Mason

Turning around meant moving toward the trailhead, toward the car, toward other people.

The problem was that when we tried to turn around, the trail behind us didn't look like the trail we'd come in on.

I don't mean it was magically different.

I mean the details were wrong in ways that didn't add up.

A fallen log that we'd climbed over the day before was now shifted, as if it had been dragged.

Fresh bark scraped off one side.

The muddy spot where we'd seen the distinct boot prints was churned up, like someone had walked back and forth there repeatedly.

And the nearest junction, the one that should have taken us back toward the loop's starting point, had a new sign on it.

A fresh board nailed to the post, pointing the wrong direction.

Mason stopped so hard he swayed under his pack.

That wasn't there, he said.

I knew it wasn't because I remembered the original sign.

Clean lettering.

Proper trail number.

This new board was crude.

Dark wood, wet with rain, with letters carved too deep.

Back this way.

The arrow pointed down the right fork, not the left.

Mason looked at me, and in his eyes I saw the first true panic, contained but real.

He's messing with us, he said.