My shoulders slumped as I stared once again at my compass. I hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after the strange noises in the night and had left at dawn, packing up my meager camp and continuing on in the hopes of stumbling upon the promised, untouched boulder.
I had visions of recording a fabulous video with the new sunshine striking just right, enjoying a nice lunch at the base, then having enough rations and daylight to hike back to my Jeep.
I was never usually this stubborn about finding a hunk of rock, but just like when I’d first parked and began this journey, something pulled me forward. Something made my steps quicker than usual and my familiar finesse at navigating trees and overgrown shrubbery messy and uncoordinated.
I made noise. I disrupted nature. Insects got out of my way, and birds squawked and swooped at my interruption. Mammals of all shapes and sizes disappeared into the shadows as if I’d trespassed upon their privacy.
Which I have, so fair enough.
This part of the national park was more than just untouched. It was feral. Every gnarly root and ancient branch looked untamed as if I’d fallen through a time portal and found the Middle Ages.
I doubted any tourists, campers, or rangers had been here in decades, if ever.
It was wild.
No paths, no pruning, no animals comfortable with human presence.
It didn’t want me here.
The entire park seemed to bristle with secrecy, unwilling to allow me to travel deeper. But that only made this failed expedition more intriguing. Knowing that I was one of the few who’d walked this earth made me burst at the seams with gratefulness and curiosity, but it also made me wary that if I didn’t play it safe, I could die and never be found.
My bones would become part of this ecosystem. My flesh become part of the forest.
I’d be swallowed whole and gone.
Unfortunately, even though I didn’t want to, I had to concede.
I’d been following the ridgeline of the valley I’d slept above for hours. I’d backtracked and shimmied down a small distance to see if I could see anything that looked like the photo in the Climbers Anon group. I’d spotted a couple of clusters, a few rock formations that could be useable as a backdrop for YouTube content, but it wasn’t the fabled Kentucky Khalessi.
But now it was past noon, and I always did endeavor not to be entirely stupid.
I was running low on water. I’d eaten the packet pasta and Fruit Roll-Ups for breakfast, and I’d worn far too many warm clothes with how hot the weather had turned out to be. Bugs buzzed around me, and the odd mosquito braved my clothing to bite my arms and legs.
I’d have to come back better prepared.
Looking one last time at the gorgeous view, I marveled at the way cliff sides seemed to crush close together before spreading out into a wider ravine. Trees on either side of the valley strained toward one another, their branches touching and entwining over centuries of growth.
I’d seen such phenomena before. A canopy of living branches formed in rainforests around the world. When I’d gone climbing in Vietnam, a few locations had been entirely closed in, the trees so dense and interlocked that sunlight speared in vain to the damp earth below. Another climb had led me to caves in Malaysia where an entire cathedral had formed from banyan trees, all linking together as if saying no to the sky.
It had been a while since I’d come across something so intricate, and I hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon something like this in the US. Typically, trees preferred their own towering individuality. Claiming their own space instead of binding into one massive air-carpet of leaves.
But not here.
Unfortunately, the braided canopy prevented me from seeing much below. I couldn’t search the valley floor. Couldn’t squint past the dense foliage to spy the boulder I was searching for. It would take a long climb down before I would be able to tell.
And even if it was down there, I doubted I’d have the energy to climb a boulder, video myself a few times in different angles, and then monkey my way back up this steep entrance.
Most of me wanted to do that very thing. To throw caution to the wind and see. But the small part of me that was still sane forbade it.
Go back to the Jeep.
Going home would be the wisest choice, but if you must try again, get more rations, rest, and return.
Fine.
Tucking my compass into my pocket, I unclipped my water bottle from my backpack strap and took a drink. I rationed myself, just in case it took longer than I feared to get back to the Jeep.
Forcing the lid back on after a few mouthfuls, I screwed it tight and went to clip it back onto the strap, only my fingers were slick with sweat.