Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ELIAS
Eight days is all it takes for the city to feel like a weird dream.
By the end of the first week, my whole world shrinks to the radius of my boots: trail dust, damp moss, the weight of a pack, the steady rhythm of my own breath and the forest breathing with me.
My inbox could be on fire. My students could be staging a coup.
The university could have replaced my office with a vending machine.
Out here, none of it exists. Which is… honestly, fantastic.
Spring has properly arrived now. The air has shifted from teeth-chattering to briskly tolerable.
The snow has mostly retreated to the higher ridges, leaving behind slick patches of mud and the occasional treacherous ice in the shadows.
Tiny green things are exploding everywhere—ferns uncurling like ancient question marks, delicate shoots poking through old leaf litter, moss going neon where the light hits.
Best of all? No crowds.
The official tourist trails are still mostly slush and ankle-deep mud, which means only the truly committed are out there—and none of them bother to come this far in.
My field station sits well away from any designated routes; where I’m going today is even farther.
As far as the park’s concerned, this is “backcountry.” As far as my legs are concerned, it’s “please reconsider your life choices.”
I’ve been up since before dawn, moving by headlamp as I broke down my minimal gear and stuffed it into my pack. Today’s a distance day. One night out, just me, my rollaway tent, a carefully portioned amount of food, and an unrealistic amount of enthusiasm for soil moisture data.
Last night, I stuck to protocol and checked in with Gladys over the radio. She sounded exactly like I expected: half mother hen, half drill sergeant.
“You’re going where?”
“Sector 9B, upper basin. I want to check the north slope microclimate station and—”
“Hart, that’s a long haul for one night.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve done the route on paper a dozen times.”
“Paper routes don’t slide out from under your feet. People do.”
She made me repeat my intended path, my planned campsite, and my estimated check-in times. Twice. Then she reminded me to bring the satellite phone and enough layers not to “die like a moron if the temperature drops.”
Which, frankly, is fair.
Now, the sun is a pale disk behind cloud cover, just high enough that the mist has lifted from the lower branches. My breath puffs in small clouds as I trek deeper into the forest, the path underfoot narrowing from established trail to suggestion to “are you sure, though?”
“Okay,” I tell the trees. “Game plan. We hit the old creek crossing, skirt the ridge, swing by the microclimate station, and then collapse in a heap at the campsite by the boulder. Very scientific heap.”
A squirrel races along a branch overhead. I’m choosing to interpret that as support.
The squirrel doesn’t just skitter, though—he escorts.
He drops from the branch to a trunk a few feet ahead of me and scrambles down with…
honestly, a freakishly weird amount of confidence.
When I pause, he pauses. When I step forward, he darts to the next tree and waits again, head cocked like he’s taking attendance.
Not spooked or even wary. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’s just…
inquisitive, as if I’m a mildly interesting weather event he’s decided to study.
“Okay,” I tell him, because apparently I’m the sort of person who negotiates with rodents in the backcountry. “If you’re going to supervise, you should know I’m very goal-oriented and deeply annoying about data. That’s your warning.”
He blinks at me, entirely unbothered, and flicks his tail once—sharp, decisive—before hopping to another branch, like fine, keep up. I swear it’s the closest thing to a welcome committee I’ve had all week, and the ridiculousness of it loosens the tight knot in my chest.
“Great,” I mutter, hiking on, wondering if this is the same squirrel who visited me before. “I’ve been adopted by a squirrel. Milo’s never going to let me live this down.”
The farther I go, the older the forest feels.
Trees grow thicker, taller, spaced in that deliberate, uneven way that speaks of centuries of wind and light making choices.
The ground is a patchwork of roots and moss and half-melted snow, my boots sinking just enough to make every step a little resistance workout.
Birds call in layered sound—thrush, chickadee, and one persistent whistle I’ve never managed to identify.
Every so often, the sensation hits me.
Like a warm hand on the back of my neck.
Like eyes on my shoulders.
Being watched.
Not in a predatory way. Not that sharp, prickling edge that says something wants to eat you. More like… being regarded. Considered. Filed.
I stop once, halfway up a rise, and turn slowly in a full circle. My breath steams. The trees stand where they always have. A raven flaps lazily from one branch to another and gives me a single, unimpressed croak.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I know I talk to myself. You don’t have to be rude about it.”
