Down by the Water's Edge

I peel off my sweaty layers and crawl into the bubbling river. The water cuts through my skin, but I know I need fresh water on my ankle’s gaping wound. The silt left in the gash is seared by a small rapid water flow, and I yelp. I scramble to the bank and crawl over the rocks to the smoldering embers of my campfire.

I rummage through my sack for the first aid kit and dump a whole bottle of isopropyl alcohol over my left foot. The cut looks clean, but the white skin surrounding my ankle gives me shudders. I need stitches and a damned good antibiotic, but I’m days away from civilization. The siren of pain has dulled to a constant throb and relieved, I fall on my back. I realize I’m stark naked and let out an insane scream-laugh. If no one is around to hear you scream, is your life really imploding?

The roll of gauze in the kit covers my ankle—I don’t know if it’s helping stave off infection, but it creates a buffer between my mangled foot and the wool socks I edge back over my feet. Blake and I parted ways at the fork on the Sidewinder Trail two days ago to complete our “solos”, and I’ve already lost my razor and ruined my foot. I dropped the Emergency Services GPS/radio in the same freefall from the trail that cost me my left ankle.

Five days ago, three of us—Blake, Frankie, and I—hiked twenty-three miles from the safety of Blake’s SUV in the paved park guest lot to the trailhead. Frankie bailed at mile twenty-three, freezing next to the “Sidewinder Trail Starts Here” sign as soon as we reached it.

“I dunno. I’ve just got a bad feeling about this,” he said.

Blake and I begged him to continue—only ten days to go, and we’d become fully certified orienteering and hiking guides. But Frankie turned around and never looked back. Maybe he was right. Thinking about limping even another mile sends my head spinning into darkness.

I feel like I’m Leo in The Revenant as I scratch the spotty, two-day growth patch on my cheeks. I’m not the Grizzly Adams-type I fancied myself. And I’m not sure how I’ll survive this trip.

The still morning gives away to a fierce gust of wind. A rancid staleness creeps into the air and makes my stomach turn. I crawl to stand on my right leg, the left hanging askew behind me, and I pack up my camp.

When I was six, I found my trusty dog, Max, dead in a cornfield on my parent’s farmland. He’d gone after a coyote and I wasn’t fast enough to stop him from running into the whole pack. I threw up when I found him—the sight of his ruined body horrified me, but it was the stark scent of death that did me in. The scent whispering in the morning air reminds me of Max.

Yesterday, as I headed further up the mountain and into the deep, endless forest, a heavy blanket of fog enveloped me. Puzzled, I looked skyward. The cloudless sunshine of morning was swallowed without warning. I shuddered and checked in with Blake who had trekked west of me on the trail.

“You wimping out yet?” I laughed into my walkie.

“Sam? Dude. The freakiest thing …You’re not…shadow…weird rocks…” Blake’s voice broke through the static, but I could barely make him out. He couldn’t have made it more than ten miles west of me—the walkies were supposed to have a hundred-mile reception. ‘Figures my junk off-brand would conk out.

“Blake?” A frenzied click of the talk button did nothing to improve my reception. In frustration, I knocked the walkie against a thick elm trunk, and it spilled from my hands. Through the mist, I watched my only form of communication fall in slow motion. It tumbled off the trail and down a steep, dead leaf-covered embankment.

“Shit.” My stupidity is even too much for me at times. I scrambled to follow the walkie on its plummet and tripped over a black boulder jutting from the hillside. My pack, still strapped to my shoulders and waist, raised over my head, and I tumbled over it before a fir tree broke my fall. I lay still for a moment—head planted in a mound of dirt and wet leaves, pants falling down, with my pack jammed against the back of my head.

Moments earlier, I fantasized about my ex-girlfriend, Katie, basking in my mountain man glory and begging me to take her back. I was so thankful Katie was in Ballard and blissful in her ignorance of my condition. She disapproved of my new career choice and had choice words before dumping me the day before my trip.

“You spring this on me the week before you’re supposed to go? Were you even going to tell me you quit the bank?” She asked, shaking her head.

Katie reminded me of my parents when I got caught breaking curfew in high school. “You’re on ground zero trust with us, Sam,” they’d sigh.

I turned over onto my back to survey any physical damage. I could feel the bomb go off in my ankle before I saw its obliterated state. To my right, a million pieces of plastic shattered walkie littered the fir tree’s roots. The wind picked up again as if to mock my ineptitude. I managed to stand, favoring my right leg. I surveyed the steep slope I pummeled down—I was at least sixty feet below the trail. I swallowed a creeping panic and remembered my guidebook.

If you find yourself lost, close your eyes and pay attention to the sounds around you. Can you hear running water? If so, walk toward the sound.

--Lessons on Orienteering, p. 67.

I closed my eyes. I did hear a faint rush of water to my east. But I couldn’t walk. I scoured through fallen branches and believed my luck was changing. I found two thick twigs and fashioned a splint for my left foot. And, a sizable branch sat at my feet, ready to form a crutch. My chest swelled with pride.

Bear Grylls has nothing on you! You’ve got this, Sam. Katie will be proud of you.

I eased my way down to what I figured was the Snake River, and chose to make camp at the river’s edge. The fog followed me down, and I still couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me. I froze at the sound of distant heavy thuds and breaking branches.

"Someone there?” I called out. “Blake?”

My words fell into a wall of thick silence. Cold sweat covered the back of my neck as an unknown animal cried, “Woo-eee-eee-eee.”

It sounded like a cross between an owl and a monkey.

“Nope!” I shouted into the fog.

