The Ghost Map of the Olympics

The progress bar was a thin, glowing sliver of blue light, crawling across the monitor like a glacier. 99.8%. Twenty years of my life, terabytes of movement patterns, acoustic anomalies, and thermal signatures, were seconds away from becoming public property. My finger hovered over the mouse, trembling. To hit that button was to cross a rubicon. I wasn’t just publishing a scientific model; I was exposing a secret that the Pacific Northwest had kept buried under its mossy shroud for millennia.

But just as the music of the upload completion chime began to swell, my eyes caught a string of numbers in the preview window. It was a route log from my own archive—Sector 4, up near the Hoh Rainforest, dated October 12th, 2019.

I froze. My breath hitched in my throat. The handwriting on the scanned field notes was undeniably mine. The digital tags matched my encryption keys. But I hadn’t been in Sector 4 in October of 2019. I had been in Portland that entire week for a forestry seminar. I know my own routes; I’ve lived them, bled on them, and memorized every switchback.

I slammed the escape key. The upload paused, hanging in digital limbo. I didn’t trust the software, and I didn’t trust the machine. In a fit of cold, calculated panic, I reached under the desk and ripped the Ethernet cord straight out of the wall.

I sat there in the dark office of the Olympic National Park ranger station, listening to the relentless rain hammer against the glass. The reality began to sink in like a slow-acting poison. Someone had altered my data. Someone had inserted fake coordinates into my life’s work. If I had hit that button, I wouldn’t have been sharing a breakthrough; I would have been handing every amateur tracker and internet weirdo a literal map to something living—and potentially leading them into a slaughterhouse.

The Architect of Shadows

My name is Patrick Surell. I’m a senior ranger at Olympic National Park. For two decades, I’ve navigated the densest, wettest, and most isolated timber in Washington State. The Olympics hide things perfectly. I didn’t start out looking for myths. I started as a skeptic with a degree in biology and a penchant for data. But when you stand in deep timber, miles from the nearest road, and find a trackway that sinks three inches deep into hard-packed mud—mud that would barely yield to a 500-pound elk—you stop laughing.

They aren’t magic. They aren’t interdimensional ghosts. They are massive, highly intelligent, territorial primates. They are biologically real. And they are heavy. A 700-pound animal that moves through dry brush with the silence of a mountain lion changes the way you look at the woods. It changes the way you look at your own place in the food chain.

I booted my machine back up, keeping it strictly offline. I dug into the directory for the 2019 files. It wasn’t just one route. There were dozens. Over the last eight years, entries had been subtly shifted. A latitude changed here; a longitude bumped a few miles west there.

The only person with access to my private server was Dwight Keen. Dwight was a fellow ranger, a man I’d shared a thousand thermoses of coffee with. He’d always treated my “Bigfoot” research with a kind of amused irony, like it was a harmless, eccentric hobby. We had built the server at his house years ago as a redundant node when the park’s budget was slashed. I had trusted him with the keys to my kingdom because he was the only one who didn’t make me feel like a lunatic.

I ran a local diagnostic. The corrupted data—the fake routes—hadn’t originated from my laptop. They were pushed down from the server side. Dwight’s side.

I felt a wave of nausea. I grabbed my external drives, threw them into a duffel bag, and practically ran to my truck. I couldn’t go to my supervisor. I didn’t know how deep this went. I needed someone who understood data forensics but existed entirely outside the Park Service circle. I called Nora Westing.

The Ghost Map Revealed

Nora was an investigative journalist based in Seattle—sharp, cynical, and the kind of person who didn’t believe in the sun unless she could see its tax returns. We met at a 24-hour diner off the interstate. The smell of old grease and bleach was a comfort compared to the cold paranoia gnawing at my gut.

“Patrick, you look like hell,” she said, sliding into the booth.

“Someone poisoned my well, Nora,” I replied, sliding the drives across the table. “I need a diff-check on this database. Compare my offline physical logs against the digital backups.”

She didn’t ask questions. She worked in silence for two hours, the only sound the clacking of her keys and the rain on the tin roof. When she finally turned the laptop around, her face was pale.

“This isn’t a glitch, Patrick. This is surgical,” she whispered.

