Mason

Not that green dripping quiet.

Not the kind of woods where signs can change overnight, and a voice can call your friend's name in your tone.

I still hike.

I still love the outdoors.

But every time the canopy closes in and the light turns flat and the world gets quiet, I find myself listening for two notes, waiting for the pause, and remembering that a person can stand behind a tree and watch you without ever waving back.

I'm going to tell it the way I remember it, because if I try to clean it up, it starts to sound like a campfire story, and it wasn't.

It was three days of being watched in the deep Idaho mountains until it finally stopped feeling like we were camping and started feeling like we were being managed.

When people ask why we didn't leave earlier, I can explain the choices one at a time, but the truth is, it didn't begin with claws and teeth.

It began with small wrong things that were easy to ignore when you want a weekend to be simple.

It was me and Caleb, two friends who had done enough hikes to think we knew the rules.

Tell someone where you're going, bring extra food, don't push past daylight, don't get cocky about weather.

We picked a trail outside any town you'd name quickly, the kind of place that isn't famous because it doesn't need to be.

A dirt road that kept narrowing, trees closing in, the last bar of service disappearing without ceremony.

We parked where the road stopped being a road and started being a suggestion, threw our packs on, and stepped into that cool, layered air you only get when the sun can't reach the ground all at once.

It felt clean.

It felt quiet in a way that made our voices sound too loud.

The first day was normal enough that I still hate admitting how good it was.

We followed the creek uphill, crossed where the rocks were flat, took our time finding a clearing that was tucked back from the water, but close enough to hear it.

We were careful with food.

We hung the bear bag high.