Lost in the Mountains for 48 Hours

Today I bring an interesting fictional and thrilling short story. I hope you all will enjoy it. Plz support me for more like this..........

t was supposed to be a quick solo hike. Just two days up to the ridge and back.

I’d done it before.

Only this time, the weather didn’t agree with me.

The first snowfall came earlier than predicted — thick, silent, and blinding. One minute the trail was clear, and the next, it was gone. Just endless white, like someone had erased the world with a wide brush.

I told myself to stay calm. I had supplies — a backpack with water, protein bars, a flashlight, and my phone. I’d marked my route on a trail app.

But there was no signal anymore. Just a blinking red dot on a blank gray map.

By hour six, I knew I was no longer on the trail.

By hour twelve, I admitted I was completely lost.

That first night, the temperature dropped hard.

I built a crude shelter under a rocky overhang using pine branches and my emergency blanket. It wasn’t warm, but it was something.

I rationed water. Ate half a protein bar. Listened to the wind howl.

Around 3 a.m., something moved outside the shelter. I held my breath. Twigs snapping. A low crunch in the snow.

Bear?

I reached for my knife — the small kind that folds into your pocket, good for cutting rope but useless against something with claws.

But the sound passed. Whatever it was moved on.

Day two was worse.

My legs ached. My fingers were numb despite gloves. I tried following the slope downward, hoping I’d run into a logging road or a creek that might lead to civilization.

Instead, I found a ravine.

I stepped wrong.

My foot slid out, my knee twisted, and I tumbled six feet down into a bed of icy rocks.

Pain shot through my leg like lightning. I screamed without meaning to. The echo mocked me.

The phone screen cracked when I landed. It still lit up, but the battery bar was red and blinking.

1%.

I turned it off.

The sun was already dipping behind the peaks. The cold began to creep in again. I wrapped my arms around my knees and fought panic.

I didn’t think I was going to survive the night.

But the human body is strange. It wants to live. Even when your brain whispers that maybe it’d be easier to lie down and disappear into the snow, something deeper keeps your heart going.

When I woke the next morning, I wasn’t dead.

Yet.

I tore a sleeve from my thermal shirt and wrapped my knee. Limped down the ridge, clinging to branches and using a thick stick as a crutch.

That’s when I heard it.

A low thrum. Faint.

Engines.

I moved faster. Crawled when I had to. Blood from my hands stained the snow.

And then, like a miracle — tire tracks.

Old, but there. I followed them until I found a trail camera strapped to a tree, and a wooden sign with faded red letters:

“Logging Access Only.”

I collapsed there. Literally dropped to my knees and sobbed.

An hour later, a snowcat came rumbling around the bend. A forestry worker climbed down, eyes wide.

I didn’t say anything. I just handed him my broken phone and passed out.

They said I was lucky.

That if the storm had been any worse, they might not have found me at all.

But I remember those 48 hours differently. Not as luck.

More like something I earned. Inch by frozen inch.

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