Page 1 of Holly's Grizzly

1

Holly

Running away to the woods for a winter backpacking trip may not have been the best thing for a broken heart.

My heavy hiking boots slip over a patch of ice-covered ground, and I bite out a harsh curse. It’s at least the fourth time I’ve almost gone sprawling onto my ass in the last ten minutes as I make my way down from an exposed, rocky ridge into a densely forested valley between two peaks. It might be beautiful here under normal circumstances, but I don’t have any time to enjoy it while I press onwards, headed as fast as I can safely manage back to my car.

That aforementioned broken heart is firmly lodged in the back of my throat, and if I thought this trip was going to do anything at all to patch it back up, those illusions evaporated hours ago.

No healing to be found here, nothing but growing dread and certainty that this whole cursed trip was a monumental mistake.

In theory, it seemed great.

I’ve been expanding my horizons over the last year. Learning to survive on my own in every sense of the word, finding myself after Cody, my ex, walked out and didn’t look back.

It’s become a bit of an obsession, trying to excise that relationship—or, maybe more accurately, excise who I became in that relationship—by any means necessary. Physical, mental, spiritual—if it’s aimed at cleansing myself of negative energy and starting fresh, there’s a good chance I’ve tried it.

Over the past six months that’s meant getting out of Seattle, unplugging from technology and connecting with nature, and out of all the things I’ve tried, backpacking seems to have stuck better than most. Something about the peace, the fresh air, the solitude, has gotten me in and out of my head all at the same time. Focusing on the trail, tuning in to my body, and pushing myself out of my comfort zone scratches my restless mental itch in the very best way.

I’ve been all over the Pacific Northwest on hiking and backpacking trips, and I’ve even started toying with the idea of taking a summer off to do the whole Pacific Crest Trail.

Winter backpacking was supposed to be no big deal. I’ve done the research, bought the gear, and even took a primer weekend trip a few weeks ago with a trail buddy. She showed me some of the finer points of setting up camp in the snow and keeping myself alive when the temps are below freezing.

It was exhilarating, a whole new challenge to tackle, and I thought I’d been ready to strike out on my own.

What I didn’t count on?

A weather forecast that’s proven to be so far from accurate, I’m seriously considering suing.

Suingwhoexactly, I’m not sure, but there’s got to be something criminal about the meteorologist announcing all we were supposed to expect over the Christmas holiday was a few inches of soft powder, when in reality a system of heavy, pelting, freezing rain passed right over the mountain I’m hiking on.

Snow wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but this mess?

This is awful.

And freaking dangerous.

All that rain eventually changed over to snow, but the damage is done. Beneath the layer of fresh powder, the ground is completely coated in ice. It makes every step treacherous, and my muscles ache and shake from the effort of keeping my feet under me through each slip and slide.

Even worse, the weather didn’t set in until I was more than halfway through my in-hike to the spot I was supposed to be camping tonight.

When I realized how dangerous it had gotten, I made the executive decision to turn back, but that was only an hour ago, and I’ve got at least two more until I make it to my car.

I don’t even know if bailing was the right choice, but there’s nothing to do now but keep moving, even as the same condemnation rings through my head with each uncertain step over the slippery ground.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I could be warm and safe right now, getting ready to spend the holiday with my friends. Nora invited me to the celebration she’s hosting, and Kenna would have been there, too.

I should have just gone.

I shouldn’t have given Nora a half-assed apology about having this trip planned for months when, in reality, I decided to go just a few weeks ago. I should have sucked it up and not let the idea of being the single friend showing up to spend Christmas with my joyful, content, blissfully partnered friends bother me as much as it did.

Not that it matters now.

Now, it doesn’t matter that I’m sad, single Holly trying to eat, pray, love my way into patching up my broken heart. All the affirmations and zen in the world won’t get me out of this mess.

I’m the only one who can save me now.

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