Where The Trail Ends

Three months after Kara’s last text—I found the answer—I parked at the Summit Creek trailhead. I’d torn through her left-behinds for a clue—found only a Post-it written on the run: Summit > South Spur > Ridge.

I killed the engine. The trail, a half-swallowed scar, pulled me in. Devil’s club towered sky-high. Bear scat gleamed. A single bird called out—one long, metallic whistle that pierced the trees and died.

I kept moving—not because I believed Kara had found the answer, but because I feared she hadn’t. That she’s found trouble instead.

Two miles in, trees fell away to rockfall and slide alder. The trail zigzagged up the slope, brutal switchbacks that forced me low, gasping. The ridgeline waited above—avalanche scarred, sharp, and steep. A cairn hunched into shadow.

A storm bruised the western sky. The forked. On the left, a boot-worn scar along the ridgeline. A well-traveled path angled right. I checked the Post-it. Ridge. I veered left. The trail narrowed, barely clinging to the hillside. Wind shoved me sideways.

Thirty minutes later, I caught it—smoke. Thin as thread, tangled with spruce and moss. A clearing opened, ringed with tarp shelters. A tent in the center, smoke curling from a stovepipe. Four people, one woman gripped an axe. Two crouched over a fire. The fourth turned, tall, sharp-shouldered. She carried herself like a hawk poised on the branch, every line honed for strike. Her voice cracked the air. “Name?”

My breath stuttered.

The woman swept her gaze over me—boots, pack, sweat bleeding through my shirt. “Late arrival. Bush flight must’ve dumped you late. Rotations start in thirty. Drop your gear.” She whistled and turned, done with me.

Another woman stepped forward. Buzzed hair. Wolf tattoo. “Tent’s yours.” Chin-jut at a sagging shelter. “I’m Maren. Don’t mind the mess.” Her eyes snagged mine, then slid sideways. A signal. A man by the fire stood, arms folded, staring hard. Watching me now. The camp closed in tight around me.

I shifted my weight, hands loose but ready. “I’m Quinn, looking for my sister. Kara.”

Recognition flared in Maren’s eyes. Her fingers twitched near her belt.

Cold slid down my spine. “Is she here?”

“No.” The word—a slammed door.

I stepped in, closing the air between us. “Was she?”

“If you’re not a camper, you can’t have that tent.”

The wind snapped a tarp.

“Where is she?”

“Ask Asa.” Chin-flick toward the center tent. She pivoted and walked off. The watcher by the fire followed with his eyes, waiting for me to move.

At the tent, Asa’s gaze pinned me. Eyes too steady. Smile like a knife. “You’re not here for the program.”

The air stiffened.

Cold.

Charged.

“My sister came here. She texted me.”

Her lips curved, not kind. “Suffering sharpens the worthy. We break to become. That’s what your sister wanted.” Her tone slid under my skin, almost convincing, like she offered salvation instead of ruin.

“Bring me my sister.”

“You need to leave.” She brushed past, sure I’d step aside. But her eyes flicked—fast, sharp—toward the shadowed tents before snapping back. A crack in the mask.

I ducked into the trees and waited for dusk to sink the camp quiet. Campers filed into the canvas tent. Asa’s voice cut out: “Pain reveals. Only the broken can see.” My stomach turned. What had Kara found here?

I crept to the sagging tent, ducked inside, and dropped to my knees. My breath caught. Wildflowers stitched in thread, each bloom precise. An alpine valley glowing in emerald and glacier blue—unfinished, brushstroke abandoned mid-sweep. As if Kara’s hand had been torn away.

Under my knees, the tent floor still held her shape. My fingers brushed across a shallow hollow in the dirty surface, curled and compact. So close.

I turned. On the inside of the front flap, another drawing. A woman’s face, eyes dark and locked on mine. Her mouth curled around secrets. Beneath her, plants with broken stems, and on one of them—Kara’s Celtic cross.

In the corner, half-hidden under leaves, spiral binding glinted. I brushed dirt aside—Kara’s sketchbook, pages ripped out. On the inside back cover, unfinished pencil strokes outlined jagged ridgelines. From the peaks, a body leaned forward, my face breaking through—the cheekbones carved from stone, the eyes shadowed valleys. Kara had drawn me coming. Every nerve screamed trap.

Smoke pulled me outside. A burn pit smoldered. Ash glowed faint. At the top, pages curled like autumn leaves. Kara’s ring gleamed in the pile.

Footsteps. Asa. Close. “You weren’t supposed to stay.”

“I’m not leaving without Kara.”

She stepped nearer, jacket parting. A black T-shirt. White block letters: Ou, Of, Bo. The Out of Body, Back in 5 Minutes tee I’d given Kara. Asa’s voice dropped to a blade-edge whisper. “She wanted to shed herself. You can’t understand.” She circled me, voice coiling. “Your sister begged for it. Don’t rob her of her becoming.” Her eyes—dark wells.

I spat the words. “Where the hell is she?”

Her mask slipped. “Leave, Quinn. Before I make you part of the fire.”

I bolted, crashing through brush. Asa’s footsteps thudded after me, then stopped. Silence pressed. My chest hammered.

Later, under a waning moon, I reached the cairn and pressed into the rocks, shaking. I had to call the Troopers. Tell them about the camp, the art, my fears.

From deep in the trees, an unseen jay shrieked—rasp sharp enough to skin bark. Then, a rustle, something shifting in the drift of leaves packed against the cairn’s base. I brushed them back—and uncovered a leg. And then—Kara. Staked to the ground, arms splayed, blood crusted where the rope bit deep.

“Kara.” The name tore out of me. I dropped to my knees, knife sawing through knots.

Her eyes lifted. “Quinn?”

My name in her mouth cracked me. “I’ve got you.”

“You found me.” Her lips barely moved.

“Good clues…on the tent flap.”

Asa stepped out of the trees, hands behind her back. “You weren’t supposed to see.”

I rose. Planted myself between her and Kara. Her weight shifted. Something in her eyes went shark-like, and I knew.

She lunged, blade flashing.

I dropped low and drove upward. We crashed to the ground. Her knee shot toward my gut. I twisted and caught it on my hip. She slashed wild. I caught her wrist mid-arc, the blade nicking my arm. I snarled, torqued her wrist until her fingers spasmed and the knife clattered free. Asa growled, clawed at my arms.

I shifted, knees braced against her ribs. My fingers knotted in her hair. I yanked her head back, then slammed it down. A jolt, then slack. Her chest still hitched—alive.

I shoved away, heaved Kara over my shoulder, and staggered down the trail under the moon. Hours later, a flicker of signal. My fingers shook as I punched the numbers. “We need an ambulance. Summit Creek trail.”

The line clicked. A male voice: “We’re pulling pings from your phone.”

I shoved away, heaved Kara over my shoulder, and staggered down the trail under the moon. Hours later, a flicker of signal. My fingers shook as I punched the numbers. “We need an ambulance. Summit Creek trail.”

The line clicked. A male voice: “We’re pulling pings from your phone.”

Kara’s breath warmed my neck, proof she still lived. Yet my muscles locked, braced for Asa’s blade slipping from the dark. Safe. Alive. Hunted.

BIO: Alaska/Washington author Lynne Curry, a 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee and a nominee for Best Microfiction, founded "Real-life Writing," https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly "Writing from the Cabin" blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW and a weekly "dear Abby of the workplace" newspaper column. Curry has published eighteen short stories; four poems; one article on writing craft, and six books.