3. Yera

Chapter three

Yera

B lackness is the last thing I remember before a stinging light shakes me out of my sleep. My eyes are heavy, but I raise my arm in a long stretch that cracks a spot low in my shoulder blade.

I stretch again, tensing and releasing every muscle to assure myself that I am, in fact, still here.

I've taken mushrooms more times than I can count at this point in my life, and I have never experienced a trip that intense.

There is a slight chill in the air despite the growing light. I gather it's still morning. I wonder if Ava and Mariana are looking for me.

Maybe they ingested the same fungi I did and woke up somewhere else, just as confused .

Sitting up straight and gripping my knees for composure, I assess the surrounding land. It looks like the same forest we've been hiking in for days. Native shrubs and wildflowers are all recognizable.

The scent of cedar and sweetgrass blows in with the morning air, and I immediately feel at home.

Steadying my legs beneath me, I rise slowly, letting my palms sink into the soft grass covered in morning dew. My body seems sturdy and awake, not the wobbly mess I expected.

The glen looks familiar, I think, pressing my fingers to my lips in contemplation. I must determine my starting direction and retrace my steps to return to camp.

I don't remember a path, meaning there should be a wake of broken branches and trampled grass I can follow back. I make my way around the field, keeping an eye out for the telltale signs of snapped branches or footprints the way a tracker would when hunting for larger prey.

After the third pass, upon close inspection, I can see the green cambium layer of a broken willow branch and, just below it, a footprint stamped into the mud.

Hastily, I plunge into the woods, tracking every broken twig and part in the underbrush.

Leaves whip and sting my exposed skin, and I realize I'm just in hiking shorts and a tank top. A sharp branch catches the outside of my calf, causing me to wince in pain as the scrape beads with blood.

"Once I return to camp, I can clean that cut and change my clothes," I chant while my socks fill with morning dew, causing my steps to make squishing, borderline indecent sounds.

The forest opens, and I note the change from a soft forest floor to a hardened clay pathway under my feet. "Hell, yes," I mouth triumphantly, stepping to the middle of the trail and letting the morning air cool my skin .

I attempt to find the camp using my memory from the previous day's hike, but I am unsuccessful.

My sense of direction seems off. It's not uncommon to have mushrooms affect me the next day. Not to mention, I don't know what kind of mycelium I was exposed to.

It could have many unknown effects.

To acknowledge that I've come into contact with an unidentified mushroom should undoubtedly trigger a panic attack.

But…if it were going to kill me, it would have happened already.

I break things down logically as I walk.

If my friends returned to camp before me, they would wait. We have plenty of food and water for the next few days. They would wait at least twenty-four hours before contacting Search and Rescue.

The thought of having some time before they plaster my face all over local TV shows brings a flicker of hope.

That hope suddenly crashes around me into a thousand pieces.

You have got to be fucking kidding me .

I pass a familiar clearing with the hard-tamped ground that backs up to a high mountain meadow. A clearing with room for three tents… but not one in sight.

I run to the site and drop to my knees, sending shockwaves through my core at the impact. I claw at the ground, looking for signs of my friends, our camp, anything.

As I run my hands over the ground, I feel no trace of the holes where I had anchored my tent just hours earlier.

The pine needles and cones are undisturbed where our camp should have been.

"No, no, no, no!" I shout, cradling my forehead with both hands, smearing it with dirt. It's empty, with no sign of life, no tracks, no fire ring .

Is it possible this is the wrong campsite? I survey the surroundings again, visualizing the forest layout and the original location of our campsite.

This was the spot.

Where the fuck did they go?

Anxiety closes in on me, like an implosion under mass pressure. I pulse my hands slowly, in and out, letting the cool sensation spread across my heated skin. I take a deep, soothing breath and clear my mind.

What is happening? Let's break this down.

I must make sense of this situation, need to make sense of it, or I'll spiral. My heart rate picks up at that thought, and I instinctually check the pulse beating franticly under my fingertips, a habit I developed when I felt overwhelmed or sensed a panic attack coming on.

Just breathe and think .

