Crow Pass

Miles tightened his loose backpack strap. “We’ll figure it out.”

Owen wanted to agree. He really did. They had planned to hike the first part today, find a place to sleep, and finish tomorrow. The plan had sounded simple at breakfast.

Now the backpack strap squeaked, the map refused to lie flat, and the guitar seemed to take up the space of a third hiker.

Owen tucked the map into his jacket. “We should have brought a tent.”

Miles looked at the guitar. “The guitar is more cheerful.”

“The guitar does not keep rain off our faces.”

“It can play a song about rain.”

“That is not the same thing.”

They stepped onto the trail.

At first, the path was wide and soft beneath their boots. Ferns brushed Owen’s knees. Somewhere in the trees, a bird made three bright notes. Owen smiled. The forest felt fresh and open, and the trail pointed clearly ahead.

Then it turned upward.

The gentle path became a steep slope of roots and wet stones. Owen took one step, then another. His pack pulled backward. The guitar bumped against his leg.

Miles climbed in front of him. “This is the warm-up.”

“I am warm.”

“You just started.”

“I am very talented at warming up.”

The trail rose again. Owen grabbed a branch for balance. It bent under his hand and sprang back, shaking rain onto his sleeve.

A little farther up, they stopped beside a flat rock. Owen set down the guitar and breathed in the sharp, green smell of the forest.

Miles pulled out a water bottle. “We should save water.”

“We have two bottles.”

“Exactly. That is why we should save it.”

Owen looked at the bottle in Miles’s hand. “How much food did you bring?”

Miles opened his pack. He took out a peanut butter sandwich, three apples, a bag of crackers, and a chocolate bar.

Owen opened his own pack. “Trail mix.”

“How much?”

Owen held up the bag. It was small enough to fit in his palm.

Miles studied it. “Is that one serving?”

“It is a brave serving.”

Miles laughed, but the laugh faded when he looked up the steep trail.

The map came out again. Owen spread it across the flat rock. A damp corner curled toward the sky.

“The trail goes through Crow Pass,” he said. “Then down toward Eagle River.”

“How far to the first good camping spot?”

Owen traced the line with one finger. “I’m not sure.”

Miles waited.

Owen turned the map around. “The compass might help.”

He pulled the compass from his pocket. The needle spun once, stopped, and then pointed toward Miles’s shoe.

Miles lifted his foot. The needle swung toward Owen’s belt buckle.

Owen remembered the small metal clip on his pack. He moved the compass away. The needle spun again.

“It is thinking,” Owen said.

“It is confused.”

“So are we.”

A soft rustle came from the brush beside the trail.

Both friends looked over.

The leaves trembled. Something moved behind them, making a low, steady sound.

Owen’s fingers tightened around the map. Miles reached for the guitar.

The brush shook again.

Then a round gray head popped out.

A marmot stared at them with a mouth full of grass.

Miles slowly lowered the guitar. “That is not a bear.”

The marmot chewed.

Owen let out the breath he had been holding. “It has a very serious face.”

The marmot turned and waddled away.

Miles grinned. “Maybe it knows where the trail goes.”

“Maybe it knows where the snacks are.”

As if it understood, the marmot paused and looked back at Owen’s trail mix.

Owen tucked the bag deeper into his pack. “No sharing today.”

They climbed on.

The forest grew quieter as the trail rose. Clouds drifted over the tops of the mountains. A thin mist moved between the trees. Owen could hear water somewhere below them, rushing over rocks.

Then the mosquitoes arrived.

One landed on his cheek.

Owen slapped his face.

Miles jumped. “What happened?”

“Mosquito.”

“Did you get it?”

“No. I gave it a high five.”

Another mosquito buzzed near Owen’s ear. Then another. Soon the air seemed full of tiny wings.

Miles pulled a hat over his ears. “We need bug spray.”

Owen searched his pack. He found a spoon, a sock, a flashlight, and one guitar pick.

“No bug spray.”

Miles stared at him. “You packed a guitar pick?”

“It came with the guitar.”

“That does not answer the question.”

Owen waved the map to move the mosquitoes away. The map folded itself in half and smacked him on the nose.

