He had never driven for so long in such silence, but he finally made it. He picked up his bag of gear from the trunk, slung it over his shoulder, and slammed the trunk shut. It had been over three years since he was here, but he remembered the way. It was almost noon, and he walked west, feeling the sun on the back of his neck. It was one of those crisp mornings where the sun shone so brightly, but it didn’t seem to warm anything up. He liked those mornings. They invigorated him. She did not like those mornings, he remembered. The combination of the bright sun and the cold air irritated her. “Make up your mind!” she’d say.

He took a hearty swig from the water bottle he bought from the gas station two hundred miles back. He couldn’t even remember being in the gas station. Throughout the entire drive he had been in a thoughtless state, just going through the motions. He felt, as he started down the dirt path, as if he had just woken up, though he had been awake for several hours. 

He remembered the path well, as if they had been here yesterday. Of course it wasn’t yesterday, he acknowledged. It was almost four years ago now. He stopped. Don’t think about that just yet, he told himself, there’s still a long walk. For the next fifteen minutes he saw nobody and heard nobody. It was Tuesday morning, after all, and it was always more crowded on the weekends. Even the birds were quiet. The only sounds were his steady footsteps crunching on the dirt. 

He kept his focus on the path ahead and on his own breathing. He didn’t even let any words form in his mind. It was all about moving forward, moving forward. Eventually he walked past a grey-haired woman walking her dog. She smiled and said, “Hello!” and he nodded to her. His heart raced a bit, as it does when one is on the way to commit a crime and has to play it cool with every basic interaction. What he was about to do almost certainly was a crime, he acknowledged. And what of it? He was doing it, and dwelling on the legality might discourage him. So stop thinking about it.

He kept on until he reached the first fork in the path. He stopped to look at the sign, and he couldn’t help the words and memories rushing to his mind. When they first came here, they looked at this same sign. One arrow pointed to the “Grant Path,” the other to the “Jackson Path.” They never confirmed that the paths were named after the presidents, but they probably were. They talked about who would win in a fight. Grant, they agreed. Who’d they rather have a drink with? Obviously Grant, they agreed. Maybe, she suggested, the paths were named after the actors, Hugh Grant and Hugh Jackson. He laughed. I think you mean Hugh Jackman, he said. There’s gotta be a Hugh Jackson somewhere who’s an actor, she said. They laughed, and from then on they always called Hugh Jackman “Hugh Jackson.”

He shook his head to stop the playback of the memory and started walking again, down the Jackson Path. Short brush lined the left side of the path, and trees, mostly aspen, lined the right side. He suddenly realized he was quite hungry. He only had a piece of toast in the morning before leaving, so he reached into his pack and pulled out a protein bar. Now he could focus on walking, breathing, and chewing to prevent any more memories from flooding back.

He walked and walked and walked, past a stream that he didn’t notice, through a shady tree canopy that he didn’t notice, over a bridge that he didn’t notice. He was moving forward. He slipped back into his thoughtless state. There was only the motion forward, and he had to take each step. He was interrupted by a man walking the opposite direction. The man said something, but he couldn’t understand the words. 

“What?” he said, annoyed that he was being stopped.

“I said ‘nice shirt,’” the man said.

“Oh.”

“There’s someone else with the same shirt a few miles down the path that I just saw,” the man said.

“There’s what?”

“There’s someone else wearing that same shirt that you’re wearing. And I just saw them. It’s no big deal. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said absently. “The shirt is good. Thank you.”

He stood there, and the man walked away, slightly concerned. What was going on? Just that simple phrase? “There’s someone else,” the man had said. That’s what she had said to him. It was a simple phrase, but it was so heavy. There’s someone else, she had said, and it was all over. His life, as he loved it, had evaporated. He was completely shocked and devastated. Someone else, those two words held so much. Of course there’s someone else, there’s always someone else in this world. What she meant was there was someone else [that she preferred instead of me]. There was someone else, she said. And I’m willing to throw you away for them, she thought. Someone else. 

He realized he was having trouble breathing, and he looked around to see if anyone was nearby. The man was out of sight. He was alone. He knelt down, putting his hands on his knees, trying to calm down.

“Come on,” he said to himself under his breath. He pulled his water bottle out of his pack and took a swig. After a few moments he stood back up. “Fuck,” he said, and started walking again. 

He knew the first landmark to look for, so he focused on that. Maybe one of the landmarks wasn’t there any more? And he wouldn’t be able to find the spot? Yeah, that might happen. Let’s just keep going, and we’ll see. He clenched his upper body muscles to feel alive, to feel in control. 

He kept his eyes on the trees on the right, waiting for the signal. The path went up a small hill, up another hill, then slowly down. Yes, he remembered that. It curved to the right, and he saw a discarded empty Gatorade bottle on the ground. He looked down at it. Wherever they had walked together, she always picked up discarded plastic bottles. In a place like this, she’d carry it for miles and miles, then take it all the way home and recycle it. He started doing the same, whenever he came across a plastic bottle. 

He thought about how much she had changed him. She had opened his eyes on so many things. His attitudes, his behaviors, his view of the world, were all so different now. He was better for it. She was spontaneous in life, but not in buying things. He was spontaneous in both. She had encouraged him to, before he bought anything, write down on a piece of paper why he was buying it. If the reason was unconvincing, don’t buy it. That simple act saved him money, of course, but it also changed his perspective on buying things and owning things. To buy something is a distorted joy. 