The software highlighted the discrepancies in red. Dwight hadn’t just added fake routes to mess with me. He had been extracting specific coordinates. Every time I logged a high-probability event—a place with undeniable physical evidence, distinct acoustic patterns, or heavy thermal signatures—Dwight deleted the real coordinates and replaced them with “dead zones” in the public-facing archive.

“He was using you,” Nora said. “You were the biological sensor. You were doing the grueling field work, and he was harvesting the gold.”

She brought up a new map—a topographical grid of the Olympic Peninsula. She ran a script to see where the stolen data ended up. Hundreds of red dots populated the screen. It was a “Ghost Map.” Every genuine encounter zone I had mapped over eight years was there, kept in a secret, separate database.

But Nora didn’t stop there. She overlaid a second set of black markers onto the Ghost Map. They lined up with the red dots in a terrifying one-to-one match.

“What are the black markers?” I asked, my throat dry.

“State wildlife and forestry incident reports,” she said. “In a seventy-five-mile radius around the park over the last ten years, there are twenty-three documented cases of massive animal remains being discovered. Elk, black bears, even cougars. Found with severe structural trauma—crushed ribcages, shattered skulls—the kind of damage that doesn’t match any known predator. The state wrote them off as ‘territorial disputes.’ But every single one happened at the exact coordinates Dwight stole from you.”

The diner felt suddenly, impossibly quiet. Dwight wasn’t just mapping their territory. He was mapping a pattern of extreme hostility. And he was doing it while keeping me blind, letting me walk into those “hot zones” without a clue of the danger.

The Vector

We didn’t sleep. You don’t sleep after realizing your best friend might be a scout for a war zone you didn’t know existed. At 7:00 AM, Nora called a contact at the University of Oregon: Iris Taber, a forensic biologist who specialized in predation patterns.

Nora sent her the unredacted forestry reports and the high-resolution 3D scans of the track casts I’d pulled from those twenty-three locations—the ones Dwight tried to erase. We waited in my truck, the heater blasting, until Iris called back three hours later.

“Nora,” Iris’s voice was thin and unsettled over the speakerphone. “Where did you get these casts? If these are a prank, they’re the most expensive pranks in history.”

“They’re real, Iris,” I said. “What do you see?”

“The weight displacement is staggering—between six and seven hundred pounds. The arch flexibility indicates a bipedal stance, but the stride length is wrong. It’s too wide, built for a heavy, rolling momentum. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”

“Then what is?”

“I ran a topographical decay model on the soil compression. Patrick, the tracks from Sector 4, the ones you pulled last month… they aren’t foraging paths. They aren’t meandering. When you map the freshest tracks, they straighten out. They form a deliberate directional vector. Whatever this thing is, it’s moving with purpose toward a highly specific geographic point.”

She sent the vector to my phone. A bright red line cut through the green canopy of the Hoh Rainforest, exiting federal land and terminating at a small, privately owned parcel in the foothills.

I stared at the screen. “I know that spot.”

“What is it?” Nora asked.

“A rusted-out A-frame cabin at the end of an abandoned logging road. Dwight bought it at a tax auction six years ago. He told everyone it was a storage shed for his gear. But the tracks… they aren’t just in the woods. They’re heading straight for his front door.”

The Shadow Station

The drive out Highway 112 was a blur of dark timber and grey mist. We turned off onto a gravel fire road, the truck’s suspension groaning against the ruts. The further we drove, the more the forest seemed to press in, a wall of ferns and ancient cedar that swallowed the light.

We reached the clearing. The A-frame sat there, looking miserable and rotting in the rain. Dwight’s truck wasn’t there. I approached the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. A heavy-duty steel padlock hung from the hasp, but it wasn’t engaged. It was unlocked.

I pushed the door open. It groaned on its hinges, revealing not a storage shed, but a high-tech command center.

The walls were lined with corkboards and topographical maps. High-end server racks hummed in the corner, powered by a gas generator out back. Filing cabinets were secured with biometric scanners. It was a shadow station.

I walked to the main desk and opened a massive ledger. My stomach dropped. He had my patrol schedules. He had the GPS pings from my department radio. He had my entire life mapped out in columns.

“Patrick, look at this,” Nora called out. She had pried open a metal filing cabinet. She held a stack of manila folders—biological dossiers.

