Page 2 of Found By the Mountain Man
The last thing I remember thinking, as the icy water closes over my head and the current grabs me, is that Grandma would be proud that I got the shot.
Even if it kills me.
The water is like liquid fire—so cold it burns. Every nerve in my body screams as the creek tumbles me like laundry in a washing machine. My heavy camera and pack, which felt manageable on dry land, now drag me down like stones tied to a drowning woman.
I fight to the surface, but the current is relentless. It slams me into rocks, spins me around, keeps me disoriented and desperate. My lungs are starting to burn, demanding oxygen I can't give them.
This is how it ends,I think with startling clarity.This is how Elena Aldana's granddaughter dies—chasing the same impossible shot she would have chased.
But even as the thought crosses my mind, another part of me refuses to accept it. I didn't survive foster care, build a career from nothing, and spend five years fighting to tell important stories just to give up now.
I manage to get my head above water for a split second, long enough to gasp in a precious breath before the current pulls me under again. Through the chaos, I glimpse the creek bank. It’s closer than I expected, but still impossibly far when you're fighting for your life.
My pack snags on something and for a terrifying moment I'm held underwater, trapped by the very gear I need to survive. Panic floods through me as I struggle with the straps, my numb fingers fumbling with buckles I can't see.
Finally, blessedly, something gives way and I'm free, shooting to the surface with such force that I nearly launch myself out of the water entirely. But the victory is short-lived. Without my pack, I have no survival gear, no emergency beacon, no way to signal for help.
I'm hypothermic, lost, and completely alone in the wilderness surrounding Darkmore Mountain.
The current carries me around another bend, and I catch sight of a fallen tree stretching partway across the creek. It's my only chance. I angle my body toward it, using what little strength I have left to fight the flow.
My fingers close around a branch just as my consciousness starts to fade. The bark is slippery with ice, but I hold on with everything I have, using the tree as an anchor to pull myself toward the bank.
Inch by agonizing inch, I drag myself out of the water. My camera, miraculously, is still around my neck, though I can't feel my hands well enough to know if it survived the dunking. Everything else—my pack, my emergency gear, my warm clothes—is somewhere downstream, probably never to be seen again.
I collapse on the snowy bank, shivering so violently that my teeth chatter like castanets. The sun that seemed so warm and golden an hour ago now feels useless against the wet cold that's seeping into my bones. Snow continues to fall around me, each flake a tiny reminder of how far the temperature has already dropped.
I try to stand, to look for better cover, but my legs buckle immediately. The effort sends me sprawling face-first into the muddy ground, tasting earth and despair in equal measure.
My vision starts to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges. Somewhere in the distance, I think I hear an eagle calling, but it might just be my oxygen-starved brain creating phantom sounds.
Then everything goes black, and the truth becomes something I might never live to tell.
two
Connor
Thetouristsaregettingsofter every year.
"My boots are rubbing," whines the investment banker from Calgary, stopping for the third time in twenty minutes to adjust his brand-new hiking gear. "And this pack weighs a ton."
I bite back my first response, which would involve telling him exactly what I think about someone who buys a thousand dollars worth of equipment but can't be bothered to break it in properly. Instead, I turn to face the group of eight weekend warriors I'm supposedly teaching "basic winter mountain survival."
The snow crunches under my boots as I demonstrate proper pack adjustment for the third time today. At least the fresh powder makes for good learning conditions—nothing teaches respect for the mountains like hiking through knee-deep snow in sub-freezing temperatures.
"Weight distribution," I say, my voice carrying the authority that comes from fifteen years of pulling people out of situations their overconfidence got them into. "Your pack should feelbalanced, not like it's dragging you backward. Who remembers what I said about adjusting the hip belt?"
A few hands go up halfheartedly. Most of them are too busy taking selfies with Darkmore Peak's snow-covered slopes in the background to pay attention to anything that might actually keep them alive.
"The hip belt carries the weight," I continue, demonstrating on my own pack. "Your shoulders are just for stability. Get it wrong, and you'll be exhausted in an hour instead of able to hike all day."
The yoga instructor from Vancouver—who introduced herself as "Amber with an A"—raises her mittened hand. "But what if it makes us look bulky in photos?"
Jesus Christ.
"Ma'am, if you're more worried about how you look than how you survive, maybe you should stick to the resort spa," I say, earning a few snickers from the group and a wounded expression from Amber.
"Alright, let's wrap this up," I announce, shouldering my pack. "We'll head back via the south trail. Remember what we discussed about reading weather signs and always having an exit strategy."