Miles laughed so hard he had to sit on a rock.

Owen tried to stay annoyed, but the map looked so silly that he laughed too. The mosquitoes did not laugh. They kept buzzing.

They pulled their shirts over their arms and hurried up the trail.

At the next bend, the ground leveled out. A small wooden bridge crossed a narrow stream. The water ran clear over pale stones. On the other side, the trail continued through tall grass.

Owen stepped onto the bridge. It creaked.

Miles followed with the guitar. “This feels more like a real hike.”

Owen looked back at the steep slope. His legs felt tired already. “A real hike with a very fake plan.”

They crossed together. At the far end, Miles set down his pack and pulled out the sandwich.

Owen sat beside him. The wood was cool through his pants.

Miles broke the sandwich in half and handed Owen a piece. “Here.”

Owen took it. “I have trail mix.”

“You have a brave serving.”

They ate in silence while the stream hurried below them. The peanut butter stuck to the roof of Owen’s mouth. He drank water and listened to the forest.

For a moment, the hike felt easy.

Then the first drops began to fall.

One landed on the map. Another landed on the guitar.

Miles grabbed the guitar and tucked it beneath his jacket. “The cheerful one needs shelter.”

Owen folded the map as carefully as he could. “We need shelter too.”

They hurried along the trail. The rain grew heavier, tapping on leaves and darkening the path. Owen’s boots slipped once, and Miles caught his elbow.

“Thanks,” Owen said.

“Teamwork.”

“Good. Because my plan has gone missing.”

“It may be under the paper map.”

They reached a small open place beside the trail. A fallen tree made a dry shelf beneath its branches. It was not a tent. It was not even close to a tent. But the ground underneath was mostly dry.

Miles looked at it. “This could be our sleeping place.”

Owen looked at the low branches, the wet leaves, and the narrow patch of dirt.

“For one squirrel,” he said.

“Two squirrels could share.”

Rain pattered on the branches. Owen imagined lying there with his backpack under his head and the guitar tucked beside him. He imagined the cold night air sliding through the trees. He imagined mosquitoes finding every bit of skin.

The thought made his shoulders droop.

Miles noticed. “Hey. We made it farther than the trailhead.”

“That is true.”

“And we have food.”

“Some food.”

“And a guitar.”

Owen looked at the instrument. “The guitar still does not count as a tent.”

“No,” Miles said. “But it can help us think.”

Miles lifted the guitar and strummed three soft notes. The sound floated through the wet forest. It was warm and bright, even under the gray sky.

Owen studied the trail. They had started climbing, stopped to solve the map, crossed the bridge, and kept moving through the rain and mosquitoes. They were not ready for a night yet. But they were moving.

He pulled the paper map from his jacket. It was wrinkled, damp, and folded backward. Owen smoothed it against his knee.

“We keep going until we find a better place,” he said. “Then we make a plan before it gets dark.”

Miles nodded. “A real plan?”

“A plan with shelter.”

“And maybe a song.”

“Fine. A song after shelter.”

They put their packs back on. Owen clipped the map to the outside pocket so it could dry. Miles carried the guitar beneath his rain jacket, with only the neck sticking out.

The trail rose gently now. Their boots found a steady rhythm: step, splash, step, splash. The rain softened to a mist. Far ahead, a pale opening appeared between the trees.

Owen could not yet see what was there, but the path beneath his feet felt firm. He had wanted the hike to begin with a bold first step. Instead, it had begun with a slipping guitar, a broken map fold, a hungry marmot, and mosquitoes that seemed to have tiny opinions.

Still, they were on Crow Pass.

They were headed from Girdwood toward Eagle River.

And they had made it past the steep start together.

At the edge of the clearing, Miles stopped. “Owen?”

“What?”

“Where exactly are we sleeping tonight?”

Owen looked at the open sky, the dripping trees, and the guitar.

He folded the map once more, this time the right way.

“We’ll solve that next,” he said.

The trail stretched ahead, wet and green, while the two friends stood close together and began making their first real plan.

End of chapter one. 27 more chapters in the full book.