The Mountain Trail

Rafa and Ben started the hike at six in the morning. Their plan was simple: climb to the top of the mountain, look at the lake from above and come back before dark.

They had backpacks with water, sandwiches, a raincoat and an old paper map. “Our phones won't have signal up there,” Rafa had said. “A map never runs out of battery.”

The first hours were beautiful. The trail went through a pine forest, crossed two streams and climbed slowly between big gray rocks. The air was cold and smelled of resin.

They reached the top at eleven. From there, they could see three valleys and a blue lake far below. Ben took dozens of photos while Rafa ate his sandwich in silence.

On the way down, a thick fog came up from the valley. In a few minutes, they could not see more than five meters ahead. The trail disappeared into the white.

“Let's stop,” said Rafa. He opened the map and took the compass out of his backpack. “The trail follows the stream down to the parking lot. If we find the water, we find the way.”

They walked slowly, listening. After twenty long minutes, Ben heard it first: the sound of running water. They followed it and found the stream and, next to it, a small yellow trail sign.

When they arrived at the car, the fog was already lifting, and the sun was setting behind the mountain. Ben looked at his photos from the top. In all of them, the sky was perfectly clear.

“Next time,” he said, “I'll carry the map.” Rafa laughed. “Next time, we'll check the weather forecast first.”