Chapter Two Hailey
The parking lot at Horsetooth Mountain trailhead is busier than I expected for a weekday. As I pull into an open spot, I scan the rows of cars—a mix of Colorado plates and out-of-staters, mostly Subarus and Jeeps with the occasional family minivan thrown into the mix.
I’ve been looking forward to this hike all week.
After three consecutive night shifts dealing with everything from drunk college students to cardiac arrests, I need the quiet simplicity of dirt beneath my feet and blue sky overhead.
No beeping monitors, no crying families, and no combative patients.
Today is about reclaiming my peace, not dwelling in chaos.
I check my backpack one last time: water, granola bars, first aid kit—because trouble always finds me—a light jacket, and spray-on sunscreen.
The air is chilly, but the forecast says the high will be in the seventies today, which is perfect for hiking.
The Horsetooth Mountain trail is a moderately difficult route, enough to challenge me and demand all my mental focus, but not so hard it’ll wipe me out on my day off.
It’s the perfect temporary fix for being chronically stressed out.
As I lock my car and adjust my pack, a family pulls into the spot next to mine. A couple in their mid-thirties emerges, followed by two elementary-aged kids who explode out of their SUV like they’ve been captive for days.
“Mommy, can I lead? Can I?” The little girl, maybe six or seven, bounces on her toes, blond pigtails bobbing.
“We’ll take turns,” her mother promises, organizing their gear while her partner lathers sunscreen all over the antsy kids.
I smile as I pass them, remembering similar family outings when I was young.
My dad’s patient voice explaining different tree species, my mom’s backpack seemingly magical in its ability to produce snacks exactly when I needed them most. They were good parents—are good parents still, even if we’re separated by half a continent now.
They’re both stationed at an army base in North Carolina. We lived in so many places over the years, moving wherever their orders took us. Now, it’s finally time to choose my own destiny.
Two years ago, I moved seventeen hundred miles away from them to accept a residency position in the Fort Collins Memorial Hospital ER, and I’ve never looked back. Sure, I miss them, but I love living life on my own terms.
The trailhead is clearly marked, a wooden sign showing various routes and their difficulty levels. I pause to take a photo and send it to my work wife and best friend, Rachel.
Hailey: Exactly where I’ll be when you inevitably check my location and want to know why I’m in the middle of nowhere.
Her response comes quickly.
Rachel: Good to know. Have fun, don’t get lost. You might enjoy hiking, but I for one do not, and I’d rather not have to search the woods for you.
A second text comes a moment later.
Rachel: But I’d do it if I had to. Only for you.
I smile and tuck my phone away, ready to begin the steady ascent.
My body settles into a comfortable pace almost immediately.
The trailhead is wide and well maintained, winding through ponderosa pines and across occasional rocky outcroppings.
Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the path with shifting patterns of light and shadow.
The first mile passes quickly as I find my groove. I exchange brief nods or hellos with a few couples and small groups along the way—the unwritten etiquette of the trail.
“Morning.”
“Beautiful day.”
“Watch out for the rattlesnake around the next bend.”
The usual.
As the trail climbs higher, the terrain becomes more challenging—narrower paths, steeper inclines, larger rocks to navigate. My breathing deepens, and I welcome the burn in my calves as a light sheen of sweat forms on my skin despite the cool air.
This is exactly what I needed: physical exertion to calm the revolving door of my spinning thoughts.
In the ER, I’m always multitasking—tracking vital signs, anticipating complications, remembering details from five or more patient charts simultaneously.
Out here, I can narrow my focus to just this step, this breath, this moment.
It’s a different kind of alertness, more primal. Earthy. It’s somehow more…complete.
About two miles in, the trail opens to a clearing with a stunning view of the reservoir below, its surface glittering in the sunlight.
I pause to take it in, sipping water and rolling my shoulders to release the tension I’ve been carrying all week.
From this vantage point, the city looks so much grander.
“On your left,” a male voice calls, and I step aside as two mountain bikers navigate the narrow section of trail, nodding their thanks as they pass.
Their presence is a reminder that while I might feel alone in my little bubble of peace, this is a shared space, populated with others seeking their own escape from reality.
