Page 4 of Running to the Mountain Man

I look down at the plants in my hand, trying to think.

No, Goldie. You don’t want to die, I think to myself. Him first.

Snow-on-the-mountain.

It’s definitely too late to go to my greenhouse to work on making a powder from the roots.

But still. It might work.

It has to.

Chapter Two

Barrett

The endless stretch of cold, gray days has finally broken.

I’m ready to be outdoors at the first ray of sunshine on my side of Windgrave Mountain, melting the most recent layers of snow.

I want to spend my birthday watching the creek come to life.

I fill my pack with water, jerky, and dried fruit, then hit the trail.

The sun warms my face as I trek through the woods, bounding over rocks and splashing through the muddy, slushy wilderness.

Best of all, the tourists have all gone home now that there’s so little powder on the slopes. Good. I’m still not ready to come out of official hibernation and be neighborly.

I’m sweating by the time I hit the cold spring, and I take a long drink before my downward descent.

I’ve been cooped up too long.

And you’re alone too much, says the voice in my head. I conveniently explain it away, remembering that I built my cabin in these mountains for a reason.

I like being as far away from people as possible.

After my stint in Afghanistan, I just want everything to be quiet. I made the mistake of letting people into my life once after that. But only once. Never again.

After having my fill, I follow the creek all the way down the mountain.

Along the way, I stop at my various posts, where I’ve set up trail cams to watch for birds. There are enough cameras to cover most of the creek as it runs down the mountain. It seems excessive, but this routine has been integral to my recovery.

Ask any birder; the winged creatures are far better company than people.

At the bottom, the creek empties into a basin before veering down through the valley, eventually winding through the town of Darling Creek, for which the body of water is named. It’s a one-horse town with more nosy people than what should be allowed per capita. I try to get in, get necessities, and leave quickly without much human interaction.

For the most part, this area has been the perfect getaway for me. I have everything I need at the cabin, and it’s been a healing and restful haven.

A fallen log provides an easy spot for me to sit and enjoy the rush of the water over the rocks.

Just as I reach down toward the running water to refill my canteen, something bobs in the corner of my eye.

I don’t have to look directly at the body to know what it is. The eerie feeling crawls all over me.

The man is face down in the water, buffeted by the choppy waves that play between the rocks at a small inlet. I don’t want to look in earnest, but I must. His skin, his clothes, the state of him—he’s been here a while.

Don’t think about what happened in Kandahar. Don’t even think about it.

This is not the same as that, as my therapist has reminded me time and time again whenever the feeling takes over. I’m safe now. This is a new and totally unique situation that has nothing to do with my past.

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