I’m going.
Standing, I closed my laptop, stuffed it into its travel case, and packed the solar chargers for my phone, camera, and other tech stuff I’d take with me. Triple checking that my backpack still held enough supplies, I grabbed my personal locator beacon from the side table by the window and strode out the front door with swift steps.
After tossing my gear into the back of the Jeep, I pulled up my brother’s number.
My life might consist of taking off on whims and chasing granite playgrounds, but it didn’t mean I was stupid. If I ever got seriously injured and needed to be airlifted out, I had a location beacon. I had a GPS tracker on my car if it ever got stolen while I was up a cliff somewhere. And I religiously texted my brother where my next spontaneous adventure led me.
Me: Hey, Josh. I’m leaving. Going to Mammoth Cave National Park. I’ll have my GPS and locator. Probably won’t have reception on my phone. It’s a seven-hour drive, so I’m guessing it’ll be a few days by the time I find it, climb it, and get back to civilization. The boulder I’m hunting for is on Climbers Anon. Use my log-in to get more info if you need to. Don’t start panicking unless I go missing for five days, okay? Five days then put Operation Find Stupid Sister into play. Hope you have a great week!
He replied almost instantly.
Joshua: First, it’s midnight. Perhaps sleep first, then go driving cross-country? Second, only you would willingly go get lost in some national park and call it fun.
Me: You know I’m a night owl. If I leave now, I can be there for dawn and get some amazing light shots. There’ll be park rangers there. They’ll look after me if I need help.
Joshua: They’ll most likely shoot you if you’re covered in bracken and dirt, crawling monkey-style down a mountain. They’ll claim they finally caught Bigfoot.
Me: Ha-ha.
Joshua: Be safe! Give me access to your phone location so I can track you.
Me: I’ll turn the mode on, but I doubt reception will be reliable enough to show where I am.
Joshua: For Christmas, I’m gonna get you that portable Wi-Fi docking station for hikers. Least then you can have your own satellite internet, and you won’t be able to use ‘off-grid’ as an excuse not to call me.
Me: Go back to bed and stop nagging me.
Joshua: Stop climbing rocks and messaging me at bedtime.
Me: Love you.
Joshua: You too.
With a smile on my face and excitement bubbling in my heart, I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, inserted my key, and cranked the Wrangler’s grouchy engine. My trusty Jeep yawned and growled, lurching out of my driveway, used to me waking it up in the middle of the night to go on some boulder hunt.
Switching gears, I glanced back at my house. My own slice of suburbia in the middle of Michigan.
I sighed with contentment.
God, I was so unbelievably lucky.
I wasn’t clever with gardens, so the flower beds were wild, and the lawn needed a trim, but the façade was freshly painted with lavender cheer, and I’d had the roof redone in a dark charcoal.
The privacy offered by the three-bedroom place made up for all the lonely nights I might have endured. I loved it. I loved that it was mortgage-free and waiting for me to return. I loved that it wasn’t just a house but my confidant who sheltered and protected me.
See you in a few days, house!
If only I’d known I’d lied that night.
It wouldn’t be a few days before I saw it again.
It would be never.
CHAPTER TWO
I WAS A CREATURE OF habit.
The moment the sun rose, I was awake. Not drowsy or groggy or still half asleep. When my eyes opened, my instincts were alert, my mind sharp, my body primed for a fight. I didn’t know if that was a product of my existence or something genetic, but I’d never get answers to those questions.
I’d never know why, after eleven years of living on my own, I’d chosen to stay. I’d never know if the world had imploded or if humans still walked the streets.
Questions like that didn’t interest me. Partly because it didn’t make any difference to my life but mostly because I didn’t care.
As long as I was left alone, then I was content.
As long as I didn’t do anything stupid and got hurt, I could live a good life hidden away from others.
Climbing out of bed, I quickly fluffed my pillow and tucked the blankets into neat corners under the mattress. The single bed was too small these days, and the frame had sunk in the middle, but it was the only place I felt safe enough to permit unconsciousness to find me.
It didn’t matter that this place had twenty other bedrooms. Each one was a tomb for a devil. I’d closed the doors and did my best to forget about them. Apart from this dormitory—tucked in the back wing above the kitchen and the ten-car garage with eight empty beds identical to mine—there was nowhere else I trusted. Nowhere else I’d fortified so strongly that every window was rigged with traps and the door groaned with locks.
Occasionally, in the past few years, I’d been tempted to claim the cavernous garage below as my own. The massive space promised a much comfier existence, and the fact that it only had one window and a bank of roller doors that could be jammed shut gave it a gold star in security.
It didn’t smell of oil or engine grease because it’d never housed a single car. It was utterly pointless to this estate. Vehicle access to this place wasn’t possible.
Helicopters weren’t welcome, boats couldn’t venture, no manmade transportation of any kind could enter. The only way in was via the cave, and the only way to find the entrance was to be shown.
Satisfied my bed was neat, I slipped my naked body into the clothes I’d laid out the night before. Unfortunately, I’d outgrown my old clothes over a decade ago. Now, I was forced to wear what was left behind. Every few years, I’d raid another wardrobe, chase away the moths, and claim a new outfit.
