The Heart's Dangerous Trek
Maya McMillan
To JIDO
Nothing means anything without a heart.
Nothing meant anything until you.
The Heart’s Dangerous Trek
Copy Right 2020 Maya McMillan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
“Tara, it’s Greta.”
Her best friend and business partner’s voice was muted.
“Hey girl, you already got your bag? I know you couldn’t make it out here with just a carry-on. I am just pulling into the white zone.”
“Yeah. Hey Tara…listen, so stuff came up. I am soooo sorry, but I can’t come out there.”
Tara Miles, one half of FullMile Photography, almost dropped her cell phone.
“Wait. What?! I am at the airport right now waiting for you to come out. We got just enough time to make it to the hotel out by the park before it gets too dark. The roads up to the mountains are not safe to drive at night.”
“Yeah…Tara…I wanted to come. I really, really…I want to come, but I can’t.”
The woman in the rental car, packed to the roof with camping and photography equipment, put her hand over the cell phone to cover any cursing she might do. After a moment of silence on both ends she realized she wasn't going to begin swearing and moved her hand away from the phone.
“What happened?” She was impressed with the calmness in her voice.
“I can’t talk about it, Tara. It’s just something I have to deal with here. You know I was looking forward to this. I’ll..I’ll explain when you get back.”
Tara knew her friend’s voice; she could tell the woman was at the breaking point of crying.
“Okay,” she said, not wanting to add to whatever was going on. “Do you need me to come back there? Is there something I can help with?”
Tara could see the Pacific Ocean from where she was parked. Their studio in Ohio was another, duller world. She’d made the offer grudgingly.
“No, no, no…you be safe but you go. You don’t have to go all the way into that valley, it might be too dangerous; but you can still get a lot of the shots you wanted of Antelope Peak and that crashed transport plane.”
Tara was grateful Greta declined. It had been a dream of both of their’s to hike and photograph the Choctaw Trail. It was never recommended to hike alone, but it was only three days and Tara was a fit and experienced hiker even if she did not have a camping background.
“Okay, as long as you are sure you will be okay," she finally said.
“Yeah, I will. Have fun.”
“You too, girl,” Tara said, telling herself that in some ways the solitude might do her good. “See you in a few days.”
She was just about to end the call when she heard a soft sigh from Greta.
“Tara, you still there?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Just…just know that I love you.”
The kind words should have warmed the 33-year-old photographer’s heart. Instead, the tone of them filled it with dread. Then the line went dead.
Tara sat in the car at the loading zone trying to fathom her childhood friend’s strange behavior until a security guard started meandering her way and she realized she’d been parked too long in the passenger loading zone. She put the vehicle in gear and rolled off.
The girl from Ohio found the next two hours a quagmire of stress and hazards as she worked to navigate the unfamiliar vehicle out of the congested city. When she finally got out onto open roads she relaxed, enjoyed the view of coastline on one side of the road and mountains on the other. She rolled the windows down and enjoyed the ride, making snide comments back to the vehicle’s GPS system as it barked out directions in a very polite tone.
CHAPTER 2
The down hill slope was a blessing. When the breeze came up Tara took it as a godsend and stopped to lean against the nearest pine tree. She took off her cap and let it dry her sweat-drenched head. In general she enjoyed her thick, slightly wavy chestnut colored hair, but in some ways it was very impractical.
Once the breeze had dried her brow she fished in the front pocket of her shirt for the small, durable hand-held recorder she had gotten into the habit of taking with her everywhere. She checked her watch before speaking.
“Three P.M. I made the trek well ahead of schedule. I got to the campsite we had planned to use for the night but looked on the map and found another further down in the valley. It should be just past a small lake I see below me. Another 15 minutes and I should be setting up camp there. I am going to take some light readings. There is nothing here worth shooting, but good to know what the light will be like for tomorrow and see how quickly night falls this far up in the mountains.”
She clicked off and pocketed the recorder and found her light meter. Like Ansel Adams, one of her heroes, she worked almost exclusively in black and white and, just like Ansel Adams, Tara held that light was the key to everything.
That’s when she heard the splashing.
As a woman alone, caution was her foremost concern, which meant she had to investigate, but quietly. Tara shucked off the 35 pound back pack with a sigh of relief, grabbed her durable Cannon Mark 5 and continued down the trail much lighter and quieter of foot.