I'm clenching and releasing multiple muscle groups—a technique my therapist taught me.

Okay, let's break this down.

You experienced a hallucinogenic drug, possibly unknown to science at this point. We were likely exposed prior to setting up camp, and we could have separated at any time yesterday.

This awareness makes my head swim again.

Shit. Next option. Come on, Yera, let's reason our way out of this. If we didn't make camp, we must have split further up the trail.

Now, we all could have woken up at different times and places. That means if we all found our way back to the main path, we would have noticed our empty campsite.

If the camp existed only in my head, it would be inconsequential to them, and they wouldn't notice anything amiss .

Okay, what next? If we all had different trips and our metabolisms processed the drug at different speeds, we would likely wake up alone.

As experienced hikers, they would either stay or turn back on the main trail. If we all stay put, nothing happens except for Search and Rescue.

This is a popular trail.

The probability of encountering another hiker is high. Hiking back down is the best course of action. If I encounter someone else on the path, they may have seen Mari or Ava. Be polite, let them know your situation, and move on from there.

Yes, I've got a plan. I rub my temples once more, spreading the dirt further, its grit scraping my skin.

I have a plan, but I have no water, my pack is gone, and I have a cut on my leg. Breathing deeply, I decide to break up my day according to the sun's height and proximity to the natural springs that feed the creeks.

The first spring is only thirty minutes away on foot. Once there, I can clean my scrape and spend the height of the afternoon hydrating. After that point, I'll walk for two more hours to the next tributary, where I'll spend the night.

It will be slow going, but I'd rather play it safe than risk dehydration.

I sense the drug's impact during the entire walk to the first spring.

A bright, burning red flower litters the forest floor, and on closer inspection, it's lupin. Lupin doesn't natively grow in this shade of red–anywhere.

The oddities don't stop there. From a distance, everything looks the same, familiar and comforting.

It's not, though.

This forest has shifted in subtle but all-encompassing ways. Every rock, every shrub, and every blade of grass has a slight, if not overt, abnormality about it. I pinch a thimbleberry between my thumb and forefinger. Dark green juice slides down my palm. This color should be red.

The rush of water gets louder while I slowly make my way further down the path, investigating each irregularity I can spot without taking too much time. The air gets a little cooler, and mist rises behind a gathering of willow saplings.

The water runs clear over a colorful rock bed. Bright green ferns line the bank, and dark moss coverers the rock faces. Just ahead, a natural pool has formed where the creek slows. A collection of boulders protects the stilled water from the current.

The light catches, revealing a sparkling spring flowing into the pool. My mouth waters at the sight, and I instinctively lick my dry lips.

The pool is just downstream, and the water looks about knee to thigh-high in spots. I lower myself onto a soft moss patch and untie my hiking boots. My socks are soaked in dew and sweat, so I ring them out in the cool water before laying them out to dry on a flat rock, warm to the touch by the midday sun. My poor toes beneath are pruned, so I set them on the warm stone and let its heat soak into me.

After luxuriating in the afternoon, I summon the courage to wade through the creek to the mountain pool, dipping one toe into the cool water and instantly recoiling—great temperature for drinking, garbage temperature for water sports.

I test it again, dunking my entire foot this time. The cold instantly takes my breath away . Suck it up, Yera. You need drinking water.

I kick off the rock fully. The cold stings my skin and then gently eases as my body adjusts.

As I approach the pool, the water level gradually increases from knee to thigh .

The rocks underfoot, luckily, are rounded and soft, beaten down by years of erosion.

Unfortunately, swimming through a five-foot-deep pool is necessary to reach the bank with the spring. Since I'm five-foot-four, I'll need to submerge fully.

A large, flat boulder marks the pool entrance, and I hoist myself on top. The sudden rush of heat to my limbs makes my skin prickle.

I sit there momentarily, letting my body warm and staring at the pastel pebbles clear as day in the pristine water.

A massive splash sounds behind me. Before I turn my head, a hard object strikes me on the back with such force that it knocks the wind from my lungs and sends me head-first into the water.