By the time I make it to a clearing, the purple streaks of dusk settled into twilight. The fog cleared, but the permeating quiet suffocated me. Any sound freaked me out. I made myself laugh at my comedy of errors, and I thought of the great stories I could regale Blake with when I made it back to the parking lot. I grabbed a “Steak Diane” MRE from my pack and rested by the campfire. The meat was tougher than a gas station hot dog, but it warmed me. My ankle dulled to a constant throb and I relaxed for the first time since saying goodbye to Blake.

I re-read my guidebook by the dying sparks of my campfire. I followed its instructions to double-pack my food, shoved it in the bottom of my backpack, and hung it on a tree branch ten feet from my tent.

There will be spiders

Two harbingers of crap occurred before my river bath this morning.

Harbinger one:

Just after dawn, splintered rays of bright sun pierced my tent and woke me. I peered through the vinyl window and smiled. Sunshine was a good omen for the waiting day. But as I shrugged off slumber, an uncomfortable tickle enveloped my whole body. I sat up, horrified. I could make out scurrying brown shapes at the foot of my sleeping bag. Indiana Jones may hate snakes, and I’m not fond of the slitherers either. But I freaking loathe spiders.

One late October, I was bitten by a brown recluse as I helped my dad clear hay bales from our silo. My hand swelled to the size of a basketball, and the spider’s venom ate through my skin. The doctors managed to save my limb, but I didn’t fully recover until the next spring. Pain shot through my wrist any time I moved my hand, and I had a deep hole the size of a quarter on my palm—the scar serves as a reminder of these demonic creatures. I. Hate. Spiders.

I zipped open the tent and let out a high-pitched shriek. I looked around for the ten-year-old girl who must have been responsible for the shriek. I hope no other living person hears me utter that sound again.

I crab-walked my way back out to my campsite.

“Get ‘em off me!” I screamed. The tent’s insides were covered with brown, hairy, nasty spiders. Hundreds of arachnids crawled over my possessions. They definitely scurried over me as I slept.

A stream of fucks flowed from my lips. When I looked back at the tent, though, the spiders were gone. I didn’t have a fever, and I have been without any mind-altering substances save caffeine for the trip’s entirety. I know what I saw. Those nasty crawlers were all over the tent.

Harbinger two:

I gulped down my panic and lifted my pack from its branch to dig out breakfast. The pack was closed and intact. I opened it and dug down to grab prepackaged bacon and a jar of peanut butter. I found a bag of beef jerky and a box of protein bars, but twelve pounds of food—MRES, flour, S’mores ingredients, the aforementioned delicious bacon and peanut butter, and precooked sausage? Gone. No traces of my sustenance.

“What the? Screw this. I’m done.” I said out loud.

I pulled out my laminated Sidewinder map and found the river. I’m about twelve miles from a county road, so I figured my best bet is to follow the river back to civilization. I’m sticky with dried sweat and panic, and I figure a dip in the river is my best bet to clear my head.

I shiver in the still-rising sun, but pull hidden energy from within, and ready myself for the arduous journey ahead. I need to get the hell out of these woods. Mortgages and bank loans aren’t so bad after all.

The first couple of hours, I fair well. My ankle still pulsates with pain, but I can stand to put a bit of weight on it. I take leaps with my right leg, and kind of drag my left leg behind me. But I’m like a leaky balloon, and my energy is soon gone.

I figure I’ve journeyed about four miles when the monstrous fog rolls in again. Its talons stretch from the sky and eclipse my vision. And, I’m still alone. No fly-fisherman or kayakers appear. Every last sound is supersonic and sharp—I hear a bird take flight before it leaves its nest.

The leaves and bramble crunch under my feet like thunder. A chipmunk scurries up a weeping willow. The owl-monkey song begins again, and fear seizes my throat. I ramp up my speed, but my ankle gives out. I collapse on a large ivory rock by the water’s edge as daylight fades. I can’t stop for long.

I shove a chunky piece of beef jerky in my mouth and feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. I whip my head around and see nothing through the fog.

“Blake!” I shout. “I swear I’m gonna kick your ass.”

The dreaded heavy silence taunts me in reply. I grab a long-sleeved tee- shirt from my pack and wrap it around my makeshift crutch. Over the next hour, I cover another three miles. I can only see the path in front of me, and I notice a multitude of small cairns built around either side of my forged path. Cairns are familiar sites on the Sidewinder Trail—mountain climbers build them as monuments to their journey. But I’m uneasy about their presence in the flatland surrounding the river. I’ve never seen so many in one spot. The road shouldn’t be more than an hour ahead; I can’t wait to get out of here. I can’t wait to grovel at Katie’s feet and agree to go back to the bank.

Three hours have passed since the cairns. My left foot refuses to move any further. The road should’ve appeared by now—it’s a straight shot ahead. I’ve hit a wide clearing with a pre-existing fire pit. I’ll make camp here tonight, and get to the road with the help of tomorrow’s sun.

I’ve pitched the tent and started a fire. Nothing to cook tonight, but the glow comforts me. The owl-monkey started its menacing whoop again. Everything in me screams to get to the road tonight, now—while I still can. I can crawl if I have to, but my body refuses to cooperate. The last embers of my campfire have died, and yet I make no motion to stoke the flames. I think I’ll close my eyes for a minute.

An alarming stab in my shoulder blades calls me to wake. I panic, but it’s only the rock I decided to call my resting place. I’m trying to muster the energy to slither into my tent. Small footsteps run in the brush behind my campsite. Probably foxes.

But the footsteps grow louder. And closer. I register murmuring voices laughing behind me. A scream extinguishes in my throat. So tired. I force my eyes open and pull myself up. A dozen red eyes—not animal, but not quite human either—surround me. The footsteps blare in my ears. I’m enveloped in darkness, but I feel ice cold, small hands close around my throat.

Can’t move. Can’t scream. Gonna close my eyes now.