“I’ve got the satellite phone,” I say. “We’re covered.”
“Which route you taking to Painted Peaks?” Nash leans against the counter.
“Raven’s Spine.”
The coffee mug in his hand pauses halfway to his mouth. “That’s not a trail. That’s a climbing route.”
I adjust the straps on my pack. “Cuts six hours off. I need to make up time.”
I don’t like leaving them with nothing. No backup. No second way out if something happens. And the longer I’m gone, the worse that sits with me. So yeah—Raven’s Spine is steep, narrow, and not exactly friendly. But it’s the fastest way back. And right now, that’s what matters.
“Or break your neck trying.” Nash sets his mug down with enough force to slosh coffee. “The main trail would get you there tomorrow morning. Safe and whole.”
“I promised Lena today.” The words come out with more force than intended.
Nash watches me for a long moment, something changing in his expression. “She must be some actress.”
I don’t answer. Can’t explain what I don’t understand myself—this pull toward Lena, this need to keep my promise at any cost.
“Be careful,” Nash says. “Dad would kick my ass if I let you kill yourself on that ridge.”
“Not planning on dying today.” I head for the door. “And we’ll talk about those bank notices when I get back.”
“And the activist problem,” Nash calls after me. “Reid heard they’re getting more organized. Might be someone new pulling the strings.”
I nod, filing the information away. Lodge finances and eco-drama will have to wait. Getting back toLena can’t.
The morning air bites cold as I hit the trail out of Crystal Creek. The path climbs through forest before opening to alpine terrain. I push hard, muscles still tired from yesterday’s descent with Dave, but I ignore the discomfort. Every minute counts if I’m going to reach Painted Peaks basin by nightfall.
By mid-morning, I reach the fork where the main trail continues its gradual climb toward the peaks. Instead of following it, I veer right onto a barely discernible game trail that climbs steeply up the eastern face.
Raven’s Spine—named for the dark rock formations that jut like feathers along its crest. Few hikers attempt it, and for good reason. It’s treacherous, demanding, and unforgiving of mistakes. But it’s also direct. And right now, direct matters more than safe.
The first hour tests every muscle, the incline so steep I use hands as much as feet, loose shale sliding beneath my boots. I focus on each movement, each handhold, shoving away the image of Lena’s face when I last saw her, the worry about the bank notices, Nash’s damn knowing look. Up here, distraction gets you killed.
Midday finds me perched on a narrow ledge, catching my breath and checking my position against landmarks. The valley spreads below, the main trail a thin ribbon winding around the gentler slopes. I’m making decent time despite everything. If I maintain this pace, I’ll reach the upper ridge by late afternoon, then down into the basin before dark.
I force myself to eat a protein bar, though hunger’s nowhere in sight. The repairs after the avalanche nearly wiped me out. Taking loans for the windstorm damage pushed me to the edge. Now I’m hanging on by my fingernails, refusing help out of stubborn pride. The lodge is mine—the thing I built, the legacy I created. Accepting money from family feels like giving that up. But Lena ... something’s different there. She belongs in these mountains in away I never expected. The thought sits, uncomfortable but right.
The climb becomes a punishing rhythm. One foot, one handhold at a time. Dad’s voice echoes in my head—”The mountain doesn’t care about your problems, son. It asks if you’ve got what it takes.”
By late afternoon, my muscles are burning. I reach the knife-edge that marks the final approach to the upper basin. The valley spreads below, and I can make out the distant glow of a campfire. Good, they made it to the upper basin as planned.
The descent demands as much focus as the climb—loose rock and steep drops waiting for any mistake. I pick my way down, using poles for balance. The basin grows larger with each switchback. Near the lower section of the trail, I reach for a handhold on a jagged outcropping. The rock gives way, sharp edges raking across my forearm as I fall forward. I manage to catch myself with my other hand, but not before slamming my side into the rocky slope. Pain flares hot along my ribs and arm. When I look down, blood seeps through my torn sleeve from a deep gash running from wrist to elbow. Not life-threatening, but deep enough to need attention.Damn it.Stupid mistake. Lost focus. Thinking about her smile when I gave her the compass. Thinking about her, when I should have been thinking about the damn rock.
I unzip my pack with one hand, pulling out the first aid kit. The wound needs cleaning and stitches, but all I can manage is a quick rinse with water from my canteen and a pressure bandage wrapped around my forearm. Blood seeps through the white gauze by the time I secure it. My ribs throb with each breath—bruised for sure, possibly cracked. Progress slows to a painful crawl. Each movement jars my injured side, each step requiring balance with my wounded arm held closeto my body. But I push forward. The upper basin is close, perhaps an hour away at this new pace.
Shadows lengthen across the valley floor as the sun begins its descent behind the mountains. I’ll be navigating the last section in twilight at this rate. Not ideal, but manageable.
I’m still a half-mile from the basin floor when I detect movement ahead—a figure on the trail below, moving upward with speed. Too far to make out details, but something in the way they move looks familiar. As the distance closes, recognition punches through the haze. Lena. Coming up the trail, alone, moving fast. What the hell is she doing out here by herself? At dusk?
She hasn’t spotted me yet, her head swiveling as she scans the fading light, like she’s searching for something—or someone. I try to call out, but my voice barely carries. I raise my uninjured arm instead, hoping to get her attention before she passes me by. The moment she sees me, her pace quickens, eating up the distance between us. I try to move faster to meet her, but each step sends fresh waves of pain through my ribs.
Lena reaches me, her expression shifting from relief to concern as she sees the blood-soaked bandage on my arm. “Finn! You’re hurt.” She moves to my side, assessing the injury.
“A rock broke loose on the descent,” I say, the relief of finding her finally catching up with the pain. “The cut is deeper than I’d like. Where’s everyone else?”
Still at camp," she says. "We made good time from the lower basin yesterday. Elliott's planning to push to high camp tomorrow.” She hesitates, glancing up the steep ridge behind me, then back to my face. “But I had a feeling something was wrong. I couldn’t sit around and do nothing.”
