I didn’t see it until I was on the way down. The pale wood was slowly darkening. There are moments that those of you who hike will recognize as universal when traversing through the backcountry of the Olympics. Moments where, on the way down from a solo trek to the peak, you walk past a tree stump just a hair too quickly. All at once, you’re suddenly sure that you’ve seen a mysterious black figure dancing along the trail–taunting you. Most often, when you reach that part of the trail, you recognize the tree stump for what it is. A harmless figment of your imagination; a barrier eradicated by kind forest-service workers. Today, though, as I stumbled down the trail, parched with a dry mouth, I saw what looked like a goat up ahead. I’d heard there were mountain goats on this trail, but of all the times I’d done the hike, I hadn’t seen one. I’ll admit I was a bit eager, excited even. I rapidly approached the four-legged black figure, close to tumbling down the trail, only to finally reach it and be met with disappointment. It was only a shadow. I credited the mirage to fatigue, my dehydrated and depleted eyes yearning for the truck ride back home. I recognized the part of the trail I was on as the home stretch–the final two miles between me and my gray pickup. This area, I knew, was past the scenic views and submersed deep in the forest. As I walked by where I’d seen the shadow, I heard a series of shuffling between the long, evergreen trees to my right. Again, experienced hiker, I thought nothing of the noise. A squirrel, I told myself. Hell, maybe it was a goat I’d seen, and it had scurried behind a large trunk when it recognized my human footsteps. I looked to my right, hoping to catch a glimpse of the perpetrator.
And I caught one, alright.
I saw the same four black legs, only the front two were hung up in the air like a reared-back horse. As I met the goat’s two beady eyes, it let out a horrible screech–that of a bleating sheep who knows it’s been sent to the slaughterhouse. It began walking towards me, ever so sneakily. Its soft, almost dainty hoofsteps betrayed the speed with which it moved towards me. It walked, it did. Stalked towards me. Its weight on its haunches as if it were mimicking my movement. All the while, I couldn’t look away from its obsidian eyes.
I’m no fool; I more than hastened my pace, flying down the mountain. Every look I spared backwards felt like a gamble–an utterly useless gamble, at that. Seeing the creature again would do nothing. I was already flying down as quickly as I could. And not seeing the creature would almost be worse because who knew how fast it could be following me, just out of sight, waiting for my poles to betray me so that it could swallow me up as I rolled directly into its jaws. Finally, I could see the beacon of hope that was the wooden trailhead. I kept my head down, my legs scissoring as quickly as they could. This was the flattest part of my entire trek and I broke out into an open run, propelling myself faster with every broken leaf left behind me. I saw the truck and ripped my backpack around to grab the keys to unlock it. I was parked on the side of the road, under the Overflow Parking sign. If I’d have had time to think at all, I would have worried that by jumping in the driver’s seat so hastily I might throw the truck right off the side of that primitive road. Normally, I’d wait for the big ¾-ton truck to warm up, but not today. I slammed the lever into drive and pushed the pedal down so hard I heard the back wheels start spinning on the gravel. I looked in my mirrors and saw bits of rock flying out in every direction. Before I could pick my foot up, I’d worn the gravel down and my back right wheel was sliding off the side of the road. I looked out of the windshield and saw the car in front of me tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. A tree caught one of my side panels. Crashed. I looked up, dazed, and saw the goat reared on its haunches, staring at me with its black eyes, like dollops of ink on a piece of stained paper.
