Old School

It was three days later, in the dry forest of the southern Cascades that he heard them behind him.  In the clear mountain air he heard their voices carrying over the canyon, although he couldn’t make out the words.  His heart quickened, and he left the trail, huffing up the steep mountainside to hide among the firs.  The voices got closer – whoever was behind him was making good time.  He dodged left and right around massive pine trunks, looking back once to see his pursuers in the distance, doggedly following the path he had left.  Panicked, he found a large, hollowed-out trunk, about thirty feet high, evidently struck by lightning some time ago.  He circled it hastily, finding a small opening at the base, just large enough to admit his wiry frame.  He lay on his back and wriggled in head-first, hoping the mat of pine needles covering the ground was thick enough to show no sign of his efforts.  Once inside he placed his back to one side and brought his knees up to brace against the other side, levering himself up that way until his shoulders were lodged firmly enough that he could relax his knees a little.  He knew that if he tried to hold himself there by effort alone, his muscles would tire quickly, and their shaking would alert those following of his presence.

             As his breathing slowed, he heard voices down on the trail he had left just minutes earlier.  They sounded female, and he quietly cursed to himself.  He was running scared from two girl hikers, oblivious to his existence.  If he kept jumping at every shadow, it would take him months to reach Canada!  He stilled his breathing, trying to make out their conversation.  He heard nothing.  Just as he was about to start down, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the scree approaching his position.  He froze.  The light entering the tree through the hole below dimmed.  He heard a zipper and the muffled rustle of clothing being moved.   Then came the sound of something scraping the ground, not like a shovel but more like… a boot?  A soft thump shook the trunk, and his heart stopped.  What could they be doing?  Had they dropped their backpacks?  Were they stopping for a snack?  A nap?  A bathroom break?  He broke into a nervous sweat.

            His fears were quickly allayed by the rich, dank smell of feces wafting up from the hole.  Just some coed dropping a load off the trail – he was angry at his fear, angry also at the girl.  Didn’t she know not to squat in front of a dark hole?  Who knew what kind of animal might be in there, eyeing her bum, ready to jump out and chomp a cheek?  He had to stifle his laughter at the image of a badger hanging off the girl’s butt as she shuffled screaming down the mountain as fast as her trouser-bound legs would take her.  He heard her scrape dirt over her waste with her boot and zip up her shorts.  The next sound gave him pause – it sounded like the wheel of a Bic being scraped over a flint.  What the…?   The faint smell of smoke drifted past his face.   She must be old school, he thought, burning her toilet paper instead of burying it.  He heard her footsteps trudging down through the woods, fading until they were gone.

            After waiting a few minutes to make sure she was far enough away, he started to wriggle his shoulders in an effort to descend.  He couldn’t budge!  He tried bringing up his knees to lever his body down, but he was wedged in too tight.  He twisted and rocked his torso, but only succeeded in getting a cramp in his back.  Suddenly, the smell of smoke became sharply stronger.  He could see through the hole ten feet above his head that the blue sky was smudged with white, drifting across the opening.  He grew concerned.  His concern grew to panic when he felt heat through the soles of his boots, dangling below him.  “That stupid girl set my tree on fire!” he raged to himself.  Wisps of smoke trickled past his tightly crammed torso, causing his eyes to water.  He began having difficulty finding good air to breath.  Gasping, he wrenched his body side to side, kicking his legs and heaving his shoulders like a man possessed.  Searing heat was building below him, and he felt sure his boots were smouldering.  Tearing one, last gasping breath, he threw back his head and screamed for help toward the crystalline sky above.

            Far down the trail, one of the hikers turned to her companion.  “Did you hear something?”  Her partner shrugged. “Probably just a hawk or a marmot or something,”   She paused to look out over the Klamath valley, spread out before them in golden swells and amber clefts.  Mount Shasta thrust toward the rich, blue sky, its perfect slopes and snowy peak making it the mountain all other mountains aspired to.  “Isn’t this perfect?” the first one said.  “Mmmmm, - so peaceful,” the other replied.