Dead End Hiking

I told him I wasn’t in the mood. No, not that, you dirty-minded imbecile—just not in the mood for hiking. It had rained, so the trails would be muddy, with thunderstorms looming. I was tired from a busy work week and had not slept well. He insisted, badgering me, challenging me to a duel on the mountain, and, fool for him that I am, I finally agreed after hours of cajoling.

That’s the other problem. Hours of cajoling meant leaving late, after lunch, with full bellies but less daylight. The hike he picked was three hours one way. We drove through warm autumn colors—red-vine maples, pink-orange alders, burgundy huckleberries. At one point we pulled over so I could pick a few huckleberries, and of course, the thorny branches scratched my arms and hands. The last three gravel miles were smooth, rain-spattered, and nearly dustless. Deer bounded across as a brief cloudburst splattered the windshield. We got out of the dirt-splotched Bronco and hit the trail at a fast pace. My shoulders protested the backpack, which I had carefully packed, distributing the weight. Honestly, I just don't like wearing backpacks. Still, I kept up with Ranger Ricky, (he calls himself that, and he is definitely not ranger material), so we could get back down before dark.

Our phones lost signal, but we had a map and compass, checking our bearings often. Offshoots could mislead hikers, so we were careful not to stray.

“Ricky, hold up. I need to rest and get a drink.” I took off my pack and sat on a boulder, quietly drinking and observing. The storm clouds had blown over, relieving that worry.

“All right, Babe, time to go.”

“Damn, you are such a pushy brat, aren’t you?” I smiled at him and returned his kiss.

We climbed higher, the trail shouldered by boulders tossed by spring floods. I used their sides to steady myself. The trail wasn’t as muddy as I’d expected—higher up, the sun was stronger. My breathing was jagged, but I kept up with my triathlete boyfriend. I grew up in these mountains. He moved here in college.

Reaching the summit in record time, we cheered and listened to the echo across the river canyon. The views were awesome, and our lungs filled with the pure air. A chilly mountain breeze kept blowing my hair into my eyes. I was grateful that no one was on the trail today, which I found odd, but also soothing. I hated crowded trails; frequently, there would be an injured city person who needed help.

In a shady spot, we set our backpacks down and pulled out refreshments. We ate peanut butter and apple jelly sandwiches and drank lemon-lime electrolyte drinks. “Listen! A marmot is whistling. Did you hear it?” Ricky grinned. Then I heard rocks skittering. I looked up and saw the biggest billy goat I’d ever seen—3-4 feet tall, about two hundred pounds, massive chest. Worse, it was rutting season. “We have to move, now,” I spat, grabbing Ricky’s arm. “Leave the packs—he’s coming!”

We scrambled down the trail, backing up against the mountainside and listening. After ten minutes, hyperactive Ricky leaned out to look, then stepped toward the gorge, peering at the river far below. “What are you doing?” I hissed. Ricky grinned, then his face twisted in sheer terror. I saw him flying over the gorge, tumbling, his scream fading. The behemoth goat turned to face me.

Silent, frozen to the granite, I returned its stare, watching his chest heave as he huffed. My backpack and hiking poles were gone.

He stomped his hoof and lowered his head.

Copyright © 4/24/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin

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