Sitting in a heap at bottom of the hill he paused momentarily to collect his thoughts and body parts. Though unhurt, he knew it could have been different. He stared up through the blowing snow and maze of trees to his friend, if only to suggest he wait at the top for him. He was reconsidering going on as he had hoped, and expected. While licking his face, his dog concurred.
Out of some suburban right to life, bolstered by a sense of invulnerability, and prevalent in the culture, is the notion that we cannot perish. Something emanates out of the certitude of the modern day that says that there is always someone to solve the problem, a safety net. Not so. He contemplated his circumstance had there been more injury than only to his ego. How would his friend make it out to trigger that safety net, if we can hardly move ourselves currently? No, they were stuck, and he knew it.
At the top of the hill, screaming into the whipping wind, decisions were made quickly. Some sense of auto-pilot inflates. They would have to attempt the following, and in this order: change the sweaty clothes, eat granola bars, set up the tent, fire the pack stove and melt snow, drink water, sleep.
He couldn’t understand what his friend was saying to him. Not because of the wind so much, as the reality of the statement. Was it true that he had stashed the stove under a fallen tree trunk about a mile back in order to lighten his load of unnecessary weight? And the pans were stashed even further back along the now buried trail?
The tent erection was a trick. Once done, they headed back for the buried cache of gear. Fortunately, with the wind up, and their parka hoods tied down, they were unable to express their shared frustration of only locating the stove and not the pans. They stared down at each rapidly filling track, while heading back to the only shelter available for miles across this national forest.
Once in the tent, both men and the dog, they remained unspoken, but not unaware of the need for water before sleep over took their senses. Driving the blade into his long owned Boy Scout canteen was a reminder how valuable possessions can be, and how fleeting. With the top cut out they began the long and slow process of rehydration.
The spent two days and two nights at that single set of coordinates. It was not what they expected, but it was their reality.Please feel free to e-mail a comment to chasingthecenterline@gmail.com
