Authors: Margaret Fenton
“Morning. I woke you up. I’m so sorry.
I’ll call back.”
Grant. I struggled to sit up in the
tangled sheets. “No, it’s fine. What time is it?”
“Ten after ten.”
“You’re at High Tech?”
“Yeah. I hadn’t heard from you so I
thought I’d call. Do you know what movie you want to see tonight?”
I ran a hand through my mussed hair. “I
haven’t had a chance to see what’s playing.”
“Well, look if you get a chance, and
I’ll bring a newspaper with me just in case. Do you want to eat first?”
“I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
We discussed tonight’s date, finally
deciding Grant would pick me up at my house at six thirty and we’d see a movie
first. We hung up and I unwound my way out of my sheets and plodded my way into
the kitchen, brewed some strong coffee, and ate a breakfast of cold pizza. The
best breakfast in the world. Just not the healthiest.
Guilt prodded me. I had all day to do
something to counteract the effects of this horrible diet. I’ve never been much
of a gym girl, much preferring nature’s hills to artificial ones created by a
treadmill or a StairMaster.
I put my hair up under a baseball cap.
Dressed in heavy twill shorts, a heather gray long-sleeved shirt, thick socks,
and hiking boots. I found my small backpack in the hall closet and loaded it
with two liter-sized bottles of water, some granola bars, a small towel, my
trail map, insect repellant, and sunscreen. I grabbed my walking stick from
behind the door and locked up.
Oak Mountain State Park was five exits
south on I-65, almost ten thousand acres of outdoor recreation smack dab in the
middle of Birmingham’s urban sprawl. Among the park’s amenities were a golf
course, camp sites, horse stables, a BMX track, and, of course, hiking trails.
I thought about which one I wanted to hike today as I drove. The trails all had
names, but most people referred to them by the colors of the blazes that were marked
on trees along the way.
I parked the Honda at the mouth of the
North Trailhead. It was a bit less crowded than the one near the park office
and picnic areas. As I shouldered my backpack, two mountain bikers unlatched
their gear from a rack on the back of their SUV. We exchanged hellos and
pleasantries until they got helmets on and pedaled away toward the red trail,
the one most commonly used by bikers.
I entered the woods, the mouth of the
trailhead an inviting portal into the shade. I met four other hikers coming
down the mountain. It was just after one, and the lucky morning hikers had
already done their miles in the cooler hours.
I decided to do South Rim, otherwise
known as the blue trail. It started out as a difficult hike from this end of
the ridge, with a brief, steep climb that eased up another five or six hundred
feet over the next two miles. Once at the top, I’d be rewarded with gorgeous
views of the double-ridged mountain. My plan was to hike the blue trail toward
Shackleford Point Trail, marked in white. No way I’d do the whole loop, since
it was six miles long. An ambitious hike to say the least, especially since I
was getting such a late start.
I started up the hill, planting my
walking stick ahead of each step. The path was well maintained, clearly marked,
and wide enough for comfort. Underfoot, a soft mixture of mulched pine bark and
leaves was interspersed with tree roots that made handy footholds. The
underbrush of ferns, briars, and ivy was well cut back, making it less likely
that hikers would take a tumble. White oaks, sweetgums, and flowering dogwoods
all graced the trail, and the tall long-leaf pines gave the air a clean scent.
Mockingbirds and squirrels chattered high in the canopy.
Hiking the South Rim gave me little time
to think about anything but making sure one foot was in front of the other. My
thigh muscles tensed and relaxed, and after a while my whole mind was focused
on nothing but the rhythm of the walk. Plant, step. Plant, step. Breathe.
After some time, I passed the first
connector to the Red Trail, hearing some bikers talking loudly over the
whirring of their tires somewhere down the track. An hour into it, I stopped to
rest on a low fallen tree. I took one of the water bottles out of my pack,
drank half of it, then wet the towel and wiped my sweaty head and face. Zipped
the pack up and started again.
