"No Return: the Idaho Backcountry":
I was 13, on a backpacking trip with my dad in Idaho’s Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness, a place so vast and empty it felt like we’d stepped off the map. It was August 2015, and we’d been hiking for days, 13 miles deep near Ship Island Lake. The terrain was rugged—jagged peaks, dense pine forests, and trails littered with loose rocks. We’d done trips like this before, just the two of us, bonding over campfires and trail mix. But this time, something felt off, like the air was holding its breath.
That morning, we were climbing a steep, rocky slope, picking our way up a narrow trail. Dad was ahead, his green backpack swaying as he tested each step, his boots crunching on gravel. I followed close, mimicking his movements, my own pack heavy on my shoulders. We were laughing about something dumb—probably one of his bad dad jokes—when a low rumble stopped me cold. I looked up just as a boulder, big as a fridge, broke free from the cliff above. It happened too fast to scream. The rock slammed into Dad’s side, knocking him off the trail. He tumbled 30 feet down the mountainside, his body hitting rocks with sickening thuds. I stood frozen, my heart pounding like it would burst through my chest. “Dad!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the cliffs.
I scrambled down the slope, slipping on loose stones, my pack bouncing wildly. He was crumpled at the bottom, motionless, sprawled across sharp rocks. Blood pooled under his head, matting his dark hair. His left arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, like a broken branch, and a deep gash on his thigh showed bone through torn skin and muscle. My stomach churned, but I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands shaking so bad I could barely touch him. “Dad, can you hear me?” I said, my voice cracking. His eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain, blood trickling from a cut above his brow. “I’m… here,” he whispered, his voice so weak I barely heard it. “Don’t move me, okay? My back… it’s bad.”
I checked his breathing, like he’d taught me in first aid during our scouting trips. It was shallow, ragged, but there. His face was a wreck—swollen bruises, cuts crisscrossing his cheeks, one eye half-shut. His left arm hung useless, and the leg wound kept bleeding, soaking the ground. I ripped off my flannel shirt, wrapping it tight around his thigh, wincing as the fabric turned red. “You’re gonna be okay,” I said, more to calm myself than him. He grabbed my hand, his fingers cold and weak. “You’re doing good, kid. Just… keep calm. Check my pack… first aid kit.”
I dragged his pack over, rocks scraping my knees, and dug through it. The first aid kit was small, just bandages, gauze, and some antiseptic wipes. I cleaned the gash on his leg as best I could, my hands slick with blood, and wrapped it with gauze, but it wasn’t enough. His face was graying, and he was breathing in short, painful gasps. “Talk to me,” I said, desperate to keep him awake. “Remember that fishing trip last summer? That huge trout you caught?” He managed a faint smile, his lips cracked. “Yeah… you were so jealous. Kept saying you’d catch a bigger one.” I forced a laugh, but my chest was tight with fear.
We were alone, no cell service, no signal for miles. The nearest ranger station was 13 miles back—a full day’s hike through brutal terrain. Panic clawed at me, screaming that we were stuck, that help wasn’t coming. I pushed it down, focusing on what I could do. I pulled our sleeping bags from my pack, laying them over Dad to keep him warm. I set up our small tent nearby, its nylon flapping as I staked it down, my fingers fumbling. I gave him sips of water from my bottle, tilting it carefully to his lips. “Don’t drink it all,” he mumbled. “You’ll need it.” I nodded, but I wasn’t thinking about me.
For two days, I stayed by his side, barely sleeping. His breathing got worse, raspy and uneven, like he was fighting for every breath. I kept checking his pulse, my fingers pressed against his wrist, counting the weak beats. His leg wound smelled bad, like something was wrong under the bandages. At night, the forest came alive with sounds—rustling leaves, twigs snapping, the low howl of something far off. I’d sit up, gripping a flashlight, my heart racing, imagining bears or cougars circling us. “It’s just the wind,” I told myself, but it didn’t help. I kept seeing Dad’s face in the dark, pale and still, like he might slip away while I wasn’t looking. “Stay with me, Dad,” I whispered, checking his pulse again.
By the second day, he was barely talking. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken. “You have to go,” he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. “Get help. I can’t… can’t last much longer.” My stomach twisted into knots. Leave him? Alone in the middle of nowhere? “I can’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “What if you—” He cut me off, his hand squeezing mine with surprising strength. “You can. You’re strong. Write this down.” He dictated a note, his words slow and labored—our location, his injuries, how long we’d been there. I scribbled it on a torn page from my journal, my hands shaking so bad the words were barely readable. “Take the map,” he said. “Follow the trail back. Ranger station’s at the trailhead.”
