Page 5 of Rescued In The Storm

It's a lie, and I know it. But I didn't drag myself out of bed at dawn, drive all the way up here, and struggle this far up the trail just to give up. For once in my life, I'm going to follow through on something spontaneous. I'm going to reach that viewpoint, even if all I see is fog.

I push on, my boots squelching in the increasingly soggy trail. Another hundred yards reveals a steep section where rainwater now courses down like a small stream. I pick my way carefully across exposed roots and slippery rocks, using low-hanging branches to steady myself. By the time I make it up this section, my hands are muddy, my breathing heavy, and my earlier determination is wavering.

The rain intensifies, becoming a heavy curtain of water. The wind picks up, shaking the trees and sending cascades of droplets from the branches overhead. My supposedly waterproof jacket has given up the fight, moisture seeping through to my skin as water runs in rivulets down my neck. In the distance, I hear the first low rumble of thunder.

I should have known better. I should have checked the weather forecast more carefully. I should have listened to that little voice of caution instead of charging ahead with this impulsive plan to prove... what, exactly? That I could be adventurous? That I could step outside my comfortable bakery and embrace the wilderness the way Connor does every day?

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I freeze mid-step, counting the seconds before I see a flash of lightning through the trees. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three—there it is. The storm is still a few miles away, but moving closer.

I need to turn back. Now.

The realization brings both relief and disappointment. No breathtaking view of three mountain ranges today. No proof that Sarah Miller can be spontaneous and brave. Just a soggy, humbling trudge back to my car.

I carefully pivot on the narrow trail, wincing as cold rainwater slides down the back of my neck. The path looks even more intimidating going down. Steeper somehow, and the muddy sections feel more treacherous. I take a deep breath and start my descent, one tentative step at a time.

"Slow and steady," I whisper, trying to channel some of the confidence Connor always exudes when he talks about his outdoor adventures. "Focus on the next step."

For a few minutes, it works. I make progress down the trail. The deluge continues unabated, but I'm walking, inching closer to the safety of my car with each cautious step.

Then it happens.

My right foot lands on what looks like solid ground but turns out to be a slick patch of mud concealing a root. My ankle twists. My arms windmill frantically as I try to regain my balance. For one heart-stopping moment, I think I've caught myself. Then my left foot slides completely out from under me.

I don't even have time to scream.

The world tilts, then spins as I tumble off the edge of the trail. I'm falling, sliding, my hands clawing desperately for anything to stop my descent. Pain flares as branches scrape my face and hands. My backpack catches on something, jerking me roughly before tearing free.

Then, impact. Hard and sudden.

I land with a breathless "oof" on a small ledge several feet below the trail. Pain shoots up my left leg as my ankle bends at an angle nature never intended. For a moment, I just lie there, rain pelting my face, too stunned to move.

When the initial shock subsides, I try to take inventory. Nothing feels broken, at least not seriously. My palms are scraped raw from trying to catch myself. My jeans are torn at the knee, with blood seeping through the fabric. But it's my ankle that concerns me most. There’s a hot, pulsing pain that intensifies when I attempt to shift position.

"Okay," I gasp, rolling carefully onto my side. "Just... get back to the trail."

I look up at where I fell from. It's only about six feet, but the slope is steep and muddy, with nothing substantial to grip. Under normal circumstances, maybe I could scramble back up. With an injured ankle? Not a chance.

I fumble for my phone in my jacket pocket, my cold fingers clumsy with fear and pain. One bar of service. Just one. I try to call Maya, but the call fails to connect. I try Kathryn next. Nothing. 911? The call begins to ring, then drops.

"You have got to be kidding me," I mutter, staring at the useless device in my hand.

Thunder cracks directly overhead now, making me flinch. The rain is coming down in sheets, plastering my hair to my face despite my hood. I'm cold, I'm hurt, and I'm completely alone on a mountain in a storm.

I try to stand, putting weight gingerly on my injured ankle. White-hot pain shoots up my leg, and I collapse back onto the muddy ledge with a cry that's swallowed by the storm.

I'm trapped.

Panic rises in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. I force myself to take deep breaths. Someone will notice I'm missing eventually. Maya will wonder why I haven't checked in. Or maybe a fellow hiker will come along.

But even as I think it, I know how unlikely that is. Who else would be stupid enough to be out in this weather?

"Help!" I call, my voice pathetically small against the roar of the storm. "Can anyone hear me?"

The only response is another crack of thunder, so close now that I feel it vibrate through the ground beneath me.

I pull my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, to conserve what little body heat I have left. My camera bag, miraculously still slung across my body, digs into my side. I could document my own idiocy, I suppose.The Last Photos of Sarah Miller: Baker, Amateur Photographer, Mountain Disaster.

The thought of never seeing my bakery again, never kneading another batch of dough, never glimpsing Connor walking through my door on a Tuesday morning—it brings tears to my eyes that blend seamlessly with the raindrops on my face.

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