Rooted

With a borrowed copy of Walden and a cup of coffee in hand, Alex takes her usual place in the corner of the breakfast nook. For the fifth morning in a row, she runs through the facts of her and Sam’s predicament.

Alex lists them plainly in her head; They have spent eight days in a cabin deep in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. Five days ago, they discovered that Sam’s 1990 Ford Bronco wouldn’t start. They have zero cell phone reception. They have about three days left of food. Last but not least, Sam is not herself and Alex has no clue why.

Today, she must do the same things she did yesterday and the day before that; wait for help to arrive and pray for the best. Alex considers her reflection in the warped, single-pane window. Her light brown hair is tied up in a messy bun and the whites of her eyes are red, evidence of the weariness she’s felt over the past week. She looks past herself into the mist-blurred trees. Alex imagines what it would be like living in these woods alone, like Henry David Thoreau had done. Would I find my time isolated in nature as enlightening as he supposedly did?

Alex opens the green leather-bound book to a page bookmarked with a brown-and-white striped feather Sam had found outside. If Thoreau could live for two years alone in the woods, I can certainly last a few more days.

Everything is going great when they first arrive at the one-room cabin, which served as a ranger station in the ’60s. Both Alex and Sam are excited to begin their vacation immersed in nature, far from their hectic lives in the city. They spend the first day hiking down to a nearby lake, where they catch a large-mouth bass with a flimsy collapsible pole Sam carries in her pack. They haul the fish still writhing back to the cabin and cook it over an open fire. Despite their hack job gutting it, Alex counts it as one of the best fish she’s ever eaten. Better than anything she’s tasted back in Seattle. That first day makes them feel like queens of all wilder women.

The days that follow are the same; full of the rare energizing tranquility that can only be found when one is safely tucked away in their own pocket of nature. The girls explore the trails surrounding the cabin, never venturing too far off from home base. They dip their feet into the freezing lake and ponder aloud what their lives would be like if they lived in a place like this. It has turned out to be a great mental re-set for Alex despite initially not wanting to vacation in the middle of nowhere. It isn’t until the third day, the day they are set to leave, that Alex notices an abrupt change in Sam.

Early that morning, they load up Sam’s Bronco with their things only to discover that the car won’t start. Sam spends the next 20 minutes hunched over the giant steering wheel hopelessly revving the tired engine. Alex has to all but pry her from the driver’s seat to get her to start to think rationally about the situation. She leads Sam back into the cabin.

“This is a national forest. Someone will have to stop by sooner or later to check up on us,” Alex assures her. At this point, Alex is confident that everything will turn out fine. Before they left, she had mentioned to her mom that she and Sam were taking a long three-day weekend to stay at a cabin in the woods. If her mom didn’t suspect something was amiss after a couple of days, someone from one of their jobs would surely notice their absence. These rationalizations placate Sam for the time being. “The first thing we should do is take stock of our food supply,” says Alex. Sam nods in silent agreement, only half listening. They move into the kitchen.

Leftover from their own stash is a couple of veggie dogs, half a loaf of bread, a bag of trail mix, one pound of rice, and a few granola bars. The rest of their meals would have to consist of whatever canned food happened to be left in this cabin. Alex opens the pantry near the stove. It’s painted army green and is chipped, revealing the wood underneath. Luckily, there seems to be enough leftover food from previous renters to sustain them for at least another week. She removes a can of corn, lima beans, mandarin oranges, two cans of black beans, tins of tuna, diced tomatoes, and variations of Chef Boyardee pasta. Hiding in the back, she finds seven cans of tomato soup, although some are dented. Each can is covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Someone must have really loved tomato soup,” says Alex as she wipes one of the cans of soup. “My dad loved tomato soup,” says Sam quietly, her eyes glazing over. This comment catches Alex off guard. Sam rarely speaks about her father, who died when she was just 12 years old. The only times she has uttered a word about him in the past two years have been when she and Alex were unmentionably wasted. Alex doesn’t know how to respond, so they go on cleaning in silence.

The following morning, Alex wakes to the chirps of birds and squirrels outside their bedroom window. Through hazy morning eyes, she takes in the fairytale-like scene and nearly forgets that they are now stranded. But the situation they’ve found themselves in is no fantasy. If either of them gets hurt or sick, they could be in serious trouble. Still yawning, she slinks to the kitchen, boils water, and makes Sam and her each a cup of instant coffee.

After making coffee, Alex scans the open bookshelf propped against the wall opposite the door. She lands on a thick green book with the title Walden etched in thin gold font on the spine. A book about self-reliance and leisure seems an appropriate read while cut off from society, she thinks.

