Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Got everything you need?” Dad asked, stepping off the front porch of his cabin in the pre-dawn dark. He tracked the solitary backpack I tossed into my truck’s backseat. I’d opted to pack light for the hike in, carrying only the essentials.
Everything else, including my laptop, clothes, toiletries, towels, bedding, blankets, books, sketch pads, cookware, and more groceries than I’d ever purchased at one time, was at the ranger station, stacked neatly in plastic storage bins, waiting to be flown up to the lookout.
“I sure hope so, it’s too late now if I don’t,” I replied, shutting the back door. “I can always grab what I need when I come back down for supplies.”
“In three weeks.” His tone was a reminder of just how long that was.
“In three weeks,” I echoed, my own assurance that I would be back.
He nodded and reached out, pulling me into a hug.
“You keep that bear spray on you all the time,” he said gruffly, releasing me and scruffing a hand through my hair like he had when I was a boy.
He shuffled, eyes casting around. “I understand how important it is to you to do this yourself. But there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to be there for you when you need me, Reece. Please remember that.”
I sighed. What did I have to say to convince the people in my life that I would be fine? Was I burdened by the weight of being alive? Maybe. Did I look forward to finally being alone to sulk guilt-free and grieve the carefree future I’d hoped for? Sure.
But I was fine, all the same.
“Thanks, Dad. Really. I’ll see you in no time,” I said, giving him a smile that would’ve felt disingenuous anyway, given the hour.
I climbed into my truck, anxious to get going. It was early, before sunrise, but I had a two-hour drive ahead of me on minimally maintained Forest Service roads. Once I reached the trailhead, it was another four-hour hike up to the tower, and I needed to be there in time to meet the helicopter.
I waved at Dad before driving off. His silhouette faded quickly through the trees, backlit by the warm glow of his cabin until he was just a dark shape in my rearview mirror, unrecognizable in the gloom.
Iam out of fucking shape.
Heaving for breath, I swung my backpack off my shoulders and pulled the bottom hem of my already-damp shirt up to wipe my brow. I’d become one with my couch entirely too much over the last five months and thoroughly regretted it now.
I grabbed my water bottle from the side pocket, took several big sips, and relished in the light breeze cooling my skin beneath the hot midday sun.
And I drank in the view before me.
Stunning.
Two hours into the hike to my lookout, a sharp curve northward led the trail through a break in the dense trees, spilling onto the shoreline of one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.
Lake Sapphire plunged deep along the heavily forested ridgeline, marking the true start of my ascent to the tower’s peak.
As the crow flies, I wasn't very far at all from my destination, currently obscured by the towering treetops, but it would take me another two full hours to cover the remaining distance.
Carved by shifting ice-age glaciers thousands of years ago, Lake Sapphire earned her name from stunning postcard-worthy blue water, reaching depths of over a thousand feet.
In fact, it was one of the deepest bodies of water in the whole country.
Longer than it was wide, it snaked down through the mountain pass, flowing past the neighboring tower and out of the national park. Only the farthest western edge, where I now stood, was visible from my lookout.
I wouldn’t complain, though, because it was the best part of the whole lake. Why?
No one was in it.
To my great pleasure, motorized vehicles of any kind were prohibited within the national park, except for the scant government vehicle or necessary employee, like lookouts stationed at drive-in towers.
Otherwise, no cars, boats, or jet skis were allowed.
Or ATVs, I grumbled to myself, noting the very-illegally made tire tracks running through the dried mud along the lake shore.
Assholes. I’d report those.
There was a whole section of the massive lake outside the national park where people could boat and ski and drive around until they were blue in the face if they wanted. The point of the motor ban in the national park was to preserve the natural landscape and avoid disturbing the wildlife.
Fucking teenagers, probably.
Turning away from the cerulean waters, I swung my bag back onto my shoulders, ready to continue. I wouldn’t let it bother me—not when I had five glorious months without someone’s fucking leaf blower to listen to at all hours of the day.
Whoever invented them deserved a special circle of Hell all to themselves. Why were they so loud? How much debris did my neighbors need to blow around all the time? Didn’t they know the wind would undo their hours of work in just a few minutes, anyway?
Sometimes I felt like I was in a comedy sketch where they took shifts constantly running a leaf blower, just to see what I’d do.
Would it be considered destruction of property if I accidentally ran them all over?
I think a jury would understand. Even if they didn’t, it would probably be worth it.
“What’s he in for?”
“That’s the leaf blower basher.”
I’d be a king in prison with that title.
I snorted out loud at how ridiculous my thoughts sounded.
Shifting focus from the distracting noises I wouldn’t hear, I took another sip of water, tilted my head back, and relished the sounds I would.
Woodpecker. Song Sparrow. Some sort of small animal shuffling through the fallen pine needles—a squirrel, maybe? Or a chipmunk? It could be a marten. I hadn’t seen one in ages.
The forest was both pleasantly quiet and buzzing with sound, in the way only remote wilderness could be.
The cry of a Red-tailed Hawk, unmistakable and often incorrectly attributed to Bald Eagles, sent a Stellar’s Jay squawking.
The Black-capped Chickadees joined in with their alarm chick-a-dee-dee-dees.
And accompanying all of it, like the percussion section uniting an orchestra as one, the trees.
Tall and thick with minimal understory growth, this section of land was filled with groves of old-growth pine, conifer, juniper, and fir.
The wind rustled their needles, a quiet shhhhh that made my shoulders drop from their permanently clenched position around my ears.
Their broad trunks creaked and groaned as they swayed.
Yeah, I’d accepted the lookout job for this.
I needed sound that wasn’t noise. I could already feel my blood pressure lower the longer I listened.
