Two miles into Clark’s survival trip, on a vicious uphill, I am very, very tired. My hips and shoulders are killing me. And I am sweating in places I didn’t even know I had sweat glands.
Also, I have just discovered I am totally in over my head.
“Wait,” I say. “Say that part again. About how if it rains…”
“If it rains,” Gabe says patiently, “we will be very wet all night.”
He’s behind me on the trail.
“Because…”
“Because we are sleeping in shelters that we make ourselves, and they’re not watertight. But you know, Lucy, even if we were sleeping in a tent, if it rained hard enough, we’d get wet.”
You know how you can agree to something, because it’s kind of vague and abstract, but then when you get close to it, you realize what you’ve agreed to?
Yeah, that’s Clark’s trip.
“This isn’t, like, hard core,” Gabe says. “Clark does hard-core trips, too. He does several week-long trips where he gradually weans people off all their gear until they can operate with only the clothes on their backs and a knife.”
I stumble and almost topple onto my ass. Gabe grabs my pack and steadies me from behind.
“Only the clothes… and a knife…”
The words come out gasp-y, because I haven’t been able to completely catch my breath since we started the very-much-uphill portion of today’s hike. Despite being in pretty decent shape.
Apparently, it’s different with forty pounds on your back.
“That’s not what this is, Lucy. This is more of a beginner’s guide to surviving.”
“That sounds like an oxymoron. Like, you need to have enough expertise to survive, right? Or you’ll die?”
I’m trying not to sound as panicky as I feel.
Still patient, and now—I’m pretty sure—trying very hard not to laugh, Gabe says, “No one is dying. There’s nothing remotely risky about this trip. We’re going to get to the campsite, and then Clark is going to teach us essentials. Basic wilderness first aid, the psychology of survival...”
“There’s a psychology to it?”
“Yes,” Gabe says, very, very dryly. “Not panicking.”
I take the deepest breath I can manage, step in a puddle, and splash mud all over myself. I groan.
“Oh, Lucy,” Gabe says, definitely trying not to laugh. “Take my word for it; this is the cleanest you’ll be for the next two days.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I whisper. “No shower tent, huh?”
“What is a shower tent?” Gabe asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.
“I’ve been doing some research,” I say, “and there are shower tents. And privy tents. I’m thinking that maybe when Clark does glamping trips, he can add those.”
There is a deafening silence from behind me. I don’t dare turn around, not because I’m afraid of Gabe’s reaction, but because if I quit watching the ground in front of me for even a second, I’ll go down. Or more likely, heels over backpack over head.
“I want to be there,” Gabe says finally, “when you raise that idea with Clark. I want to see his face.”
“You don’t think he’ll like it?”
“I’m going to assume you’re messing with me. Because that’s the simplest explanation.”
I decide that now is not a good moment to defend my case for toilet and shower tents. “Okay, so what else, besides wilderness first aid and not panicking?” I try to make it funny, like who would do that??? but it comes out nervous.
Gabe, maybe out of self-preservation, doesn’t tease me. “Staying warm,” he says. “The first step of which is building shelters, then making fires without matches. And heating a shelter without creating a fire risk. Then water.”
“Water,” I repeat. I put my hand to the side of my pack, where there is one more quart-sized bottle full of clean water.
“How to find water sources and purify them.”
“I mean, doesn’t the campsite have running water?”
Gabe snorts. Loudly. “The campsite is a few flat spots in the woods where people have set up tents in the past. It doesn’t have anything else, except maybe a small piece of litter that someone has forgotten to pack out.”
“But there’s a stream, or something, right?”
Gabe takes pity on me with a big sigh. “There’s a stream about a quarter mile away. Clark doesn’t draw attention to it because he wants us to be resourceful and find other sources. You’ll see. He’ll show you how to collect dew and rainwater and how to dig a very simple well. And then tomorrow he’ll cover foraging for food. And some rudimentary fishing and trapping. But the truth is, in a short-term survival situation, it’s more important to conserve energy than it is to look for food. Because you’ll be rescued before you can starve. It’s only if you’re stranded for a longer period of time that you’ll need to make food-finding a priority.”
I make a small sound of distress.