There were thirteen of them. Dwight had identified thirteen distinct individuals in the region. He didn’t use names like “Sasquatch.” He used sterile, alphanumeric designations: Subject Alpha-Niner, Subject Delta-2.

Each file was packed with data: estimated weight, territorial boundaries, dietary shifts, and aggression levels. It was the most comprehensive zoological study ever conducted on the species. But it was the status stamps that made my blood run cold.

Five folders were marked ACTIVE.

Eight folders had a heavy, black stamp across them: LOST.

“Lost?” I muttered. “You don’t just lose an eight-hundred-pound primate in a contained area. What does ‘lost’ mean?”

I opened a “Lost” folder. The final entry, dated three years ago, detailed a sudden cessation of thermal signatures, accompanied by massive structural damage to the surrounding trees. No body was recovered. The subject was simply… removed.

I began tearing through the cabin, dumping boxes and papers. I needed to know what Dwight was actually doing. Was he hunting them? Was he protecting them? Or was he doing something much, much worse?

I found a smaller, locked box hidden beneath a floorboard. I smashed the lock with a crowbar. Inside wasn’t more data. It was a collection of high-frequency acoustic emitters and several canisters of a synthetic pheromone I didn’t recognize.

But at the bottom of the box was a photograph. It was a grainy, long-range shot of a clearing in Sector 4. In the center of the frame was a figure—massive, covered in dark, matted hair, standing over the carcass of an elk. But the figure wasn’t eating. It was looking directly at the camera. And behind it, barely visible in the shadows of the treeline, was Dwight.

He wasn’t hiding. He was standing there, holding a tablet, calmly watching the creature as if he were a shepherd tending to a particularly violent flock.

Suddenly, the hum of the server racks changed pitch. A red light began to pulse on the main console. A remote proximity alarm.

“Someone’s coming,” Nora said, her voice tight with panic.

I looked out the window. Through the thick mist and the driving rain, I saw the headlights of a vehicle bouncing up the logging road. But then I looked toward the forest behind the cabin.

The trees were swaying—not from the wind, but from something massive moving through them. The smell hit me then—that heavy, primal musk that coats the back of your throat. The biological alarm bells in my head went off with deafening force.

Dwight wasn’t the only one coming home.

“Nora, get in the cellar. Now!” I hissed, grabbing the ledger and my crowbar.

We scrambled into the small crawlspace beneath the floorboards just as the truck pulled into the clearing. We watched through the cracks in the floor as the cabin door swung open.

It wasn’t just Dwight. Two men in tactical gear followed him, carrying heavy crates marked with a logo I’d never seen: a stylized mountain peak with a line running through it.

“The vector is shifting,” one of the men said, his voice echoing in the small space. “Alpha-Niner is agitated. He’s been following the Ranger’s scent for three days. If Surell keeps poking around, we’re going to lose the whole sector.”

“Surell is handled,” Dwight’s voice was cold, devoid of the friendly irony I’d known for a decade. “He’s at the station uploading the fake data. By the time he realizes the coordinates are dead, the extraction will be complete. We move the remaining five tonight.”

“And the ‘Lost’ ones?” the second man asked.

Dwight paused. I could see his boots through the floorboards, inches from my face. “The ‘Lost’ ones are already at the facility in Nevada. They’re adjusting. Mostly.”

My heart stopped. This wasn’t a research project. It was a harvest.

Suddenly, a deafening roar ripped through the air—a sound so loud it vibrated the floorboards and rattled the server racks. It wasn’t a bear, and it wasn’t a mountain lion. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated rage.

The cabin wall shuddered as something massive slammed into it.

“He’s here,” Dwight whispered, but he didn’t sound afraid. He sounded like a man whose plan had just hit a snag. “Get the emitters. If he breaks the perimeter before the transport arrives, we terminate him.”

I looked at Nora. Her eyes were wide with terror. I realized then that my twenty years of searching for the truth had been a game of hide-and-seek where I was the only one who didn’t know the rules.

I gripped the crowbar. I had to get that ledger out. I had to show the world not just that they existed, but that they were being stolen.

But as I prepared to move, a massive, dark hand—four times the size of a human’s—slammed through the cabin window, reaching for the console.

The hunt wasn’t over. It had just moved indoors.

