Only I Know The Truth About How My Best Friend Died On Mount Shasta — Until Now

I thought the road was never going to end. Maybe it was the feet of snow that covered every inch of the ground and trees all around us which made me feel like we were driving in circles in a snow globe? Or maybe it was the altitude? Either way, I felt like I had slipped into a cold dream I couldn’t get out of and driving up a mountain road which would never lead us to anything.

“You sure this place is up here?” I asked Michael from the passenger seat. “We’ve been on this road for like 20 minutes without seeing anything.”

“Trust me, I’ve been up here like 50 times. It comes up about 10 minutes after you’ve thought you’ve gone too far,” Michael assured me from behind the wheel of his F-350.

Michael punctuated his assurance by rolling down his window halfway and spitting out the mouthful of chew which had been marinating in his gums for about 10 minutes.

I had to admit, I hadn’t been looking forward to my sledding trip with my “best friend since childhood” Michael. We used to love to go up into the mountains and go sledding when we were young, but as time went on and I grew older, I found it to simply be a cold and uncomfortable endeavor. I just couldn’t bring myself to inform Michael that. He was too excited and we never hung out anymore, so the guilt in my blood forced me to suck it up.