But yesterday's tour was... God, it was the most fun I've had in years. And a reckless part of me wants more.
"Alright. Let's go."
His smile is pleased and surprised. "That's the spirit."
Today's group is smaller—just six of us. The women who wanted the advanced experience after yesterday's beginner course were excited to try for more. Brennan's safety briefing is more serious given the weather, but he's confident, capable, and I trust him in a way that should alarm me.
I climb onto his sled without hesitation this time, arms around his waist, body pressed against his back. He smells of coffee and pine and something undefinable that makes my brain go fuzzy.
Focus, Avery.
We head into the backcountry, deeper than yesterday, into pristine wilderness where the snow is untouched, and the silence is profound. It's breathtaking. Humbling. The kind of beauty that makes you forget spreadsheets and billable hours exist.
Brennan navigates with easy confidence, pointing out landmarks, adjusting routes based on terrain. I'm in the moment, present in a way I never am, when—
The sky changes.
In minutes, the blue sky turns gray, then white. Wind picks up. Snow falls—not gentle flakes but hard, driven pellets.
The storm came early.
Brennan signals the group to stop, pulling out his radio. I can't hear the conversation, but his expression is serious. He waves everyone closer.
"The storm's moving faster than predicted," he shouts over the wind. "We're turning back. Stay close, I’ll follow you all."
We start the return journey, but visibility drops fast. Within ten minutes, I can barely see the sled in front of us. My heart hammers—this is bad, this is dangerous, and I'm the idiot who insisted I could handle adventure—
Our snowmobile stutters.
Then dies.
Brennan's cursing, working controls, but nothing happens.
Through the whiteout, I see the other sleds disappearing ahead, not noticing we've stopped.
"Radio them!" I shout.
"Already did. They're continuing to safety—protocol is not to stop in a storm. I know of a shelter nearby. We're going there."
"Can you fix the sled?"
"Not in this weather. We need to move. Now."
He pulls me off the sled, and we hike. I can't see more than a few feet ahead. Snow stings my face. Cold seeps through my expensive gear. Brennan's hand is iron around mine, pulling me forward, and I trust him because I have no choice. I’m not happy about it.
Time becomes meaningless. Five minutes? Twenty? I've lost all sense of direction when Brennan pulls me sharply left.
A cabin materializes out of the whiteout.
He gets the door open, drags me inside, slams it against the wind.
We stand in the darkness, breathing hard, and I realize I'm shaking.
"We're okay," Brennan says, voice steady. "We're safe. Let me get a light."
He finds a lantern, and a warm glow fills the small space. The cabin is basic—one room, fireplace, bench that converts to a bed, shelves stocked with emergency supplies.
"This is a backcountry emergency shelter," Brennan explains, already moving toward the fireplace. "The resort maintains several. Stocked with food, water, blankets, and first aid. We'll be fine here until the storm passes."
