Mountain Ascent

by Akira Lawrence

What begins as a spirited hike up a rugged mountain trail quickly transforms into a powerful test of endurance, courage, and connection in this breathtaking short story by high school writer Akira Lawrence. "Mountain Ascent" captures both the beauty and danger of nature through the eyes of a determined young climber on a journey with her father—until a sudden encounter with a mountain lion turns her path into a fight for survival.

With vivid sensory detail, lyrical prose, and emotional resonance, Lawrence paints a portrait of perseverance and awakening. This is a story not only of summits and survival—but of claiming one’s view, one heartbeat at a time.

Read on below to experience Mountain Ascent in full.

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Gravel slips through my fingers as I launch myself upward with the other arm, hooking my grasp onto a small root protruding from the mountain's face. I use whatever nooks and embedded rocks I can find for leverage—bits of earth, withered plants, and the occasional jutting boulder. Ants and beetles make themselves known, alarmed by this unwelcome guest casually obliterating their nests in a matter of seconds. Poor things. My shoes search for grip along fragile curves and crevices, stabilizing each slip and propelling my body forward. Each step kicks up puffs of dirt that billow and settle, generating whirlwinds of dust that continually bother my vision. I itch at one eye with the back of my hand, careful to avoid any debris—or whatever contaminants my nails have collected.

A tingling sensation crawls across my forehead. I slap at it instinctively. My palm draws back with traces of a little black bug, glistening amid sweat.

I pause for a moment, gaze trailing upward to take in the slope I plan to conquer. Steep—just manageable on all fours—a dirt staircase climbs toward the sky. The sun is high, casting a golden glow over the landscape that reflects off the sparse trees dotting the incline, offering brief, patchy shade. In between, dehydrated vegetation and thorny shrubs cling to loose soil, adding texture to the rugged path. The heat is intense, but not unbearable. As if in response to that thought, a gentle breeze weaves through the atmosphere, rippling across the vista, carrying the faint fragrance of earth and verdure. It tousles my hair and lifts loose garments, bringing a moment’s relief from the heavy warmth.

I pivot slowly on my heel, worn trainers crunching on the gravel beneath as the soil shifts underfoot. Facing downward, the scenery unfolds like a tapestry woven in ochre and slate. I know the view is stunning. Still, I keep my eyes locked on the sun-bleached trail below. I refuse to take in the height’s full, rewarding spectacle until I reach the top—absolutely refuse. The summit has promised, since the beginning, a balanced field and a chance to rest. And when I finally stand at the top, only then will I truly savor the moment—the prize for my perseverance. Yet, each time I advance, another rise appears. The peak retreats, as though the mountain itself were testing my resolve. I admit: the challenge is exhilarating.

“Papa!” My voice cuts through the stillness, reverberating off craggy cliffs and carried by the wind. I shield my eyes against the glaring light, scanning the trail below, which disappears behind stony outcrops and clusters of brush. I hold my breath. Solitude wraps around me, broken only by the calls of birds or the faint rustling of far-off leaves.

“Papa!” I call again, louder now. Even though I know it’s unlikely anyone else is nearby, embarrassment still colors my tone.

“Yeah!” A reply drifts up from below. Phew. He’s not far off, though not where I expected him. I must have gotten carried away—rushing ahead, exploring alternate ways up the mountain, hopping over shrubs and crawling through brambles. I turn back toward my path. If I reach the top first, I can wait for Papa there and brag about my superior fitness.

Pressing on, the mountain's incline gradually relents, allowing me to transition from a scramble to an upright hike. The ground levels just enough for me to catch my breath and straighten my back. Thank goodness—I’d been hunched over like some babushka for far too long. The tufts of scree give way to firmer earth, sparse alpine greenery beginning to pepper the trail. Each breath feels thinner, crisper, more invigorating.

Above, a pair of ravens glide overhead, their raucous cries echoing against nearby cliffs. I marvel at them—so graceful, navigating the jagged altitude with ease. Sometimes I wish I’d been born a bird. Or that I could fly. I probably just want to fly. That ability would be handy right now, I muse, rolling my head back to locate the mount’s crown.

Unsurprisingly, it appears even farther away than before. And I plan to drag Papa all the way up? Welp, I’d better prepare for another hour—or two—of this delightful quest.

My gaze drops as I carefully place each step through thorny undergrowth. Then something catches my eye—a series of large paw prints etched in the dirt. I halt. They’re fresh, distinct. I crouch to examine them, noting the size and spacing. Could they belong to a predator? Maybe? After a moment, I stand and resume walking. Unlikely. They probably belong to a dog. I picture a dog walker trudging along here, just like me. If they can do it, so can I.

The trail steepens again, and I focus on my footing, taking deliberate steps. My breathing and the crunch of stones beneath me create a rhythmic, almost meditative backdrop. Left, right. Left, right. Crunch. Crunch. Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…

Then, a prickle of unease. I can’t identify its source, so I chalk it up to fatigue. Still, something shifts in the air—a disquieting stillness. I stop. Insects hum faintly. My skin absorbs every beat of the midday sun. My eyes narrow, landing on a cluster of scraggly saplings with weathered bark and sparse branches. Their twisted forms loom oddly, freezing something inside me—though I can’t yet name why.

Then, a flicker. A ripple of movement.

In the shadows, two yellow eyes gleam.

Motionless. Watching. Gauging.

A silhouette crouches low, mottled coat blending perfectly into the terrain. A mountain lion.

My heart stops. A growl rises. The lion’s claws flex. I freeze. Eyes locked, thoughts explode through my mind—a chaos of urgent decisions. Every sense heightens. I mirror the lion’s stillness. Every tail twitch, every ear flick—I’m tracking it all.

Run? Death.Throw something? Death.Scream? Death.Stay still? The lion's pupils shift. Still death.

I slowly lift one foot to step back. The lion flinches. No good. Then an image burns in my mind: Papa, walking into this unaware. I have to act.

With trembling resolve, I raise both arms high, spreading my fingers like talons. I try to appear larger than life. The lion hesitates, muscles tight. Its eyes bore into me.

Then it moves—slow, deliberate. It advances.

Panic surges. I scream. A wild, guttural sound. I stomp and flail, sand kicking up in clouds. The lion falters, ears pinned back. For a moment, we’re suspended in silence. I keep screaming. Then, like a snapped thread, the lion bolts. I watch it vanish up the slope.

I collapse. My arms fall. My knees shake. A familiar figure sprints toward me, gathering me into their arms.

“WHAT HAPPENED!?” Papa yells.

“I saw a mountain lion,” I whisper, spent.

I turn, finally allowing myself to look. A vast forest stretches before me—waves of pine trees in emerald and sage. Hills roll into the horizon, shifting into blues beneath the sky. Earth-toned trails wind through occasional clearings where cabins dot the land like tiny oases.

An artist could spend years trying to paint this view.

I said I’d only look once I reached the top—but screw that. The view probably looks exactly the same from here anyway.

“Let’s go.”