I’d read enough reports of wayward hikers to know what would happen.

My body would be discovered in the melting Highland snows, and the only question mark on the coroner’s report would concern my socks.

***

I found myself in my predicament due to civil wars, international financial collapse and bad choices.

Jobless after the economic crash of 2008, I’d decided to go on an adventure with my childhood friend Hans, a sturdy Norwegian. We opted to head to Morrocco, but the Arab Spring then ignited, with political rebellions breaking across North Africa. Our families cautioned us against our trip, stating how dangerous it could be.

Disgruntled, we settled for a hike across the remote Scottish Highlands instead.

Which, as it turned out, would be far more dangerous. The trip immediately resembled a horror film. A snow blizzard turned the landscape monochrome; our car broke down. We spent a night in an out-of-season hunting lodge, where the staff seemed to spend their time drinking whiskey and telling ghost stories.

When we did persevere on our hike, it was apparent that the elements were still against us. The snow carpeted the hills, removing any trace of footpaths and erasing our footprints behind us. The world was drained of colour; all we could see was each other, silhouettes against the blinding snowstorm.

We were soon completely lost.

Just as the storm took on a twilight hue, disaster struck. The snow beneath my feet gave way and I tumbled into a stream, the ice-cold water permeating my clothes.

I tried to hurry on, but as the adrenaline waned the cold took hold. Words like hypothermia and frostbite intruded into my thoughts. Camping was no longer an option. We took refuge in an abandoned barn, where Hans somehow managed to build a fire. Desperate, I put my socks on a stick and raised them close to the flames to dry.

I wouldn’t be able to safely hike with cold, wet feet for another two days, I reasoned. But my socks didn’t just dry.

They caught fire.

Yelping, I ran out of the barn and threw them in the snow. They smouldered, now soaking and half-burnt to tatters.

I turned back to Hans in the barn, about to say something—but his expression told me I didn’t have to.

He felt the same way.

We should have gone to Morrocco.