I never wanted to go on that stupid hike in the first place.
Yet there I was, hiking “cabin to cabin” in the Norwegian mountains, with my class.
Wohoo, right? For a misanthropic misfit like myself, it was a nightmare. Let’s just say I do best behind my computer, talking to people over a microphone, not actually having to make eye contact. I tried getting out of it, but my parents weren’t having it. They thought the fresh air would do me good. Let me assure you, it did not.
The first two days went mostly as expected, me at the very back of the group, one of the chaperones occasionally trying to make awkward small talk and half-hearted encouragements, and my classmates largely ignoring me. Surprisingly, the hiking was actually almost enjoyable. The scenery was breathtaking. Misshapen, warped birch trees were scattered over the yellowing grass, and the browning heather. Mountains rose on both sides, looming ominously. I thought I could even have liked it, if only my classmates weren't.
Like this I somehow made it to day three. By the end of it I was lagging pretty far behind. The amount of physical activity was far higher than what I was used to, and it started getting to me. When I finally spotted the last cabin, the sun had set, and we were hiking by that gloomy, blue half-light that lingers after the northern sun sets. It looked huge, imposing in the distance. The cabin, actually, was a set of cabins, a campground, and a rather large main house. I’d bet it could house a hundred people if it had to. It looked out of place, there, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the mountains.
By the time we finally got there, the rest of the group had eaten dinner, and were hanging out in common area. I got to eat with the teacher who had to hang back to make sure the rear - i.e. me – made it all the way, which is how I learned that the place was closed for the season, so only our group of 30 or so teenagers were sleeping there. Our teacher knew the people who ran it; he had organized it so that they’d just drive in with food for us, and leave us to it. So there we were, about thirty kids, two teachers, and the vast, empty space of the mountains and valleys.
I didn’t want to interact with the others, and I wanted to be asleep – or believably pretending to be asleep - when the rest of the guys I’d share my room with went to bed. I was exhausted, a little embarrassed by how slow I had been, and, as it turned out, completely without a cell signal, so staying up had nothing for me. I headed straight to my room and promptly fell asleep.
In the middle of the night I woke up in a panic. The room was pitch black. Usually our rooms weren’t that dark, these places never managed to keep the light out completely. Light would seep through from the hallway, the moon would shine through a gap in the curtains, some red light would be blinking on some appliance. Something would pierce the darkness. But this one was pitch black.
I was sure someone was in the room. Standing above my bed. Looking at me. You know, one of those silly things you think of. My breath caught in my throat, my heart beat like crazy. I laid there for what felt like hours. Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, I tried to talk myself down in my head. I was being silly, I was safe, there was just miles and miles of empty woods and hills around here where anything could be hiding, could have followed us, could have seen us, defenseless, alone, NO! You’re safe, don’t be silly. I wanted to turn on the light, but I didn’t want to piss the others off. But I really wanted to turn on a light. As a sort of compromise I decided to go to the bathroom. It meant I could turn on the light in the hallway, and sneak a peek back into the room. I sat up, swung my legs off the side of the bed, and felt around for my shoes. I put them on, and snuck out the door, and flicked the switch in the hallway. I glanced back into the room. Nothing there, of course. I just had to make sure.
