Page 1 of Snowed in with the Mountain Man

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Phoebe

Igripthesteeringwheel tighter as my little Chrysler crawls up the winding mountain road. The GPS lady announced "You have arrived at your destination" about ten minutes ago, which is a complete lie. There's nothing but trees, rocks, and more trees.

"Come on, Uncle Max," I mutter. "Where's this dream cabin you left me?"

The April air nips at my face through the half-open window. Vancouver is mild and rainy—I’m not prepared for the bite in the mountain air. I crank the heat up and check the hastily scribbled directions one more time.

Left at the fork after Silver Creek Bridge. Look for the wooden sign with a pine tree carving.

There! A weathered wooden post appears around the bend, the carved pine tree barely visible under years of exposure. I turn onto what can hardly be called a road—more like two dirt tracks with grass growing between them. My poor city car bounces and protests as I navigate around potholes the size of kiddie pools.

"It'll be worth it, Phoebe," I remind myself for the hundredth time. It has to be.

Three weeks ago, I was managing social media accounts for Vancouver's trendiest boutiques. Then came the company-wide email about "restructuring," followed by the awkward meeting with HR. Two days later, Kyle decided we were "moving too fast" and maybe we should "take a break to explore ourselves individually." Perfect timing.

Then came the lawyer's letter about Uncle Max's will. I'd barely known my mother's eccentric brother who moved to the mountains twenty years ago, but apparently, he'd left me his cabin in Darkmore Mountain, Alberta. A sign from the universe if I've ever seen one.

My car rounds a final curve, and there it is—my inheritance, my fresh start, my escape from city life.

"Oh... crap."

I slam on the brakes, sending my coffee tumbling from the cup holder. The cabin sits in a small clearing, surrounded by towering pines. It might have been charming once. Might have been.

Now, half the front porch has collapsed like a sandcastle at high tide. Several windows are either cracked or covered with plywood. The roof—oh God, the roof—sags ominously on one side with what looks suspiciously like a tree branch poking through.

"This is fine," I say to absolutely no one. "Totally fine."

I check my phone: one bar of service. I snap a quick photo of the cabin and text it to my best friend Priya with the caption:My new palace! ????

The message fails to send.

"Perfect."

I park as close as I dare to the cabin and zip my thin jacket up to my chin. I should have packed my winter coat, but it's April for crying out loud. April in Vancouver means cherry blossoms and light rain jackets, not this knife-edge cold that slices through my clothes.

With a deep breath that turns to vapor in front of my face, I approach my new home. The key from the lawyer's packet fits the rusted lock after some jiggling, and the door swings open with a horror-movie creak.

"Hello?" I call, half-expecting someone to answer. Maybe Uncle Max was secretly a multimillionaire who left a caretaker. The silence mocks me.

Inside smells like dust, pine, and something musty I can't identify. I pull the chain on a lamp, but nothing happens.

"Right. Electricity. That would be too convenient."

I use my phone's flashlight to explore. The main room isn't terrible—a stone fireplace dominates one wall, surrounded by bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks and field guides. A worn leather couch faces the fireplace, flanked by two armchairs that have definitely seen better days.

The kitchen is basic but functional—if I can get the power turned on. A gas stove, a refrigerator old enough to qualify as vintage, and cupboards that probably contain mouse condominiums by now.

A narrow staircase leads to a loft bedroom with a surprisingly solid-looking bed frame. The mattress is another story—stripped bare and sporting suspicious stains that make me mentally add "new mattress" to my rapidly growing list.

The bathroom... I close that door quickly. Some things are better left unexplored until daylight and possibly hazmat gear.

Water drips steadily from a corner of the ceiling, landing with rhythmic plops into a strategically placed cooking pot. I count three more pots scattered around, catching similar leaks.

"Home sweet home," I whisper, fighting back the urge to cry. Or scream. Or get back in my car and drive straight to Vancouver.

No. I'm not giving up that easily.

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