The interior of the cabin was a masterclass in psychological warfare. As I stood there, the ledger heavy in my hands, the true scope of my own ignorance began to crystallize. I had spent two decades believing I was the protagonist of a grand discovery, a pioneer on the edge of the unknown. In reality, I was a background character in someone else’s much more efficient, much more ruthless narrative.

I found the black binder on a bottom shelf, tucked behind a row of spare radio batteries and boxes of heavy-duty zip ties. The spine bore a single, clinical label: COUNTER-MEASURES.

I cleared a space on the desk, pushing aside the biological dossiers, and flipped it open. My breath hitched. The very first page was a high-resolution photograph of me. I was standing in a muddy ravine in Sector 6, hunched over a massive footprint, my camera lens inches from the ground. I remembered that day vividly; I had felt like a king who had just found his crown. But the photo wasn’t mine. It had been taken from a higher elevation, looking down through the hemlock branches. Dwight had been there. He had been watching me find the “gold” he had already appraised.

I turned the page. There were meticulous notes detailing the tracks I found that day—depth, stride, soil moisture. But then, there was a secondary column that made the blood drain from my face. It was Dwight’s own analysis of the site:

Subject deliberately altered gait to increase depression depth. Bark striations applied at artificial height to ensure Ranger Surell’s observation. Tracks terminate at rock shelf. Thermal imaging confirms subject doubled back through canopy shadow.

I read it three times, the words blurring. I flipped to the next entry. Another photo of me. Another set of “miracle” tracks I had spent weeks analyzing in my journal.

Subject Delta-2 constructed artificial debris field. Broken branches placed symmetrically to funnel Ranger Surell away from primary nesting zone. Ranger Surell followed False Vector for three miles.

The room seemed to tilt. My legs felt like they were made of water. They weren’t accidents. The snapped limbs, the perfectly placed footprints in the mud right before a rocky stream, the musky scent left exactly at nose level on the game trails—none of it was accidental.

For twenty years, I thought I was a master tracker slowly closing the net on an elusive species. I was wrong. I was so incredibly wrong. They knew I was there. They knew exactly who I was, what my habits were, and how I operated. And they possessed an intelligence so raw and calculating that they realized they could manage me.

They were building a breadcrumb trail of manufactured evidence to keep my attention focused on specific, empty sectors of the forest. They were steering me like a sheepdog steers a flock. Why? Because they knew Dwight was the real threat. They recognized the difference between me—a guy wandering around with a camera and a notebook—and Dwight—a guy who operated in the shadows, analyzing their vulnerabilities and logging their numbers.

The creatures were fighting a quiet, desperate shadow war against Dwight, and they were using me as their shield. By keeping me active in certain zones, my constant radio chatter, my vehicle noise, and my very presence acted as a buffer. They knew Dwight wouldn’t move openly or conduct extractions while I was stumbling around looking at fake footprints. I was a pawn, a literal alarm system set up by a group of apex predators to keep a human predator at bay.

“Patrick,” Nora whispered, reading over my shoulder. Her voice was thin, on the verge of breaking. “They’ve been controlling you. Both of them. Dwight and… them.”

I couldn’t speak. Every late night, every freezing patrol, every moment I thought I was breaking ground—it was all scripted. I was walking through a terrarium, being watched by two separate, vastly superior forces.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the cabin groaned. It didn’t slam; it was pulled closed slowly and deliberately from the outside. Then, the deadbolt engaged with a heavy, metallic slide.

We were locked in.

The Architect Returns

The air in the cabin turned to lead. Nora lunged for the door, pulling at the iron handle until her knuckles turned white, but it didn’t budge. I ran to the single window, but it was reinforced plexiglass bolted directly into the frame. Dwight hadn’t built a cabin; he had built a cage.

We were trapped there all night. The gas generator eventually sputtered and died, plunging us into a darkness so thick it felt physical. We sat on the cold floor, using our phone flashlights sparingly, listening to the rain hammer against the roof. I kept replaying my life in my head. Twenty years of walking through mud, convinced I was on the edge of a breakthrough.

The sun didn’t really rise the next morning; the world just transitioned from black to a bruised, sickly gray. Around 8:00 AM, we heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Footsteps on the porch. The lock tumbled, and the door swung open, letting in a blast of freezing, damp air.