She cozies up in the nook near the kitchen window, fading in and out of Walden and daydreams. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds us and Sam starts acting normal again. She watches Sam outside as she walks the grounds. Sam busies herself gathering firewood for the small wood-burning stove in the living room, tossing the sticks in a haphazard pile on the front porch. Occasionally, she hunches over at the edge of the yard gathering small flowers for pressing in her nature journal. She tucks the bundles behind her ear, solemnly scanning the forest ground like a melancholy flower child. More than once, Alex catches Sam staring up into the trees for minutes on end. Alex would crane her neck to catch a glimpse of what had caught Sam’s attention. Eventually, she is able to catch the white underside of wings. She assumes it is just a friendly neighborhood bird paying Sam a visit.

Later, Alex and Sam make their way to the lake and attempt to catch another fish. Alex practically begs Sam to come with her, who claims she is tired from gathering wood earlier. Sam eventually gives in. After about an hour, they give up and spend the rest of the day sunbathing. Later that night they patch together a meal of rice, tuna, and beans. For dessert, a tall glass of water.

After dinner, they sit down in the living room with their journals to document the day’s events. Alex takes note of how Sam seems sullen, but ultimately chalks it up to nerves. Alex finds herself getting annoyed as she looks up to find Sam scribbling away furiously in her journal. How can Sam have so much to write about while having so little to say to me? She recalls the awkward conversation that transpired in the kitchen yesterday and feels guilty for being so selfish.

“I’m bored,” says Alex, swinging her legs playfully over an arm of the couch. She bats her almond eyes playfully at Sam and flashes a hammed-up smile. Sam, deep into her writing, returns a brief smile and then buries her head back into her journal. With a theatrical sigh, Alex gets up to search the cabin for something to occupy the time. She spies the rustic end table holding the living room lamp. Alex opens the drawer at the base of the end table and discovers a five-thousand-piece National Audubon Society puzzle of North American Birds. She shakes the puzzle in the air.

“Look what I found,” she sings. Sam looks up, her eyes narrowing in on the puzzle. She studies the overlapping menagerie of birds, from hawks and ducks to jays and hummingbirds. “Let me see that,” Sam says. Sam tosses her journal aside and crawls on all fours over to Alex. She seizes the box.

“What is it? ” asks Alex.

“My dad, he…” Sam begins.

Before she can finish her sentence, Alex lifts a pair of dark brown gloves from the drawer that had been hiding under the puzzle. The knitted gloves are tattered, with a delicate white trim along the wrists. “Wonder who these belonged to,” says Alex as she gives them a quick sniff. When she looks up to meet Sam’s eyes, all she finds is a pale shadow of a person. Sam’s caramel skin has turned a grey-green hue. Her once-hazel eyes are empty pits.

“My God, what’s wrong?” asks Alex, taking Sam by the shoulders. “Do you feel sick?”

Sam shrugs her off and drops the puzzle. She uses the coffee table to hoist herself up and faces the kitchen. After composing herself, she turns back around and smiles a furtive, toothless grin. “I’m fine,” she chokes. She reaches for her journal, hands shaking.

“You don’t look fine,” says Alex, concerned.

“I think I’m just dehydrated,” says Sam. “The sun must have taken it out of me earlier.” She forces another thin grin and starts for the bedroom.

“Sam. Will you please tell me what’s really going on with you?” asks Alex more forcefully now.

“What do you mean? I just told you. I’m tired.”

“Stop playing dumb with me! You’ve been acting weird all day. I know there is something you’re not telling me. ”

“We’re stranded in the middle of the woods! That’s what’s going on,” Sam screams.

They’ve had fights before, but they’ve always been the passive-aggressive sort. This time, Sam’s raw and passionate anger sends a pang of emotion shooting through Alex’s gut.

“Maybe I’m the one who’s acting normal to our situation and you’re the one not taking things seriously,” Sam adds.

“Fine. Then what was that just now? You looked like you were going to pass out,” says Alex. Sam says nothing.

“Have you seen these gloves before?” Alex asks, her heart beating loudly in her ears.

Sam opens her mouth as if to give an answer, but instead storms off into the bedroom.

She leaves Alex on the floor of the living room, mouth agape, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Am I crazy? Am I the one not reacting to the situation appropriately? I can’t be imagining things. Sam looked like she saw a ghost when I pulled out those gloves. I need to figure out what is going on.

The next day, Alex does not attempt to broach the topic of the puzzle and gloves with Sam again. It’s too soon, and she already has a better idea of where she could find answers; Sam’s journal.