The feeling lingers another moment. Then the forest exhales, and so do I.
By the time I reach my planned campsite, my shoulders are protesting under the pack and the backs of my thighs are staging a quiet revolution.
The spot is a small, relatively flat hollow cupped between three massive trees and a moss-covered boulder taller than I am.
There’s a narrow stream nearby—a cheerful, shallow thing tripping over rocks, fed by snowmelt higher up.
It’s far from any official trail. If someone else ever camps here, I’ve never seen evidence of it.
Today, though, there is evidence of someone. Or… something.
I find the first sign a few meters from the hollow: a series of deep prints in the softened earth, claw marks visible at the toes. The gait is pigeon-toed, staggered. Heavy.
My stomach does a little flip.
“Well, hello,” I breathe, squatting to take a closer look.
The tracks are big. Bigger than my foot by a comfortable margin. The edges are still sharp, not yet blurred by melt or wind. A few tufts of coarse hair cling to the bark of a nearby tree where something brushed against it. The air smells faintly musky under the damp earth and pine.
Bear.
My brain clicks through species automatically.
Black bear, most likely. Grizzly this far in would be unusual but not impossible. Either way, large, omnivorous, strong opinions about food.
I straighten slowly, scanning. The hairs on my arms rise, not from the earlier watched feeling, but from sheer respect.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Ground rules, neighbor. You do you, I do me, we both go home with all our limbs. Yeah?”
The bear, sensibly, doesn’t answer.
I spend the next fifteen minutes on high alert, talking myself through the proper drill as I set up my tent.
Food in the bear canister, stored well away from the sleeping area.
No scented items left out. Cooking gear in its own stash.
Making noise as I move—humming, muttering, occasionally reciting entire paragraphs from my last grant application just to prove I’ve suffered enough in life.
“This is fine,” I tell my stove as it stubbornly refuses to light. “We respect bears. Bears respect us. We are all part of one big ecological—oh, come on, you piece of—”
The stove finally catches with a whoosh. I brew coffee that tastes vaguely of scorched aluminum and triumph.
Work first, though.
Once the tent is up and my pack is stowed, I shoulder a lighter day kit and head toward the slope where my microclimate station lives. The ground here steepens, the canopy thickening overhead so that the light goes green and dim, like walking through the inside of a bottle.
I find more signs of the bear as I go. A turned-over log here, shredded bark there, scat in various delightful stages of decomposition. All fresh. All indicating a bear that considers this area part of its regular circuit.
“Great,” I murmur. “Highly active bear zone. Love that for my career and bone structure.”
I follow my GPS and flagged trees until the familiar shape of the weather station comes into view, half buried under an old snowdrift. The sight makes my heart leap.
“You’re alive,” I tell the metal pole and its array of battered sensors.
The snow around it has slumped but not collapsed, thanks to the rocks I piled at its base last season. For a second, I have the odd sensation that it’s been… tended. The stones seem too neatly arranged, the snow too evenly disturbed.
I shake the thought away. Snowpack is messy. Wind is messy. My memory is messier.
I kneel, brush snow away from the casing, check the seals. Everything looks functional, which honestly, is super miraculous.
“Yes,” I say aloud, grinning. “Yes, yes, yes. You glorious, stubborn, frostbitten marvel.”
I’m up to my elbows in cables and sample logs when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
It’s different this time. The watched feeling returns, stronger, threading under my skin.
I go still, one hand on the station, the other holding a screwdriver. “Hey,” I say quietly, aiming my voice at the forest at large. “Just me. Just the dork with the dirt obsession. Not a threat.”
The forest holds its breath.
A twig snaps somewhere off to my right. Heavy. Not a squirrel. Not a bird.
“Deer?” I offer hopefully.
The reply is a low huffing sound. Wet. Deep. Followed by a rhythmic crunch of weight on underbrush.
My heart climbs into my throat.
The bear steps into view between two trees about twenty meters away.
Black, massive, shoulders humped, nose twitching. Its fur glistens with moisture, bits of old snow clinging to its back. It stares at me, small dark eyes intent.
I do not move.
My brain starts reciting the protocol in all caps.
DON’T RUN.
DON’T SCREAM.
MAKE YOURSELF BIG.
SPEAK CALMLY. BACK AWAY SLOWLY.