I packed light—just my water bottle, the map, a granola bar, and the note. I knelt beside him, adjusting the sleeping bag over his chest. “I’ll be back with help,” I said, my throat tight. His eyes were heavy, but he nodded. “I trust you, kid. Be careful.” Leaving him felt like tearing out a piece of myself. He looked so small, so broken, lying there on the rocks. I turned and started down the trail, my legs heavy, tears burning my eyes.
The hike was brutal. The trail wound through dense forest, over steep inclines and rocky descents. Loose stones slipped under my boots, and my pack straps dug into my shoulders. Every snap of a branch or rustle in the bushes made me freeze, my heart pounding. I kept imagining Dad back there, alone, his breathing stopping. I checked the map obsessively, terrified I’d miss a turn. Hours in露
System: I’d taken a wrong turn. My legs were shaky, and my mouth was dry, but I kept moving, driven by the image of Dad lying there, helpless. The trail seemed to stretch on forever, winding through thick pines and over rocky outcrops. Every shadow in the trees made me jump, my mind conjuring up bears or worse. I’d seen tracks in the dirt earlier—deep claw marks that didn’t look like they belonged to anything small. I gripped the map tighter, my sweaty fingers smudging the edges, and forced myself to focus. The trail climbed steeply, then dropped into narrow ravines where the air felt heavy, like the forest was watching me. My boots slipped on loose gravel, and once I fell, scraping my palms raw. I barely noticed the sting, just got up and kept going.
After what felt like hours, maybe four or five, I spotted two hikers coming the other way. They were older, in their 40s maybe, with heavy packs and weathered faces. They stopped when they saw me, a scrawny kid alone, my face streaked with dirt and panic. “You okay?” the woman asked, her voice soft but concerned. I was panting, my chest tight. “My dad’s hurt bad,” I said, shoving the note at them. “A boulder hit him, back there, maybe 10 miles. He’s bleeding, can’t move.” The man took the note, his eyes scanning it fast. “Broken back, arm, leg gash,” he read aloud, then looked at me. “You’re alone?” I nodded, my throat too tight to say much. They exchanged a glance. “We’ll stay on the trail,” the woman said. “In case anyone comes this way. You keep going—ranger station’s closer than you think.”
I thanked them, my voice shaky, and pushed on. The trail got rougher, climbing over roots and boulders, my legs burning with every step. My water was running low, and the granola bar was long gone. I kept seeing Dad’s face in my mind—pale, bloodied, his eyes half-closed. What if I was too late? What if he wasn’t breathing when they found him? I shook the thoughts off, focusing on the trail markers, the faded blazes on trees guiding me forward.
About five miles later, I ran into another hiker—a tall guy with a beard, moving fast down the trail. He stopped when he saw me, his eyes narrowing. “You lost, kid?” he asked, his voice gruff but kind. I handed him the note, my words tumbling out. “My dad’s hurt, a boulder fell, he’s back there, please, he needs help.” He read the note, his face tightening. “I’m fast,” he said. “I’ll run to the ranger station, get them moving. You’re close—keep going, maybe three more miles.” He took a photo of the note with his phone, handed it back, and took off, his long strides eating up the trail. I stood there for a second, watching him disappear, hope and fear mixing in my chest.
Those last three miles were the hardest. My legs felt like lead, my lungs burned, and every step sent jolts of pain through my scraped knees. The forest seemed to close in tighter, the trees taller, the shadows deeper. I heard a low growl once, far off, and my heart stopped. I clutched the empty water bottle like a weapon, knowing it wouldn’t do much. The trail twisted through a narrow canyon, the walls so steep I felt trapped. I kept checking the map, terrified I’d missed a turn, but the markers kept appearing, faint but there.
Finally, I stumbled out of the trees and saw the ranger station—a small wooden building at the trailhead, a satellite dish on its roof. My legs nearly gave out as I staggered inside. The ranger, a wiry guy with a gray mustache, looked up from his desk. “Kid, you okay?” he asked, standing fast. I thrust the note at him, my voice hoarse. “My dad… boulder hit him… 13 miles back… he’s hurt bad.” I spilled the whole story, the words tripping over each other. He read the note, his face serious, and grabbed his radio. “We’ll get a chopper out,” he said, his voice calm but urgent. “You did good, kid. Sit down, drink this.” He handed me a water bottle, and I gulped it down, my hands shaking so bad I spilled half of it.
