“Good morning,” the woman behind the counter says with a smile. “What can I get for you today?”
She’s in here every day, and I’d say she’s in her early forties, with just a couple of gray strands in her shoulder-length dark hair. She has kind eyes and a pretty smile.
I place my order for scones, a cheese-and-turkey-stuffed croissant, and another coffee, then sit at a table with my treats. I like to sit in the corner so I can people watch as I eat.
So far, the people here in town have been super nice. And last night, when I decided to go out for just one beer, I met Seth.
I sigh at the memory of that tall, handsome drink of water, who had his hands all over me and definite interest in his big, brown eyes.
He was damn tempting.
But I’m not here for that.
“Can I get you anything else, dear?”
I smile at the nice woman and shake my head. “No, thanks. This is great.”
It’s still early enough on this Saturday morning that as I leave the deli and ride toward the grocery, few cars are out and about. There’s a stillness in the air, contentment that feels comforting.
No, this place isn’t at all what I expected, but I like it. I like it a lot.
“Bear spray,” I mutter and clamp the red can with the huge grizzly on the side to my belt. I have plenty of snacks in my pack, along with water, ultra-light trekking poles, extra socks, and a rain slicker rolled up at the bottom.
I went to an outdoor adventure store yesterday and picked up a survival straw to help filter water if I need it, and a fire striker in case I have to start a fire.
I definitely won’t need any of the extra survival stuff. I’m way overprepared, and I don’t love that I’m carrying the extra weight, but I’m also hiking alone, and it’s better to be safe than sorry—even if it is only a fifteen-mile trek through the mountains. Compared to some of the hikes I’ve done in the past, this is an easy, eight-hour day. In and out. But according to all of my research, I’m promised some amazing views, a glacier, and hopefully some wildlife.
“Just not hungry bears,” I say out loud as I lock up the van and head off for the trailhead. “Any wildlife but hungry, carnivorous ones, thanks.”
The first part of the hike is all uphill. I’ll gain about four thousand feet in elevation.
But that means it’s all downhill on the way back when I’m starting to fatigue.
The trail is well-traveled and marked so I can just relax and enjoy.
“What a beautiful place,” I say to myself. I’ve made it a habit of talking to myself when I hike so I don’t surprise any animals. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so calm. So at peace. Certainly not in a long, long time.”
My heart rate climbs, and my breath gets choppier as I ascend deeper into the park. I’m so lost in my thoughts that it takes me a few minutes to realize that little white flakes have begun to swirl around me.
I frown and blink. “Snow? It’s freaking September.”
And then I remember what the sexy Seth said to me the other night.
We could get snow by the weekend.
“I’ve never been anywhere, aside from Peru, where it snows in September.” I look up at the sky and sigh, then check my GPS.
I’m almost six miles in.
“I’m not turning back now,” I say and keep moving forward. “I want to see this chalet that people hike up to in the summer, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it farther up to the glacier. It’s Glacier National Park, for the love of Moses. I’m going to stand on a glacier.”
It’s been on my bucket list for years.
The flakes start to fall faster, harder. They’re big and fluffy, and I have to stop to wipe my face.
I wish I’d brought my gaiter to keep the cold droplets from falling down my neck.
Also…it’s cold up here. Colder than I expected.
I’m wearing thick pants to protect my legs from thorny bushes and am in a long-sleeved shirt, but aside from my rain slicker, I don’t have outerwear to protect me from a winter storm.
I stop to catch my breath and take stock of my surroundings. It’s gone quiet. No birds sing. No critters skitter around in the trees.
That’s a bad sign.
A bad, bad sign.
“Damn it,” I mutter and rub my nose. If the map is right, I’m less than a mile from the chalet. Of course, it’s closed for the season, so I can’t take shelter there.
“The glacier is another couple of miles after that,” I continue, just before the wind picks up and slaps me in the face with its cold, bitter hand. “Shit. I have to go back.”