Page 2 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“Yes,” I sigh, “the the surgeon said that the bullet wound is as healed as it will ever be, so there’s no reason I can’t start being active again.”

“Well, going on a ten-day hike is kind of a stretch from what most people would define as ‘being active.’ What about your therapist? What does she say about this?”

“Nothing productive, as usual,” I say.

When I glance up at Sarah, she looks like she is on the verge of tears. She’s ten years older than me, so she’s always been more of a second mother than a sister to me. She’s always felt responsible for protecting me, and I know she thinks she failed. It breaks my heart and frustrates the hell out of me in equal parts. There’s nothing she could have done to prevent what happened that day. I just wish there was some way I could convince her of that.

This is exactly why I need to go on this hike. I need time to heal on my own, and in my own way. Everyone has been walking on eggshells with me since the shooting. When people ask ‘how are you,’ it means something different now. Their words drip with caution and pity. It’s exhausting to try to formulate an answer that satisfies people, one that assures them that they don’t need to worry about me. It feels like I’m responsible for taking care of their emotional state when I can barely take care of my own these days.

Sarah is fidgeting and fretting in the middle of the room. I stand up and reach for her hand, partially to comfort her and partially because her fidgeting is giving me anxiety.

“I know you’re worried and I understand why,” I say softly, “but I promise, I’ll be fine.”

Spoiler alert: I was not fine.

Chapter 1

Abby

I think I might be the world record-holder for most near-death experiences in a year. First, there was the school shooting. It started and ended in my classroom with a single victim: me. Now I’m known as the teacher who took a literal bullet for her students. But I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like a mess. Which brings me to near-death experience number two: being trapped in a remote hiking shelter along the Appalachian Trail during an apocalyptic storm.

This is not what I had in mind when I set out for a life-changing, soul-altering experience.

Rain is falling in buckets around me, seeping through the cracks in the wooden hiking shelter. Thunder groans ceaselessly overhead, while lightning crashes in bright bursts. Cold winds whip through the open side of the structure.

I’m huddled into the corner, reduced to the smallest possible version of myself. My clothes are soaked, my teeth are chattering, and I’m subsisting on a diet of s’mores-flavored granola bars.

My copy of the book that brought me here,Hiking Toward Happiness: Finding Yourself on the Appalachian Trail, is drowning in my hiking bag, alongside all my food and clothing. The sales guy at Outdoor World warned me that water-resistant was not the same thing as waterproof in the world of hiking gear, but I didn’t listen. September isn’t supposed to be the rainy season out here in the Great Smoky Mountains.

It is day five of my ten-day hike, so I’m smack-dab in the middle of nowhere without another soul in sight. I’m not any closer to self-discovery or healing or any of the bullshit touted in that book. I am, however, possibly a little closer to death.

As I sit here, contemplating my imminent demise, a bear in a reflective poncho appears between the trees in front of me.

Nope, that’s not right.

Maybe the cold rain has seeped into my brain, too. The creature is big and shiny though – and headed straight for me in long, steady strides. Fleeing seems impossible in my soggy, sleep-deprived state. Even if I tried to run, there’s nowhere for me to go. I hope this bear likes s’mores-flavored individuals, and I pray for a quick, painless death. If it rips my arm from its socket or otherwise maims me, I doubt that my four remaining bandages will be much help. The rest of the bandages I packed for this trip are already covering a patchwork of blisters on my feet.

Some far corner of my brain shouts at me to dig the canister of bear repellent out of my bag, but I’m too exhausted to listen.

When the large, reflective creature is only a few feet away from the shelter, I resign myself to a soggy, toothy death. Sheets of rain obscure my view as it approaches. A heavy footstep lands on the wood of the shelter, and a figure crouches a foot away from me.

“Are you hurt? Can you walk?” His voice is deep and gravelly.

A talking bear.

The man’s features are slick with rain. His eyes are pinched together so that the droplets from his forehead bypass them and fall down his stubbly cheeks instead. Shadows from the hood of his parka obscure my view of the rest of him.

“I’m okay. Just very cold and wet.”

“Well, it’s about a mile to the station.”

I cringe. A mile walk seems impossible in this rain, but the promise of someplace dry and warm draws me to my feet.

The man reaches beneath the drenched poncho and retrieves a little package from the front pocket of his shirt, revealing a badge on his chest. He uses his teeth to rip open the package then hands the contents to me. It’s a bright square - another plastic emergency poncho. I start to unfurl it and try to make sense of where the head is. The man reaches for my bag, which is probably heavier than I am in its waterlogged state.

“Are you a cop?” I ask as he holds out his hand to help me down from the edge of the shelter. The mud splats and shifts beneath me as I land. I grasp his hand tighter to steady myself.

“Forest Service. Hunter,” he says.

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