Page 2 of Tracked By the Mountain Man
I'm lost. And this time, Katie isn't here to help me find the way home.
two
Tyler
Theradiocracklestolife as I'm checking the oxygen tanks on Engine 47. "Hey Brooks, you hear the Walsh girl's back in town?"
My hands are still on the gauge. Leah Walsh. The surviving twin. I haven't heard that name spoken aloud in years, though it's lived in the back of my mind like an old injury that aches before storms.
"Is that so?" I keep my voice professional. Jake doesn't need to know that name hits me like a punch to the gut every time.
"Yep. Helen at the lodge says she checked in yesterday. Asking about hiking trails." Jake's voice carries that particular mix of gossip and concern that small towns have perfected. "Specifically asking about Katie's Trail."
My stomach drops. I set the oxygen tank down carefully, buying myself time to process. Five years. It's been five years since I helped carry Katie Walsh's body down from Eagle's Rest,five years since I watched her twin sister collapse at the trailhead when we delivered the news.
Five years since I've been able to hike those trails without seeing that broken girl's face.
"Brooks? You copy?"
"Yeah, I'm here." I clear my throat. "She say when she was planning to head out?"
"This morning, I think. Early."
I glance at my watch. It's past three in the afternoon now. If Leah Walsh started hiking this morning and isn't back yet...
"Listen, Jake, I'm going to swing by the trailhead. Check things out."
"Everything okay?"
How do I explain the knot in my chest? How do I tell him that I've been waiting five years for Leah Walsh to come back, dreading it and hoping for it in equal measure? That I've carried the weight of her sister's death like stones in my pockets, wondering if we could have found Katie sooner?
"Just want to make sure she's not out there alone after dark," I say instead. "You know how unpredictable these trails can be."
Better than most. I've been hiking Darkmore's backcountry since I could walk, first with my dad, then as part of Search and Rescue. These mountains are carved into my bones from twenty years of emergency calls and weekend scrambles. I know every ridge, every false summit, every place where the trail splits and the unwary can lose their way.
I know exactly where Katie Walsh fell.
The drive to the trailhead takes fifteen minutes, my truck winding through forest service roads I could navigate blindfolded. The parking area is nearly empty except for one car. Leah's car. It's been here long enough that pine needles have scattered across the windshield.
Too long for a solo hiker on an unfamiliar trail.
I grab my pack from the truck bed, already loaded with the basics—first aid kit, emergency shelter, water, protein bars. Twenty years of mountain rescues make the routine automatic. Radio on my belt, GPS unit in my breast pocket, headlamp clipped to my pack.
The trailhead sign for Katie's Trail stands like a weathered sentinel, its warnings about wildlife and weather conditions suddenly ominous. Two paths split from here—the standard route following Black Creek, and the ridge approach that climbs directly toward Eagle's Rest.
I study the ground. Boot prints in the soft earth, size seven or eight, with the distinctive pattern of good hiking boots. The tracks head toward the creek path. Smart choice for someone who hasn't hiked these trails in years.
But as I follow the prints, cold dread settles in my chest. About a quarter mile in, where the creek trail forks near the old wooden bridge, the tracks veer off onto an unmarked path. A game trail that leads deeper into the wilderness, away from the maintained routes.
She's lost.
I key up my radio. "Base, this is Brooks. I'm following tracks for a missing hiker. Solo female, likely been out since this morning."
"Copy, Brooks. Do you need backup?"
I study the fading tracks, the angle of the afternoon sun through the trees. Maybe two hours of good daylight left, less under the forest canopy. "Negative for now. I'll call if I need assistance."
The game trail is rough, barely visible even to my experienced eye. Branches snag at my jacket as I push through underbrush that hasn't seen human passage in months. The tracks are fainter here, just occasional impressions in soft earth or scuff marks on stone.
