Two Men and a Bear

Email 1: July 21st

Subject: Request for ghostwriter: Two Men and a Bear

Dear Katherine,

Thanks for your message. This sounds like an interesting ask. I usually ghostwrite memoirs, but I’ve dabbled in fiction before. You mentioned the story would focus on two inexperienced men who go camping in the forest and come across a bear. You also mentioned some material you're willing to share from camping with your cousin. Please send it as an attachment, and I'll review. I'll be honest, the premise sounds a bit "done," but I'll keep an open mind.

I appreciate you expensing the trip; I'm excited to see Aspen for the first time and think it will help bring your story to life.

As for payment, I require a 50% deposit upfront. I’ll send an itemized receipt when I return. Lesley and I are headed on our long-postponed honeymoon in August so I won’t have an outline for you until September.

Let me know if you have any questions.

Talk soon,

Steve

Journal entry 1: July 28th

Travel was a nightmare. Five hours on the runway to leave Logan due to a fueling issue. It’s times like these when I start to romanticize a sleeper train, though, knowing my luck, I’d have more of a Trans-Siberian experience. But it beats melting in my apartment with my window unit, in Cambridge.

The Aspen Airport is more rustic than I expected for a city that hosts one of the most expensive ski resorts in the country. I reserved a mid-sized SUV, but the lady at the counter was not interested in looking up my order and insisted they only had a 2008 Tacoma Truck available. I freaked out, arguing it was an eighteen-year-old car, and then had an existential crisis on the drive to the hotel that I graduated high school that long ago and the first Daniel Craig James Bond movie is now that old.

No GPS, no USB charging, a radio, and a CD player. Nothing will test your skills like oral-only directions on windy back roads with nothing but your internal monologue and self-doubt to entertain you. But I’ve made it. Tomorrow, I’ll go on a hike to gain perspective on my two characters.

Journal entry 2: July 29th

It wasn’t my intention to camp out, but here we are. I’ve done this once before with my dad when we got a flat tire up in New Hampshire. It’s good for me. I’ve gone soft living in the city. The idiot Ranger gave me a map and drew a red line in a circle like I had any idea what that meant. “Every inch is a mile,” like I had some ruler in my pocket. I stupidly agreed, thinking it made complete sense because I thought my phone would work. Dumb.

I’m lost. I got water, two granola bars, and about ten pounds to lose before Italy, so I’m trying to count the wins. My bag is serving as a good pillow. I don’t plan on getting much sleep, but I’ll listen for cars tomorrow and walk towards the road. This is a good reminder to myself to read a freaking map again before my next adventure. I’ll have to convert kilometers to miles in Milan.

But the views. Nothing I can write will do it justice. Green-painted rocks glisten under clear, rippling lakes. Evergreens dip their nettle hems into the shores. Chiseled mountains let snow rest in their bends, crooks, and creases. White Aspens, dappled in golden leaves, line hills and valleys. The wind whispers through the grass and trees. I feel my heart yearning to match the thrum of a babbling stream. I get why people come out here to think. I lost my train of thought in the beauty and felt unstuck for the first time in years.

Journal entry 3: July 30th

I made a friend! I did not find a road. I guess I won’t die out here at least. Or at least not alone. It seems almost poetic that I am now one of the "two men lost in the woods". He’s a fishing guide. He came out looking for new spots to take tourists. Thankfully, he took one look at my sorry, blistered, hungry ass and took pity.

His name's Todd. He looks like a Todd with a permanent sunglasses tan, shaggy hair, Birkenstocks and around $2000 in high tech fishing gear. I think he lives in his van.

Currently, I'm dreaming of that jacuzzi bath I’ve yet to try in my hotel. Until then, this broken boy scout has to rough it for one more night.

Journal entry 4: July 31st

Todd and I had to double back. A bush fire broke out near Independence Pass. A dark haze covers the sky, coloring the sun a deep red-orange. We crawled up slate like loose stone. My new REI boots are dyed red from the deep cuts on the backs of my heels. Fire crackles forty miles away from us, but I swear every time I look back it feels like it's gained a mile. It didn’t read that map correctly either, turning miles into inches as it races towards us. When we got to one particularly steep ridge, Todd realized he couldn’t climb down with his backpack and gear. I suggested throwing it over; the worst case was that we’d lose it in a crevice. We watched in terror as the bag, filled with the portable propane tank for the small Bunsen burner, tumbled down the cliff, hitting every jagged rock on the way down. Thankfully, nothing blew up to add to the already burning situation. I’d take a bear over this.

Journal entry 5: August 1st

We’re in Todd’s car. I haven’t slept in days. My clothes reek of more than body odor, and I ditched my underwear somewhere near mile 10 because I feared I would attract bears. I haven’t taken my boots off because I worry my feet won’t fit back into them from swelling. Todd’s filling up the tank. My knee won’t stop jiggling. The sky is red—an angry red with ominous black smoke billowing overhead. Flames cascade down the side of the mountain so close to the highway I could touch them. A sea of red taillights is currently blocking us in, amid an emergency evacuation. This is not the experience I signed up for.

Journal entry 6: August 1st

If found, Name Steven Gillman, Age 36. Leslie, I’m so sorry.

Email 2: August 5th

Subject: Forget the Bear

Dear Katherine,

I survived.

I survived.

I’m not writing about two men and a bear; that’s stupid. I’ve got a better story for you. I’ll send you the outline next week. You owe me $1500 for this trip. Forget my 50% deposit; I’m going to need the whole thing up front before I go on any more trips. Talk soon.

Very best,

Steve

Journal entry 7: August 10th

I love Milan. The city is beautiful, and the streets are active. The Gelato is amazing. It's so damn hot. I hate it. Why the hell did no one tell us not to go to Italy in August? I’m dying, not like in Aspen.

I relive it all over again, in all my dreams. Todd drove through that black cloud with confidence. His hands white-knuckling the clutch as we plunged into smoke, fire, and darkness. The windshield wipers scraped against the glass as ash singed the car. I could smell rubber burning as we skirted by torched bushes.

I didn’t notice the first drop. It hit like a stone. Then another. The small “tings” against the metal roof quickened. The ground hissed. Smoke slowly cleared as the rain blanketed the road. The wipers fought to keep the view clear. My eyes welled. The mountain glowed in the distance. Twisted blackened trees reached from the hill sides. The landscape was scorched; the rocks marred with ash. I thought of the bear and feared for it as we drove. Where did it go and hide in all of this? The rain enveloped us as we wove single file out of the valley like a train. I lay back in my seat watching droplets race each other down the glass. Todd pulled into the lot I parked four days earlier.

My Tacoma fashioned two yellow tickets. I fell to my knees. Mug stained my jeans. Water soaked through my shirt. My curls unraveled around my face, heavy with rain. My hands stopped shaking. I felt cool and calm for the first time all summer.