Plant, step, plant, step. I hiked past a
steep clearing dotted with pink-blooming mimosa trees that sloped down to a
valley. The views of the mountain were just up ahead, and for a short time I
enjoyed the relative peace of the woods.
The quiet was broken by the sound of
another hiker behind me. A solo. Not uncommon, Oak Mountain was a popular
place. His footfalls tromped through the dead leaves accompanied by heavy
breathing. He, or she, was having a hard time.
I rounded a boulder. At the end of the
turn, the smooth stump of a dead pine jutted up from the ground, a perfect
place for another rest. I sat, the hazy sunshine flickering through the leaves,
breathed deeply, and pulled out the water bottle.
The footsteps behind me grew closer, to
within ten yards, then halted.
Weird. There really was no place to rest
around that particular curve. No fallen trees or small rocks. It was a strange
place to stop. Whoever it was obviously hadn’t hiked this trail before and
didn’t know the good resting spots. I listened for sounds of his kit opening.
Water gurgling.
Nothing. I took one last swig of my
water, put the bottle back in my pack, strapped on the backpack, and hit the
trail again. Sure enough, the footsteps started when mine did.
You’re being paranoid, I told myself.
Just because some pissant slashed your tires. You can’t let one incident make
you afraid all the time. There were probably twenty-five hikers or more on
various sections of this trail today. Just because there’s one who doesn’t want
to overtake you doesn’t mean you’re being followed.
The footpath leveled out as it followed
the top of the ridge. This part of the trail was easier because it wasn’t as
steep. I passed another connector that led to the red trail, but didn’t see any
other people. I hiked on toward the connector that would take me down from the
blue trail. Along the way, I’d stop at my favorite overlook. To get to it I had
to climb up a steep outcrop of boulders. At the top was a large, flat rock that
hovered over a broad view of the mountains to the south. Below the rock was a
sharp hundred-foot drop to a wooded ravine. Being on the edge of the precipice
gave me a delirious sensation of floating at the edge of the world.
I turned off the trail to the short path
that would take me to my spot. The footsteps behind me stopped again.
I was starting to get seriously annoyed
with whoever it was. Yes, other hikers had just as much right to be out here,
but this stop-start-stop thing was getting on my nerves. I wished whoever it
was would just pass me and get on with it. Unless, of course, the person was
following me on purpose. Ridiculous. Or was it? I needed to find out.
Feeling stupid even as I did it, I left
the short path to the overlook and doubled back through the forest to a copse
of trees that bordered the blue trail. When I’d made the turnoff to the short
path, the other hiker had been some distance behind, thirty yards or so by the
echo of his steps. I hid behind a thick white oak and waited.
The footfalls came closer. I could hear
breathing again, more ragged. Whoever it was had no business being this far out
on the trail when they were that out of shape. It sounded from the clomping of
the steps like a man. A big man.
He came into view and my heart dropped,
then sped up to double time as I caught sight of wild brown hair and beard.
Jimmy Shelton was following me. He was
ill-equipped for the trail. I saw no evidence of drinking water, and the dark
blue jeans and black T-shirt he was wearing were too hot for this time of day.
His tennis shoes were wrong, too. He was heaving with the effort of every step.
I moved a bit, quietly, as he drew near,
making sure I was well hidden by the trunk of the tree. I’d have preferred a
bit more cover, but this part of the park was more pine forest than anything,
the tight canopy not allowing smaller bushes to thrive. I squatted and pressed
my face to the rough bark of the oak. Large black ants crawled around the base
of the tree, toward my face. I waited.
He was within feet of my hiding place
now. Eyes forward, thinking I was somewhere up ahead. As he passed, my breath
caught as I saw something in his right hand. Silver and sharp with a black
handle. A knife.
I held my breath. An adrenaline rush
accompanied the realization that I was in serious trouble. My heartbeat
thundered in my ears. I felt dizzy. Too scared to move.