Dwight stood there. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, just a heavy flannel jacket and wet boots. He held a thermos in one hand and a cardboard tray with two paper coffee cups in the other. He looked at us, and his expression didn’t change. No guilt. No anger. Just a profound, weary tiredness.

“You found the backup mirror on my server,” Dwight said quietly. It wasn’t a question. He walked in, set the coffee on the desk right next to the files detailing my manipulated life, and pulled up a folding chair. “I figured the sync protocol would trip eventually. Just took you a few years longer than I modeled.”

Nora stepped back, keeping the desk between her and him. “You’ve been tracking them,” she said, her voice shaking. “And you hid it. You stole them.”

Dwight ignored her, looking straight at me. “Sit down, Patrick.”

“You locked us in a freezing cabin, Dwight,” I said, my voice raw. “You fabricated my life. You lied to the department.”

“I secured the perimeter so you wouldn’t do something stupid in the dark,” Dwight corrected mildly, unscrewing the lid of his thermos. “And I didn’t fabricate your data, Pat. I curated it. There’s a massive difference.”

He took a sip of his coffee. The normalcy of it was sickening.

“Twenty-three incidents, Dwight,” I said, pointing at the map. “Twenty-three fatalities. You knew they were aggressive, and you let me walk right into those zones.”

“You were never in any danger,” Dwight said with absolute, unsettling certainty. “I mapped their aggression vectors a decade ago. They weren’t interested in you. You were too loud, too obvious. You smelled like soap and department-issue bug spray. To them, you were just a noisy, predictable environmental hazard, like a rockslide or a bad storm. You weren’t a threat. You were a distraction.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “This is the greatest zoological study in human history. We are observing an undiscovered hominid species operating in our backyard. But they are fragile, Pat. If you had gone public, if you had brought the cameras and the tourists out here, you would have destroyed them. The habitat would be overrun. The federal government would lock down the peninsula.”

“So you just manipulated me,” I muttered, a hollow ache in my chest.

“I managed you,” Dwight said smoothly. “Like a thermostat. Every time you got too close to a definitive proof, I just tweaked the data. I’d remove a thermal signature. I’d shift a coordinate to an empty ravine. And what did you do? You went right back into the woods to find ‘better’ proof. While you were out there making a massive racket, drawing their attention, I was in the blind spots doing the real science. You were my control group, Patrick.”

“We’re going to the police,” Nora said, her hand in her pocket, likely gripping her phone. “I have the server data. I have the files. You’re done, Dwight.”

Dwight just looked at her, then back at me. He didn’t try to stop us. He didn’t even stand up. “Go ahead,” he said softly.

The Collapse

We didn’t run; we walked out, got into my truck, and drove. My brain was white noise. We went straight to the Clallam County Sheriff’s Office in Port Angeles. I knew the sheriff, Glenn Partardo. I laid it all out—the altered logs, the hidden cabin, the thirteen biological profiles, the “Lost” subjects. I told him Dwight Keen was running a covert, unauthorized operation on federal land.

Partardo listened. He rubbed his face, looking at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. “Patrick,” he said slowly. “You’re telling me Dwight Keen—the guy who won the regional commendation for search and rescue—is hoarding data on Bigfoot?”

“It’s a cover-up, Glenn! He’s got physical evidence in that cabin. Send a deputy up there now before he clears it out!”

Partardo sighed and signaled for a couple of cars to head up the logging road. We waited in the lobby. Two hours later, the radio chirped. I saw Partardo’s face drop. He called me back into his office.

“They’re at the cabin, Pat,” Partardo said, his voice hard. “It’s empty.”

“What? No, the servers, the filing cabinets—”

“It’s an empty A-frame,” Partardo interrupted. “No servers. No corkboards. Just some old ATVs, a couple of chainsaws, and some dusty tarps. Exactly what Dwight always said was up there.”

“He moved it! Nora saw it too!”

Partardo pulled a fax off his machine. It had just come through from Regional Headquarters. “Dwight didn’t just clear out his cabin, Patrick. He filed a report this morning concerning you.”

He slid the paper across the desk. SUBJECT: Ranger Patrick Surell. STATUS: Psychological breakdown / Unfit for duty.

Dwight had written a detailed summary of my “increasingly erratic behavior.” He claimed I had become obsessively paranoid about my research, convinced that people were “stealing my data.” He stated that I had broken into his private property in a state of delusion.

