The Hiking Trail Less Traveled

A Hitchcockian hike.

It was a beautiful day for a hike. Bright sunlight filtered through the tall trees all around, adding some welcome warmth to what would have otherwise been a slightly chilly day up here in the mountain air.

It had been a few hours since I left the ranger station, and now reached a fork in the trail. There were well-worn tracks leading left and right - presumably winding around the mountain to scenic vistas of facing the sunrise to the East and the sunset to the West - as well as a less worn trail leading further up the mountain.

I’d always had a soft spot for the naturalistic poetry of Robert Frost, so I decided to take “The Road Less Traveled” and head further up the mountain.

After another hour, it was clear that this was indeed the road less traveled; the trail was becoming harder to discern from the overgrowth that spread over it. I found myself following what was once a wide, well-worn trail, to a thin strip of worn earth between encroaching brush and branches, to not really a trail at all, so much as a general trajectory that continued upwards as I stepped over plants and shrubs.

I passed a couple trail markers, but they gradually became more worn and indecipherable as I went, until they weren’t really much more than a reminder that I was still on a path to somewhere, although it was anyone’s guess where that would be.

I resolved to walk for another half hour and then turn around. It was mid-afternoon and I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get home - or at least get to the established and well-traveled part of the trail - before it started getting dark.

As I came around another bend in what I assumed was still the trail, I was surprised to find a derelict shack off to the side of the trail, nestled into a natural crevice in the mountain. The weeds and trees around it were overgrown, causing everything to snap and crack as I moved toward it, giving the impression that the shack was trying to disappear into the mountain itself.

I approached and peered in through the grimy window, and saw what looked to be an old ranger substation; probably a refuge during the snowy winter months, if they needed to get up here for some reason and got stuck in a storm. What struck me as odd was the relatively new camping gear that had been stowed on the floor.

I moved around to the back of the substation to get a better look through one of the rear windows, and saw that it wasn’t just stowed gear; it was gear that was currently in use, including a kerosene stove that was currently on and cooking something in a small pot.

I had the overwhelming urge to leave suddenly; that the best course of action was to get back down the mountain as quickly as I could, and forget that I had ever found this place.

But as I was getting to my feet and preparing to move back to the trail, I heard voices coming from farther up the trail and I froze where I stood; two men, conversing as they traipsed back down the trail. I got the distinct impression that I did not want to be discovered by these men, so I remained where I was, crouched between the two small windows at the rear of the substation.

“I told ya,” one of them said, his voice rough and gravely. “Nobody ever comes up here. It’s the perfect place to lay low for a while.”

“Okay, okay,” the other said, his voice high and nasally. “You’re right; it’s good. With all this dry brush around us, we’ll hear someone coming a mile away.”

“And it’s remote enough that if someone does come along and gets in our business, there’s no way anyone’s finding the body before the coyotes get to it.”

My blood ran as cold as the sweat running down my back. They were right; there’s no way I would be able to get back down the trail without traipsing through that dry brush again and alerting them to the fact that someone was up here with them. At the same time, it would be dark soon, and I didn’t have any of the necessities for overnight camping. Other than a couple of emergency granola bars, a half-empty canteen and a light windbreaker, I didn’t have much else to make it through the night with.

Should I wait until nightfall and try to stealthily make my way out of the vicinity of the substation? Or just make a run for it? Even with the light from the flashlight I packed, it seemed ill-advised to rush down a barely-there mountain trail in the dark.

I wrestled with what to do while the men settled themselves in for the night. As afternoon gave way to evening, I resolved to try and sneak down the mountain after it got dark and the men were asleep.

Over the next interminable few hours, I continued to crouch there, waiting for my moment, overhearing the conversation between the two men and all but ensuring that, if I were discovered, I was a dead man. I now knew too much about the heist they had pulled and the murder they had committed for them to ever allow me to live if I were discovered.

Once it got dark and the conversation and movement inside the substation ebbed, I started to feel my way along in the dark, not daring to use my flashlight until I was well clear of the substation. The moon just barely gave me enough light to see by as I crawled my way toward the front of the building.

I was almost clear of the substation, when I saw a flashlight click on inside.

“Be right back,” the gruff one said. “Gotta take a leak.”

And then I ran.

---

Word Count: 1,000

Prompt: Write your own tale of suspense, beginning at the start of a seemingly ordinary day (e.g. coming downstairs to join the family at breakfast, or arriving for yet another workday at a job), a day that slowly devolves into a nightmare as the abberant factor is revealed. One of your genres should be THRILLER/SUSPENSE.

Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"