Page 76 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Continuing on our way, I pull my jacket off and tie it at my waist, sweat already forming a sticky layer between my skin and my wool undershirt. The dirt trail we follow becomes steeper as the mountain portion really kicks in, and despite the tread on my hiking boots, small rocks and debris give way under my feet and slide back down the hill, making it difficult to find footing.
“I don’t know about this.” I glance over my shoulder to where Ben follows behind me this time—probably prepared to catch me if I start to tumble down the hill like ill-fated Jill in the children’s nursery rhyme.
“Just go slow. We’re in no rush.”
I blow out a breath and let my gaze sweep over the valley below. More hikers file into the field of lava now that the sun is up, some even climbing atop it to pose for photos, blatantly ignoring the posted signs explaining exactly why they shouldn’t do that. Although the top layer has cooled and hardened, there’s a chance someone could fall through into what is still very much hot, burning lava underneath. And since Iceland doesn’t play, it’s made quite clear on the posted signage that if someone is foolish enough to try this, no rescue squad is risking their own lives to try and save whoever doesn’t have luck on their side that day. Essentially, in less polite terms,You’re on your own, dumbass.
“Okay,” I say aloud. “I can do this.” I put one foot in front of the other again, concentrating on a single step at a time. The trail narrows at certain points, and the last thing I want is for any of the hikers below to catch up to us and me to become that person who is holding everyone up.
Several minutes—hours? decades? lifetimes?—later, we reach a part of the trail so steep there’s a rope strung between wooden posts to help hikers pull themselves up. I shoot another snarky look back at Ben.
“Really?” I huff with all the breath I have left.
To his credit, Ben at least attempts to suppress his amused smile. “Where’s Ms. World Traveler now?”
“For your information, there’s a big difference in traveling the world and using a goddamn rope to pull my body weight up the side of a mountain.”
His chuckle does little to ease my current irritation. “If it helps, hundreds of people do this each day.”
“No, that doesn’t help, Ben.” But in a way, it kind of does. Because if hundreds of people can do this, then surely I can do it, too. I clench the thick, corded rope in my hand and start to heave myself upward.
By the time the rope ends and the ground levels out—and I am playing fast and loose with the termlevelhere—my panting could put any dog to shame. I bend at the waist, desperate to pull any available oxygen into my lungs, and I don’t know, maybe there’s more of it a couple feet closer to the ground.
“I think…” Gasp. “The air…” Another gasp. “Is thinner up…” This time it’s a wheeze. “Here.”
“I’m certain it is.” Ben’s response isn’t meant as sarcasm, butthe only sign of a struggle on him is the sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead like he’s a goddamn Cullen.
Meanwhile other hikers are closing in on us, so I need to get my ass in gear. We start moving again, and now I have a new problem: wind plus heights does not equal my friend. I already knew Iceland’s winds were no joke, but at this altitude, they’re downright brutal. Combined with the fact that the trail is only about fifteen feet wide in this particular area with a steep drop-off to my left, a very real fear spikes my already too-rapid heart rate.
The wind is going to blow my shaky body right off this mountain!
“Ben, I can’t do this.” I turn back to him, eyes burning with tears. Fuckingeverythingburns. My lungs. My calves. My ass burns worst of all. “The wind is going to blow me away!” My voice is panicky, and a tear treks down my wind-burned cheek.
“Breathe, Ems. Just breathe.” Ben wipes away my tear with his knuckle.
“That’s the problem! I can’tjust breathe!”
As I’d feared, some of the other hikers have caught up to us now, and they exchange awkward glances as they pass us by. Excellent. I’m nowthat personhaving a meltdown on the side of a volcano…or mountain…or whateverthe fuckthis qualifies as.
Ben stays quiet until they pass us, then says calmly, “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t know you could do it. Look at how far you’ve already made it.”
He motions over the valley with his arm, and a wave of nausea rolls through my stomach at the view far below.
“That’s part of the problem,” I say through sniffles.
“Look.” This time he points back in the direction we’re hiking. “Over that next incline is the lookout point. We’re almost there.”
“That’s where the trail ends?”
“Well…no.” Ben scratches his jaw, hesitant. “The trail continues for another two miles.” At the high-pitched noise that escapes me, he rushes, “Butwearen’t going that far. The trail leads to multiple lookout points. We’re just going to the first. We’ll get a great view from there.” He cups my face in his hands, expression determined. “You’ve got this, Ems.”
I nod my head, and something about Ben’s belief in me makesmebelieve in me.
So fuck it. This is my last morning in Iceland, my last excursion. If it takes every drop of blood, sweat, and tears I have, I’m going to do this.
I put one foot in front of the other again, moving up the mountain at a snail’s pace. But at least I’m moving.
Eventually, we reach the viewing area, and while I’m not sure my lower half will ever recover from this journey, the view across from us is nothing short of spectacular. A circular lip forms the opening of the volcano, but the rest of the scene doesn’t look like the cone-shaped image I’d imagined. The volcano looks like any of the other hills surrounding us in the mountainous region. In fact, if it wasn’t for the sludge oozing from the top—ashy black and a hot, glowing orange—I probably wouldn’t know what I was looking at.
