Chapter 3
LOLA
“Okay, this is fine. This is fine. I’m fine. Everything is going to be fine.”
If you say something out loud enough, it has to be true. Or, at least, that’s what I force myself to believe as I trudge up the little hill, my pack feeling, somehow, even more oppressive than when I knocked myself out with it earlier.
Maybe it’s the weather, which is incredibly humid and balmy, the air sticking to my skin like a wet blanket. This morning when I left the city, it was cool and crisp, and I’d almost worried I might be too cold.
The sun is high in the sky now, and I’m definitely not cold. I’ve sweat all the way through my pink athletic romper, meant to be functional and cute. It’s impossibly hot. If I think about it too much, I start to feel claustrophobic, like I might not get enough air into my lungs.
So, I don’t think about it. Instead, I start to visualize the shots I’ll take once I have everything set up and put some dry shampoo in my hair. How I’ll frame myself among the trees, capture the light perfectly.
Then, when that runs out as a coping mechanism, I think instead about the information I gathered before coming out here.
The influencer in me doesn’t care where we are, as long as the photos come out right.
But the journalist in me has the insatiable need to dig deeper, find out more, keep looking until I unearth something shining and special to focus on.
And I have the strangest feeling that besides being a somewhat secret free camping spot, there’s something about this place that’s special. Something waiting to be uncovered.
The Cascades are the mountain range closest to Seattle.
It’s a major range that runs through California, Oregon, Washington, and then up into Canada.
Many of the summits are dormant volcanoes.
The Willamette River runs through the area, winding around the slopes, and if I strain, I almost think I can hear the water, though I might be imagining that.
Beyond all that information is the fact of the area’s stark, breathtaking beauty.
Or maybe it’s just my lack of cardio that’s breathtaking.
Finally, I reach the camp area, dumping my pack on the ground and heaving myself down next to it. I’m in the dirt and probably staining my romper, but I’ve never been further from caring. Right now, the only thing I need is to get some oxygen into my lungs and some water into my body.
Ten or twenty minutes later, my chest has stopped heaving, and when I look around, a shiver runs through me. It’s gorgeous, being out here, looking up at the kaleidoscope between the leaves of the Douglas firs, but I’m also struck by just how alone I am.
And I’m also trying not to think about mountain people, crime podcasts about hidden societies of cannibals.
“Okay,” I mutter, rocking forward onto my feet. “Time to do this thing.”
Once I’m up, it’s easier to get into the flow.
First, I set up the tripod just outside the clearing and make sure the shot will capture everything.
Then I change into cute hiking gear some outdoorsy company sent me.
I clip a microphone to my shirt, use the feedback on the camera to fluff my hair, adding some dry shampoo to mitigate the effects of the sweat from the trek up here.
My rental car is down below, parked in a little dirt pull-off that I would have missed without explicit instructions.
“Hey there, guys,” I say, once it’s rolling, smiling at the camera and doing the little wave I start every video with. “Today, I’m going—”
I clear my throat, shake my head, start again. “Today we’re going completely off—”
Stopping, I look up to the sky again and let out a quick puff of air. Every time I start filming, I still feel awkward, even out here in the middle of nowhere. I do a little dance, shaking out my limbs and hands, then my face so my cheeks go loose.
“Okay.” I say it as a grounding word, then look back to the camera, that false smile falling over my face again.
“Today, we’re going completely off-grid and camping out here in the beautiful Cascades.
Just because we’re off grid doesn’t mean we have to rough it — come with me to put together my homemade glamping set-up. ”
I cut the camera, turn off the microphone, and start a new shot, taking a deep breath and getting to work.
It takes ten minutes of fighting with the poles, but I manage to put the tent up.
Then, I lug over the portable power station I brought and nestle it inside, plugging in a little swamp cooler and turning it on.
The string lights are tangled in the box, and I mutter under my breath about leaving a bad review, a bead of sweat running down my forehead as I fight with them.
I’m already dreading the thought of packing all this up and carrying it back to the car.
But my dad would roll in his grave if he found out that I’d even left so much as a napkin, so I’ll be making sure not to leave a single trace behind.
Even with the head start I got on the day, everything takes longer than I think, and the sun starts to set much faster than I anticipate.
I hurry to grab a few more takes, showing off different brand deals and trying to exemplify my ability to connect with nature, though I’ve been swatting at mosquitoes and checking myself for ticks excessively.