As rested as I’d ever be, I slipped my water bottle back into its pocket and started off on the final leg of my hike. Already looking forward to a great night’s rest, I couldn’t wait to crash into bed once all of my things were tucked safely in the tower or the utility shed.
I could even take it easy over the next few days, unpack slow, and relax. I had nowhere to be, no one to see, and nothing to do but watch over the forest, high above the trees.
Hopefully, it’d be a slow start to the season.
Ihadn’t realized how dark the trail up to the lookout was, tucked under the forest canopy, until the tree line abruptly ended.
Striding into the open, I squinted against the bright afternoon glare of the sun and brought a hand up to shield my eyes. Shouldering off my bag to catch my breath, I blinked, eyes adjusting to the overabundance of light until I could properly take in the view.
Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.
If I thought the view of Lake Sapphire was something special, this… this was otherworldly.
An ocean of green treetops as far as the eye could see swayed in the breeze, only disrupted by sheer rock faces and cliffs jutting out haphazardly.
Birds of prey circled above, and a scattering of pillowy cumulus clouds hovered over the next ridge, pale against the bright blue sky. Off in the distance, I could see more moving in—massive looming thunderheads threatening the picture-perfect vista below.
Indeed, the western edge of Lake Sapphire hooked around the far eastern slope, disappearing into the next tower’s viewshed.
The blue appeared even deeper from this height, almost as if it were painted into the landscape.
With binoculars, I might even be able to see a small stretch of the Forest Service road I’d driven in on in the far distance.
Somehow, everything was smaller and so much bigger.
Views from a peak like this had always made me emotional, even as a boy.
I couldn’t describe why, other than to say it was too much.
As if I couldn’t fully comprehend the vastness of everything before me, my mind scrambled to take it all in at once, grew overwhelmed by the intensity, and all I could do to process was cry.
Most of the time, it was embarrassing. Now, though, I let my tears fall.
Although the tectonic plates of my own life had shifted, altering the topography of my future into something unknown, not yet recognizable, maybe even a little broken, at least this remained.
I turned, taking in the hulking structure of the lookout itself.
Reaching even higher into the clouds, Tower Seven, Dead Man’s Lookout, perched on reinforced wooden stilts forty feet above the rocky ground.
A staircase zig-zagged up the center, ending in a wrap-around porch at the top.
One door led into the square, fourteen-by-fourteen-foot cabin, located on the opposite corner from the stairs—probably so that lookouts wouldn’t step out onto the deck and immediately tumble down the narrow staircase.
Not the way to go.
I’d thought entirely too much about death lately.
I circled the tower, headed for the stairs while scanning for anything out of place. Like Leonard had said, the support beams looked sturdy, and the copper grounding wires—built in lightning rods—appeared secure. The stairs were solid under my heavy boots.
Back and forth, I climbed the switchbacks. I paused on the fifth landing, heaving for air and thighs burning, before ascending the final flights.
If my ass doesn’t look fantastic after five months of climbing all these stairs, I’ll pitch a fit.
Finally, I reached the top and paced along the wrap-around deck, noting the safety railing barely came up to my hip.
I’d have to be careful during inclement weather or high winds—the worn planks under my feet would be slippery, and I wouldn’t trust that railing enough to even lean on it, let alone tumble into it.
Windows wrapped three hundred and sixty degrees around the cabin, currently shuttered and secured against the elements.
Well, all except for one.
Huh, odd.
I stopped and inspected the exposed glass. It was a westward-facing window, overlooking what I imagined were stunning sunsets over the far ridgeline.
I pulled on the secured shutters on either side, noting they didn’t lift easily.
Glancing up, I saw where the open wooden plank had been lifted and hooked onto the overhanging roof via a metal latch.
I reached up and flicked it off the hook, startled by how quickly the whole thing swung down and slammed over the window, landing with a loud thud.
Ok. So they’re really heavy. Good to know.
I’d chalk one or two loose shutters up to the wind, but I doubted one could blow and lift in such a way that it latched itself open.
Someone, or something, appeared to have done it intentionally.
My pulse quickened. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and again, I had the overwhelming sensation that I wasn’t alone.
All of the strange stories I’d heard of Dead Man’s Lookout over the years flashed through my mind.
Hikers who’d claimed someone stood at the cracked and disrepaired windows, watching them as they passed.
Teens who’d broken into the cabin, dared by their friends to spend the night, told stories of objects flying around the room, followed by loud banging coming from the walls until they left, screaming.
People who’d said they were chased through the surrounding woods by a knife-wielding maniac.
I’d scoffed at all of it growing up. Of course, ghosts weren’t real. It was a combination of a horrific history and an overactive imagination—that was all.
Also, there was probably a lot of alcohol involved on the part of the rowdy teenagers.
But I wasn’t scoffing now.
Casting a look around, I realized I’d left my bag—and my bear spray—forty feet below, on the ground near the trees.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I couldn’t make mistakes like that. Every gut instinct I possessed told me I was being watched, and all I had was the small pocket knife hooked to my belt.
They probably just forgot to close the shutter after it was renovated a few months ago, I thought, trying to calm myself.
Yes, that was it.
Leonard said they’d made repairs to the tower to prep it for the season. I was sure one of the workers simply forgot to close the final shutter.
I shook off the creeping sensation. I’d be a complete mess all summer if I allowed every paranoid thought to rule me. I needed to get hold of it now, before it became a problem.
After a deep breath, I swung the shutter open again, reached up, and latched it. I gave it a good shake to ensure it was secure and took a step back.
Satisfied there would be no more nonsense surrounding the mysteriously animate shutter or the stubbornly persistent feeling that I wasn’t alone, I peered through the open window into the tower I’d call home.
Only to find a man staring right at me.