Massive storm clouds crouched over the mountains; their underbellies swollen with rain. The trail wove between towering Sitka spruce and western hemlock, their dark green boughs filtering the weak light into restless patterns on the moss-laden ground.
When I’d started the hike, the solitude had felt like a gift—space to breathe and to decide what to do. Jim had offered—no offer at all, really—that he’d marry me if I insisted on having the baby. A half-hearted concession, wrapped in an exit strategy. And now that I’d taken a hard look at Jim, I didn’t want him. I did want the baby—but could I raise a child alone?
But now, with the stingy sunlight bleeding away, and the wind’s teeth slicing through my jacket, I turned back toward the trailhead.
My boots bit into damp earth, the rhythmic crunch of loose gravel and decaying leaves a steady tether as dusk deepened. The trail dipped, sinking into a muddy creek bed—and that’s when I saw them. Fresh brown bear tracks. I stilled. The musky stink of wet fur clogged my nose. My pulse picked up, sharpening at the edges.
I needed to reverse course, go further down the trail, away from the trailhead but further from the bear. I turned, and two bear cubs tumbled onto the trail, fifty yards ahead, rolling, swiping at each other in a playful scuffle. One scrambled upright, nose twitching as it tested the air.
My breath hitched. Cubs meant a momma bear. I’d already seen the tracks—between me and the trailhead. I stepped back, scanning the brush, fingers clenching around nothing. No sow in sight. Yet. But the moment she scented me, she’d charge—no hesitation, no warning.
The trail—now an ambush waiting to happen. My fingers closed over the bear spray on my belt. I lifted the canister and listened.
A raven’s caw split the hush, jagged as a blade. And then, a low chuff. The momma’s warning. Behind me.
I veered off the trail, slipping into the undergrowth, where ferns and devil’s club pressed in thick between moss-draped trunks. Quiet. Stay quiet. Watch every step.
A hundred feet in, maybe more, I stopped. The forest held its breath with me. No crashing branches. No deep-chested huff of a bear ready to defend its young.
Safe.
I’d angle through the woods, cut back to the trail beyond the bears, and return to the trailhead and my car.
Except—the world had shifted.
I turned. And turned again. The trees stood like identical sentinels in every direction, their trunks charcoal with shadow. Silence pooled around me, swallowing my breath.
Another turn. No break in the undergrowth. No familiar landmarks.
I’d been watching the ground, panic herding me forward, not mapping my way back. A slow, sick realization curdled in my gut.
The sun bled into the horizon, its final streaks of orange pointing west. I squinted against the fading light, trying to orient myself. The trailhead—north, right? Or was it east? The forest had swallowed any sense of certainty.
I yanked my phone from my pocket. No service. The battery—low; I turned it off to save it. My gaze darted to the mountains—too distant to guide me back to the trail but I knew where the road lay in relation to them. I rested my palm against my belly. I’ll get us home.
As I strode forward, the forest pressed close, branches clawing at my sleeves. The sharp tang of pine filled the air. And the rain began. A steady beat at first, then harder, drumming through my clothes.
I shivered. Not just from cold.
Why hadn’t I told anyone about the hike? But I knew. I didn’t want their questions—not until I had answers.
Twilight blurred the woods, rain stitching the forest into a bad dream from which I wanted to wake. The ground turned treacherous—soft in places, jagged in others. No trail. Not even an animal path. Just the occasional patch of disturbed earth.
Ahead, the trees thinned and for a heartbeat, hope flickered. Then—nothing. No road, no safety. Just a clearing swallowed in shadow. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. I wasn’t getting out of these woods before dark.
Despite the rain, the wind stirred the grass, lifting something faint, feral. A shiver crawled down my spine. I stilled.
There—through swaying grass, barely visible in the fading light—a shack. Tucked away, the roof sagged, its wood dark and worn. Maybe I’d find someone. Maybe just shelter. A wall between the bears and me.
But with every step closer, unease coiled tighter in my gut. Something felt off. My gut whispered turn back. My head said get out of the rain.
I approached the shack, careful of every step, as if my footsteps might alert something—or someone—inside. I paused at the door, hand hovering over the knob. When my fingers curled around the rusty doorknob, it felt so cold I almost pulled back. Something in me wanted to knock or call out but the words died in my throat.
I opened the door and stepped into the shack, my boots whispering against the creaking floorboards. The room smelled of damp rot, stale sweat, and smoke. A wood stove sat in the corner, its surface rusted, the chimney pipe snaking up through a hole in the ceiling. A thin mattress lay on a wooden frame, its blanket askew as if tossed aside. An oil lantern with cracked glass sat on a battered table.
Whoever lived here cared about survival, nothing more. Just like the life I’d have had with Jim—the basics but no warmth. When I told him I’d rather make it on my own, he’d stomped out after saying, ‘You should take the deal you’re offered.’ It wasn’t until my mother sided with Jim that I began to second-guess myself. Who was I to think I could raise a child on my own?
I moved to the cupboard and opened it. A coil of nylon rope, dried dirt clinging to the rope fibers and a heavy-bladed knife, dark stains crusted along the edge, lay on one shelf. On the shelf below, a battered notebook lay open. I pressed my cell on, turned on the light and squinted in the darkness. Jagged writing. They never see me. Never hear me. I turned the page. Another one came looking. And a list of three names, crossed out: Abby, Lena, Hannah.
A branch snapped—close by. Something moved in the forest, crunching leaves. Not the aimless rustling of an animal, or the wind, or trees shifting. My fingers gripped the canister of bear spray.
Move silently, move quick. I slipped out the door, around the side and to the back, sucked in a breath and held it. Whatever was out there had stopped moving. Waiting. Listening.
I forced my legs into motion, not pausing to glance back at the shack. False shelter was no shelter. Time to trust myself, to trust my instincts. The rain poured harder, but I didn’t care. The wet earth sucked at my boots, the branches tugged at my jacket, but I kept going.
I concentrated on the mountains, barely visible through the rain but the moonlight helped. Their ridgelines could be a compass of sorts. It didn’t matter if I got to the trailhead, I only needed to get to the road and find a state trooper or a phone. I pressed forward through the brush, ignoring the sharp sting of branches scraping my skin.
The wind had picked up, howling through the trees. One step at a time, baby. I moved toward where the road might lay, the panic from earlier faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of my steps. I found my breath, slowed my pulse. I could do this—and I could have a baby on my own. I’d done harder things.
Finally, a familiar scent—the tang of asphalt and freedom—slipped through the rain-soaked air. The road. I pushed forward, rain slicking my skin, but nothing could slow me now. I wasn’t running from a bear or seeking false shelter.
When I stepped onto the road, I knew where I was. Miles from the trailhead—I’d walked a long distance in the woods, but walking came easy. The world felt light, despite the storm. The weight of these past months—uncertainty, indecision—lifted. I didn’t need a road sign or a map. I had myself—and my baby had me. And that was enough.
About the author
Microfiction, founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW and a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published fourteen short stories; three poems; one article on writing craft, and six books. Social media links:
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