Page 3 of Ten Mountain Men

I navigate my way up and down the rows, perusing the jam-packed shelves for something tiny and inexpensive. Something that will fit in the glove compartment of my car so I can hopefully forget its existence. Something without a creepy-ass smile.

My friend Sam, the makeup artist on the last show I worked on—1 Girl, 10 Hammers, which I promise was family friendly despite the risqué-sounding title—collected souvenirs, picking up one from every town and city we filmed in. I once slept over at her townhouse, and I swear I had nightmares for weeks about being attacked by anthropomorphic snow globes andI Heart Whereverpens.

There’snothingin my apartment that isn’t necessary. If it doesn’t serve a purpose—have a function, and perform that function exactly as expected—I have no room for it. I don’t even have art on the walls, but that’s mostly because I could never find a single painting that felt just right.

“Do you have any paintings?” I ask the woman.

“No,” she replies. Physically, she’s behind the counter again, but her eyes follow my every step. “Passing through, then?”

My brows draw together. “Excuse me?”

The woman harrumphs. “If you’re not going to the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“Oh!” I say, excited to get to tell someone, though her question wasn’t exactly issued with warmth or friendly interest. There was a hint ofYou don’t belong herein her voice. “I’m camping up on the mountain!”

“On the mountain?”

“Yes!”

“Alone?”

“Yep. Just me.”

Which is disappointing, actually. I should have a whole crew with me. However, absolutely no one has shown any interest in my passion project.

Yet.

All the networks think they want something salacious. Not the wholesome tale of how a plucky plus-sized filmmaker sets out on a quest to find—

“Terrible idea. Very dangerous up the mountain,” the proprietor of this overstocked tacky trinket emporium warns. “You could fall. There are often rockslides. You should go to Wilderness Haven. They have safe trails there. With professional guides.”

She looks me up and down again, with more disdain this time, though my outfit is on point. The wardrobe department at the studio let me take some nature-loving fashionista outfits from a pilot that never got picked up, calledHeidi Goes Hiking WhileGlenda Goes Glamping!

Yes, I’m roughing it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look cute as hell. And a little sparkle never hurt anyone, right? Camouflage is camouflage even if it’s pink with strategically placed sequins.

I shake my head as I try to decide whether I want an ashtray—does anyone smoke cigarettes anymore?—or a coaster.

“I’m actually here to make a documentary,” I explain.

Her gaze sharpens into a laser-pointer glare. “On the mountain?”

“Yep!” I can’t stop my story from spilling forth. “When I was younger, I came camping here and I was attacked by a bobcat. Well, almost attacked by a bobcat. I narrowly escaped, because at the last minute, I was saved!”

Her stare is unnerving. Shocked, and a little angry. “You were nearly killed by a bobcat and you came back? Why? Why would you do that?”

Even though we’re alone, I lower my voice, because everyone I’ve ever told the truth to questions my sanity immediately. But I’m going to show them. I confide, “I was saved by Bigfoot. And now I plan to find him again.”

And film the whole thing!

Prove, once and for all, that Bigfoot is real.

It’s my life’s work. It’s what I was put on this planet to do. I feel it in my soul.

The woman suddenly darts from behind the counter and dashes over to me. She grabs my upper arms, her fingers digging in. “You cannot do this thing. There is no such thing as Bigfoot, and youwillget killed by a bobcat this time. Or a bear. This is a very treacherous place for a young lady to be by herself. Go to the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge. You will love it there. I promise. You can get a massage.”

“Um…” I say.

“You must,” she insists. “I foresee your demise if you go up the mountain. Yes. The spirit of death hovers around you. I hear the bobcat’s breath. Do you feel it, hot on your neck?”

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