Chapter 1: Mushroom Rock

Back when I was a local guide, I never expected to squeeze into a tent with three women chasing adventure.

The memory lingers—cold nylon pressing into my elbows, the sharp tang of pine and a faint trace of last night’s campfire clinging to my clothes. This job wasn’t just about leading hikes; it was a backstage pass into lives and secrets I never imagined, all revealed under the flicker of a headlamp.

Supposedly, it was all by choice.

Everyone seemed to be in on the joke—laughing, comfortable, and daring anyone to question their version of adventure. The way they tossed their heads, beer bottles swinging, it was like they wanted the universe to try and tell them no.

My cousin—the one who roped me into this whole thing—said there were plenty of women like that. Down for anything, no drama.

He always made it sound like a hidden rule of the wild, grinning that lopsided grin he’d perfected after years hustling the hiking circuit. "It’s not what you think," he’d say, smacking at mosquitoes, "People just want something real out here."

1

We had a hiking crew: four men, four women, plus me and my cousin—ten all together.

Their names in my notebook came with city zip codes, but by the time we hit the trailhead, their boots were already caked in red mud. Some of them showed up with brand-new Merrells squeaking and REI packs that still had the tags on.

They’d mapped out the trip themselves: four days, three nights, looping through the backcountry, chasing the ridgeline as deep into the wild as they could get before swinging back.

It was a bold plan, taped to the van’s dash, but no one looked nervous. They brought highlighted topo maps, compared them to Google Maps on their phones—even though there was zero signal out here.

This was no walk in the park.

Mountains, cliffs, untouched woods, roaring rivers—all on the menu. The furthest point was Shadow Hollow, a place even locals whispered about.

Stories about Shadow Hollow got traded at the Lone Elk Bar, usually after midnight and a few cheap Budweisers. Some said a hunter vanished there in the '90s, never to be found. Even rangers called it a spot for wild things to keep their secrets.

But my cousin just shrugged. "Hey, if they wanna chase shadows, we just show 'em the way. That’s the gig."

He always acted like it was nothing, like this was just another shift. Five, maybe six years guiding—best earner in town. I was lucky he let me tag along.

At the bait shop, folks watched him with respect and a touch of envy. Around here, summer jobs didn’t last. Guiding was about as good as it got.

Our first night, we set up camp at Mushroom Rock.

Mushroom Rock juts out like a giant mushroom, a perfect balcony halfway up the mountain. From there, you get a killer view—sunrise in the east, sunset in the west, a sweep of wild grass and twisted old oaks to the south.

People always stopped for selfies, hashtagging #mountainmagic. The wind rustled the grass, and sometimes you’d hear an owl settling in for the night if you listened hard enough.

But the edge was the real showstopper. From a distance, it looked like a sheer drop—a lookout in the clouds. Up close, there was a ledge twelve feet down, just in case. The kind of spot only locals or people with the right guide would ever find.

My cousin used to jump down there as a teenager just to freak out tourists.

That’s why Mushroom Rock is always our first stop.

It was a ritual. Everyone lined up at the edge, arms slung around each other, breath misting in the air, feeling like they owned the world for a few minutes before the trek got real.

When night fell, spirits were high. The group gathered around, passing bags of Doritos and s’mores kits, joking and flirting, trading stories, and competing to see who could be the most charming. Someone even started humming a Taylor Swift song.

Laughter bounced off the rocks, beer cans snapped open, lanterns flickered. The stories got wilder, and the mountains seemed to lean in closer to listen.

My cousin and I stayed on the fringe.

We set up our tent away from the group, keeping an eye on things. Night crept in, and the noise faded to a low hum.

We’d always been outsiders, keeping watch, making sure nothing got out of hand.

My cousin fished a canvas bag from the tent, tapping it on his knee with a smug grin—like he was holding a royal flush at the gas station poker game.

I asked, “What’s in there?”

I tried to keep it casual, but the air felt thick with secrets.

He said, “Don’t ask. Our cut depends on this.”

He always handled the supplies, never letting me help. It stung a little, but I trusted him—mostly.

The others started turning in, flashlights blinking out, camp settling into the steady hum of bugs and a random giggle from a tent.

“Almost time,” my cousin said.

He nudged me, eyes locked on the tents like a coach calling a play.

“What’s almost time?” I asked, my heart beating faster, feeling like I was on the verge of a secret initiation.

“Shh… just watch.” He pointed at a tent.

I leaned forward, squinting into the dark, trying not to look obvious.

Sure enough, the zipper slid open. A round, big-eared head popped out, checked the coast, and tiptoed over.

The headlamp beam flashed off my cousin’s bag. The guy grinned—a big, goofy grin, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s.

“Yo, man, you got the stuff?” The big guy plopped down next to my cousin, grinning.

His name was Nick, but everyone called him Big Boss Nick. Chubby, always in a good mood, he was like the group’s mascot. The women loved his jokes.

He always brought the party—extra marshmallows, cards, whatever kept the good times rolling.

“Yeah,” my cousin replied, cool as ever, not even glancing up, but clearly waiting for this.

I was lost. That? What that?

They sat in a comfortable silence, like they’d done this a hundred times. I felt even more out of the loop.

“Hand me one,” Boss Nick said, half-whisper, half-demand, like he was ordering off a secret menu.

“A hundred bucks each.” My cousin reached into the bag, opened a pocket, and let Boss Nick peek inside.

He sounded like a pawn shop owner naming his price. I wondered what was actually in that bag.

“A hundred? Dude, that’s highway robbery.”

Boss Nick’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t sound shocked. The whole thing felt like a garage sale negotiation.

My cousin zipped up the bag, gazed at the stars, and said, “Take it or leave it.”

He was a pro at this game.

I was surprised. My cousin only finished high school, but suddenly he sounded like a hustler straight out of a movie. I felt like someone had swapped out the script while I wasn’t looking.

Boss Nick grumbled, but fished out a hundred anyway, slow as if the bills might vanish.

My cousin checked the money, then slipped something from the bag to Boss Nick—smooth as a magician. I tried to see what it was but couldn’t.

“There’s more if you want,” my cousin teased, tapping the bag for effect.

“More? What else you got?”

Boss Nick leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Take a look.” My cousin opened the bag, and Boss Nick’s eyes went wide.

The firelight caught in his pupils—he looked like a kid staring into a Halloween candy bucket.

“This one’s cheaper. Eighty.”

My cousin knew how to close a deal.

“Okay, I’ll take the black ones.” Another bill changed hands.

The trade felt almost comically formal—two guys swapping contraband at the edge of nowhere. My cousin barely blinked.

This time, I caught it: a pair of black stockings.

Boss Nick slunk off to another tent.

The tent flap dropped behind him, muffling a giggle. The moon was high, and I sat there fiddling with my shoelaces, trying not to look at my cousin, cheeks burning from secondhand embarrassment.