Lara Lynne
Winston possessed a premium Alpine pole, high-tech compass, and a flannel shirt that smelled like pine. He did not, however, possess any sense of direction. He was lost.
“Moss grows on the north side of trees,” he muttered, inspecting a fully engulfed trunk. “Unless it grows everywhere.”
“It’s lichen and grows wherever it wants to confuse tourists,” a voice chimed from behind him.
“Ahhhhhh!” Winston dropped his compass into the trail’s mud as he spun around. Perched comfortably on a granite boulder was a woman wearing a crisp olive-green uniform, a Ranger hat, and an amused smile. Time to recover his dignity.
“I’m no tourist.” He thumped a fist on his chest. “I’m a mountain man conducting tactical reconnaissance of the terrain.”
The Ranger hopped down from the boulder, landing with grace Winston coveted. She looked over his new boots and designer gear that screamed “nature newbie.”
“Tactical reconnaissance,” she echoed. “That’s what you call repeatedly walking a one-mile circle around an outhouse?”
“I was testing perimeter security,” Winston explained, retrieving his compass and wiping it clean on his trousers. “For the record, I knew exactly where I was until the rocks moved.”
“Classic Yellowstone.” Her eyes sparkled. “The rocks here love to migrate.” She extended her hand. “Ranger Mia Wylde. Well met, Daniel Boone.”
“Winston Fairchild,” he corrected, shaking her hand. “I’m exploring the untamed wilderness.”
“Well, Winston . . . your untamed wilderness is currently three hundred yards behind the Visitor Education Center.” Mia pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “If you listen closely, you can hear the untamed cacophony of school buses unloading.”
Winston listened. Distant, metallic rumbles and the faint sounds of screaming children echoed through the pines. He cleared his throat. “A tactical diversion to throw off bears.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Mia nodded. “Bears are notoriously terrified of middle school field trips due to highly evolved self-preservation instincts. Consulted Inept Woodsman magazine, did you?”
“No . . . Leisure Sciences,” he countered. “I’ll have you know I’m fully prepared for any emergency. Water purification straw, thermal blanket that reflects ninety-nine percent of body heat, and three flavors of beef jerky.”
“Ooooooo . . . Teriyaki, peppered, and maple?”
“Original, hickory, and habanero-mango.”
“Ah . . . the wildlife will thank you for carrying mango-scented meat products through a high-density predator zone.” Mia raised an eyebrow and pulled a bright red canister off his backpack loop. “What, pray tell, is this?”
“Bear spray,” Winston answered. “Maximum strength.”
She flipped the canister over. “Um . . . this is industrial-strength mosquito repellent. It only ensures bears won’t get malaria while they eat your jerky.”
He snatched the can back, red-faced. “The salesman at Outdoor World assured me it was multi-purpose.”
“Right. He pegged your newbie status from a mile away.” Mia laughed, the sound bright and musical. Winston found himself unbothered by the fact she was amused by his ineptitude.
They walked along a trail Winston could’ve sworn wasn’t there five minutes ago. She moved with effortless efficiency, pointing out things he would’ve missed entirely: a hidden deer track, the scratch marks of a buck on a young aspen, the distant, sulfurous plume of a hidden thermal vent.
“You really know this place.” He was impressed.
“It’s my backyard.” Mia shrugged. “Respect it, it keeps you alive. Pretend you own it—it humbles you.” She looked at his mud-stained pants. “Or, in your case, paints you brown.”
“Hey, mud adds character.” He preened. “It says, I have wrestled the earth, and we came to a mutual understanding.”
“The earth won, Winston.”
“Mutual understanding, Ms. Wylde . . . mutual understanding.”
They reached a clearing that overlooked a sweeping valley. The Yellowstone River snaked through, a ribbon of sapphire. The sun dipped lower, casting long, dramatic shadows across the plateau.
“Wow,” Winston whispered.
“Pretty spectacular backyard, right?” Mia stood beside him.
Winston turned from the vista and focused on her profile. The golden hour light caught the gentle curve of her jaw and the stray strands of hair escaping her hat. “Yeah . . . spectacular.”
She caught him looking and a faint flush appeared on her cheeks. “The view is over there, city boy.”
“I’m expanding my perimeter reconnaissance,” he replied, surprised by his boldness.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You may get lost again.”
“Nah . . . I’ve got an expert guide.” Winston held her gaze. “I’m entirely safe. Well, except for the mango jerky situation.”
Mia laughed. “Come on, Ranger Rick. Let’s get you back to civilization before the local carnivores mug you for your jerky.”
As they neared the main lodge, Winston felt a pang of disappointment. He didn’t want today’s adventure to end.
Mia stopped at the edge of the tree line. “Congratulations, Winston. You survived the perilous depths of the nature trail.”
“Thanks to your elite forest skills.” He shrugged off his overstuffed backpack in relief. “I suppose you’ll go back to wrestling wolves or whatever it is you do.”
“Mostly writing tickets for people who try to pet the bison.” Mia chuckled. “Wrestling wolves is scheduled for Tuesday.”
Winston rubbed the back of his neck. “So . . . if I want to learn the difference between lichen and moss minus the threat of malaria-free bears . . . ?”
Mia raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking for a private consultation?”
“More like an educational seminar.” He stepped closer. “Over dinner. Preferably somewhere with zero school buses.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long, breathtaking minute. With a whisper of a smile, Mia pulled out a small notepad, scribbled, and tore off a page. She tucked it neatly into the top pocket of his flannel shirt.
“My number.” She tapped the pocket. “Call me tomorrow. And Winston?”
“Yes, Mia?”
“Save some habanero-mango jerky for me.”
Winston felt his heart somersault as Mia turned and walked back into the forest, disappearing into the shadows like a dryad. His compass chirruped and he looked down. The screen was glitching erratically, but for the first time all day, Winston knew exactly where he was going.
She is a multi-media designer/animator and craft hoarder (see recycling note) who dreams of one day having a “real” book published. Unfortunately, that goal requires more focused time than she currently possesses, so she practices with flash fiction stories. This helps keep the characters in her head from pestering her too much. They all want their stories told — sheesh.
Spark Flash Fiction 