Wrong Way Ray
Short Story — Faced with a difficult and life-altering choice, a young man partakes in a dangerous and often deadly ritual.
Every town has its local legends. Few, I expect, are as deadly as the specter haunting the false summit of Pinetale Peak. But the seductive stories from the rare survivors kept a steady stream of pilgrims attempting to follow in their footsteps.
When the local rescue team could no longer keep up with the broken bodies piling up in the couloir, the Sheriff’s office posted a deputy at the trailhead to search hikers for the contraband needed to perform the ritual.
On that particular morning, it was deputy Gloria Riggs standing by the footbridge. Even in the pale blue pre dawn light, I could spot her camera-ready hair and makeup; more politician than peace officer.
She held a chunky flashlight in one hand, the other beckoned, expectant. I slipped my pack off my shoulders and passed it to her.
“Any whiskey in here?” She asked as she rummaged through the bag.
“No ma’am.”
“Ouch. Thought I’d be a ‘miss’ for at least another few years.”
I chuckled.
“You’re not trying to see him, are you Max?” She knew me. Town was like that back then.
“No, miss,” I lied.
“Wouldn’t blame you, being curious,” she zipped one pocket shut and moved on to another. “My cousin got some advice from good ‘ole Ray. ‘Bout ten years back. Professor down valley at the college.”
“I take it he wound up on the rocks?”
Gloria shook her head. “Worse. He got exactly what he was looking for. Headed west with his girlfriend with a crazy dream about a catamaran. Not so much as a postcard.”
“Sounds like Wrong Way Ray told him exactly what he needed to hear.”
“He died at sea, shipwrecked somewhere near the Philippines.“ She thrust the bag into my chest with more force than necessary. “If you do see him—take his advice with a grain of salt. He’s not called Right Path Paul, ya dig?”
The skin of my stomach was starting to sweat against the cheap plastic flask I’d tucked behind my belt buckle. “Thanks for the warning. But really, I’m just looking to see the sunrise.”
“Uh huh. Safe hike, Max.”
The hike was safe — by Summit County standards anyway — so long as you had sure footing and a good idea where you were going. Raymond Paulson had neither of those things the day he scampered onto a traverse to nowhere, falling 500 feet to his death.
According to the local weatherman, the pre-dawn fog would’ve kept Ray from seeing more than a foot in front of his face. But the toxicology report, combined with an empty liquor bottle found unbroken in the man’s pack, led the coroner to a different, non-weather related conclusion.
All of this probably would’ve been written off as an accident, if hikers from Kerristead didn't believe in ghost stories. Turns out Ray wasn't blind, dumb, or suicidal; and he'll tell anybody who will listen.
I whistled my way up the meandering switchback, bordered by the gabions that the trail crew used to halt the progress of erosion. Trees became bushes, then wildflowers before yielding to clumps of petrified hay, poking out between chunks of scree.
Someone had stacked a pile of bigger rocks into a semi-circular windbreak, wrapping around the summit survey marker. Shadowy suggestions of the surrounding peaks loomed in the limited lighting, breaking the cloud layer like islands in the sea. Sunrise would come soon.
I dropped my pack, sank into the sheltered alcove, and closed my eyes.
"Hey brother. Got anything to drink?" Asked a gruff voice.
My lids flew open. Sitting beside me was a stranger wearing a faded flannel shirt, tucked into a well-worn pair of baby blue jeans. The mullet poking out beneath his ball cap looked a little like the fat, fluffy tail of some enormous squirrel.
Wrong Way Ray, in the flesh.
His question was the first step in a loosely choreographed dance, deduced through dozens of failed interactions.
"Hope you like bourbon." I passed him the tiny flask, from which he took a greedy swig. Only bourbon worked. Blake tried with Gin and said the apparition spat it out before vanishing.
"Thanks, friend." He passed the flask back, now significantly lighter. "What brings you up here?
I shrugged. "Looking to get some clarity, you know?"
"Couldn't have picked a better place. Nature does that." Ray leaned back against the rock, folding his hands behind his head. "What's on your mind?"
I spoke slowly, feeling every syllable. "I have an opportunity that's eating me alive. A big new job. Fancy one, out East in New York City. Pay is great. It'd be huge for my career; chance to make a name for myself, ya know?"
He gave a polite nod. "So what's the problem?"
"Problem is, I'd have no friends, no family... living in some shoebox a hundred miles from the nearest real mountain."
"I see. You're worried you'll miss it. This." He gestured to the world around us.
"Nah, it's more than that. Sometimes I think this is who I am... and wonder who I'd be If I leave."
Ray folded his arms and pondered this for a moment. "Can I ask, what's so great about the New York job? I mean, are you unhappy where you are?"
"No, it's fine. I can get by. I just wonder if this would offer me more..." I held out my hand like I was reaching out for a word not quite within my reach.
"More Money? Status?" Ray hawked and spat a wad of phlegm. "It's okay to not give a shit about stuff like that. I sure didn't. We all got different priorities. Then again, I'm just a dirtbag adrenaline junkie, living out of his car. At least I was, before—well, you know." He chucked a stone over the edge. It clattered once, twice, then was lost to the void.
Was? He couldn't possibly mean... "Do you know you're, well—"
"A ghost, yeah. Used to really rustle my jimmies."
"What?"
"Being dead. 'Specially when everyone thought I killed myself." He furrowed his brow. "You wanna know how I really died? Lemme show you."
He grabbed my arm with a firm hand, effortlessly pulling me to my feet and leading me toward the edge. Had I said something wrong? Would he throw me off? Was that what happened to the other hikers?
"Look out over there." He pointed out from our vantage point. I squinted, confused. In the blue-gray light, a knife's edge traverse rose and fell from below the cloud floor like a sea-serpent, ending in a pointed spire. It looked a little like a rattlesnake's tail. "That's Pinetale Peak. The real peak. Hard to find your way when the trail dips down into the clouds. Standing on the top is like looking down from Olympus. Partner told me it was stupid to do without ropes. We didn't have any. I didn't care; just had to see it.
"On the way back, I got turned around. Slipped right off the edge and... well, seems everyone in town knows the rest." Ray sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I remember how it felt. Whose name I screamed on the way down."
He cleared his throat. "Still an unbeatable view if you need to see the world from the top."
I was so focused on the feel of his hand at the small of my back, I didn't realize he was waiting for a response. I looked from Ray's expectant face, to the narrow path before me, leading to a spire backlit in gold. I raised one leg, about to step forward, then paused.
What was wrong with the peak I already stood on?
"Maybe..." I stammered, "Maybe I've climbed high enough. Maybe I'm okay right here."
The hand against my back pulled away, taking a profound weight with it.
Ray was gone, but I understood.
I understand what would've happened had I taken the next step, too. At least I think I do. What really keeps me up at night though, is what Deputy Riggs told me on my way up: "They don't call him Right Path Paulson."
What if Ray doesn't actually advise you on your best course of action, like the legends promise? What if instead, he helps you make peace with settling for the easier option?
Forget the bodies — I wonder how many dreams died on that mountain, too.
Thank You for Reading!
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