Finally, when it’s clear I won’t be able to get more shots in this lighting, I take out my drone, set it up, and figure I can get a few good overhead shots.
First, I stand in the middle of my camp and look up at the camera, waving as it flies up into the air, zooming out and getting a sweeping shot of the valley.
I check the film, then set it up again to get a 360-degree-view of the sunset, showing the tips of the trees in the shot.
In preparation, for weeks I’ve been watching hiking and camping vlogs, people who live out of their SUVs, and I know exactly the kind of video that’s going to show how alone I am out here.
With my eyes on my phone, I position the drone and start to turn it, but something catches my eye. A little animal, running through the woods, its golden fur flashing in the late afternoon sun between the leaves that make up the thick canopy.
A dog.
Without thinking, I turn the drone and focus in on it, worry coursing through me. Is someone’s dog lost out here? Every article I read before coming out here listed leashing your dog as one of the most important tips for avoiding a bear attack.
But when I get the drone closer to the dog, chasing after it, something weird happens. A line moves over the footage, then another, almost like an old-timey channel changing. Then, all at once, it shows my drone falling from the sky, and the screen goes dark, flicking to an Error message.
I realize I’m breathing hard when the dark screen reflects my face back at me. Whose dog is that? And is it okay?
My brand-new hiking boots bite angrily into my heels as I stand, turning and shifting side to side, looking in the direction of my drone, of the dog.
I can’t stand the idea of leaving the drone behind. Crashing like it did, it probably broke, exploding into bits of plastic and metal. I’m not going to leave it behind and litter in the forest.
That would not be very Ecotra of me.
Sighing, I reach down and grab my little pack — the one I planned on taking hiking tomorrow — and set out in the direction of where the drone went down. I’ll have to make quick progress if I want to get back to my site before dark.
I do not make quick progress.
By the time I get to the approximate last location of my drone — according to the app — the sun has long set, and my entire body is covered in goosebumps, thoughts of what might be out here with me threatening to hijack my mind.
Every shadow in the corner of my eye, or rustling of leaves, makes me jump.
I’m so focused on following the little tracker on my phone that I nearly run face-first into a tall wooden fence covered in ivy. There’s a tiny open spot, and when I lift a hand to it, I see a sign half-buried under foliage.
Keep Out.
What is this — private forest land? I didn’t read anything about that in my research.
I bite my lip, linger for a moment, thinking about my drone. About that dog.
Then, I make a decision, stripping my pack from my back and tossing the thing up and over the fence. I look up at the top and pray I’m strong enough to get over it.
Luckily, though the fence looks run-down, it seems to be relatively new, and I’m able to scale up and down easily, landing on the other side with a satisfied oomph.
The trees are just as dense on the other side of the barrier, and I grab my pack, pushing through them in the direction of where the drone went down.
And then I see something, and the air leaves my lungs.
It’s like a cabin, but hidden in the side of the mountain, earth completely covering the top of the structure.
From here, I can see the front of it, golden light filtering out through a quaint little door and window.
There’s a rocking chair out in front. If you were looking down from the sky, you would never know it was there.
A spike of fear goes through me; maybe I should have paid attention to those warning signs. But it’s at this moment that I spot my drone, surprisingly in one piece, just to the back of the structure’s sloping, rounded roof.
I’ll run in, retrieve it, and be on my way. I need that footage.
And besides, there’s video of me on there. And it’s not like I want whoever is out here to figure out who I am and where I’m camping.
Creeping forward, I reach the base of the building and look up at the grass and moss-covered side. It looks like a hill, so I back up, start running, leap onto the thing and try to climb toward my drone.
But the side is slicker than I thought, and I quickly lose my balance.
“No, no, fuck!” I hiss, grappling for a hold.
There is none. It’s all just short, stubby, moss-like grass, which is almost slimy in the moisture.
I’m making more noise than I want to. And I’m definitely too loud when I lose my grip and tumble to the side, sliding down the building like I’m at a playground.
I land hard on what looks like the cabin’s back porch.
For the second time today, I’ve nearly thrown out my back, and for a minute I stay completely still, holding my breath with the pain and the anticipation of someone hearing me.
A light flicks on in the back of the place, the golden glow oozing out through the window, but this time I don’t think of it as being merry. This time, it makes my pulse quicken, terror coursing through me.
Oh, fuck.