Hiking Adventure Turned Enchanting

The bar was dim and humming with conversation, just the place I needed to shake off a week of non-stop number crunching and "hurry up" requests from the whole office. It was Friday night, and I wanted to be well snockered for the weekend.

The moment he walked in, I noticed him. Tall and rugged, with a natural charisma, he was the kind of guy who belonged in a forest, not in some louder-than-hell bar. His eyes were sharp, attentive. We hit it off like we'd known each other for years.

We laughed, drank, and talked until late, and by the end of the night, I took him home, hoping this wasn't just a fleeting encounter.

He, too, was looking for a longer-term relationship. We sat and chatted for hours about the things we liked and shared. He told me he loved camping, the kind where you venture deep into the mountains where no one else goes. I told him I loved hiking and camping, too.

He also loved to run. He would go out for hours, not caring where he was going and with no destination in mind.

I'm not that free-spirited but I'm also a runner. The times I went with him were heavenly, wind blowing my hair as we loped along, sometimes laughing and chatting, sometimes in silence. I couldn't go as far as he wanted to, so he accompanied me back home and then left again.

On occasion, his runs might take two or three hours, and he'd come panting up the steps to my apartment. A few times, he forgot about time completely and was gone for five or six hours, long enough that I considered having the police look for him.

In the evening, we'd go drinking or dancing, clubbing around, just having a good time. He never had more than two drinks and they were always things he could take his time sipping. At times, my friends would join us, but he never had anyone on his side.

He was a vegan with an amazing sense of smell. If there was any hint of animals cooking, he wouldn't go into the restaurants. He had some places that made scrumptious meatless entrees, so I gradually found myself preferring the vegan diet.

Of course, he finally moved into my apartment. He had almost no belongings. It just felt right to have him there. He filled my kitchen with rice and grains, different varieties of leafy greens, and grasses I'd never heard of, all of it prepared deliciously.

Nights with him were the part of our life that I looked forward to. Up close he had a scent of beast, a primitive visceral aroma that totally captured me when he held me in his powerful arms. We were passionate and tempestuous.

One Saturday morning he stretched, looked at me with a sleepy smile, and said, "I know a great place—very seldom seen. Let's go hike there. It's so beautiful, you'll fall in love with it. You might never want to leave."

It sounded like heaven.

We loaded into his old truck and drove for hours up a forest road that climbed so steeply I thought it might run straight into the sky. The road turned to gravel. rugged, narrowing as we went, trees growing closer and thicker around us.

Eventually, the road dwindled into a turnaround littered with jagged rocks. I winced as the truck jolted over them, half-worried he'd puncture the oil pan.

"Relax," he said, grinning. "We can always get help if we need it."

That confidence was infectious, and soon we were out of the truck, strapping on our backpacks. We plunged into the forest, moving deeper into the wilderness with each step. 

The trail wound underfoot, seemingly untouched by anyone else. The air was dense with the smell of pine and earth, and I could feel the world of cell phones, cities, and spreadsheets slipping away.

It was about three hours in when I noticed something strange.

He was ahead of me on the trail, his shoulders strong and steady as he hiked. But there, poking through his hair, were two pointed, branching shapes. I blinked, half-expecting my eyes to be playing tricks.

"How long have those been there?" I asked, voice a little shaky.

He turned, grinning. "All my life."

We kept hiking. Another couple of miles, and I started to feel an odd discomfort in my feet. The trail was rough, and it felt like something was tearing through my hiking boots. Looking down, I stopped short.

My boots had shredded around my feet, leaving me standing there, dumbstruck. Instead of exposed feet, there were two dark, hard shapes—hooves.

"What's happening to me?" I stammered, turning to him, but he only smiled and urged me forward.

The forest opened, and a breathtaking meadow spread before us, filled with wildflowers and sunlight. The scent in the air was intoxicating, earthy, and sweet, like nothing I'd ever smelled before. It was as if the meadow itself was alive, beckoning, whispering for me to join it.

And that's when I realized: I already had. The grass, the flowers, all bent toward me as if to say, "come, let us caress you."

My flannel shirt seemed to disintegrate, slipping off in shreds as soft brown fur replaced my skin. My arms, my legs, all covered in fur. I touched my face and felt it stretch forward into a gentle, elongated shape, a fur-covered muzzle.

I turned to him, and he was no longer the man I'd brought home. He was magnificent—a stag with powerful antlers and deep, wise eyes.

"Am... am I turning into a doe?" My voice was barely a whisper.

"I told you you'd fall in love with this place," he replied, his voice soft and knowing. "Didn't I say you'd never want to leave?" He nuzzled me, warm and comforting. "Welcome home."

In that meadow, under the sun and surrounded by wildflowers, I felt something I'd never felt before. Freedom, peace, a life intertwined with nature. There was no going back.