He couldn’t believe he used to eat animal flesh before he met her. She had opened his eyes on that one too. He remembered the phrase she so often said, “Every choice is something.” He knew it was right to pick up the bottle, but he didn’t, as if picking it up would mean that she won. It would be an admission that he still wanted to do what she wanted him to do. Yeah, he thought, every choice is something, she made a choice, and this is the something.

He continued on. After another curve of the path, he walked across the narrow wooden bridge over the stream. He walked for another half mile when he saw the first landmark, a juniper tree with several pairs of shoes hanging from its branches. At this point, he needed to leave the path, enter the forest and walk exactly perpendicular to the path. It took about ten minutes to walk to the next landmark, so he looked at his watch. 9:32. If he walked until 9:45 without seeing it, that means he missed it, and he’d have to turn back. 

He noticed that he felt colder now in the shade of the trees. Soon after entering the forest, it became dense. He tried to keep his overall direction, but he had to walk around tree after tree. As this part of the journey required more effort than following a path, it was easier to prevent any thoughts of her. The second landmark was harder to find, so he kept his eyes moving back and forth. It was quiet in the forest. 

He saw it! The next marker was a blue ribbon tied around a branch ten feet high. It was easy to miss, especially in the shade under the trees. He looked up at the ribbon, satisfied that he was on the right path. He retrieved his water bottle again and took two large gulps. From here, he was to travel due north. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his metal compass. The glass was severely scratched, but it was still usable. It was the same compass his dad had given him so many years ago, when they used to go camping and fishing together. The red arrow settled on north, and he followed it.

He looked at his watch again. 9:43. He relaxed his eyes as he walked since the next marker was much easier to spot. He enjoyed this old style of navigation, and he believed it was part of the reason why the destination was secluded. He looked up to avoid running into trees or bushes, and he looked down to maintain his northward trajectory. He looked up, he looked down.

He finally came across some animal life, a squirrel running away from him. A woodpecker pecked away on a tree. He liked that sound. When you heard it, there was no doubt what it was. After fifteen more minutes of walking, he found the third marker, a small clearing in the trees with a boulder in the middle. The sun shone down on the massive rock. He used to imagine himself as a young fantasy hero at this point, finding a magical sword in the rock. He never told her about this imagined story. It was just for his own mind. Within the story, he always featured her as some magical, wise being, like a beautiful elf queen, that helps him on his journey to destroy the dragon or the beast.

He looked at his compass again and started walking directly east now. There were no more markers. After ten more minutes of walking, the trees abruptly cleared, and he stepped into the meadow. His eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. It was as he remembered it from the first time they came here. The tall grass swayed in the gentle breeze. The few purple flowers stood eagerly. The single tree stood in the middle of the meadow. 

He stood still, considering the tree, slowly moving his eyes from its base all the way to the top. He was finally here. There was no one else in the meadow, so he walked slowly, deliberately towards the tree. As he got close, he considered the trunk’s bark intensely. It was a typical quaking aspen, thin and almost white. He stepped around it, looked at the other side, and saw it: their initials carved into the tree. He had carved them during their first time here, and he had carved the heart that surrounded the initials. That was the happiest he had ever been. 

He reached out his right hand and touched the carving. He felt it with his fingers. Here it was, a physical, tangible relic of their love. 

He remembered the first time she brought him here, how it felt like their own personal oasis. She jumped and sang freely. They danced and picked flowers and laughed loudly. He carved their initials while she hugged him from the side, watching him. They kissed. She laid him down in the meadow. 

He forced himself to stop remembering. She was doing that with someone else now, and he couldn’t think about it. He breathed slowly and heavily through his nostrils as his anger swelled. He gripped the tree as hard as he could for a moment, then dropped his pack to the ground. He ripped open the zipper and pulled out the axe. He stood up and grasped the handle tightly, feeling himself in control.

He stared at the carved initials, directing all of his anger at that heart. He pulled the axe back, his left hand gripping the base of the handle, his right hand close to the blade. As he pulled the axe forward, his right hand slid down the handle smoothly. It was a natural motion for him, one he had performed many times before. He swung forward and made strong contact a foot below the heart. The sound cut through the silent meadow.

He looked back at the heart as he yanked the axe out. He let the carving fuel his anger, and he let his anger fuel his upper body. “Took everything away from me,” were the only words that formed in his mind. They repeated themselves with every strike of the axe. His eyes moved back and forth mechanically, staring at the heart as he pulled out the axe, staring at his cut as he swung the axe. Swing after swing, cut after cut, images of her flashed in his mind. “Fuck you,” he said under strained breath. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or the someone else.

He pulled back, propelled the axe forward, again and again. The cut was getting deeper. His motions became more erratic, hacking away with rage, missing his mark, attacking the tree. Scraps of wood flew out. The wood cracked. The axe cut deep. The whole tree groaned. He dropped his axe and pushed with all his strength on the tree, staring at the heart as the tree slowly fell. It crashed to the ground with a final thud. Dirt and dust floated out. He breathed heavily, exasperated, looking around. He was still alone.

There was no catharsis, no closure. He was spent. There was nothing left to do but go home.