I didn’t like expensive. I didn’t like embellished. I liked comfortable and practical, and the expensive gray slacks and silky taupe shirt had long since lost any attempt at being rich.
Now, the slacks were more three-quarter length than full because the bottoms had been dragged in mud and caught on debris in the garden, leaving tattered material and jagged edges. A few holes lined the thighs, and a pocket was torn.
The shirt was no better.
The taupe now resembled dirt, thanks to the silk material not washing so well. Three of the top onyx buttons were missing along with one on the bottom, leaving my chest mostly on display. The cuffs had been torn off completely after I’d gotten pissed with the tightness around my wrists.
Not that I cared what I looked like. I’d long since smashed the mirrors in this place. I couldn’t remember exactly why I’d attacked them but, good riddance.
After one last survey of my dorm, one last glance at the matching empty beds, I strode to the door and undid the numerous locks barricading me in. Like always, hate trickled into my heart as I stepped past the comforts of my bedroom and my bare feet padded down the rough wooden staircase.
That hate only billowed as I stalked through the servant’s corridor and followed the stone wall to the kitchen. Dawn sunlight trickled over the marble tiled floor, etching the huge bank of honey-colored cupboards, wooden bench tops, and industrial-grade ovens in gold and red light.
My eyes adjusted from the darkness, grateful that another day had found me. That I’d survived another night. Two sparrows squabbled on the windowsill, hopping through the ivy vines and bouncing in the leaves.
Cutting across to the exterior door that led to the expansive chef gardens, I unlocked the handmade deadbolt and swung it wide.
Instantly, fresh air spilled inside.
Thank God.
I closed my eyes and inhaled.
Fragrant, delicious, untainted air.
Stepping outside, I crushed daisies beneath my bare feet, and the carpet of wild grass waved in the slight breeze as
I left my stone prison and did what I did each morning.
Before I’d eaten a thing; before I’d drunk from the stream or done any chores, I ran.
I needed to remind myself that I was free to run. To bolt from this place, to leave if I pleased, to return only once I was exhausted and grateful for its shelter and warmth.
I didn’t need to ask why I ran. I already knew the answer to that question. However, somehow, over the years of being alone, I’d erected a wall between my memories and my present.
I did know, somewhere deep inside me, who I was, what my name had been, and why I’d done what I did. The past could never be deleted. Always there, murky and morbid.
It waited for me in my sleep, and it slashed at me in my nightmares. And while it was dark, I belonged to those memories. I relived the past I couldn’t escape. But the moment it was light, I was free. My skills at forgetting had successfully shoved aside the shadows.
I raised my face to the sun, crisscrossed with the branch ceiling high above, blocked by leaves and secrets. I hadn’t seen the sky in its entirety in years. I hadn’t dared to venture past the cave to the wilderness beyond. Why should I? Only death and misery waited.
As long as the sun rose and my bare feet could run the familiar wooded paths, then my recollections remained painlessly blank.
I was just me.
A man who lived alone.
A man who was a stranger to himself.
CHAPTER THREE
I DIDN’T GET THERE FOR dawn.
In fact, the seven-hour drive turned into ten hours, thanks to the winding national park roads, uncertain backtracks, and a fear that I might not find Kentucky’s Khalessi, after all.
Noon came and went as I continued slipping off main tracks and following old forest trails that’d long since grown over. My poor Jeep earned more scratches and a few dings as I eased it between low hanging branches and skirted past large boulders that looked as if they’d been dropped from the sky and pockmarked the earth around it.
At the beginning, the national park had been populated. The camping zones held laughing kids, bright tents, and flustered adults trying to figure out how to cook over a firepit for authenticity.
A few groups of guided tours had left on scripted adventures, and a couple of rangers, who’d been patrolling the more active areas of the park, had waved at me from their vehicles, nodding in appreciation of such a beautiful sunny day.
Now, I was alone.
My phone registered no internet, my GPS tracker on my Wrangler kept flicking with “location error,” and my bones were rattled from off-roading. At some point, I’d had to release some air from my tires, making them softer and better at creeping over rocks and ravines, hoping to spot a sprig of yellow ribbon in the trees—the markers left behind by whoever had found this new, untouched boulder. Whoever it was certainly had an adventurous spirit or somehow had the best luck in the world.
This place was dense. Dense and wild and entirely inhospitable at finding anything, let alone a climbing route.
Stopping my Jeep in the middle of yet another narrow and chaotic path, I pulled up the last comment posted in Climbers Anon. I’d screenshot it a few hours ago before my internet blinked out, scanning for clues on the boulders location.
Turn off the main drag after you’ve passed the tree that looks like Harry Potter’s scar. Go over the stream, up the hill, travel to the left when you find three rock formations covered in moss, then keep driving until you find the drop-off. You’ll have to walk from there.
Well, as far as I could tell, I’d followed the instructions. I’d found a weird lightning bolt-shaped tree. I’d turned down the overgrown trail, I’d tracked over a small river, I’d crawled past three rocks that had transformed into green molehills instead of glittering granite, and now, here I was, sitting in the forest hopelessly lost.
