Page 1 of Tracked By the Mountain Man
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Leah
ThetrailheadmarkerforKatie's Trail stands before me like a gravestone, weathered wood carved with cheerful warnings about bear safety and Leave No Trace principles. My hands shake as I adjust my pack straps, the familiar weight of hiking gear feeling foreign after five years of avoiding anything that might remind me of her.
In through your nose, out through your mouth.Dr. Silverman's voice echoes in my mind as I force myself to breathe.This is about honoring Katie while reclaiming your own life.
But standing here, staring at the two trail markers pointing in different directions, I realize I don't remember which path we took that day. The North Ridge Loop splits almost immediately—one route following Black Creek through the valley, the other climbing directly up the ridge face toward Eagle's Rest. Katie would have wanted the challenge. But I was the careful one, the planner who studied trail conditions and weather reports.
So which way did we go?
I close my eyes, trying to summon the memory, but all I can recall is the argument. Our voices echoing off the mountain walls as we stood in this exact spot five years ago.
The first step onto the trail feels like stepping off a cliff.
I choose the creek path and within minutes I'm surrounded by towering pines and the gentle murmur of running water. My hiking boots find their rhythm on the pine needle-strewn trail, my body remembering despite my mind's resistance.
"God, Leah, you act like everything's going to kill us."Katie's voice rises unbidden from my memory as I navigate around a fallen log."Sometimes I think you'd rather live in a bubble than actually experience anything."
My response had been cruel:"And sometimes I think you'd rather die young than grow up and be responsible."
The words echo with each step, as sharp now as they were then.
I pause beside Whisper Creek, where Katie had knelt to fill her water bottle, her auburn hair catching the morning light. We were identical twins, but she'd always been the brighter flame. The one who laughed louder, loved harder, lived without the constant fear that something terrible was waiting around every corner.
The terrible thing had been waiting. Just not for her.
My twisted ankle had kept me at base camp that afternoon while Katie pushed on toward Eagle's Rest alone. "I don't need a babysitter," she snapped when I suggested we turn back. "I can handle a simple summit without you watching over me like some paranoid mother hen."
Three hours later, she was gone.
The trail begins to climb through stands of aspen and birch, their leaves rustling overhead. My legs burn—five years of avoiding outdoor activities will do that. But I push forward, driven by something that feels like penance.
Dr. Silverman calls this "exposure therapy with intentional healing." I call it what it really is—an attempt to outrun the guilt that's been suffocating me since the day the Search and Rescue team found her body.
They found her pack first, bright orange against the gray stone of Eagle's Rest. Then Katie herself, forty feet below where she'd fallen, surrounded by the wildflowers she'd been photographing. "She died doing what she loved," everyone said, as if that could fill the Katie-shaped hole she left behind.
But I know the truth. She died trying to prove she didn't need me watching over her. She died alone because I failed at the one job twins are supposed to have—being there for each other.
The trail grows steeper, and I stop to catch my breath. My heart pounds. Through the trees, I catch glimpses of Darkmore Peak looming above, its snow-capped summit stark against the Alberta sky.
A sob escapes before I can stop it, the sound harsh in the mountain silence. I haven't cried for Katie in over a year, but being here breaks something loose inside me.
I sink onto a boulder beside the trail, pulling my knees to my chest. The panic builds like a thunderstorm—quick and overwhelming. My vision tunnels, my hands shake, and suddenly there isn't enough air.
Katie.Her name rings in my mind like a prayer, like an accusation.
Sometimes I can barely remember what her laugh sounded like. Sometimes I catch myself reaching for my phone to text her before reality crashes back. Sometimes I dream we're hiking together, and I wake up gasping, reaching for a hand that will never be there.
The worst part isn't the grief—it's the guilt. The knowledge that I'm still here, still breathing, still getting to experiencesunrises and the taste of coffee on quiet mornings. All the things Katie will never have.
When my breathing finally steadies, I force myself to stand. The trail continues upward, disappearing around a bend. Somewhere ahead lies Eagle's Rest, the summit we never reached together.
I can't remember which path we took that day, but it doesn't matter anymore. This isn't about recreating the past—it's about creating a future. One step at a time until I reach the place where Katie's story ended and maybe mine can begin again.
But as I take another step forward, something feels wrong. The familiar creek sounds have faded. The trail markers I studied obsessively are nowhere to be seen. Somehow, in my emotional haze, I've taken a wrong turn into unfamiliar terrain.
My chest tightens. I pull out my phone, but there's no signal this deep in the Darkmore wilderness. Just like that day five years ago.