But the final nail was the attachment: twenty pages of real emails I had sent Dwight over the last two decades. “Dwight, I know they were in Sector 4. The tracks just vanished. I’m going back out tonight. I don’t care about the storm warning.” “They’re watching me, Dwight. I can smell them outside the perimeter.”

Every email was genuine. Dwight hadn’t forged a single letter. He had simply selected the most frantic, desperate messages I had sent him late at night over twenty years and stacked them together. Removed from context, I sounded like a man who had lost his grip on reality a long time ago.

“He set me up,” I whispered. “Glenn, he curated this. He saved these emails for an exit strategy.”

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” Partardo said, standing up. “Headquarters is suspending you pending a full evaluation. I have to ask for your badge and your radio.”

The collapse was total. Nora tried to publish the story on an independent news site. It lasted three days before Dwight’s lawyers—funded by a “private conservation trust” no one had ever heard of—hit the site with a massive defamation suit. They demanded the physical proof Nora claimed to have seen—proof that no longer existed.

Then came the call from Iris Taber. She sounded terrified. “I’m retracting my findings, Nora,” she said, her voice trembling. “The track casts are being officially labeled as ‘inconclusive’ by the board. My department head got a call from the state forestry board. They made it clear my license would be revoked if I didn’t walk away.”

Just like that, the science was gone. The narrative was set: I was the disgraced, obsessed ranger who had a nervous breakdown. Dwight was the hero who tried to help a colleague in crisis. He kept his job. He kept his secrets. I lost everything.

The Great Migration

A month later, the sky was the color of wet iron. I sat in my house in Port Angeles, staring at the walls, realizing how perfectly I had been outplayed. I was boxed out. Dwight had won.

But there was one thing Dwight couldn’t control.

I put on my boots. I didn’t take a camera. I didn’t take a radio. I didn’t even take a notebook. I drove my personal truck to the northern boundary of the park, near the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I ducked under the wire and started walking.

I walked for four hours, navigating by memory through the rotting cedar and dense ferns. I was going to a very specific set of coordinates—the spot where, twenty years ago, I had found the first track that changed my life.

I reached the clearing late in the afternoon. The air was completely still. No birds. No wind. Just the heavy silence of the deep woods. I walked to the base of a massive ancient Douglas fir and looked down at the soft, dark earth.

The area was empty. No broken branches, no artificial trails meant to lead me astray. But right there, pressed deep into the mud near the roots, was a sequence of tracks. Three of them.

I knelt in the wet dirt. They were incredibly fresh; the edges of the mud hadn’t even started to collapse. They were huge, easily eighteen inches long, sinking deep into the soil. But it wasn’t the size that made my heart stop. It was the direction.

For twenty years, the tracks I found always circled. They looped back. They stayed within the boundaries of the park, patrolling their territories, managing me, avoiding Dwight.

These tracks didn’t loop. They pointed straight North. A direct, unwavering line heading deep into the unforgiving, endless wilderness toward the Canadian border.

I stood up slowly, looking North into the darkening trees. I finally understood.

The shadow war was over. Dwight had won the territory, and the creatures knew it. The buffer was gone. I was gone. The ecosystem had shifted, and the apex predators had made a purely biological calculation: the habitat was no longer secure.

They were migrating. They were abandoning the Olympic Peninsula. They were leaving the territory they had held for centuries, moving North into the absolute wild where no roads, no servers, and no rangers could ever reach them.

I stood there for a long time as the rain started falling harder, slowly washing away the sharp edges of the footprints. I didn’t try to preserve them. I just watched them dissolve.

They were gone. All of them. And neither I nor Dwight would ever see them again. It wasn’t a victory for anyone; it was just a quiet, profound emptiness.

I turned around and started the long walk back to my truck. I didn’t look back. The story was over. But the worst part, the part that keeps me awake at night, is knowing they didn’t just disappear. They closed the door on us forever. They chose the cold, lonely silence of the North over the crowded, monitored world of the South. And looking at the world I was returning to—a world of curated data and manufactured truths—I couldn’t help but think they had made the right choice.

👉 Link youtube: https://youtu.be/uXo68Y4CPVs?si=_AvjCmR0Clt36hqm