Author's note: This is my submission for the Summer Lovin 2021 contest. If you enjoy it, please take a second to vote and comment. I greatly appreciate it. A friend that is accident-prone inspired this story. He claims the events are mostly true. The people and places were renamed for that reason.
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It was finally my summer to get away from my family, be my own man, and try solo camping. Don't get me wrong. I love my parents. They're just boring as hell and insist I go camping with them every summer. I love camping in July and swimming in the lake. We've been taking family vacations since I was five. Now that I'm twenty-one, I plan to take myself, a bottle of Jack, some meager supplies, a compass, and a map into the woods for a week and do whatever the fuck I want. To me, that sounded like the best summer vacation ever. I needed to rediscover life after a failed attempt at college life and a failed attempt to keep a college girlfriend. Joining the Marines was looking lucrative to me at that point, but I've never been good with commitment. The only sport I excelled at was swimming, but my poor grades got me booted from the swim team. I decided I would take some time to get to know myself before officially abandoning school and entering the daily grind. I told my buddy George the area I would be hiking in. If I didn't return after a week, it was his job to recover my tattered, bear-eaten carcass and return it to my family.
My first goal was to hike deep into the woods to get far away from every camper within a ten-mile radius. There was a secluded lake that took a day and a half of brutal hiking to reach. I parked my pickup in the lot beside the ranger station and retrieved a parking permit from a helpful ranger inside. The rangers warned me to be careful in the High Lake region. They claimed to lose three or more hikers there a year. They didn't all die. Most of them got lost and had to be rescued when they never returned to retrieve their vehicles. I was determined not to embarrass myself and get completely lost, but I was no stranger to humiliating mistakes. So, if I did get lost or injured, I would take my lumps and a helicopter ride back to civilization.
I was psyched and daydreaming about skinny dipping in the lake as I left the main trail and headed north. I pushed myself hard all day, only taking short breaks to hydrate and snack on granola. The temperature was in the nineties, and I was working up a sweat. The woods smelled heady and brought back many happy summer memories of camping with my parents and my high school buddy, George. George and I spent a lot of time ogling cute girls by the lake more than anything else. Then dad would call us to the campfire for some delicious burgers and hot dogs. I suddenly missed my parents. I stopped to think about them as night began to fall. We hadn't seen each other in four months. After leaving campus, I drifted about looking for a job. I still planned to go camping with them again later in the summer. That would be my opportunity to tell them about my plans to drop out of college. So, I had that family drama to look forward to if I survived my solo trip. I was considering faking an injury for sympathy as I searched my backpack for a can of beef stew. Upon finding it, I realized I forgot to pack my can opener.
"Shit... good going, Nicholas. Always ruining my awesome plans," I grumbled at myself. "Fuck. What do I do now?"
Had I been thinking more about survival than skinny dipping, I would have brought pull-tab cans. It was too early to bust open the dehydrated noodles. My mom was the brilliant one that always remembered the important camping shit. I suddenly missed her even more. That's when I remembered my dad using his pocket knife to open a can when he couldn't find the can opener while mom was visiting grandma. I quickly dug mine out of my pocket and proceeded to stab my soup. I managed to get the soup open enough to eat it. I even sliced my palm open in the process.
"Fuck!" I yelled and dug in my bag for the first-aid kit.
I quickly discovered I had failed to pack that too.
"Well shit. At the rate I'm going, I'll be dead by tomorrow afternoon," I grumbled as I pulled a sock out of my pack and used it as a makeshift bandage.
After more cursing and grumbling, I settled down and ate my tepid stew. The food and rest lifted my spirits and brought my wits back. I opened my bottle of whiskey early and used it to sanitize my cut before I wrapped it tighter with the sock. I had planned to save the whiskey as a reward to myself for reaching High Lake, but avoiding infection was more important. I also enjoyed a little whiskey to help me sleep after an exhausting day of hiking.
The next morning was cool and misty. Sudden ravenous hunger kept me from enjoying it. My break-neck pace the previous day was taking its toll. I scarfed down more granola bars and water before I packed up and headed north. My damaged hand was burning like mad three hours into the hike. I sat down for an early lunch and doused the bloody cut with a little more whiskey. I also took a few sips to raise morale. I could tell by the steep terrain that I was about three hours away from High Lake. If I kept up a hard pace, I could reach the gentle slope on the east side of the lake a little past midday. I was more than ready to set up a permanent camp and rest, but the Widow Maker Ravine was resting between me and my destination. The rangers had clearly warned me about that area. The smooth rocks often sent people sliding fifty feet into the shallow stream below where they would break a foot or an ankle. It was the first place the rangers searched when hikers went missing. So, if I fell, I would be there for five days before anyone came looking for me.