He radioed for a helicopter, giving them the coordinates from Dad’s note. I sat there, my heart hammering, picturing Dad alone on those rocks, his breathing weaker every minute. The ranger asked me questions—how long ago it happened, what Dad looked like now, if he was conscious. I answered as best I could, my voice cracking. “He was awake when I left,” I said. “But… he was bad.” The ranger nodded, his eyes kind. “We’ll find him. You got him this far.”
The helicopter took forever to get there—or it felt that way. In reality, it was probably an hour before they radioed back. They’d found him, still alive, but barely. The boulder had broken his back, his arm, his heel, and left that awful gash on his leg. They airlifted him to a hospital in Boise, and the ranger drove me there, hours of winding roads while I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, praying he’d make it.
When I finally saw Dad in the hospital, he was hooked up to tubes and machines, his face swollen and bandaged, but he was breathing. He grabbed my hand when I got close, his grip stronger than I expected. “You saved me,” he said, his voice rough but clear. I choked up, unable to speak, just held his hand tighter. He needed surgeries—his back, his arm, his leg—but he pulled through, tougher than I could’ve imagined.
Looking back, those days were the scariest of my life. The wilderness felt alive, like it was testing us, waiting for us to break. Every sound in the dark, every shadow on the trail, made my heart race. But it also showed me what I could do when it mattered most. Dad and I still talk about that trip, how it changed us, made us closer. We don’t hike as much now, but when we do, we stick to easier trails. The mountains taught us enough.
"Five Days Lost: A Solo Hike into the Heart of Olympic’s Fog":
I’d been planning this hike for months, picturing every step of the High Divide loop in Olympic National Park. Nineteen miles of rugged trails, sparkling lakes, and peaks that promised views I’d never forget. I started at Sol Duc Campground at 11 a.m., my backpack loaded with gear—sleeping bag, water filter, three energy bars, a pocketknife, and a compass. I’d hiked before, shorter trails mostly, and thought I knew what I was doing. Alone, with the forest stretching out ahead, I felt ready for anything.
By 4 p.m., I reached Bogachiel Peak. The trail had been steep but clear, winding through pines and past alpine meadows. I was supposed to see the Seven Lakes Basin from up there, but fog had rolled in, thick and heavy, swallowing the view. I could barely make out the path beneath my feet. I pulled my jacket tighter, my breath catching as I squinted at the trail markers. Somewhere near Heart Lake, I lost the trail completely. I stopped, turning in a slow circle, my stomach knotting. The ground looked the same in every direction—mossy rocks, tangled roots, and trees fading into the mist. “Okay,” I whispered to myself, my voice small. “You’re fine. Just retrace your steps.” But nothing looked familiar. Panic clawed at my chest, and I forced it down. “Stay calm,” I said, louder this time. “Think.”
I tried backtracking, but the fog made it impossible to tell if I was going the right way. My boots slipped on a snowy slope, and I slid a few feet, rocks scraping my palms as I grabbed for anything to stop me. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. I sat there for a moment, catching my breath, the cold seeping through my pants. I was okay, but I was scared. Night was coming fast, and I was nowhere near where I needed to be. I found a cluster of pines and built a rough shelter, piling branches to block the wind. My fingers fumbled, numb and clumsy, as I worked. “You can do this,” I told myself, trying to sound brave. “Just make it through the night.” I crawled into my sleeping bag, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every rustle in the bushes made me flinch. Was that a branch snapping? A deer? Something bigger? I gripped my pocketknife, its small blade feeling useless against the vast darkness.
Morning came, gray and heavy. My legs ached from the climb, and my stomach growled. I ate half an energy bar, chewing slowly to make it last. I had to find my way out. I spotted a faint game trail leading downhill and followed it, hoping it would take me to a creek or a road. The forest was dense, branches snagging my jacket as I pushed through. By noon, I found a stream, its water clear but freezing. I filled my bottle and drank, the cold burning my throat. That’s when I saw the black bear. It was maybe 50 yards away, its head low, sniffing the ground. My breath stopped. I stood frozen, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Please,” I whispered, barely audible. “Don’t see me.” I backed away, one slow step at a time, my eyes locked on the bear. It didn’t move toward me, but my hands shook for an hour after. I kept moving, the game trail fading into thick underbrush. By night, I was exhausted, my legs like lead. I found a hollow log and crawled inside, the damp wood pressing against my back. I tried to sleep, but every sound—a twig snapping, leaves rustling—jerked me awake. I imagined bears, cougars, or worse, nothing at all, just the endless forest swallowing me whole.
