Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ibraced myself as the leaves rustled, waiting for certain doom.
But instead of a mountain lion or a bear, it was the bizarre bird again, strutting just a few feet away, completely unfazed by the near-death experience.
Its chest inflated to an impossible size, like a feathered balloon animal, the white ruff around its neck jiggling as it performed what looked like the world’s strangest chicken dance.
“Are you real?” I asked, my voice a rasp in the sudden silence. “Or are you a death vision? Because if you’re a sign from the afterlife, I have some serious questions about God’s aesthetic choices.”
The bird continued its mesmerizing dance, puffing and deflating, bouncing on stick-like legs.
“If I’m dead, and you’re my spirit guide, I feel like I should at least know what you are.”
The bird responded by turning in a perfect circle, its tail feathers fanned out as if it were taking a bow.
With tremendous effort, I extracted my phone from my pocket.
If I were hallucinating, I needed proof.
And if I wasn’t hallucinating, I needed documentation of whatever wilderness fever dream I was currently experiencing.
My thumb left a smear of blood across the cracked screen as I opened the camera app.
Luckily, there was enough juice left after the recharge from the conference room.
“Just in case I survive this,” I explained to the bird, which continued its performance with dedicated focus. “I need evidence you exist. No one’s going to believe this otherwise.”
The bird strutted closer, clearly not camera-shy.
Bounce. Puff. Strut.
Bounce. Puff. Strut.
The bird tilted its head, tiny eyes fixed on me. It took two steps forward, then continued its bizarre routine, like the bird equivalent of a TikTok dance challenge.
“You’re not trying to mate with me, are you?”
It was the most bizarre, authentic Colorado moment I’d experienced, lying in a ditch while being propositioned by a disco chicken.
Suddenly, the bird froze, head jerking toward some distant sound. It deflated its bizarre air sacs and disappeared into the underbrush, leaving me alone with the smoking wreckage of the golf cart, a growing collection of bruises, and the sobering realization that I was now stranded.
“Thanks for nothing!” I called after it. “Not even dinner first?”
With a groan that likely scared off any remaining wildlife within a half-mile radius, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up to a standing position. Pain shot through my ankle when I tried to put weight on it.
“Great,” I muttered. “Just perfect.”
Using a nearby tree for support, I hauled myself upright, testing how much weight my injured ankle could bear. I fashioned a makeshift walking stick from a fallen branch and slowly made my way back to the road.
To my right lay the path back to the resort. To safety, to comfort, to perfectly heated infinity pools and room service.
To my left, the path continued toward the Adventure Center, toward Noah, or so I hoped. My ankle throbbed at the mere thought of walking in either direction.
But then something caught my eye, a narrow dirt track branching off from the main path, almost hidden by overhanging branches. Fresh tire marks cut through the dirt, the distinctive tread pattern I recognized from Noah’s Jeep. They veered off the main road, heading deeper into the forest.
Noah’s tracking lesson echoed in my brain.
“… tracking isn’t just about footprints…”
“… it’s about reading the whole story … direction, speed, how recently they passed by …”
I looked closer, tracing my hand over the dirt. The tire prints were still fresh, the edges still sharp where the tires had cut through the soft earth. Noah had come this way, and recently.
I glanced back toward the resort, its lights just visible through the trees.
Then I looked down the overgrown path, with its uneven ground and low-hanging branches.
There were thorns spiking out of a nasty-looking vine curled around a rotten stump.
At least a dozen creepy, crawly insects were within jumping distance of my head.
With one final glance up the road, perhaps my last glimpse of civilization, I followed the tracks of the mountain man into the unknown.
I hobbled down the brush-shrouded path, my makeshift walking stick sinking into the soft earth, still damp from the storm.
The pain in my ankle had settled into a dull throb, manageable if I gritted my teeth and pictured Noah’s scowl every time I was tempted to turn back.
Like a drill sergeant who pushed new recruits to their maximum limit, and then beyond.
“Follow the tracks,” I said to myself, examining the distinctive tread pattern Noah’s Jeep left in the dirt. “Just like he told you.”
The trees thinned ahead, sunlight breaking through the canopy to illuminate a clearing nestled at the base of a towering cliff face. And there, parked in a patch of wildflowers near the trailhead, sat Noah’s battered Jeep.
