2025 Rooted Contest Fiction Winner

Postcard Promises by Allison Cook

A solitary star shines in the pre-dawn sky as I cinch my backpack until it’s almost too tight. Gear inspection: bear spray, sleeping bag, Dad’s ashes. Check, check, check. 

There’s only one other person at the trailhead: a tiny twenty-something brunette, who beckons as I try to sneak past. “You’re from Kansas?” She points to my old Silverado. Her eyebrow hitches when she notices the plates: L0NW0LF. 

I nod and avoid eye contact. 

“Be careful up there,” she warns. “The weather can change on a dime.”

“Thanks,” I grunt with a dismissive wave.

When I pass the mud brown trail sign, I tap it twice with my hiking pole. Once for faith. Once for family. My father’s saying comes unbidden, and the words sour my stomach. Instead of hiking this together, he’s in an urn in my pack. 

I’ll get you there, Dad. Promise.

Driving my hiking poles into the ground, I propel myself forward, the crunching of gravel my only companion as miles pass by. Finally, when the sun arches high above the trees and I can’t ignore the rumbling in my stomach, I shrug my pack onto a slab of granite and drag a Cliff Bar from the main compartment. 

Skreeeee!

A marmot lunges from behind a huckleberry bush.

Skreeeee! His mouth hangs wide as he screams. His clan scurries to form ranks behind him. 

Eyes wide, I lean away from the creatures and swallow a half-chewed bite. 

Three of the marmots rush at me, and two disappear around the side. 

Dropping my bar, I grab my hiking poles and wield them like swords.

Chatter erupts, and over my shoulder, the rogue marmots are ripping my freeze-dried dinner from my pack.

“Hey!” I shout, swinging my pole at the rock with a crack. 

One snags my chili mac, and the other grabs my bar before they scatter. 

“That was all I brought for dinner!” I hiss. When I throw my poles into the dirt, one snaps. Scrunching my eyebrows, I examine it. “Great, broken.”

Seething, I lash the useless pole to my pack with paracord. By the time the knot is secure, my hands are shaking with the rage I’ve been keeping inside these last few months. A guttural scream erupts from the depths of my chest. “What else do you want to take from me?” I yell at the heavens. 

No response. 

My hand reflexively reaches into my jacket, and I pull out a faded postcard of the Maroon Bells. A corner falls off and flutters to the ground.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there, son,” Dad’s voice echoes in my head, sounding just as gravelly as when he was alive.

“I can do this by myself, Dad,” my voice breaks as I whisper into the breeze.

 “‘I lift my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.’” His favorite verse.

“I don’t need help!” My fists shake in the air, and my jaw quivers. “It’s easier when you’re alone. Nobody lets you down. Nobody leaves!” Spittle flies with my yell.

Skreeeee!

“On the other hand, you should leave,” I mutter at the marmot while noting the gathering gray at the sky’s edges. Lone wolves don’t need a pack. 

For the next few miles, I try to ignore my pole whacking against my calf every few steps. Before I know it, I’ve donned my poncho and am doing my best impression of a drowned rat. 

“On your left!” 

It’s that girl from the parking lot. Smashing myself to the side, I brush against an aspen branch, which releases a spray of droplets over my hood. 

She rushes past, disappearing into the opaque mist.

Then thunder claps, cracking wildly through the air, and the skies open. Trees are nature’s lightning rods, I remember hearing once, so I scan for shelter. There’s a clearing ahead, and a rock that might have a ledge? Shielding my eyes against the stinging rain, I dart to it, but when I arrive, the girl is already there. 

With a smile, she motions for me to join her. “I told you the weather changes fast up here.” She wipes a slick of water off her forehead. “I’m Laurel.”

I back against the rock, maximizing the distance between us. “Asher.” 

Laurel is a talker, someone I’d normally avoid like the plague. How’d you get into hiking? What happened to your pole? A marmot! This rain is insane. She peppers me with questions, poking through my life’s events like I’m a mountainside garage sale of memories. 

“We wanted to do this hike together, but he passed, so I’m hiking with his ashes,” I explain when asked what brings me to the Maroon Bells. With a shrug, I hand her my postcard. She fingers the disintegrating edge and flips it over. 

“Love, Dad. 1999. So sorry for your loss!” She makes those puppy dog eyes girls always do, hands the postcard back to me, then throws her arm around my pack, squeezing me into a side hug. 

A few blessedly quiet minutes later, I hold my hand under the ledge. “It’s letting up.”

“You’re right! We better make a dash for it while we can.” 

She’s right. And she’s away before I can throw on my rain-slicked pack. But with the first step into the mud, my foot flies out from under me, and I land in an awkward heap. 

Laurel sprints back to my side. She prods at my ankle, and I wince. “Here, let me help.”

“No…. Go ahead, I’ll figure it out on my own.” Her help is the last thing I need. 

“I’ve hiked this trail a hundred times, and we’re nearly there,” Laurel says. “Just lean on me. We’ll get your dad to the top, then we can set camp and rest your ankle. Pinky swear.” 

My options are slim, so I let her pull me up, and she drapes my arm around her tiny shoulders. Now that I’m a captive audience, she continues her interrogation as we hobble along. Soon, she learns my mom died when I was young. “You may be an orphan, Asher, but God will never leave you nor forsake you.”

“You sound like my dad,” I say through clenched teeth. 

“Look around! He made this mountain knowing you would be here looking at it today! Doesn’t that blow your mind?” 

Just then, we round the corner, and the famous Maroon Lake unfolds before us. Instead of the glassy surface from my postcard, it’s dappled with raindrops. In place of a stunning purple-pink sky behind the peaks, the sky is swirling with gray. It’s not what I expected. It’s brooding and lonely.

Kind of like me, I realize with a laugh. Like God knew I’d need a mirror. 

“He’d be proud, Asher.”

I choke back a sob.

Laurel’s head swivels. “Let’s set camp.” We shuffle to the edge of the canopy, and I collapse in a patch of wild mint while she scouts the area. When she returns, she’s smiling ear to ear. “There’s a fire pit over there, and even some dry logs!”

Before I know it, she’s pitched our tents, and water’s boiling over a fire. She shares her rehydrated beef stroganoff with me, teasing me about the marmots. 

“So… what’s your story?” I ask when the conversation slows, poking the fire with a stick. 

A lock of Laurel’s hair falls by her cheek, casting shadows on her face. “Never knew my dad. When I turned 18, my mom up and left.” She blows on her noodles. “But I know I’m not alone. These days, when people ask about my family, I say I’m a daughter of the King.” 

My spork freezes halfway to my mouth, my nostrils flaring as I try to control my breathing. Does she actually understand?

“That ache in your heart? I know it, and I tried to fill it with everything I could think of. But that only made it worse. The only thing that can fill that God-shaped hole inside you is God. Just let Him in!”

The orange embers pulse with heat. She leans back to study the sea of stars.

“It’s too hard,” I finally say, my voice barely a whisper.

“I know. But if He created all this,” she motions to the Milky Way, “I think He can handle whatever you have to throw at Him. Think about Jacob being renamed Israel. It means ‘wrestles with God.’ You’ve gotta be close to each other to wrestle, eh? And that’s when the whole world changed.”

My heart skips a beat. I’ve been wrestling, I realize.

She digs in her pocket and extracts a bundle of mint leaves. “Is there any hot water left?”

I nod. 

“Perfect. Would the son of the King like some meadow tea?” 

Taking the leaves, I drop them into the pot and let their sweet fragrance envelop me. “Yes, I think I would.”