Day three was brutal. My blisters stung with every step, and my legs felt like they might give out. I ate another half of an energy bar, my stomach still screaming for more. I found a small lake, its surface still and dark. I tried to fish, tying some string from my pack to a stick, but my hands trembled too much to thread it properly. “Come on,” I muttered, frustration bubbling up. “You’ve got to eat.” But nothing bit, and I gave up, slumping against a rock. I stared at my reflection in the water, my face pale and hollow. “They’re looking for you,” I told myself, thinking of my family back home. “They have to be.” But what if they weren’t? What if they thought I’d fallen off a cliff or drowned in a river? The thought made my chest ache. That night, the bushes rustled again, louder this time. I grabbed a rock, my heart racing. “Who’s there?” I called, my voice shaking. No answer, just silence. I didn’t sleep at all.
By day four, I was falling apart. I’d been following a creek—Cat Creek, I later learned—hoping it would lead to civilization. My matches got wet when I slipped crossing the water, my boots sinking into the muddy bank. I tried to start a fire anyway, scraping the flint on my knife, but the damp wood wouldn’t catch. I was soaked, shivering, my teeth chattering as I trudged on. My mind started playing tricks. Shadows moved in the trees, and once, I swore I heard someone whisper my name. “Stop it,” I snapped, my voice echoing in the quiet. “You’re just tired.” But it felt so real, like someone was watching me. I crossed that creek again and again, the cold water seeping into my boots, my socks heavy and squelching. Each crossing felt like a defeat, like the forest was winning. I ate my last energy bar, licking the wrapper for crumbs. My body was weak, my thoughts foggy. I kept talking to myself, just to stay sane. “Keep going,” I said. “You’re not done yet.” But I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Day five was a blur of exhaustion. My legs shook with every step, and my head felt heavy, like I was moving through water. I decided to climb a ridge, hoping to see something—a road, a ranger station, anything. Every step was agony, my blisters raw and my muscles screaming. I reached a high point near Mt. Fitzhenry, my breath ragged. I could see a faint trail far below, winding through the trees. Hope surged, but I was too weak to run. I pulled out my compass, the small mirror glinting. I tilted it, flashing the light in every direction. “Someone see this,” I whispered. “Please.” At night, I used my headlamp, waving it like a beacon. My voice was hoarse, but I kept muttering, “They’ll find you. They have to.” My body was shutting down, my eyes heavy, but I kept flashing that light, refusing to give up.
I don’t know how long I sat there, my hands trembling as I held the headlamp. Then I heard it—a voice, clear and real. “Hey! You there?” My heart leapt, tears stinging my eyes. I flashed the light again, shouting, “Here! I’m here!” My voice cracked, barely audible. Two rangers appeared through the trees, their faces grim but kind. “You’re safe now,” one said, his hand steady on my shoulder as he wrapped a blanket around me. I started to cry, my body shaking with relief. “I thought I was done,” I said, my voice breaking. “We’ve been looking for you,” the other ranger said, checking my pulse. “Your signal saved you. That mirror and light—we saw them from the ridge.” They gave me water and a protein bar, the taste so sweet I almost cried again.
The helicopter ride out was a blur. I looked down at the endless trees, the creeks and ridges that had trapped me for five days. I’d been so excited to hike, so sure I could handle it. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have a detailed map, hadn’t checked the conditions, and started too late in the day. Those mistakes nearly cost me everything. Now, I tell everyone: know your trail, tell someone your plans, and always carry a map. Those five days were the scariest of my life, each moment filled with the creeping dread of being lost, alone, and forgotten. I survived, but I’ll never forget how close I came to not making it out.
"The Hidden Falls":
It was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. My best friend Jake and I had spent months planning our backpacking adventure through Yosemite National Park. We weren’t new to this—both of us had tackled tough trails before, from the dense forests of the Appalachians to the rugged peaks of Colorado. But Yosemite, with its massive granite cliffs, sprawling meadows, and waterfalls that seemed to pour from the sky, felt like the ultimate challenge. We’d packed carefully: lightweight tents, water filters, enough freeze-dried meals for a week, and a first-aid kit we hoped we’d never need. Our goal was a five-day loop through the backcountry, away from the crowded valley, where we could feel the wildness of the place.
