Narrator

Tortillas.

Peanut butter.

Coffee.

Extra socks sealed in Ziplocs like precious documents.

Rain gear.

Headlamps.

First aid kit.

A cheap satellite messenger Luke had gotten on sale and treated like a talisman.

We carried a small hatchet for kindling and a single can of bear spray each.

We also carried a pistol between us.

Luke's legally owned, a compact thing he kept sealed in a dry bag and talked about like he hoped he'd never touch it.

We went in early fall, not peak leaf season yet, but close enough that the ridges were starting to flash red and yellow.

Days were mild, nights cold.

The kind of weather that makes you cocky because the forest feels friendly in the sun.

Tessa drove.

We met her at a gas station off a highway that had more trucks than cars, the kind of place with a rack of hunting magazines by the register, and a sign that said no shirt, no shoes, no service, like it was still 1986.

Tessa was smaller than I expected, wiry, with hair pulled back under a cap and forearms scratched up like she lived in brush.

She shook my hand, shook Luke's, and then immediately started loading our packs into the back of her SUV like she'd done it a hundred times.

"'Y'all ever been out here out here?'

she asked.