Better views, though. Better content.
And if I'm honest with myself, I'm not ready to go back yet. Not ready to return to civilization and the version of myself that has to answer questions and be responsible.
Up here, I'm just Autumn. Not Auty the travel vlogger, not the daughter my father doesn't understand, not the chubby girl who made peace with herself after years of struggling. Just me, the mountain, and the trail ahead.
I turn right.
The trail is beautiful. Absolutely stunning. The kind of scenery that makes my chest ache with the vastness of it all.
I'm filming as I walk, narrating the landscape. "So, this is the Ridgeline Trail, which literally no one talks about. Everyone goes to the falls, which, don't get me wrong, are gorgeous, but this? This is where you come if you want the mountain all to yourself."
The path winds along the ridge, offering sweeping views of the valley below. I can see Blackwater Falls from here, the town looking like a toy village tucked into the trees. Beyond it, more mountains roll away to the horizon in shades of blue and purple.
"The elevation gain isn't too bad," I continue, slightly breathless as I climb over a rocky outcropping. "Maybe fifteen hundred feet total? But it's spread out over—"
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
I pause, looking up. The sky has changed since I started this trail an hour ago. What was bright blue and scattered with friendly white clouds is now gray and churning.
"Okay, that's not ideal," I tell the camera. "But I've got rain gear, and I'm not that far from the loop that heads back down. Should be fine."
Famous last words.
The rain starts ten minutes later. Not gradually, not a gentle warning sprinkle. One moment I'm dry, the next I'm being pelted by drops the size of quarters.
"Shit!" I fumble for my pack, trying to get to my rain jacket. The camera is getting soaked. I quickly zip it into the waterproof pocket and yank on my jacket, pulling the hood tight.
But the rain just keeps coming. Harder, heavier, until it's a solid sheet of water pouring from the sky.
The trail, which was clear and obvious five minutes ago, is already turning into a stream. Water rushes downhill, turning dirt to mud, making the rocks slippery and treacherous.
I keep walking because stopping seems worse. My boots squelch with every step, water seeping in through the laces. The jacket keeps my torso mostly dry, but my pants are soaked through, heavy and clinging to my legs.
Thunder cracks overhead, close enough that I feel it in my chest.
"This is bad," I mutter. "This is really bad."
I should have turned back when I saw the clouds. Should have headed straight to town this morning instead of visiting him. Should have stayed on the main trail instead of getting ambitious.
The visibility is getting worse. The rain is so thick I can barely see ten feet ahead. I'm following what I think is the trail, but it's getting harder to tell. Everything looks the same—gray water, dark trees, slick rocks.
My foot catches on a root I don't see and I go down hard, hands shooting out to catch myself. Pain flares through my palms as they scrape against stone. My knee hits something sharp.
"Fuck!" The word comes out as a sob.
I push myself up, rain streaming down my face, and try to orient myself. The trail should be right here. It was just here a second ago.
But I can't find it.
I turn in a slow circle, panic rising in my throat. Trees, rocks, rain. No clear path. No markers. Nothing I recognize.
How did I lose the trail? How is that even possible?
Thunder booms again, and lightning flashes, illuminating the forest in stark white for half a second. Not long enough to see anything useful, just long enough to realize how completely alone I am.
"Okay," I say out loud, trying to steady my breathing. "Okay, it's fine. The trail is here somewhere. I just need to calm down."
But looking is impossible in this downpour. I pick a direction that feels right and start walking, hoping I'll intersect with the trail again.