“Stick with me, Lucy,” Gabe says, all open amusement now. “And you won’t need to worry about any of this.”
Clark roves the area where we’ve set up camp, checking on all of us as we build shelters from fallen tree debris.
I’m still working on finding two branches that will stand up and make the A of my A-frame. So far, I’ve toppled several pairs. I cross my arms as another duo falls.
Clark eyes my progress. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I think you need a bigger notch here. To support the other branch. Look for something with more of a real ‘Y’ shape.”
I go looking. My feet are killing me. My back hurts from bending over.
I’m several hundred yards from the main campsite when I stumble into a second clearing, where Gabe is building his shelter. And all at once, I’m not tired at all. Because:
Gah, look at him.
Gabe is as competent at survival as he is at everything else he does.
I stop behind a tree and watch, hoping I don’t get caught shamelessly engaging in outdoor adventure porn.
It turns out that a big man in a form-fitting base layer and hiking pants, with a day’s scruff, is my jam. Every muscle in his back, shoulders, and arms flexes under the thin shirt—including the eight-pack abs. The hiking pants are loose except where they cup his perfect ass and stretch over his solid thighs whenever he squats.
Also, his shelter is almost done. And it looks like a small cabin. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously: This guy has built a shelter big enough for two.
Which might come in handy later, especially if I don’t get my act together.
Gabe turns around and catches me looking, raising his eyebrows and smirking at me. “How’s yours coming?”
“Mmm,” I say. “I’m still trying to master the fine art of finding two branches.”
He chuckles. “Let me know if you need help.”
“Pride won’t let me accept your help.”
“Pride goeth before a long, wet night.”
I look at the sky, panicked—and then back at Gabe, who’s laughing.
“There’s no rain forecast, is there.”
“Nope,” he says.
“Bastard.” I punch his arm. I punch it again, because so satisfying! And then I wrap my hand around it and squeeze. “Your shelter looks cozy, Big Man,” I say, and watch, amused, as Gabe’s eyes go dark.
“If you’re really nice to me, I might let you share it.”
“If you’re really nice to me, I might accept your offer.”
I squeeze his arm one more time, for research. Then I resume my search and manage to find two branches that lean against each other and support the weight of the main spine of my shelter. I start collecting sticks and branches to line the sides.
My shelter is not the only troubled one. There are three men with us on the trip, and the one who I thought would turn out to be a pro, a big beast of a dude named Iggy, wearing flannels and sporting a beard, turns out to flail even worse than I do. We commiserate on the difficulty of getting leaves to cover the outside of the shelter without them falling through. He admits to never having camped a day in his life, and explains that he woke up one morning and decided that he wanted to start doing things that scared the shit out of him. He asks if I have a similar story.
I explain that I’m here to do research so I can help the guys tailor trips to bring in new customers.
He suggests Clark reduce the first day’s hike from five miles to three.
“I had that exact thought,” I tell him, “right around mile one.”
We share a rueful laugh.
I catch Gabe frowning at us and decide I like it way too much.
When we’re done with shelters, we move on to water. With Clark’s instructions, I do my best to craft two different water-collecting devices from tarp, rope, and my water bottle, but my knots never quite… knot. And my tarps don’t sag in the places they’re supposed to sag.
I hope Clark’s dew-collection strategy, which we’ll practice in the morning, works out better for me.
Gabe saunters over. “How’s it going, City Girl?”
“Mock me at your own peril, Mountain Man. If you ever visit New York, I’ll find ways to make your life miserable.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Partly because they contain a big assumption I’m embarrassed to have made: that Gabe would ever visit New York, and that if he did, he would look me up. But mostly because they remind me that I’m going back to New York, and all this… hotness… with Gabe will be over almost before it starts.
Gabe watches me quietly. Then he reaches over me, takes two rope ends out of my hand, and knots them with neat, efficient movements.
Damn.
This is a man who could tie me to a bed in three seconds flat. Which is not even a thing anyone has ever done to me. I’ve never wanted anyone to.
But right now, Gabe’s body is surrounding mine, big and hard and hot at my back, and unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s as happy to be there as I am to have him there.
I have to resist the urge to press my wrists together and put myself at his mercy.