I march onward, the trail growing more technical as it approaches Horsetooth Rock itself—a distinctive formation visible for miles around that resembles, with a lot of imagination and maybe a hallucinogen or two, a horse tooth.
The path now requires my full attention, with loose stones and exposed roots creating countless tripping hazards.
I make my way slowly but surely, finding secure footing with each step.
As the trail curves around a bend, I hear voices carrying clearly on the breeze—not the polite trail murmurs of fellow hikers. These voices are loud. Aggressively loud.
“Babe, hold the phone higher. Higher.”
“The wind’s wrecking my hair, can we just—”
“One more, one more. This angle is everything.”
I tilt my head up and almost trip on my own boot.
Three figures are perched on top of Horsetooth Rock.
Not climbing it. Not roped to anything. Just casually standing on the very top of a fucking mountain in outfits more appropriate for a mimosa brunch.
There’s a woman in a flowy white dress that’s flapping around her like a sail in a hurricane, a guy in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, and a third one in—I shit you not—a pair of brand-new white sneakers.
White. Sneakers. On a fucking mountain.
Leather Jacket Guy is striking some kind of pose near the edge, one foot dangerously close to open air. White Dress Chick is filming with her phone held out in front of her like an offering to the algorithm gods. The third one is shouting overly enthusiastic directions.
“Lean back more! More! That’s the shot, that’s the shot!”
I stop mid-trail, and I’m not the only one. A couple ahead of me has paused, too, the woman whispering something to her partner with the universal expression of “Are we about to watch this happen?”
“You’re a vibe right now, Jason!” White Dress Chick shrieks. “Yes! Yes! Hold it!”
Jason leans back more.
What happens next unfolds with the dreamlike, slow-motion quality that emergency situations often have—a moment of suspended time when I see everything with absolute clarity, while also being powerless to intervene.
Jason’s foot slips on the edge.
His arms windmill in that brief, frantic flail when a body finally clocks that gravity has stopped negotiating. White Dress Chick screams something that might be “Oh my God” but might also be a hashtag. I can’t tell because some way, somehow, she’s still holding the phone out in front of her.
Then he falls.
Not a freefall, but a scraping, rough descent, his body hitting multiple outcroppings on the way down. He disappears from view, and for a sickening second, there’s only the sound of repeated impacts echoing off the rocks.
Then silence.
“Jason?” White Dress Chick is screaming now, the phone finally forgotten in her hand. “Oh my god, Jason!”
The third person in their group—Sneaker Man—is just standing up there, mouth open, frozen in place.
Useless.
My body is moving before my mind registers the action.
I veer off the main trail toward the base of the rock formation.
My training kicks in, drowning out everything but what’s happening in front of me.
As I get closer, I can see where Jason landed.
He’s caught on the edge of a small ledge about fifteen feet above ground level, sprawled at an angle that makes my stomach drop.
And he’s not moving.
“I’m a doctor!” I call as I approach, already dropping my backpack to pull out my first aid kit.
Jason’s two friends are absolutely no help. White Dress Chick keeps shrieking his name into the void while Sneaker Man oscillates between yelling “Don’t move, dude!” and “Did you get that on video?” There’s no rope. No harness. Not so much as a roll of duct tape between them.
They came up here in expensive, flashy sneakers. To take pictures.
Jesus Christ. We’re all fucked if this is our future.
Other hikers are converging now, drawn by the commotion and the raw human instinct to rubberneck at the first sign of drama.
I hear someone say they’re dialing 911. I glance around, wondering if anyone else is questioning whether or not the fallen man is dead, or if that’s just my morbid thoughts taking over.
Occupational hazard? Sure, let’s go with that.
“We need to get him down carefully. There’s no guarantee that ledge will hold,” I say, pointing toward the colossal crack in the rock supporting the entirety of Jason’s weight. “Does anyone here have climbing experience? I’m going to need help.”
“I do,” a deep voice rumbles behind me. I turn to see a tall white man with light-brown hair and the most striking hazel eyes. “I have military training and rappelling experience.”
“Good,” I say, making a split-second decision to trust that a complete stranger won’t fuck this up and send me tumbling down the side of a rock wall. “I need to check his condition before we move him. A spinal injury is a major concern with a fall like that.”
I’m saying all of this like I’m not still thinking about the high likelihood that Jason is already dead.