved the emergency beacon his son had once insisted he carry.
“Never ride without it, Dad,” his son had advised.
In retrospect, that had been the only principle he adhered to.
When the rescue helicopter arrived, the medics were in disbelief.
This area had undergone extensive searches — dogs, drones, even thermal scanners. Nothing had turned up.
Yet, against the odds, a solitary biker without GPS had located her.
When reporters later inquired about how he knew to stop, Ghost simply gazed into the camera, replying gently,
“I didn’t. I just couldn’t leave without taking a look.”
Tina recovered fully.
The medical staff indicated that had he arrived even a few hours later, she might not have made it.
Ghost opted not to attend any press events or interviews.
Instead, he rode home, parked his Harley, and sat quietly on his porch until dawn broke.
For the first time in many years, he felt liberated from the past.
He sensed a kind of acknowledgment.
Perhaps even a sense of forgiveness.
The following weekend, a note appeared near his trailer door.
In a child’s writing.
“Thank you for finding me.”
accompanied by a small purple ribbon, identical to that from the backpack.
From that day forward, Ghost pinned it to his jacket before every ride.
And as long as he lived, whenever asked why he chose to ride solo, he would smile and respond:
“Because sometimes, getting lost is the key to discovering what truly matters.”