Eight days is allit takes for the city to feel like a weird dream.
By the end of the first week, my whole world shrinks to the radius of my boots: trail dust, damp moss, the weight of a pack, the steady rhythm of my own breath and the forest breathing with me. My inbox could be on fire. My students could be staging a coup. The university could have replaced my office with a vending machine.
Out here, none of it exists. Which is… honestly, fantastic.
Spring has properly arrived now. The air has shifted from teeth-chattering to briskly tolerable. The snow has mostly retreated to the higher ridges, leaving behind slick patches of mud and the occasional treacherous ice in the shadows. Tiny green things are exploding everywhere—ferns uncurling like ancient question marks, delicate shoots poking through old leaf litter, moss going neon where the light hits.
Best of all? No crowds.
The official tourist trails are still mostly slush and ankle-deep mud, which means only the truly committed are out there—and none of them bother to come this far in. My field station sits well away from any designated routes; where I’m going today is evenfarther. As far as the park’s concerned, this is “backcountry.” As far as my legs are concerned, it’s “please reconsider your life choices.”
I’ve been up since before dawn, moving by headlamp as I broke down my minimal gear and stuffed it into my pack. Today’s a distance day. One night out, just me, my rollaway tent, a carefully portioned amount of food, and an unrealistic amount of enthusiasm for soil moisture data.
Last night, I stuck to protocol and checked in with Gladys over the radio. She sounded exactly like I expected: half mother hen, half drill sergeant.
“You’re going where?”
“Sector 9B, upper basin. I want to check the north slope microclimate station and?—”
“Hart, that’s a long haul for one night.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve done the route on paper a dozen times.”
“Paper routes don’t slide out from under your feet. People do.”
She made me repeat my intended path, my planned campsite, and my estimated check-in times. Twice. Then she reminded me to bring the satellite phone and enough layers not to “die like a moron if the temperature drops.”
Which, frankly, is fair.
Now, the sun is a pale disk behind cloud cover, just high enough that the mist has lifted from the lower branches. My breath puffs in small clouds as I trek deeper into the forest, the path underfoot narrowing from established trail to suggestion to “are you sure, though?”
“Okay,” I tell the trees. “Game plan. We hit the old creek crossing, skirt the ridge, swing by the microclimate station, and then collapse in a heap at the campsite by the boulder. Very scientific heap.”
A squirrel races along a branch overhead. I’m choosing to interpret that as support.
The squirrel doesn’t just skitter, though—heescorts. He drops from the branch to a trunk a few feet ahead of me and scrambles down with… honestly, a freakishly weird amount of confidence. When I pause, he pauses. When I step forward, he darts to the next tree and waits again, head cocked like he’s taking attendance. Not spooked or even wary. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’s just… inquisitive, as if I’m a mildly interesting weather event he’s decided to study.
“Okay,” I tell him, because apparently I’m the sort of person who negotiates with rodents in the backcountry. “If you’re going to supervise, you should know I’m very goal-oriented and deeply annoying about data. That’s your warning.”
He blinks at me, entirely unbothered, and flicks his tail once—sharp, decisive—before hopping to another branch, likefine, keep up. I swear it’s the closest thing to a welcome committee I’ve had all week, and the ridiculousness of it loosens the tight knot in my chest.
“Great,” I mutter, hiking on, wondering if this is the same squirrel who visited me before. “I’ve been adopted by a squirrel. Milo’s never going to let me live this down.”
The farther I go, the older the forest feels. Trees grow thicker, taller, spaced in that deliberate, uneven way that speaks of centuries of wind and light making choices. The ground is a patchwork of roots and moss and half-melted snow, my boots sinking just enough to make every step a little resistance workout. Birds call in layered sound—thrush, chickadee, and one persistent whistle I’ve never managed to identify.
Every so often, the sensation hits me.
Like a warm hand on the back of my neck.
Like eyes on my shoulders.
Being watched.
Not in a predatory way. Not that sharp, prickling edge that says something wants to eat you. More like… being regarded. Considered. Filed.
I stop once, halfway up a rise, and turn slowly in a full circle. My breath steams. The trees stand where they always have. A raven flaps lazily from one branch to another and gives me a single, unimpressed croak.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I know I talk to myself. You don’t have to be rude about it.”
