Three men in the woods and the button latch on my axe

Last summer, my partner, our large dog, and I were camping beside a creek at an established site in a nearby forest. It was not a formal campground, but it had a parking area, a fire ring, a flat place for a tent, and access to the water.

In the middle of the night, we woke to a large truck parked beside our car with its engine idling. After a while, three men got out and entered our camp. They spoke quietly, and the truck and creek made it impossible to hear what they were saying. I was convinced that something was wrong. Our dog had been growling softly for most of the time they were there.

I whispered to my partner to stay quiet, hold the dog, and hide. I got out of our sleeping bag and put on my shoes. The only thing I had for protection was a forest axe, halfway between a hatchet and an axe. It was useful for camping and had a leather sheath secured by a metal button latch that covered the blade.

The men took their time, perhaps to intimidate us, and eventually moved closer to the tent. I loudly popped the metal button on the sheath and pulled it off, preparing either to defend myself or to be killed. All three men heard the latch. I assumed they thought it was the sound of a gun holster opening.

They immediately left the camp, got back into their truck, and drove away without saying a word. I never learned whether they intended to steal from us, frighten us, or cause serious harm. The uncertainty was almost as disturbing as their presence. I only know that three strangers entered our campsite at night, and a small metallic click was enough to make them leave.