Page 37 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

My eyes wander back to the newspaper before I even open the first of many emails. I stare at Abby’s face for a minute then unfold the paper and start reading.

“Portland schoolteacher Abigail Webb was returned safely to Gatlinburg, Tennessee Friday afternoon after being stranded on the Appalachian Trail southwest of the town during a severe storm. Webb, 26, was reported missing Wednesday afternoon. The teacher made headlines in April when a student brought a firearm into her classroom and opened fire. Webb was shot in the abdomen while attempting to protect the other students in her classroom. Her recent disappearance is believed to be linked to the best-selling bookHiking to Happinessby Sally Kaizen, which suggests hiking the popular 2,190-mile trail to overcome personal trauma. Webb was rescued on Monday afternoon by Hunter Shaw, a law enforcement officer with the US Forest Service. The pair was subsequently trapped in a remote cabin until the storm passed and Webb could be safely returned to the nearby town of Gatlinburg, where her family awaited her arrival.

“I’m just happy to be heading home, and I’d like to thank the US Forest Service for taking such good care of me throughout this entire situation,” Webb said on Friday afternoon.

Ranger Shaw declined to comment.”

Shot? She was fucking shot. That’s sort of a big detail to leave out of the story.

I stare down at the page numbly. I know exactly why she would leave that detail out. It’s the same reason that I did my best to run away from the reporters that day, the reason I ‘declined to comment.’ Neither of us is comfortable playing the role of a hero.

Chapter 19

Abby

It’s been almost two months since my failed attempt at hiking the Appalachian Trail.

Two months since I last saw him.

After the media frenzy, my mom and sister rushed me back to the hotel and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get all of us on a flight back to Portland the next day.

My sister knew something was up when I grabbed a copy of the local newspaper from the hotel lobby. My face was plastered across the front and she knows that I vehemently refuse to look at any media coverage of myself. She eyed me suspiciously as I tucked the paper into my bag, but waited until we got home to ask me about it. I guess she figured I’d been through enough and answered too many questions already.

For the first few weeks, I looked at the picture of Hunter and me in that newspaper every day. If I didn’t, the whole thing ceased to feel real to me. The media told an entirely different story of my harrowing hike to self-recovery and the heroic local ranger who declined to comment.

There was no mention of our three sex-filled days inside his cabin.

I mean,obviously. It’s a newspaper, not a porno.

But it still tested my memory of events. Everything had happened in such a blur. The rain, the rescue…everything else. Sometimes I convince myself that it’s impossible that I felt anything real for Hunter after only a few days, but when I look at the picture of him, my heart flutters with the memory of those feelings.

The national coverage of the rescue didn’t last long – just a day or two. It was nothing compared to the coverage of the shooting, which stretched on for weeks.

Thank God for that, at least.

I haven’t heard from Hunter, but I guess I didn’t really expect to. The plans we made were never realistic anyway. And in those final moments, we both proved just how unready we were to commit to them. Or to each other.

Now I only look at that newspaper in my loneliest moments. That’s something I never felt before my hike – loneliness.

It is my souvenir.

Not oatmeal packets, not the promise of a visit from a sexy forest ranger…just loneliness.

Before the hike, I wasn’t in a good place emotionally, but I was never lonely. I was used to being alone, even when I was dating someone. I never needed their time or attention and was never willing to sacrifice much of mine.

On a Sunday morning, my sister calls to invite me to brunch. I meet her at a trendy restaurant downtown. As soon as we sit down, I can tell this is going to be another ‘I’m-worried-about-you’ talk.

“So, how was the substitute gig?” she asks cautiously.

I told her I would call her after my first day of substitute teaching at the high school, but I never did. I wasn’t sure what to say.

I’m still not, so I just shrug in reply to her question.

“Was it bad?” she presses.

“Notbadexactly. I guess – I don’t know – maybe I’m not ready to be back in the classroom yet. Every time a kid reaches for their backpack, I freeze up. And they all recognize me, so some of them ask questions about the shooting. I wasn’t prepared for that.”

Truthfully, I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable in a classroom again, but I’m not ready to say that out loud yet. Teaching had always been what I wanted to do. It is a big part of my identity. I’m not sure what is left of me without it.

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