On the third day, we were deep in the park, our legs tired but our spirits high. The trail wound through a pine forest, the air thick with the scent of sap and earth. We’d been following a well-marked path when we spotted a faded wooden sign, half-hidden by overgrown ferns, pointing to a side trail. The words “Hidden Falls” were carved into it, barely legible. Jake stopped, adjusting the straps of his pack. “Hey, want to check this out?” he asked, his voice brimming with excitement. His brown eyes sparkled with that familiar look of adventure.
I frowned, glancing at my watch. It was already mid-afternoon, and we were a bit behind schedule after lingering at a lake earlier. The main trail was demanding, with steep climbs and rocky descents, and I wasn’t sure we had time for a detour. “I don’t know, Jake. It’s not on the map. What if it takes too long?”
He grinned, undeterred. “Come on, it’s called Hidden Falls. How often do we get to see something off the beaten path? We’ll be quick.”
I sighed, unable to resist his enthusiasm. “Fine, but let’s not stay long. We need to make camp before dark.”
We turned onto the side trail, which was narrower and rougher than the main path. Roots twisted across the ground, and branches brushed against our packs as we pushed through. The forest grew denser, the light dimming as the canopy thickened overhead. After about an hour, we heard it—a low, distant roar that grew louder with every step. We emerged into a clearing, and there it was: a 100-foot waterfall, its water crashing into a shimmering pool below, surrounded by slick granite boulders. The mist rose in clouds, catching the light in tiny rainbows.
“Wow,” Jake breathed, dropping his pack onto a flat rock. He pulled out his camera, snapping photos like a kid who’d just found treasure. “This was worth it.”
I nodded, setting my pack down beside his. The pool looked inviting, but the rocks around it were dark and wet, glistening with moisture. “It’s beautiful,” I said, “but let’s not stay too long. This place feels… remote.”
Jake was already climbing over the boulders toward the base of the falls. “Come on, the view’s gotta be better from there!” he called, his voice echoing off the rocks.
“Be careful,” I said, my stomach tightening. The rocks looked treacherous, their surfaces worn smooth by years of water. I followed him, slower, testing each step. My boots, caked with trail dust, struggled to grip the damp stone. Jake reached a wide ledge about 20 feet up, just below the falls, and turned back, waving. “You’ve gotta see this! The water’s so clear!”
I took a deep breath, my heart pounding not just from the climb but from a nagging sense of unease. The mist was thicker here, coating my face and hands. I placed my foot on a broad, flat rock, assuming it was stable. It wasn’t. It shifted under my weight, and before I could react, I was falling.
The world spun. I screamed, my body slamming against rocks and brush as I tumbled down. Pain exploded in my legs, my back, my head. I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. For a moment, everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was sprawled on a bed of pine needles and dirt, staring up at the sky through a gap in the trees. My legs felt like they were on fire, a deep, throbbing pain that made me gasp. I looked down and saw blood soaking through my hiking pants, the fabric torn around my shins. I tried to move, but the pain was unbearable, like knives slicing through bone. My legs wouldn’t respond. Panic clawed at my chest as I realized both were broken, maybe badly.
“Jake!” I called, my voice hoarse and weak.
Silence. My heart raced. Where was he? Had he fallen too?
I turned my head, wincing at the effort, and spotted him a few yards away, slumped against a boulder. His pack was still up on the ledge, along with mine. “Jake!” I shouted again, louder this time.
He stirred, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked at me, dazed. “Emily… you okay?”
“I think my legs are broken,” I said, tears streaming down my face. The pain was overwhelming, but the fear was worse. “What about you?”
He tried to sit up, clutching his right arm against his chest. His face twisted in pain. “My arm’s busted. And my chest… it hurts to breathe. Think I cracked some ribs.”
We were in bad shape. Our packs, with our food, water, and emergency supplies, were out of reach on the ledge. My phone was in my pack, and I knew Jake’s was too. No signal out here anyway, but even a satellite beacon was useless without our gear. We were alone, injured, and helpless at the base of a waterfall nobody knew about.
“Jake, we need help,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We can’t stay here like this.”