She could see the lake, tantalizingly wet and cool, just beyond the tree line. She pressed up against one of the thickly branched pines and began carefully scanning for the source of the splashing. Her jaw dropped when she located it. Eyes fixed on the form below, she liberated her camera from its bag, switched out the regular lens for a telephoto one and adjusted it to wide angle all by touch alone.
“Well I guess I was wrong about there not being something worth photographing,” she muttered to herself. She used the long telephoto lens to zoom-in.
The man swimming down in the lake moved with effortless, powerful strokes, gliding through the water like he was born to it, then pivoting and disappearing into its cobalt depths only to reappear a half dozen beyond.
Tara liked the pivoting most of all--the brief rise, turn and drop brought his lower body out of the water.
“In nature, au naturale,” she whispered to herself and missed her friend even more. It was less fun to catch a man skinny-dipping alone, much better to giggle about with your best friend.
“Swim out into the middle,” she coaxed the nude man in a low whisper. “ Let me see that gorgeous tight bod in good light." She paused as magically the man complied. "Niiice angle.” She held her breath and waited for the perfect moment. “Oh, sweetie, you have buns to die for.”
In truth the man’s deeply tanned physique was mouth-wateringly fine. With every stroke his well- muscled back flexed, pulling his sinewy arms overhead in seamless, absolutely tireless, motion. The occasional glimpse of his perfect, tight round buns was just the cherry on the cake.
She let her camera down and reached for the pocket recorder.
“Note to self. A man without any tan lines is FAR sexier than one with. Tan lines highlight naughty parts, but no tan lines means you have a beautiful nature boy.” She tracked the man again, terrified for a moment when he didn’t reappear for far too long. When he finally did reappear halfway across the lake Tara let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Not a nature boy… a wild man,” she added.
From the safety of her perch Tara took a half dozen more pictures, hoping that at least some of the shots would catch not only the finely muscled lithe body, but also the panther like fluidity of his motion. Not wanting to risk more, she carefully mad
e her way back up to her discarded pack. After struggling into it, she returned down the trail, moving with deliberate noise and clumsiness.
CHAPTER 3
As she’d expected, though not necessarily hoped, her skinny-dipper was full clothed by the time she made it down to the lake. He lay sprawled under a tree on top of a large square of canvas, and regarded her noncommittally as she made her way along the shoreline in his direction.
“Nice day,” she called out.
He nodded. His face, hidden by a thick bushy beard and long hair, was impossible to read.
“Nice little lake,” Tara said trying again as she stopped a good 20 yards from him.
“It is,” he finally replied. “Water runs good in it. Safe to drink and cook with. There’s a spot up yonder that’s got a natural stone dam. Water heats up some there before it overflows. Lake ain't so cold as others around here.”
She nodded and bit her tongue to keep from asking if it’s good to swim in.
“You just out for the day?” she asked, glad that he was talking but disconcerted by the way he seemed to be staring through her.
“Been at this particular spot for about four days now. Came over from Chillawonk.”
“Where’s your camp?”
His cautious pause raised her alarm bells.
“Right here,” he finally said.
“No, I mean, where’s all your gear?”
A small grin made an appearance through the annoying jungle of facial hair. He slowly rolled off the canvas and pulled a large knife out from beneath it. “This would be it.”
Tara stared, thinking she had not heard right.
“You’ve been out here for four days with only a knife and a big piece of cloth?”
“No, ma’am. Said I been here by this very hospitable pond for four days. You weren’t listening when I said yonder and Chillawonk.”
She decided that despite the finely muscled sinewy body she had surreptitiously glimpsed, the little edge of arrogance he was showing took a lot of fun off the wild-man fantasy.
Then Tara did a little double take. What fantasy had been running in the back of her mind?
“Is it okay if I set for a bit and enjoy your hospitable pond?” she asked, continuing towards him.
The smile, not so broad, reappeared. She wanted to ask him why ANY man would want to grow such a huge bushy monstrosity unless they were a member of ZZ Top.
“Make yourself comfortable. That pack looks heavy; About thirty-five pounds, I’d reckon.”
“About that.”
“How many week you planning to be out here? You’re coming kinda late in the season.”
