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Dahlia
TheGPSladyannounces"you have arrived" just as my tires crunch onto the gravel parking lot at the edge of Silver Ridge. I tumble out, stretching dramatically after the long drive from Vancouver. The mountain air hits my lungs like a five-star spa treatment—crisp, pine-scented, and zero percent eau de city bus exhaust.
Silver Ridge sits nestled in a valley surrounded by towering evergreens, with actual silver-tinted mountain peaks in the distance. It's even more Pinterest-worthy than the travel blog promised—a quintessential logging town where the buildings along Main Street look like they were built by extremely buff lumberjacks with really good aesthetic sense.
I tug my bright yellow raincoat tighter and glance at my phone. No service. Not even one pathetic bar. My mom will assume I've been eaten by bears within the hour.
"You must be new in town."
I spin around to find a cheerful elderly woman clutching books outside what appears to be a library housed in a historic log building.
"What gave me away? My city-girl hiking boots or the look of someone who hasn't seen a tree that wasn't in a concrete planter in years?" I laugh, attempting to tame a wild strand of my vibrant red hair.
"We don't get many visitors this time of year. I'm Ellie. I practically live at the library even though I'm not the librarian—just their most loyal customer."
"Dahlia Pierce. Plant whisperer extraordinaire from Vancouver." I extend my hand. "I'm hunting for unique wood pieces to incorporate into my floral designs. And by hunting, I mean gathering, not, like, chopping down trees myself."
As she gives me directions to the Silver Lodge, I can't help but notice the pride in her voice. It's refreshing. In Vancouver, people talk about their neighborhoods like they're on borrowed time before the next condo development swallows them whole.
Two hours later, I'm deep in the forest, sketchbook in hand, surrounded by the most incredible fallen timber. The Lodge owner, a teddy bear of a man with a beard that could house small woodland creatures, had pointed me toward this trail after I'd checked in.
"The best pieces wash down from the ridge after the spring thaw," he'd said. "Just keep the river in earshot, and you won't get lost."
Famous last words, my dude.
I crouch to examine a piece of driftwood that's basically Mother Nature showing off. It's been polished by the river's current, its grain exposed in swirly patterns that would make the ultra-picky bride whose wedding centerpieces I'm creating next month swoon. The same bride who used the phrase "rustic-chic-minimalist-but-statement-making" without a hint of irony.
I begin sketching, losing myself in the creative process. This is exactly why I came here—to find inspiration away from the hustle of city life, where every florist is trying to out-Instagram each other with whatever's trending on TikTok this week.
A distant rumble breaks my concentration. I look up to see dark clouds gathering over the mountaintop. The forecast said nothing about rain. The first fat raindrop hits my sketchbook with perfect dramatic timing, smudging my charcoal. "No, no, no!" I squeak, quickly shoving it into my waterproof bag. Within seconds, the sky opens up entirely.
I yank my hood up and spin in a circle looking for shelter. The trees provide about as much coverage as an umbrella made of fishnet, and the rain is coming in sideways like it's auditioning for a disaster movie. I need to head back to town, but which way? The roar of the river sounds different now—louder and somehow everywhere at once.
I pick what I hope is the right path and start speed-walking, my supposedly waterproof boots betraying me with every squish-slip on the muddy ground. A flash of lightning illuminates the forest, followed by thunder that makes me yelp embarrassingly loud. I pick up my pace, but the path grows steeper and less defined. With a sinking feeling worthy of the Titanic, I realize I've been heading uphill, away from town. The lodge owner's directions echo in my mind with smug clarity: Just keep the river in earshot, and you won't get lost.
Well, I can hear water all right—coming from everywhere. Super helpful!
Another lightning flash reveals a clearing ahead. I push forward, my "water-resistant" clothes now resistant to nothing. The wind whips my hood back, and my hair plasters against my face in what I'm sure is a very mermaid-chic look if mermaids were having really bad hair days.
From the clearing, I can see the Silver Ridge cliffs in the distance, looking absurdly far away. I'm officially the "clueless city girl gets lost in woods" cliché.
Just as I turn back toward the tree line, I see it—a large, dark shape moving between the trees. Too big to be a deer, too deliberate to be a shadow.
I freeze. Are there bears in these woods? Wolves? Bigfoot?
The figure emerges, and I hold my breath so hard I might pass out.
It's a man. Tall—like, impossibly tall—with shoulders broad enough to carry all my emotional baggage and then some. He has a salt-and-pepper beard that would make hipsters weep with envy and is wearing a flannel jacket. And is that…? Yep, that's definitely an axe.
A lumberjack.A literal lumberjack.In the middle of nowhere. During a storm.
Our eyes lock across the clearing, and something electric that has absolutely nothing to do with the storm zaps through me.
For one bizarre moment, as the rain pours down around us and I stand there looking like a drowned sunflower, I have the strangest thought: I came looking for interesting pieces of wood, but I may have found something way more interesting—and much, much harder to fit in my car.
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