It's the Mountain Air

[WickedCadrach]

Rachel had not seen a single soul in nearly eight hours. And it was beautiful. 

Her legs burned. Sweat ran down her back, the lightweight polyester only able to do so much as the mountain claimed its tax in strain and will, and she patted the red bandana tied around her forehead to daub some of the moisture attempting to slip past the curl of her chestnut hair and run into her eyes. The path was generally safe, but Rachel had come so far out that if she couldn't see her step and rolled her ankle, it could turn into a very serious problem, very quickly. But she'd taken all the precautions she could. And Katie knew where she'd be—near enough anyway—and how long to wait if she didn't hear from her. The risk was part of the price of solitude, and that's what this trip was about. Isolation. Rest. Renewal.

The pack on her back was secure—attested by the way nothing slipped free when her worn hiking boot had lost its grip on the pine-needle strewn ground and she'd gone to hands and knees a mile back—but she had to admit she'd rushed to get moving again after lunch, not really balancing the bag the way she should have, and her shoulder was paying for it. But it would all be worth it. They said that the mountains of Appalachia were some of the oldest in the world, made back when the continents were jostling for position and even the dinosaurs were just a twinkle in the planet's eye. And there was something in that mountain air, the mist of it all... the quiet and the green, breathing slopes of the Smoky Mountains... something that gave her life—something that returned her back to the wild and woke up the animal part of her brain. 

And as she reached her campsite—not a preset plot, not a place even chosen by her thinking brain for its dry elevation, open air and access to water, she had passed places ticking those boxes already—she knew it was her campsite by the wordless growl in her chest, a light happy rumble that told her 'this is a good place to rest'. The view between the trees ahead of her showed how the slope crested further on, and from where she stood, Rachel could see for miles and miles before the surrounding mists and rolling mountains cut off her view.

The evening sun was cutting through the trees as she cleared the ground and laid the stakes and stones for tent and fire. She washed her neck with a rag dipped in trickling creek running off a mountain spring, feeling her tired muscles unwind. She ate some of the food she'd packed in over a crackling fire. And as the sun vanished and the moon rose over her, washing the ash, the hickory, and Rachel alike in pale fire, she stood as if mesmerized. Looking up into the bold face hanging in a night sky glittered with stars, Rachel unbound her hair. Letting the bandana carelessly fall and drift on the night wind, she pulled her shirt off next, smelling the exertion clinging to it as she stripped the tight athletic bra in the moment after. Her pants fell around her ankles as she stepped from her shoes and stood on each foot in turn to cast away her socks, peeling them off like a snake shedding its skin. And as the last bit of her was bared to the moon, Rachel lifted her arms and let out a long and wild howl. 

Isolation. Rest. Renewal. 

Rachel had not seen a single soul for eleven hours.

But she was not alone.