Twisted Trail

Currently seeking representation

Synopsis

JP, a man in his thirties, has escaped from Walla Walla State Penitentiary and is fleeing to Canada by hitchhiking. At Snoqualmie Pass, he discovers the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and wonders if it’s a less risky way to reach Canada, at least from the standpoint of getting caught . He strikes out with a hodgepodge of gear, including a buck knife—the very thing that landed him in prison four years earlier. Unbeknownst to JP, a veteran named Jim, also in his early thirties, is already hiking the PCT. Jim has a different motivation—he’s suffering from PTSD that has spiraled into horrific nightmares and suicidal thoughts after killing an innocent boy in Afghanistan. Through his hike, he’s attempting to escape his past and heal himself. Twisted Trail revolves around these two men and how their personal quests become entangled.

Excerpts

River Crossing

Jim, an Afghan war vet, has just had a PTSD episode that was triggered by some innocent comments made by a teenager he met on the trail.

Jim rammed the knife into his pocket. “Sorry. I get a little weird sometimes. Don’t take it personally.”

The kid didn’t answer, only stared in bewilderment. Jim stuffed the remains of his lunch into his pack and hastily swung it onto his back. “See you around, maybe.”

“Bye.” The boy’s single word rose like a tiny bubble that instantly burst between them.

Jim grabbed his poles, walked to the edge of the creek. The river looked knee deep and mean, eager to shove a backpacker onto his side. Jim felt the boy’s eyes on his back; he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of the kid. He pressed his lips into a tight grimace, placed his right foot onto the closest boulder, and watched the current swirl around the seam of his boot. The next rock was three feet away and sloping, but he had to use it. He lunged, paused to regain his balance. From that precarious pose he found another stepping stone, then another that wobbled. He jabbed into the creek with his hiking pole and felt the current try to snatch it from him. The crossing required intense focus, enough to wash away his craziness. On the last step, his right foot splashed into shallow water, and then he stood on the far shore, victorious, his foul mood diminished. Under normal circumstances, he would have turned around and waved at the boy, maybe even called out that the crossing wasn’t too bad, just watch out for that big rock in the middle—it’s tippy. Instead, all he wanted to do was put miles under his feet and never see the kid again.

JP

JP is a prison inmate who has escaped the state penitentiary in Walla Walla, Washington. He has just hopped out of a car that gave him a ride from Walla Walla to Snoqualmie Pass.

JP strolled back to the gas station where the couple had dropped him off and slipped into the men’s room. He found a mirror, brushed his palm down the front of his T-shirt, and smiled. Man, it was good to be back in street clothes. He looked fucking respectable. Then, he eyed his tattoo and frowned as he considered what the fugitive alert would say: White male, 28 years old, 5 ft 11 in tall, medium build, sandy-red hair, possibly a short-trimmed beard. Hawk tattoo on left bicep. With sudden urgency, he ducked into a stall and pulled the door tight. After fumbling around in the daypack, he found a nylon windbreaker and pulled it on. It was fucking ninety degrees out there, but at least the tattoo was hid.

He stepped warily out of the restroom and saw a young couple walking past the gas station, holding hands. He frowned. They probably never thought about their freedom. Never thought about the smallness and tightness and Uptightness that comes from being stuck where you don’t wanna be and eating what you don’t wanna eat and hanging out with guys who wanna badmouth you or use you. In there, they called a piece of your day “free time” but you were in the slammer, for Christ’s sake, so Free is one thing it was not.

He dropped his head and shook it back and forth to knock out the negativity. Everything was going to be fine when he got to Canada. He’d only been there once, but it struck him as an open place, a free place, with lots of trees, and maybe he could get a lumber job, like he used to have on the Olympic Peninsula. He liked working in the woods. He liked the guys that worked out there.

Trail Names

Jim has just met a twenty-something woman who is hiking the entire Pacific Crest Trail solo, from the Mexican border to Canada. In this excerpt, they are camping together for the first time.

Firefly—that was her trail name. He’d learned that after they’d boiled up some of their Sheep Lake water and made separate dinners—hers was rice and tuna and his was mac and cheese. They compared notes on what they liked to eat on the trail and laughed about the freeze-dried dinners that either gave you a bad case of gas or were so tasteless, you might as well have chewed on bark.

Jim scraped the last bite of dinner from the sides of his bowl. “Tell me about your trail name. Do you have a backstory about fireflies?”

“Firefly isn’t the insect, it’s a yoga pose.” I teach yoga in Lynnwood, just north of Seattle.”

Jim looked at her with raised eyebrows. “I’m from Bellevue—we’re practically neighbors."

Firefly laughed. “Seriously? I’ve met people on this trail from all over the world, but I haven’t found anyone from that close to home.” She smiled, and Jim noticed she had a little dimple at the top of her left cheek, right below her eye. “What do you do in Bellevue?”

Jim thought about his recent departure from CSS. “Computer stuff. Not all that interesting, really.” He coughed and looked at Mount Rainier, which at that moment was blushing pink in the twilight. “So how did you pick that particular yoga pose as your name?”

“To be honest, I didn’t pick it. I met another yoga buff way back in southern California, and she came up with it. After a couple days, I decided I liked it. What name do you go by?”

He scratched his beard. “Oh, I just go by Jim.”She wrinkled her nose. “That’s no fun. You need a trail name, something that expresses your outdoor persona.”

He felt his cheeks turn hot. “Nah. Jim’s fine.”