The Way North
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 1
The coffee tasted like burnt motor oil and somehow made me feel alive again. That’s how I knew Neal had made it.
“Who even drinks it black anymore?” I muttered, staring into my mug like it owed me an apology.
“Men, ” Neal said, grinning as he zipped up his backpack. “Real men drink it black.”
Zack, barefoot and still yawning, wandered into the cabin’s small kitchen like he’d just remembered where he was. “Pretty sure cavemen drank it with oat milk and cinnamon.”
That earned him a snort from me. “Oat milk wasn’t invented yet. That was almond milk. Much older.”
We all chuckled—quietly, the way people laugh when they’re not quite awake, or maybe just pretending to be fine.
Truth was, I wasn’t quite either.
My name’s Caleb Hartwell. Thirty-one. I used to write things no one read, and worked a tech job that let me hide behind a screen all day. I grew up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey—strip malls, diners, and high school memories that feel like someone else’s life now. I rented out this cabin I inherited from my grandfather, not far from Waynesville, North Carolina, mostly to couples looking for a “quiet romantic escape” or retirees who think solitude is scenic.
Now here I was, in the middle of spring, up before the sun with two childhood friends and a trail to nowhere special, trying not to think about the fact that I was supposed to be married this summer.
But oh, how things can change.
“Do we need bear spray?” Zack asked, holding up a small canister like it might bite him.
“No,” I said. “Just don’t be the slowest one.”
“Neal’s wearing trail runners,” Zack said. “I saw him roll his ankle stepping over a hose last month.”
Neal raised a middle finger without looking up from his pack. “That hose was camouflaged. And the real threat out here is ticks, not bears.”
“You’re the real threat,” I said. “To logic. And hoses.”
This was why I invited them. Not just for the hiking, but for the noise. The kind that drowns out the echo of someone walking away.
I hadn’t been back to the cabin in a year. Not since before the engagement. I used to imagine bringing Kelsey here. Mornings on the porch, her wrapped in one of my flannels, coffee in hand. Maybe kids someday, stomping around in the leaves out back. Dumb, how fast a whole imagined life can go up in smoke.
Neal clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just thinking about bear spray again.”
He smirked, and I forced a smile.
The truth was, I wasn’t sure what I was doing out here—what I was looking for. But the trail was waiting, and for now, that was enough.
Zack was fussing with his socks like a man preparing for battle. “If I get one blister on this hike, I’m burning your cabin down.”
“You don’t burn down what you can’t find again,” I said, lacing up my boots. “We’re half a mile from the nearest road and surrounded by a thousand acres of trees. This place is practically off the grid.”
“That’s what worries me,” he said. “You’ve definitely got ‘buried a body once’ vibes.”
“Only the one,” I said, deadpan. “But he had it coming. Guy used oat milk in his coffee.”
Neal groaned. “Let it go, man.”
The teasing came easy with them. Easier than facing the silence when they weren’t around.
I caught myself looking at the wall above the fireplace. A faded photo still hung there—my grandfather in his ranger uniform, broad-shouldered and proud, standing in front of the cabin long before it had a deck or plumbing. I remembered sitting on his knee here when I was a kid, listening to his stories about black bears, lightning strikes, and the one time he swore he saw a mountain lion near Cades Cove.
He’d passed me this place like a torch, and I hadn’t done much with it. I merely listed it online, turned it into a weekend escape for strangers. Part of me felt like I’d let it become someone else’s cabin.
Now I was back, trying to remember why it had ever felt like mine.
“You packed the first aid kit, right?” Neal asked, patting his hip like he was checking for a wallet.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s in my pack. Right next to the emergency chocolate.”
“Attaboy.” Zack gave me a mock salute.
This trip had been Zack’s idea, really. He’d called me three weeks after the breakup with a voice full of plans and too much energy, saying something about clean air and trail therapy.
Neal had agreed without even asking for the dates. “We hike, we eat, we talk trash. You need it,” he’d said. No argument, no pity—just presence.
That was their way. And it was the only reason I’d said yes.
The morning sun filtered through the pine outside the kitchen window, slanting golden across the cabin floor. Dust motes danced in the light like something sacred.
For a moment, I felt suspended between two lives—one where I’d come here with Kelsey and built something that looked like a future, and this one, where I stood in hiking boots surrounded by two friends who still believed I was okay enough to carry forward.
“You ready?” Neal asked, tossing me a daypack.
I caught it. Nodded.
“Let’s go find out,” I said.
The others stepped outside ahead of me, the screen door creaking and slapping shut behind them. I lingered just a minute longer in the quiet.
The cabin felt different now—emptied of voices, but heavy with something else. I let my eyes trace the old pine walls, the scuffed hardwood floor, the corner where my grandfather’s fly rod still leaned, untouched.
He would’ve liked this—three guys heading out into the woods with no real plan beyond the next ridge. He always said the best kind of trail was the kind you didn’t overthink.
I let out a slow breath, grabbed my pack, and stepped out into the cool mountain morning.
The trailhead was only a few hundred yards from the cabin, but by the time we reached it, the trees had swallowed the cabin from view. It was like crossing an invisible line into another world.
The path was narrow and winding, the early light filtering through high branches. Last night’s rain had left a damp shimmer on everything—rocks, bark, moss. Our boots crunched wet gravel and soft earth, and the air smelled like pine needles and old stone.
“You know,” Zack said after a few minutes, “we should have brought the bear spray.”
“I told you,” Neal replied. “You’re more likely to get struck by lightning while being attacked by a swarm of bees.”
“That’s oddly specific,” I said.
“It’s a real stat,” Neal insisted.
“Still,” Zack went on, “I speak from experience. I’ve had a bear encounter.”
“Bullshit,” Neal said immediately.
Zack held up a hand, solemn. “Summer of 2018. Adirondacks. I was hiking solo, got turned around near Lake Colden. It was just past dusk, and I was halfway through a granola bar when I saw it.”
I gave him a side-eye. “A bear.”
“A huge one,” Zack said, eyes widening. “At least eight feet tall. Maybe nine. Had a scar across one eye like it’d been in prison. I froze. He sniffed the air, locked eyes with me—like a standoff in an old Western. Then, slowly, he raised one paw ... and waved.”
Neal barked a laugh. “Waved?”
“Waved,” Zack said, with exaggerated gravity. “Then he sauntered off into the brush, humming. I swear to God.”
“Name the trail,” Neal challenged.
“Nice try, nerd. Can’t reveal that kind of classified information. I gave the bear my granola bar. It’s how I got out alive.”
I shook my head, grinning despite myself. “You didn’t give a bear your granola bar. You dropped it in a panic and ran away screaming.”
“There may have been some screaming,” Zack admitted. “But it was very manly screaming. Deep and heroic.”
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