She didn’t want to answer, given that the arrogant man apparently had been out there for more than four days surviving with only a hunting knife. At the same time she would not be shamed into lying to protect her ego. Life had demanded she be stronger than that.
“I am only out here for three days. I’m hiking part of The Antelope Trail. I’m stopping in the area to get some shots of the final resting place of Candlelight 101. It’s near here, isn’t it?” She bristled, ready for some derisive comment. It never came.
“Late in the season,” he said again.
“Thanks, but nothing I can do about that now, is there?”
The big smile came back and he nodded. “Right about that. Can only do what you can do.” He inclined his head to the far edge of the lake. “ Candlelight is up that way.” Tara followed the nod and spied a well worn trail-head. “Put a good foot under you and you’ll make it in plenty of time to set camp before dark makes things awkward.”
Tara continued along the shoreline towards the man. She stopped when she found a spot with a large boulder jutting into the water. She shucked off her pack, acutely aware of the man’s blatant staring. She struggled out of her boots and socks, rested on the boulder a moment, then gingerly waded into the gently lapping water. Her knees went weak with pleasure.
“Make sure you dry your feet better than good,” the man called out from behind her.
“Yes, I know. Any bit of moisture will lead to blisters when I put my boots back on. This isn’t my first hike.”
His response, almost a whisper, was carried to her ears on the slightest of breezes.
“Could have fooled me.”
Tara bristled inside yet again, this time seeing red. She controlled it and made sure to take her time wading out. Upon her return to shore she pointedly ignored him as she dried her feet and made ready for the last leg of her first night out. She gifted him with a cold nod and was on her way, doubly bitter that his rudeness ruined her fantasy-- whatever it might have been.
CHAPTER 4
“This will do nicely.”
Tara let her pack down, she hoped for the last time that day, and began setting up camp. The spot was not an official campsite, but it was a wide, flat area where she could pitch a tent. There was virtually no vegetation in the area for a stray spark from a campfire to ignite, and it even had a little trickle of a waterfall nearby for fresh water. She also figured because the area was all rock, there would be no bugs to contend with. Best of all it was only a handful of steps from the cliff edge that looked right out over the valley and down onto the tree-suspended wreckage of Candlelight 101.
Ten minutes later she was unpacked, her tent up, and her sleeping bag laid out within. It was well into twilight and she knew she should be putting some food on, but could not resist taking her camera to the cliff’s edge to scan the natural beauty of the wilderness as it was enveloped by the night.
“Oh, Greta, I wish you were here,” she whispered to herself, then took out the micro-recorder and repeated the sentiment for posterity. “It doesn’t seem real,” she breathed out and clicked the device off. She took a dozen more shots, knowing she had missed the evening light but unable to resist. She was lost in the moment and did not move again until the first star twinkled into existence in the night sky.
Reluctantly, she pulled herself away from the panoramic view and went back to her campsite to begin making a light dinner. She knew she had to get to bed early. She needed to be up before first light the next morning, which was daunting, but she knew it would be worth it.
CHAPTER 5
Tara rolled onto her back, roused from a deep sleep for no explainable reason. She was comfortable enough. Her sleeping bag had not only kept her warm, but was thick enough to give her some insulation from the hard ground. She told herself there was no reason to be awake, then continued to lay quietly in dreamy half-wakefulness listening to the sounds of the rain, imagining what it would do to her shots of Candlelight 101. It would no doubt leave a ghostly mist in the morning which would add the perfect touch to her latest in the “Forgotten Legends” series FullMile had been putting out; the series that, it seemed, would finally put her and Greta’s business on the map.
The pelting of the rain picked up a little. She thought about what the rude stranger had said about storms coming up suddenly in the mountains. She snuggled down deeper into her sleeping bag but a new sound, behind the rain, would not let her relax.
Then abruptly, she heard the tearing of canvas and jerked her head around just in time to see a large vicious knife slicing through the side of her tent. She sat up in adrenalin-blinded shock
The blade disappeared through the opening it had made and was quickly replaced by something even more terrifying. The grizzled bearded visage of the rude stranger, his teeth bared, his eyes white and wide like a madman in a horror movie. She struggled to get away from his grasping hands, but her bag made it impossible. She was caught in a vise-like grip before she’d moved two feet.
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