I gripped the steering wheel tightly, enough for my knuckles to appear even paler than they already were. Merging onto the highway, I hummed "Spirits" by the Strumbellas. My radio had stopped working two weeks ago, and music was essential to calming my nerves, especially today. 

“But we're all strange. And maybe we don't wanna change…” I sang. 

My stomach rumbled, but I promised myself I wouldn’t eat until I got to the trailhead. If I ever got to the trailhead. I still had three and a half hours of open road. 

“Can I actually get away with this?” I wondered out loud. My parents thought I was spending the week at Chelsea's beach house in New Jersey to celebrate the end of senior year. My friends didn’t care where I went, as long as I was gone. So, I drove north to the Catskill Mountains of New York. I was going to backpack the Devil’s Path. It was better this way. If Chelsea saw me, if anyone saw me after what happened the other night, I feared what they would’ve done. 

It is difficult to say what attracted me to the Devil’s Path. All I knew was that I longed to be alone. Drew told me that his uncle did the trail once. He said it was one of the most terrifying and challenging treks of his life. He grew paranoid of the old Dutch folktales about the Devil using the trail’s rocky notches as a refuge from humanity. He swore he could hear the Devil howling at night. 

I was sure the howling sound was just coyotes. Besides, everyone knew Drew’s uncle was crazy. I mean, who would willingly choose to spend a week in the woods alone? Oh right: me. 

Maybe the trail made me think of Drew. Almost everything made me think of Drew. I could connect every song and every place to a story he used to tell. Maybe I loved him. At least at seventeen, I thought I did. Looking back, I think I imagined most of it. Six years of hoping that he’d look at me the way I looked at him. There was a brief time when he noticed me, when one could have considered us close friends. But those days were long gone.  

I decided that if I kept up at 60mph I could get to the trailhead by 1:30 pm. With Drew on my mind, I began to think: what if he were here, too? What if Drew and I could backpack this trail together? I started to imagine it. 

Drew kicked his sock-covered feet up on the dashboard. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and deflating slowly. 

“How much longer until we get there?” he asked, toying with his Coleman headlamp. He had bought one of the expensive ones. It had settings for four blinking and shining colors. He kept clicking it, watching the light flash from red to green to white. 

“You’re wasting batteries.” 

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve got a whole other pack.” 

“It’ll take us three hours.” 

He sighed. “Sorry, I’m just excited. You know my uncle said that--” 

“I know. You told me, remember?” 

“No, not this one. You didn’t hear about the stars. Well, I mean it’s not much of a story, but the Devil’s Path is miles and miles from any major town. The night skies are apparently insane. We should stargaze tonight. You know, lay our sleeping bags out next to the fire tower on the top of Mt. Twin. As long as the mosquitos aren’t too bad.” 

I bit my bottom lip at the thought of us beneath the sky, of what Drew might look like covered in starlit shadows, of the jokes he might tell, of my nerves before I kissed him for real this time. But he wasn’t here. I might never see him again. I let out a sigh and continued on alone. No Drew beside me, and no music played to distract me from the silence. 

I reached the trailhead by one-thirty. That left me time to eat lunch and hike the nine or so miles to the first campsite on top of Mt. Twin. After unloading my gear from the car, I locked the van and zipped my keys into a small pocket on my pack. 

When I finally sunk my teeth into my turkey sub, everything seemed to be okay for a moment. I sat on a rotting wooden bench. It was easy to note the unpopularity of this place, for only two other cars sat in the gravel lot. Was this trail too challenging? Was it poorly marked? I was about to find out. I told myself that there was no turning back now. 

I headed toward the registration office. Its small door creaked open. A worn clipboard with dates going as far back as the late nineties was attached to inside of the door. 

I flipped through the pages. Sure enough, there he was: Clark Williamson from Chatham New Jersey, June of 1998. Drew’s uncle. On the "additional notes" column, he wrote, “If I never come home, don’t bother looking for me. I think I was supposed to be here anyway, solo upon this lonesome trail leading to nothing but trees and rocks and rivers. It's beautiful out here. Sure beats the consistency of the goddamn suburbs. Now that is something I know for sure. If there’s anyone there who actually reads these things, good luck and don’t let the Devil catch you. He’s out there. Oh, and so is Bigfoot, Nessie, and the Boogieman.” 

Clark had scribbled his note in bright purple ink. I was shocked it had lasted through all these years. For the first time in hours, I let a genuine smile creep up the sides of my lips. Drew told me I had to meet his "crazy" uncle one day. In some ways, I felt as though I already had. 

I wrote my name on one of the last pages on the clipboard, dated it June 10, 2015, and began to walk.  

It proved best to not dwell on all the miles my feet would carry me that afternoon. So, I let my mind wander between the crevices of the dense forest, around tree trunks, over creek beds filled with schools of minnows and trout. It wandered over the suspension bridge, praying that the rusty old cables would hold. Trees surrounded me. Nothing else could be seen for miles and miles. I loved it. 

For the first time in my life, I thanked my parents for dragging me on our annual mosquito-infested camping trips. They had helped me became accustomed to the wilderness. 

The trail grew rocky and steep, meaning I was already starting to climb Indian Head Mountain. It was the first of the six butt-kicking peaks on the Devil’s Path. New York trails did not have the usual painted blazes on the sides of tree trunks. Instead, small red circles were pinned to the bark. In large white lettering, they said "Foot Trail." These signs were the only thing I knew I could trust. I swore they’d carry me to the peak, past the fire towers, through the notches, never swaying off course or losing faith in me. Around another bend, across another stream, they were always there, waiting for me to pass by. 

I began to wonder if my parents would realize where I had gone, or if they truly believed I was at Chelsea's. It was quite comical that they didn’t even question me about alcohol. Everyone knew Senior Week was code for getting wasted seven nights in a row. Were they just stupid? Or did they really not care? 

I kept hiking, not stopping to stare at the dangerous path ahead. Of course I was nervous, but I swore to not let a single cuss word or scream escape my mouth. It's only a trail, I told myself. At some steep, rocky points, I had to travel on all fours. You needed more than leg muscles on the Devil's Path. You needed strong arms and a strong core, as well as a bit of insanity. I guessed that's what Drew’s uncle was talking about. 

I came to a steep and rocky incline. I clenched a dangling tree root with my left hand and a pointy rock with the other. My knees wiggled as they inched up the wall. I tapped my toe on rocks before I put any weight on them. My mind flashed with images of avalanches and wind gusts strong enough to knock me to the floor. I desired nothing more than to reach the top. It is only a trail, I chanted again. 

Then, I made the worst decision possible: I looked down. The forty foot drop looked like over a hundred feet. I was completely and utterly screwed. 

I let out a screech. I was petrified. Every muscle in my body shook as if I was having a seizure. Within seconds I misstepped. The pointy rock I tried to use as a stair scraped my shin. I lost my grip on the root. My body tumbled down a few feet. A flat boulder broke the fall, and I landed on my knees and forearms. 

Screaming in pain, I forced myself into a sitting position. I examined the flesh wound on my shin. Blood trickled down the sides of my calf. I watched as a few drops of blood fell onto the rock. I wished the rain would never wash them away so my mark on this godforsaken mountain could last forever. And maybe if anyone actually was crazy enough to try to summit Indian Head, they would stumble on the blood stains and remember to never ever look down. 

A distant howl echoed off the rocks. But in the moment, I was too pained to really care. Everything ached, and I was almost ready to turn back. Almost.