An extra twenty minutes of rest was in order before I went any further. When I finally stepped out of the trees and peered down into the ravine, I was startled and impressed by it. The sheer granite walls were sparkling in the midday sun as they rushed down to a frothy white stream below. That perilous view would be on my left for the next two hours as I made my way north. The map pointed out a few areas where the ravine walls came together enough for a person to jump across it.
The temperature soared as I carefully crept along the edge of the ravine, keeping a close watch on my footing. The mountain to my right was blocking the breeze and collecting heat with its exposed stone. I would be hiking in the sun until I reached a crossing point. I suddenly wished I had brought a hat to keep the sweat out of my eyes as I scaled boulder after boulder. My hand was hurting worse than it did since I sliced it open thanks to my profuse sweating. Blood was dripping off the sock-bandage and onto the boulders where I touched them, leaving a tasty trail for a bear to follow. I was shaking with fatigue when I finally found the first crossing point. I hadn't felt that spent since the torturous endurance swimming trials of my freshman year. I was proud of myself for busting my butt for the past two days, but I also regretted it as my head ached and spun. The blazing sun wasn't helping my disoriented state as I stared at the six-and-a-half-foot gap between the walls of the ravine. An inviting, shady forest lay beyond the fifty-foot drop, but a watery grave full of jagged rocks lay below it. I sat on a sun-scorched boulder to rest and look at the map. It recommended skipping the first gap and hiking another half hour to a smaller one.
"Fuck that," I grumbled and shoved the map back into my pack.
I begrudgingly stared at the gap for many minutes. Under normal circumstances, I would have jumped it already. It wasn't that big, and I was a tall dude, but I was dead tired after climbing rocks in burning heat for the last two hours. The cliff I was perched on had no room for a running jump. Besides, I was a swimmer, not a jumper. After many minutes of deliberation, I decided to throw my backpack across first, relieving myself of forty pounds. That made a world of difference. It also committed me to jumping the gap or abandoning my supplies for a few hours. I took a deep breath and shook out my arms, like that would help in any way, and threw myself body and soul into the jump. To my surprise, I cleared the gap with a few inches to spare. My momentum got me into trouble at that point. I hit some loose dirt, and my foot slid out from under me. I stumbled down the slope into the woods, barely missing a large rock with my head before I skidded to a stop.
I lay in the cool shade of the trees for a moment, thankful that I didn't die or severely injure myself. A branch scraped my side through my shirt. I could feel it bleeding, but it didn't hurt much. So, I climbed to my feet, dusted myself off, and retrieved my pack. I discovered the true casualty of my crossing at that point. The whiskey bottle had broken against the rocks when I tossed my pack. The most expensive golden alcohol I had ever purchased was now dripping down my leg.
"Fuck!" I yelled and opened my pack to see the severity of the damage.
To my relief, only the top of the bottle broke. It was a clean break into two pieces. The remaining whiskey was salvageable. I finished off my first water bottle and used it to rescue what was left of the whiskey. I should have put the alcohol in a plastic bottle before the journey. It would have eliminated some weight and risk, but I wasn't clever enough for that, apparently. I had to continue my journey down the slope, smelling and feeling like the end of a wild Friday night.
An easy twenty-minute hike was all that was keeping me from a refreshing dip in the secluded mountain lake. Then I would set up a proper camp and relax for the remainder of the week. As I walked, I noticed the heat wasn't letting up, and a throbbing headache was making me extra dizzy. I wasn't feeling well at all. My arms and legs felt like they wanted to cramp. I figured the two hours of boulder climbing in the sun had taken its toll. Then I felt something dripping on my leg again. I cursed and looked down, expecting more whiskey, but I saw blood instead.
"What the fuck?" I grumbled as I felt the side of my shorts and shirt.
My clothes were sticky with blood. The scrape was obviously worse than it felt, and that sudden realization made my stomach turn sick.
"Oh fuck," I breathed.
My head was spinning as I removed my pack and dropped it on the ground. Then I leaned forward and rested my hands on my thighs, hoping the sudden wave of nausea would pass. My new goal was not to vomit. I needed to check my side, but my head was spinning too badly to even move. I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and started counting. By the time I reached fifteen, my stomach had settled, and I could breathe easier. I straightened up and opened my eyes, and to my astonishment, I met the gaze of a beautiful dark-haired woman. She was standing twenty feet in front of me, and she was mostly naked. Her gorgeous breasts stole my attention for a moment. They were plump, round, and perfect in every way. Her skin was olive in tone, and all she had on were frayed denim shorts. They sat low on her slender waist and hips. Her long dark hair was draped over her right shoulder, and she was staring at me with the biggest dark eyes I had ever seen. It was like someone cloned a young Elizabeth Taylor and added a little bit of Megan Fox into the mix to create a seductive masterpiece.
"Are you alright?" she asked as she observed the blood dripping down my leg.