WE’VE COME SO FAR as a culture that you can now buy completely dehydrated taco bowls. With only three hundred fifty milliliters of boiling water, you can have yourself a proper meal at the top of a mountain while the bright sun pounds upon the nape of your neck and you beg for the mercy of a cotton ball cloud to give your eyes a rest. I was thinking about this as my head battered and bounced against the rocks, being dragged along the trail, my feet bound not by rope but by a pair of dexterous hooves. I looked up at the sky, it was not the bright sun of earlier in the day, but its lost lover. The moon was either a day after or a day before full, I was pretty sure. I was so far out from the smog of skyscrapers, the moonlight merged with the stars like a creek flowing into a river. The running water of light cascaded through the trees above me and I could only just make out the black, horned figure dragging me back up the trail. The figure was so imposing that it frightened me too much to even try and belch a scream. Staring up at the light of the moon (in almost strobe-like fashion with the back of my head clattering against footprints of dirt), I couldn’t help but hope that the full moon had already passed. I could see a sliver of shadow still on the surface, I thought. I feared what ritual I might become a part of, especially if it involved a full moon. My eyes stopped rattling in my skull just long enough for me to see a sign where the trail splits: ‘LAKE CUSHMAN – LEAVE NO TRACE.’
Ironically, I worried that I had left a trace… one of human waste. My groin felt damp and there was an unpleasant smell escalating beyond my normal hiking B.O. When I first heard the sound of human voices, they sounded drowned out and distant. The volume never seemed to grow closer, only clearer, and I began to fear that what little sliver of hope I’d been searching for would turn out to be ill-placed. If I was part of a full moon ritual, it was fair to assume that this horned figure dragging me across the rocks through the trees could be the subject of worship, and those indistinct human voices I heard could be the worshippers, ready to cheer as I’m strung from a wooden stake and set ablaze.
We reached a ledge that was familiar to me because I vividly remembered stopping there for several minutes to drink water and eat a granola bar on my way up. I picked this spot specifically because it was at the top of a long crest and offered the first view out of the trees since the parking lot. To my right, the face of the mountain stared at me with blank despair. A set of trees ran down either side like drooping tears. A huge crack splintered the middle of the face like a glass picture that’s been dropped in a fireplace. Beneath, I could see a series of different lights. There were the yellow bulbs of car headlights mixed with the dancing orange flames of a fire. The way these two lights mixed was like their own version of the creek and the river. But it was different, almost unnatural. Unwelcome. I didn’t know whether we’d stopped so that the horned figure could catch its breath or so I could look out to the valley where the lights danced. The former seemed unlikely and the latter seemed like a gross intimidation tactic.
We continued on. Every time I lifted my head, my entire front cramped up. I resigned myself to damage control, clasping my hands behind my head in a cradle that was sure to rub my knuckles raw against the rocks and gravel. When we stopped again, it was at another familiar setting. We were back at the rock where I sat to eat my rehydrated taco bowl. The trail really opened up here, and if it weren’t for the concoction of bodily fluids between my legs and the dark beast dragging me by my feet, I could have found peace in the nighttime trees basking in the starlight. Abruptly, the figure released my legs. They fell to the ground with a thud, and it was several moments before I could feel the blood actually return to my toes. When it finally did, I wanted to get up and sprint back down the mountain. My truck might be flipped sideways, but I’d rather run the ten miles to the road than be strung up and gutted by cultists and some dark beast. Instead, the horned figure walked around in front of me and held out a hoof.
I was confused at first, thinking it was an oddly human-like gesture for a handshake, but then I saw he was pointing at something… (as well as one can point without fingers). My confusion was quickly replaced by sheer embarrassment. Next to the rock where I ate my lunch was the white and blue plastic wrapper that contained my dehydrated meal. I didn’t need to open it up to see that my plastic fork, too, was zipped up inside it. My face flushed such a red that it felt as warm as the crotch of my hiking pants. As I picked up the trash and stuffed it in my pockets, I saw the figure move off in the direction of the face of the mountain where I could finally see a group of people clearly partying below.
The beast spoke: “Burn… Ban…” it growled. Its voice is guttural, angry. Each word almost seemed painful to say. “A burn ban means nothing with humans who will not follow it.”
My legs felt disconnected from the rest of my mind as they walked closer to the figure. I was overwhelmed with the desire to apologize–not just for my own trash left on the trail but for the group of people down in the valley undoubtedly dancing around the bonfire and drinking from beer cans that they would leave for someone else to pick up in the morning.
“Leave no trace…” the beast said.
Leave no trace. // Short Fiction By Jackson Ruiz
