I looked back at Roy. He was smiling.

The road to Hellbender Campground wound through the Wayne National Forest like a frayed green ribbon, narrowing from asphalt to gravel as the canopy of oaks and maples closed overhead. For most of the year, the campground was a quiet afterthought—a few scattered sites for anglers targeting bass in the meandering Sunday Creek. But every July, the place transformed.

“Hellbender Campground,” she said. “You want unusual? That’s where they come back to life.”

She explained that the campground, named not for a demon but for the Cryptobranchus alleganiensis —the Eastern hellbender salamander—sat at the epicenter of one of the most successful amphibian recovery projects in state history. By the 1990s, pollution from abandoned coal mines had turned Sunday Creek orange with acid runoff. Hellbenders, which breathe entirely through their skin and need fast, clean, oxygenated water, had vanished.