The Trail - Softcover

Meika Hashimoto grew up on a mountain in Maine. She has traveled the world in search of calm forests and beautiful peaks, and found them a'plenty. When she is not hiking and climbing, she is a children's book editor in New York.

Just when I am crouching over the boiling pot, calculating the last nuggets of food in my pack, I hear it. A growl in the shadows.

My heart slams into my throat.

Bear.

I've been so busy thinking about the little things, that I lost sight of the big ones. A bear is a big thing. And not a good one.

I am alone, with only a Swiss army knife for protection. And I'm pretty sure a two-inch blade covered in last night's cheese crumbs won't stop much of anything. But I slide the knife out of my back pocket anyway and point it out ahead of me, jabbing at the night.

The growl gets louder. It's coming from a choked tangle of bushes fifty feet from my campsite. In the thickening darkness I can't see when it might attack.

I think I read somewhere that if you see a black bear, you shouldn't run away or they'll think you're prey. You're supposed to look big and make loud noises. So I stand up slowly. I open my mouth to shout at it.

Nothing comes out.

I also read somewhere that animals can see and smell fear, which is really too bad because I'm trembling all over and I can feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. Look big, I tell myself again. Be brave. But then my mind empties out and I'm just praying please don't eat me, please don't eat me.

Bristling fur. Sharp teeth. Snarling lips. I cry out as it comes hurtling out of the bushes like a burst of crackling gunfire and -- it's a dog. Shaggy faced and flop eared, eyes brave with desperation. Pitch black except for a hollowed-out chest that's so mud-spattered, I can't tell if it's brown or white. A tail bent at the tip, as though someone had tried to snap it in half. It's definitely a mutt. Mangy and starving and as ugly as sin. I can count his ribs.

The dog rushes at me but I feel my heart start beating again. I leap back out of his way as he stalks over to my cook site. A swift kick with his hind leg upsets my dinner pot.

“Hey!” I shout, but it's too late. Spaghetti and foaming starchy water spill to the ground. The movement was practiced, smooth. This dog has done this before. He grabs a mouthful of scorching noodles and beats it back to the bushes.

I have never seen a dog hold boiling food in its mouth. The rest of my fear melts away. It must be near crazy with hunger. I wonder how long it has been out here, scavenging for scraps from frightened hikers.

I stare at the remaining spaghetti lying in the dirt. My dinner. My stomach growls angrily. I can try and salvage the remains, give the noodles a long rinse and hope the tomato sauce covers up any grit that might remain.

I sigh. Instead, I dig a fork out of my mess kit and scoop the muddy spaghetti into my pot. I tiptoe over to the edge of the campsite and dump the contents on the ground. I can see the dog now. He's twenty feet away, behind the thickest part of the bushes. He watches me with uncertain eyes.

I back up slowly. The dog does not budge until I have retreated all the way to the tent. Then it shuffles forward and begins gulping down the rest of its dinner.

“Enjoy it,” I tell him. I'm still annoyed, but at least he seems to appreciate my cooking.

Digging into my pack, I pull out a flattened peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was going to be my lunch for tomorrow, but it will have to do for tonight. As the dog busies himself with my pasta, I crawl into the tent, where I spend the last minutes before true dark with the taste of cold sandwich in my mouth and the certainty that tomorrow, I'm going to have to find more food.