Naked, Scratched, and Sprinting Through Olympic National Park at Midnight

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PROLOGUE: Early October 1999.

“Just keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Keep moving. Get to the tree line and maybe I’ll be safe.” That’s my mantra right now.My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest. I’m soaked, like I just took a shower in gallons of sweat.

“Find your clothes. Stay off the trail. They’ll be looking for you there. Stay on your feet and look for the others. Just don’t get caught.”

Branches whip across my skin, adding new scratches to the collection I’ve racked up tonight. Every step grinds pine needles into places pine needles should never go. I can’t tell you how many branch whacks to the nuts I’ve taken. And don’t even get me started on my bare feet, sticks, rocks, mud… or maybe not mud. Yeah, let’s not think about that one.

Here’s the visual: me, sprinting naked through Olympic National Park at midnight. Not my best look. My legs look like a cheese grater attacked them. Every bug in the county is feasting on every crevasse of mine. I smell like a toxic mix of sweat, lake water, and something that died last week. Ten bucks say you could track me just by scent alone.

Three months ago, I would never be in a situation like this. Three months ago, I would be home alone in my room playing StarCraft all weekend.

And in case this picture isn’t humiliating enough, I’m clutching somebody else’s shoe in one hand and somebody else’s underwear in the other. Don’t ask. We panicked. We grabbed whatever was nearby. My own clothes? Who knows? Probably gone. Floating downriver right now, probably heading out to Puget Sound. Some fisherman’s going to haul in a pair of my boxers, hang them from the mast, and declare me the official mascot of the Pacific Northwest fishing fleet.

The others are out here too, but I can’t hear them. There’s no way I’m calling out. That’s exactly what Kyle and his goon squad want, easy triangulation. One shout and I’m done. Capture. Humiliation. Game over.

Because let’s be clear: if I get caught, I don’t just lose this competition, I lose everything. My shot at Eagle Scout? Gone. My reputation at Queen Anne High? Torched. For the rest of high school, I’ll be the naked idiot sprinting through a national park. Forget a yearbook photo, my legacy will be a cautionary tale whispered in the lunch line.

Three months ago, I’m unpacking boxes in my new Seattle bedroom. New house smell, fresh paint, Mom chirping about “fresh starts” and “new opportunities.” Cute, right? Now fast-forward to this: me, sweating through a forest, dodging capture, smelling like ass.

My so-called “fresh start”? It’s a mosh pit. And the first shove into the pit came two and a half years ago when Dad died. One morning he drops me at school, same as always. By afternoon, Mom’s picking me up and telling me he’s never coming home again.

Since then? Shock, depression, anxiety, repeat. Then Mom drops the Seattle bomb, and we haul across the country for that “new start.” And just when I’m figuring out how to breathe again, I find the old photo album. That’s when this whole mess really kicks off. Don’t worry, I’ll explain it later. First, I need pants.

Because right now, the only thing keeping me moving is panic and the absolute terror of becoming Queen Anne High’s naked legend. Somewhere out there, Kyle Kelly is licking his chops, probably drawing up search grids with his little stormtrooper patrol. And if Kyle catches me? He wins. His mom wins. And I’m finished.

But I’m not finished. I can’t be. Not yet. Not with everything riding on this.

“Keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Keep moving. We take the trophy, and everything changes.” That’s what I tell myself.

Maybe we crossed the line this time. Maybe this is one of those “funny story someday” moments that turns into “permanent record” material. But I don’t stop. I won’t.

Because this is the weekend everything changes. I laugh:

Best. Weekend. Ever.

You want the full story how did I get here? Then we need to rewind for a few months.

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