He nodded, his face pale. “I’ll try to climb back up and get our packs. Maybe I can find the trail, flag someone down.”
“No way,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re hurt too. You’ll fall again.”
“I have to try,” he said, his jaw tight. “We don’t have a choice. You can’t move, and I’m not leaving you here without trying.”
I wanted to argue, but he was already struggling to his feet, cradling his broken arm. He looked up at the ledge, maybe 20 feet above us, and started climbing, moving like every step was torture. I watched, my heart in my throat, as he inched his way up, using his good arm to pull himself along. He slipped once, and I gasped, but he caught himself. After what felt like an eternity, he reached the ledge and disappeared from view.
Then, nothing. Just the roar of the waterfall and the occasional chirp of a bird. I lay there, my legs useless, the pain pulsing with every heartbeat. Blood had soaked the ground beneath me, and I could feel the dampness spreading. My mouth was dry, my lips cracked. I tried to focus on breathing, on staying calm, but the reality of our situation was suffocating. What if Jake didn’t make it? What if he was hurt worse than he let on? What if no one found us?
Hours passed. The light faded, the forest growing darker. The temperature dropped, and I started shivering, my thin jacket doing little to keep me warm. Every sound made me jump—a twig snapping, leaves rustling, the distant hoot of an owl. My mind raced with possibilities: bears, mountain lions, coyotes. I’d read about wildlife in Yosemite, how they could smell blood from miles away. I tried to stay still, to make no noise, but the pain made it hard to think straight.
“Jake,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. No answer. Just the endless crash of the waterfall.
Sometime in the night, I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, crunching on the forest floor. My heart stopped. “Jake? Is that you?” I called, my voice barely a croak.
No response. The footsteps paused, and then came a low, guttural growl. My blood ran cold. It wasn’t human. A coyote, maybe, or something worse. I held my breath, my body frozen despite the pain. The growl came again, closer, and I could hear sniffing, like it was searching. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it would move on. After what felt like forever, the sounds faded, and I let out a shaky breath. But the fear lingered, sharp and heavy.
The night stretched on, endless. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body weak from pain and dehydration. My legs throbbed, but the cold numbed them slightly, which was both a relief and a terrifying sign. I kept hearing things—whispers, footsteps—but when I called out, there was nothing. My mind was playing tricks, or maybe I was delirious. I thought about my family, my parents who didn’t even know where I was. I’d told them I’d be fine, that Jake and I knew what we were doing. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
By dawn, I was fading. My throat was so dry I could barely swallow, and my vision blurred at the edges. The pain had dulled to a constant ache, but I knew that wasn’t good. I was in shock, maybe hypothermic. If help didn’t come soon, I wouldn’t make it.
Then, a sound—a faint thumping, growing louder. I looked up, squinting, and saw a helicopter circling above the trees. My heart leaped. “Here! I’m here!” I screamed, waving my arms despite the pain shooting through me.
The helicopter hovered, its blades whipping the air. A figure in an orange vest was lowered on a cable, landing a few yards away. He ran over, kneeling beside me. “Are you Emily?” he asked, his voice calm but urgent.
“Yes,” I managed, tears of relief streaming down my face.
“We’ve been looking for you,” he said, checking my pulse. “Your friend Jake made it to a ranger station last night. He’s hurt, but he’s alive. Told us where to find you.”
I sobbed, overwhelmed. Jake was okay. Help was here.
The rescuer radioed for a stretcher, and soon more people arrived, carefully lifting me onto it. They secured my legs, which sent fresh waves of pain through me, but I didn’t care. I was going to make it. They carried me to the helicopter, the roar of the blades drowning out the waterfall. As we lifted off, I looked down at the clearing, the pool sparkling in the morning light. It was beautiful, but it would always be the place where I almost died.
At the hospital, I learned Jake had a broken arm and two cracked ribs but would recover. He’d crawled back to the main trail, dragging himself for hours until he found a group of hikers who alerted the rangers. I spent weeks in recovery, my legs pinned and casted, physical therapy stretching out for months. The scars are still there, physical and mental.
Jake and I don’t talk about that day much, but when we do, it’s with a quiet understanding. We were lucky. The wilderness is beautiful, but it doesn’t care about you. One wrong step, one bad decision, and it can take everything. I still hike, but I triple-check my gear, stick to the map, and never ignore that little voice telling me to be careful.
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