“Noah?” I approached cautiously, leaning on my walking stick to support my weight.
No answer.
I limped toward the vehicle, hope and dread wrestling in my chest. The driver’s door was unlocked, keys dangling from the ignition.
In the backseat were the clothes he’d been wearing for our spa date, the button-down shirt, a pair of new-looking jeans and the loafers.
Now tossed aside and discarded in a tangled ball.
My heart hurt just looking at them. He had to be close. But where?
My eyes scanned the open space, then settled on the towering wall of rock forming the back edge of the clearing.
A thin climbing rope caught my eye, hanging down from the top.
I squinted upward, following its length.
The rope disappeared over a jutting ledge about thirty feet up. I couldn’t see anything beyond it.
“Noah! Are you up there?” Only silence answered me in return.
The rope swayed slightly in the mountain breeze. I knew Noah must be up there somewhere, probably working out his frustrations with LuxeLife, his frustrations with me. Not a surprise that he would use extreme adventure sports as an anger management technique.
The sun glinted off something metal, a carabiner maybe? But I couldn’t make out a human figure against the mottled gray stone.
“Great. I followed him all the way out here, nearly got killed, and he’s off communing with rocks instead of answering me.”
A flicker of movement caught my eye, not from above me, but beside me, a shadow shifting at the edge of my vision. I turned, hopefully expecting to see Noah’s tall frame emerging from the woods.
It wasn’t Noah.
Instead, I found myself staring at approximately 1,000 pounds of irritated moose.
“Oh, oh.”
The animal stood perfectly still, its massive body blocking my way back to the Jeep. Its dark eyes fixed on me as I held up my hands in a gesture of peace. Which in moose language must have meant something else entirely because it snorted, now even more pissed off.
“Nice moose,” I whispered, trying to convince the creature I wasn’t worth trampling into human paté. “Good moose. Pretty moose.”
The animal’s nostrils flared, its ears swiveling forward. It took one deliberate step toward me, crushing a clump of wildflowers beneath its massive hoof. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
A soft snuffling sound from the opposite direction drew my attention. I turned my head slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might trigger the moose’s “stomp the city girl” instinct.
On the far side of the clearing stood a smaller moose, with gangly legs and a proportionally larger head. It watched me while chewing lazily on a mouthful of leaves.
The realization hit me like a thousand-pound hoofed mammal. I was standing between a mother moose and her baby. The exact thing Noah warned me I should never let happen.
“Well, this isn’t good.” My mind raced through every wilderness survival show I’d ever half-watched while scrolling through TikTok.
Don’t run from predators. Was a moose a predator?
Make yourself look big. No, that was for bears.
Play dead? That was for ... something else. Not mooses. Meese? Whatever.
“Stay calm.” The irony of giving myself advice I was incapable of following wasn’t lost on me. “Just back away very slowly.”
I took one tentative step backward, and the mother moose pawed at the ground, lowering her head. “Bad move. Very bad move.”
The calf took a few steps toward its mother, which would have been heartwarming if it didn’t require crossing the invisible line that connected me to certain death. Mama Moose’s eyes narrowed, her massive body tensing like a furry locomotive preparing to charge.
I’d come to Colorado to create curated content about luxury wilderness experiences. Instead, I was about to become content for the moose’s feed: #CityGirlSquish #NoFilter #AuthenticWildlife.
“Noah,” I called, a prayer more than a call for help. “Where are you?”
The moose lowered its head further, eyes locked on mine. The message was clear. This would be my last authentic Colorado experience.
“Don’t. Move.” The voice came from above, barely a whisper on the breeze. Every muscle in my body froze, except for my eyes, which darted upward.
Noah hung from the cliff face above me, suspended by climbing ropes and carabiners, his body pressed against the stone.
“Noah?” I’d never felt so relieved in my life.
“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low.
“Me? What are YOU doing?” I hissed back, my neck craned to maintain eye contact.
“Climbing helps me think.”
The moose snorted, drawing my attention back to the thousand-pound problem at hand. Its massive head swayed, hooves pawing at the dirt as its baby watched from the safety of the tree line.
“Don’t make any sudden movements,” said Noah, his voice still quiet.