The next few days pass by painfully slow as variations of the same routine. Read and gather wood in the morning. Lake in the afternoon. Journal and brood in silence at night. With each passing day, Sam grows more and more distant. She also never lets her journal out of her sight. She writes incessantly throughout the day as if not a single memory could afford to be lost.

When Alex expresses concern over their quickly dwindling food supply, Sam responds with a nonchalant, “It will be fine.” Wasn’t she the one who accused me of not taking this seriously? She receives the same response when Alex points out that they will soon be out of propane for the stove and shower. Sam’s apathy worries her. But that is not all that worries her. On multiple occasions, Alex finds Sam standing straight as a board by the living room window. She stares into the thick pine and cedar forest surrounding the cabin, her black hair a frizzy cloud around her head. When Alex calls her name, Sam snaps out of her fog and responds with a curt, “What is it?”

Moments like these cause Alex to become increasingly worried about Sam’s state of mind. In her growing uneasiness, Alex finds herself jealous of Thoreau’s actual state of aloneness. Despite having Sam by her side, she’s felt more alone than ever before over the past week. It’s as if the real Sam managed to leave with the formerly running Bronco, leaving Alex stranded in the woods with both their ghosts. These thoughts lodge themselves in the back of Alex’s mind.

That’s why on this foggy March morning, deep into the musings of Thoreau’s final essay, Alex nearly jumps out of her skin when Sam suddenly appears in the kitchen. Dark circles cushion her empty eyes. Alex notices that Sam has buttoned up her flannel incorrectly. Sam stands in front of Alex and announces with a cheerful yet off-putting grin, “I’m going for a walk.”

“I’ll go with you,” Alex quickly responds. Sam makes no acknowledgment that she hears Alex and starts for the door. Alex almost falls flat on her face trying to lace up her hiking boots. “Wait for me!” she calls to Sam, who continues merrily down the road. By the time she gets her puffer jacket on, Sam has already made it halfway down the gravel driveway.

Alex grabs Sam’s canvas tote hanging on the coat rack, checking to make sure the bear spray is inside. The words “Tote Bag” are ironically painted in black on both sides. Inside the tote, she finds Sam’s journal, as well as the brown gloves she had found with the Audubon puzzle a few days earlier. Alex hesitates at the door. This could be my only chance to figure out what is going on with Sam. She considers staying at the cabin and reading the forbidden book while Sam is off doing God knows what. Letting her go alone in this state feels wrong. Reluctantly, she slings the tote over her shoulder and jogs to catch up with Sam. She finally reaches her about a quarter-mile from the cabin at the wide trail that breaks off from the driveway.

They had walked this trail on the first day they arrived and many times since then, but something about today feels entirely different. The trail, shaded by towering cedar trees, occasionally gives way to bursts of morning light that fall like spotlights onto anointed beds of ferns and brush below. The details of the forest announce themselves to Alex loudly, whereas they had only hinted at their presence before. With each breath, the damp air feels cleansing in her lungs. As she passes through sun rays, the light penetrates her skin and gives her bursts of renewed energy. This sensation of intense ultra-clarity is new, yet not unwelcome. Was this what Thoreau felt when he emerged from his cabin each dawn?

They reach the familiar crooked wooden shed, patched with dark green moss, at the end of the path. It is about the size of an outhouse and leans 30 degrees to the right. A mass of termites takes flight one by one from a black rotting log laying nearby. Their fluttering wings in the sunlight look like floating ash from a burning book. Alex peeks her head cautiously inside the shed, searching for those large yellow eyes that met hers on that first hike out and every one since. The eyes and the barn owl they belong to are nowhere to be seen. “I wonder where our friend went off to?” asks Alex. “Maybe she is looking for something she lost,” said Sam, eyes fixated up in the dense canopy of tangled limbs. “Maybe,” Alex replied skeptically, trying her absolute best not to fixate on the strangeness of this response. Just then, a heavy swoosh of wings coming from somewhere above them snaps Sam out of her trance. Uninterested in the barn owl, Sam charges ahead confidently toward the sunlit path beyond the final row of trees.

Alex struggles to keep up with Sam as she half-jogs down the winding stone trail that leads to their private crystal blue mountain lake. Alex rounds a tight corner, sandwiched between giant granite boulders, but Sam is nowhere to be seen. She swears she had only been a few paces behind Sam. She considers calling her name, but the trail is only half a mile long and she doesn’t want to give Sam the satisfaction of knowing she is uncomfortable on her own.