Josh is going to kill me.
The shared app that gave him my location always sent a snooty text when it dropped out of range, tattling on me for disappearing.
Ah, well...I guess this is the end of the road.
Inhaling, I turned off the engine and narrowed my eyes, studying the green haze of the forest. Birds flittered in spiels of sunlight, butterflies fluttered past my window while enjoying their exceedingly short existence, and a peaceful, heavy silence fell, surrounding me, enveloping me, blocking out any hint that I’d just escaped from a city.
You couldn’t find this sort of silence anywhere else. It didn’t exist if buildings were present. It didn’t deafen you in suburbia. This thick, impenetrable silence was created by the trees themselves. The rustle of their leaves was the white noise, the imposing height of their trunks the distortion of all other sounds.
This silence was both religious and rare, and goosebumps sprang down my arms as I opened my door and stepped out.
Bird song interrupted the silence. I found their twills and chirps better than any music on the radio.
I stepped forward, entranced.
Mud squelched over my hiking boots as I stood in the middle of nowhere and breathed.
Tart greenery.
Sodden bracken.
Fragrant flowers.
Heaven.
All that was missing was the sharp scent of stone and the powdery smell of climbing chalk.
Time to go deeper.
As I turned to open the back door to grab my gear, a flutter of yellow caught my eye.
Aha!
Dashing forward, I grabbed the satin. I’d expected bright yellow—something new and fresh. Instead, this marker was weathered. Sun-bleached and rain-splotched, it was more cream than yellow. Whoever had posted in the forum had made it sound like it had been a recent discovery, yet this ribbon spoke of history and waiting.
Huh.
I frowned, running the ribbon through my fingers, wincing as it tore from being so brittle. A chill scattered down my spine despite the hot sun. A sense of adventure and uncertainty tingled in my belly.
Looking up, I spotted another frayed ribbon hanging despondently deeper in the undergrowth. Just as old, just as impatient to be found.
Stupidly, the faded ribbons affected me. It made me sad to think of them being left to rot in the middle of nowhere, their only job to guide someone to a climb that had somehow come to mean more to me than just a YouTube video and speared me right in my heart.
I didn’t know if it was from the podcast I’d listened to on Mammoth Cave National Park on the long drive over here. If the stories of vast interconnected cave systems, historic landmarks, ghost warnings, and fantastical folklore had infiltrated my blood instead of my business brain, but I needed to climb this boulder.
Not for likes or subscribers, not for ad revenue or fame.
But because I felt a kindred spirit to something hidden away, happy in its seclusion, harboring a loneliness despite its wild perfection.
Turning my back on the ribbon, an urgency crackled in my legs.
I need to go.
I have to see what’s out there.
Rushing to slip deeper into this new world, I dragged my backpack from the Jeep and placed it on the little hill out of the muck. Leaning into the back seat, I pulled out my bedroll, sleeping bag, and tent, followed by long lengths of rope, a mess of carabiners, cams, and quickdraws. I never knew what sort of terrain I’d find. Sometimes, the boulder was straight forward after a good clean and assessment of its crags. Other times, a boulder turned out to be a cliff face, requiring spring-loaded cams and ropes to keep me safe.
The ropes and carabiners were heavy, but they were my lifeline, and I wouldn’t leave necessary gear behind. My climbing shoes and chalk bag were tucked inside a spare set of clothes, which completed my basic staples.
Opening the large container in the tailgate, I grabbed enough granola bars, packet pastas, Fruit Roll-Ups, chocolate bars, and electrolytes to last two days. The rest of my rations I left. If I couldn’t hike to the boulder and back in a couple of days, then I always had more supplies here.
Taking my stash, I diligently strapped, stuffed, and tied everything to my backpack before hoisting the heavy weight onto my back.
Carabiners clanked together, rope cord flopped over my shoulder, and my water bottle hung from the front strap. It was cumbersome and top-heavy, but better to take precautions now than be sorry later.
My last task before I left my trusty steed was to pull up the hood and unhook the car battery. I’d learned that the hard way. Nothing worse than returning after a week of exploring only to find your battery had died.
Choosing the tree with the first ribbon tied to it, I dug a shallow hole beneath and placed my keys into it, covering it with a small rock that I scratched with my penknife for visibility.
I didn’t like climbing with my keys. Taking them with me might mean I lost them. Leaving them at the base of a climb might mean they’d get stolen. This way, I knew where they were. Safe and waiting for my return.
There.
Is that everything?
My receptionless phone was in one legging pocket. My PLB—personal locator beacon—was in another. The cumbersome size stretched my Lycra, but it’d been grilled into me to always, always have the PLB on your person and not in your backpack. You never knew when you might need it or what sort of injury could occur.
Tapping the bottom of my backpack, where my recording devices were packed and protected by clothing, I took a deep breath. I would carry substantial weight on my adventure, but at least I would be prepared.
I’m ready.
Running over my mental checklist again, I buckled the backpack around my waist and strode happily into the thicket.
* * * * *
You have to admit defeat. For tonight at least.
Fable of Happiness Book One Page 2