Jimmy kept walking. I crouched,
stock-still. I couldn’t stay here forever. Soon he would realize I wasn’t ahead
of him. Then what would he do? Would he notice the short path to the rocks and
check to see if I’d gone there? My stomach turned sick as images of what could
have happened flashed in my mind. If I’d gone to my rock, I would have been
trapped. Caught between a man with a knife and a hundred-foot plunge. Had that
been his plan all along? To force me off the edge of some cliff so it looked
like a hiking accident? Or to find a relatively deserted section of trail and
stab me to death? Hiding my body in the woods somewhere to rot. I hadn’t told
anyone where I was going today. It could be hours before anyone figured out I
was missing.
I breathed short and shallow. Jimmy was
fifty feet away from me now. The turnoff to the short path was another thirty
feet or so ahead of him. I quickly weighed what few options I had.
I could head back down the blue trail
the way I came, but hiking the blue in reverse would be tough. Too many steep
downward inclines. No way to go fast. And when Jimmy figured out I wasn’t in
front of him, he’d probably turn around to try and find me. It was too much of
a gamble to try to get back to the red connector I’d passed earlier. No
guarantee I could outrun him. So going back was out.
The connector ahead would lead me to the
red and white trails. But any second now Jimmy would be back on the blue trail,
searching for me. So my route to the connector was cut off.
Or I could wait him out. He couldn’t
last much longer in this heat with no water or food and would have to go down
the mountain. Surely he’d leave before dark, when the park closed. I didn’t
relish the thought of spending the night out here. My clothes were cotton.
Breathable, but not the best material for keeping warm. July nights weren’t
cold, but eighty-something degrees was a lot cooler than it sounded when
sleeping on the ground without a blanket. We still had a good five hours of
daylight left. No way he’d last that long.
Or, I could bushwhack it. Head straight
down the mountain off-trail. If I could make it to the red trail, I could get
back to the North Trailhead where I’d started, or hike the other way to the
office and find a park ranger. Or maybe someone on the trail who had a cell
phone. I’d neglected to bring mine. I’d give anything to have it now.
At the moment, the last option seemed
like the best. Jimmy wouldn’t expect me to leave the trail at this point. With
my boots, I was better fitted to cross the gulleys and streams between here and
the base of the mountain. I peeked out from behind the oak and, not seeing
Jimmy, crept across the trail and into the dense forest.
The leaves were more slippery than on
the man-made path. And louder. I tried to shuffle, rather than walk, hoping I’d
sound more like some wild animal than an escaping hiker. I didn’t dare turn
around, fearing I’d see Jimmy behind me, knife raised.
The slope quickly became steep. It
wasn’t long before I fell, the hillside too angled for me to stay upright, even
with my stick. I landed on my ass and slid that way for a while, until the
slope leveled out a bit before a ravine. The ravine had good cover in the form
of a fallen tree. I stopped, lying on my stomach behind the low tree, thankful
the ditch wasn’t full of nasty water. I inhaled the scent of the moldy leaves
an inch from my nose as I lay quietly and waited, listening.
Nothing that sounded like a man. I heard
a few birds cawing. A tree branch somewhere cracked and fell to earth. A slight
breeze rustled the leaves. That was it.
After I listened for a minute or so, I
sat up. Unshouldering my pack, I unzipped it slowly, and dug out the map. I
found the place on the trail where I thought I’d gone off the marked path. The
trails were basically loops, each stacked on top of the other at different
elevations. The blue trail was at the highest elevation. So as long as I headed
down, I should run into some other trail. Or if I didn’t want to chance it, I
could go west where I was pretty sure the red trail snaked near the connector
I’d passed earlier.
I listened a few more minutes, making
sure no one was near. Sat up, drank some water. I had a liter left. I followed
the ravine west, hopping from rock to rock when I could to minimize the noise.
Stopped occasionally to look around and listen. When the ravine narrowed and
ended just below a sharp cliff, I turned downward again, sliding on the steep
slope until I came to a clearing.