Even back in Seattle, Alex couldn't stand the idea of attending a social function without Sam. Their lives moved so quickly that it was easier to simply follow Sam’s lead. After all, she was the confident one. She charged ahead fearlessly from one life event to the next. One job to another. Undaunted by endless weddings, birthday parties, root canals, and, yes, even taxes. She has always been so self-assured and never weighed down by regret. Alex never minded sailing closely behind in Sam’s wake. Her assertive, self-reliant attitude made Alex feel safe. Since entering these woods, however, far from the distraction of their busy lives, something has shifted. It’s more than the arguments or any one little thing. Something fundamental has altered between them. One major question nags at the back of her mind now: Which one of them has changed?

Left with no other option, Alex presses on alone. Her hyper-sensitivity springs to life with each small rustle of leaves or snap of a twig. As she moves further down the trail, she is able to let go of a small portion of pent-up anxiety with each step. Eventually, the steam rising from the underbrush looks more mystical than ominous. Instead of looming danger, she begins to hear melodies in the rustle of leaves. Alex feels that same lightness she had felt while sitting by the window daydreaming. She brushes her fingers across the spongy lichen clinging to the shale and plucks a few leaves from a bay laurel tree near the base of the trail. Sam had pointed it out to her on their first jaunt down to the lake. She tucks a few fragrant leaves in her tote, thinking of some Frankenstein stew she could throw together with the leftover tomato soup, corn, and lima beans.

Soon, Alex reaches the thin line of rocky beach surrounding the clear mountain lake. She scans the entire shoreline, but still, there is no sign of Sam; no red and black flannel slung upon a boulder signaling a sudden urge to swim; no ochre knit beanie strewn down among the rocks bespeaking a vicious attack from some large predator. Here’s my chance, she thinks.

Alex finds a spot on a wide boulder by the edge of the water, black as obsidian under the lingering fog. She pulls Sam’s burgundy moleskin notebook from her tote and opens it just before the bookmarked page. She takes one last look around before reading. The entries are jumbled and hard to read, but she slowly begins to piece things together:

Dad’s bronco died today. Now we’re stuck out here and I don’t know what to do.

I brought up dad to Alex today and made things really awkward. I’m so stupid. Those damn cans of tomato soup reminded me of him. This whole place reminds me of him. More than that, it makes me want to remember him. Before, it was easy to push him out.

I remember that he loved bird watching. We used to watch the hawks and finches and owls that would perch on the oak tree in the backyard. He loved being outdoors. He would leave for weeks at a time to go hunting. Whenever he left, mom would mark off each day that he was gone on the National Audubon calendar hanging in the kitchen while I ate off-brand cereal.

After he died, the calendar was stuck perpetually on the month of March, illustrated by a barn owl. Her wings were outstretched, ready to take flight. Her head was cocked to the right as if perpetually waiting for the answer to a question. I remember those dark blue eyes turning into deep endless pits in her head if you stared into them for too long. I hated that owl. Seeing that barn owl here made me think of that calendar. Now, I get the feeling that the owl was trying to tell me something…

A twig snaps behind Alex and she looks up in alarm. She sees nothing, but Alex feels the panic begin to claw at her chest. She closes the notebook, making a dog ear on the page where she left off and stuffs it back in the tote. So, this place reminds her of her dad, she thinks, but there has to be more. Alex climbs down the boulder and starts making her way toward the trail on the western slope of the mountain.

Just as she manages to gather enough air in her lungs to launch Sam’s name into the sky, Alex feels a hand slide into the tote slung on her back. She whirls around and nearly falls backward onto a jutting dead branch in the process. Sam yanks Alex forward by the tote strap without saying a word.

“Where the hell were you?” Alex demands out of breath. “I thought you may have drowned or been eaten by a god damn grizzly.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” replies Sam, a sincere smile on her face. “Come on. Follow me.”

Alex follows along obediently, acutely aware that she has now violated Sam’s trust for her own selfish benefit. Sam hops from rock to rock with the ease of a wood nymph, practically floating above the stones. She stops by the shore at the base of the western trail leading deeper into the forest and unearths a neon green and orange fishing lure from the black sand.

“What are you going to do with that?” Alex asks. Sam shrugs and drops it in Alex’s tote for safekeeping. The barb immediately lodges itself in the coarse fabric, refusing to budge. “I guess that’s in there forever now,” says Alex. While she struggles to remove the barb, Sam makes her way into the dense tunnel of trees. They continue slowly up the trail leading deep into the pines. It has started to drizzle, but neither of them mind. She peels clumps of neon wood moss and spongy lichen from the pines to distract herself from her numb extremities. The sensation of hyper-clarity returns.

