The Grouse Grind Literary Competition is run annually by PRISM International, the magazine of the University of British Columbia’s Creative Writing Department in Vancouver. People who live in BC know a trail in North Vancouver called the Grouse Grind. It is very short but very hard, going straight up a mountain. This inspired the literary competition: short pieces of fiction or non-fiction to a maximum of 300 words. It is hard to tell a story in so few words!

I was thrilled to be award Second Runner-Up in the 2026 contest. Yes! My first literary achievement as I work on my book project and other writing adventures. Second runner-up is a nice way of say third place. I am happy with the bronze medal!

PRISM International has not yet published the winners, so I am happy to share my piece here. It is a true event (sadly) that took place while I was on my walking writing retreat in Wales in June 2025. You can read about the walking retreat in an article published in Writers Digest. The rest of my week walking and writing was wonderful.

The Walk

I expected a tough start to the day’s walk. Uphill for 4 km to reach Hatterral Ridge on Offa’s Dyke Path. I didn’t anticipate the lamb.

It is in the first field after I pass a farmhouse. The lamb lies on its side, its head up, bent sideways. Its back is torn open, a sickening spread of red flesh, the hunk of hide beside it. It is still alive but already buzzing with flies. Its eye flutters open to look at me. It is all alone, no ewe nearby.

I walk back to the farmhouse through a yard untidy with a disarray of rusted implements, a hodgepodge of building materials, the engine hood up on a car, a stray boot on the path. A white-haired woman in a faded apron opens the door. She looks at me in silence, finally says thank you and closes the door.

I trudge upwards. Sweat runs down my nose, sunscreen stings my eyes. I am attacked by horseflies or deerflies or whatever they call them, the bite painful and immediately itchy. I dodge nettles and brambles crowding the path. There is sheep shit everywhere. I clamber awkwardly over styes, sticky with fresh creosote. Where is that wind, now blocked by the hill, that will push me around on the ridge, throw my hair across my face, grab at my phone when I try to take pictures?

I talk out loud to the lambs that I pass as I climb. Urge them to take care, that there are bad things that might hurt them, their mothers might not protect them.

I pause just before the top. One last listen for the gunshot that never comes. A few more steps. The wind lunges for me. I greet its bullying, clawing, cleansing embrace.