The Backcountry Hut – Part 1: One Bunk

The hut was tiny, wooden and warm, and it already had a man in it.

Sasha stood in the doorway with her pack and her frozen fingers and a feeling of profound injustice. She had hiked six hours uphill through the Canadian Rockies in a thickening storm. Her reservation said Bunk 4, Saturday. The man inside, sitting at the table with a mug of tea, was holding a printout that said exactly the same.

"There's only one bunk," he said.

"There are four."

"Three are broken."

"Three are broken?"

"A bear." He winced. "Long story. Marcus."

He was thirty-four, lean, in a fleece and a wool hat, with a quiet voice and a kindly crooked smile. She was thirty, a geologist from Calgary, stubborn and exhausted. Outside, the wind howled across the pass and the snow fell sideways.

"We can't go back."

"No."

"One of us could take the floor."

"I'll take the floor," said Marcus.

"I'm not letting you take the floor."

"Then we'll flip."

"For the bunk?"

"For the stew."

She laughed in spite of herself. He lit the camping stove, and soon the little hut smelled of garlic and onions and simmering lentils. The wood stove ticked. Snow piled against the window. She took off her boots and sat with her feet near the heat, steaming gently.

"You're a geologist," said Marcus, reading her pack tag.

"Mmm. You?"

"Wilderness medic. I'm doing the pass for a rescue course."

"That's reassuring."

"I'll try not to need it."

They ate stew from tin mugs, shoulder to shoulder on the bench. He told her about the winter he'd spent on the Arctic coast; she told him about the fossil bed in Alberta where she'd found her first trilobite.

"Can I ask you something?" said Sasha.

"Yes."

"Is it odd that I'm glad you're here?"

"Green?" said Marcus, with a boyish grin, a trail marker.

"Green," said Sasha, laughing. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Alpenglow.