“How quickly moss comes to life in the rain,” Alex says. Sam nods absently and continues uphill. The dry spores of summer contain so much potential, Alex thinks. They sprout forth into a bright fury with the slightest hint of moisture. Alex cradles a soft sage-green tuft of moss in her bare hand. She’s tempted to put the whole bundle in her mouth and swallow. She pulls a small piece of moss from the tangle in her palm, holds it up to the light, and then places it delicately on her tongue.

Grow in me, she prays. Cushion my heart and liver and lungs in a mat of neon green. Gently wrap my spine in feathered foliage and seek light through my eyes and ears.

Alex has no idea where these thoughts are coming from. Have these plants taken root in my head? The thought sends a tingle down her spine. Alex sets her sights on the trail ahead, eager to move along. About ten feet up the trail, Sam points to a spotted salamander, umber and glistening like the soggy leaves under which it takes refuge. She powers forward around a bend lined with juniper and young firs. Alex follows closely behind.

When she makes it around the bend, Alex finds Sam has stopped at a large tree trunk blocking the rest of the trail. Sam ducks through a small opening in the bushes to her left. Alex follows and freezes on the other side, awestruck at the clearing beyond a vast expanse of dispersed pines.

The scene before them looks otherworldly. The sunlight piercing the glistening trees appear both crystal clear and fuzzy at the same time. They are both soaked from the light rain that’s begun to fall, but neither one notices.

Nothing that has preoccupied Alex’s thoughts the past week matters anymore. She feels weightless. Without thinking about the consequences, Alex reaches into her tote and removes Sam’s journal. She reads the next entry aloud:

Before Dad left on a hunting trip, Mom would make sure he packed the brown gloves she had knitted for him. After he died, she tore up the house looking for them. I remember finding her on their bedroom floor crying and mumbling to herself about those stupid knit gloves with the white trim. When I saw Alex pull those gloves out of the drawer along with that puzzle, I finally knew.

Mom never told me where it happened, but somehow I felt called to this place. Maybe that's why I pushed Alex so hard for this trip. I know she didn’t want to go, but I kept bugging her until she caved. Getting stuck out here was all my fault. I knew dad’s Bronco was on its last legs. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything ever happened to Alex because of me, but now at least I know the truth. This is where it happened. This is where he died.

Alex closes the journal, expecting to meet eyes with a furious Sam. Instead, she finds Sam is staring at her with a look of complete serenity on her face. It’s almost a look of relief. Sam walks over to Alex, reaches inside the tote, and pulls out her dad’s gloves. Sam slides them carefully over each finger.

Suddenly, Alex hears a familiar whoosh of feathers above them and briefly catches a glimpse of the white underside of owl wings. She follows the movement to a high-up branch in the distance and finds those bright, inquisitive eyes that she hoped to find earlier.

“Hello my friend,” she whispers. A few moments pass and Alex turns back around to point out their friend to Sam. What she sees next is beyond explanation. It should have frightened Alex, but she is only filled with the calming sense that everything she is witnessing is meant to be. Just another unfathomable yet natural process, like metamorphosis.

Alex watches as sprouts of green shoot forth from Sam’s gloved fingers. Deliberately, as if moved by some intrinsic force, Sam removes her shoes and socks. Sam’s spine begins to harden and roots sprout forth from her feet. The ground softens beneath her and she sinks deep into the earth.

"Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads,” Alex whispers as she watches in amazement. This time, Thoreau and I agree. This is holy ground.

The afternoon sun begins to lift the dense blanket of fog. It’s strange, but she can almost see the moisture and nutrients in the soft soil nourishing Sam’s body. Everything within Sam is rearranging. A familiar heavy shift of wings draws near. Sam tries to say something to Alex, but no sound leaves her mouth. They hear only the gentle, steady drops of rain falling from pine needles onto the forest floor below. Sam tries to move, but her legs are now tethered to the ground. Slowly, she looks side to side and realizes she is holding her arms outstretched, as if ready for an embrace. Two brown knit gloves hang on the tips of her elongated, sinuous hands.

Just then, the barn owl lands gracefully on one of Sam’s outstretched branches. Their eyes meet, only a few inches apart. For the first time in a week, they finally see one another. Sam understands what the owl has been trying to tell her. The owl gives one big shiver before finally resting fully on the branch and closing her eyes. Sam, too, lets out a deep, restful sigh.

Startled by the owl’s sudden arrival, Alex emerges from her trance-like state and cannot remember how she ended up in this clearing. Has Sam gone off and left me again? She looks around and notices the young pine to her right, two gloved branches outstretched. An owl rests on the pine, unbothered by Alex’s proximity. Sam must have left these gloves here to mark our path. Alex walks alone into the sunlit haze until she is but a shadow to Sam, blurred by distant fog.