In the silence, there was a sound like running water. Fast and steady. In the faint moonlight, I saw something wet covering its face. I hate to say the thing was even a bear. It was beyond animal.
The bear stood on its hind legs and bellowed a wet, raspy cry. It fell to all fours and lunged at me through the frost and brush, its paws pounding the dirt. Numb from cold, I scarcely dodged the bear before tripping through a pile of kindling. The bear tore through my sleep sack and plowed headlong into the wall.
Confused and angry, the bear swiped through the broken timber and turned to me, tongue dribbling. I gripped the Gerber’s neoprene handle and braced myself against the stirring wind. It launched at me in an awkward, galloping leap. I sidestepped, but its paw landed on my hip and I grabbed the fur for balance. The bear was a ball of cold and matted steel wool. We fell together. The icy mud burned my skin. I thrashed underneath, wielded the long blade, and sank the knife deep into the dark, frozen fur. The handle made a sucking noise at the wound. The bear’s blood ran cold and black down my arm.
His knee crushed my scrotum. I was lost in the pain and the darkness of his fur.
I raised the knife to its neck and hacked like a mad, desperate bastard. Its body went limp on top of me. The furry ice cube sank and I thought I might die underneath it, naked and cold and victorious. Its knee released my genitals. I squeezed out and retrieved the hunting knife. The bear’s blood clung like jam to the blade.
In the dark, I limped to my backpack hanging from the steel cables and lowered it to the ground. I didn’t notice until I tried to remove the pack from the cable that my hands were numb. I was shaking and every bit of my skin could have been frostbit. I knocked off the layer of crusted mud and put on my long underwear and thermal vest. Though I hadn’t slept long, I left the campsite for the next trailhead ten miles away. Even when I was warm and far away from that place, I shook nervously. I looked over my shoulder every fifty yards. I could see nothing in the dark, but I looked anyway. I kept watch religiously.
I’ll tell you again. There wasn’t much I was afraid of. I was thirty, seasoned and all-knowing. After that night, I was just thirty. I had been afraid of that bear.
I was a long way from home. Nearly four-hundred miles from the trailhead in Quinn Valley. Going home wasn’t an option. I decided to take a break in Hot Springs and stay off the Trail. Maybe the winter would pick up, snow a few inches, and drive the bears back to their dens.
By daybreak, I’d made it to Max Patch Mountain, a bald peak ten miles from Hot Springs. Up on the hill were sheets of ice scattered across the dead grass. There was no sun. Just a thick wad of clouds in blue and purple and yellow.
On top of Max Patch the wind was harsh. It tore through all my layers. The sky was much darker when I made the summit. It looked like snow forever.
Ditching my pack, I knelt and opened my emergency rations: two king-sized candy bars and a flask of high-proof whiskey. Halfway through the first candy bar, I unsheathed the hunting knife to clean it in the grass. The blood was almost black, thick as honey, and it stuck to the knife like no blood I’d seen. I stabbed the earth several times and wiped the mud on a tuft of grass. The blood still clung to the blade in streaks, shiny and wet.
“That’s one way to go hunting,” a hoarse voice giggled in my ear.
I spun and thrust out the knife. A white-haired hippie took a step back and put up his hands.
“It’s only a joke, take it easy.”
His dog huffed.
I lowered the knife.
“Want a hot drink?”
I shook my head and showed him the flask. I took a sip and offered him the flask.
He took the flask and put it to his lips, wincing as he swallowed.
I squatted, eye level with his dog, a black and white sporting breed. A handsome dog. It sniffed me out of obligation. Lowering its head, it lapped eagerly at the knife blade. I shoved its snout away. It growled. The hippie took another swig. The dog went back for the knife.
“She doesn’t like you pushing on her.”
“Well, no shit. I don’t think she ought to lick this knife.”
“It won’t hurt her.”
“I don’t know.”
“What’d you have on the end of that thing?”
“A bear.”
He curled his lip. “You don’t have anything better to do than go after a bear? You know, their numbers are dwindling because of people like you.”
“It attacked me.”
“They don’t do that unless provoked.”
I stood, sheathed the knife, and donned my pack. “Thanks for the advice.”
I looked across the valley at the clouds on the tops of the surrounding mountains. I gave the hippie another glance. He’d turned away and thrown a stick for the dog. It smelled like cigarettes all of a sudden. I noticed a pack of Pall Malls poking out of his breast pocket. A lit cigarette dangled from his lip. I intended to leave the hippie at the top of the mountain, but as I went to descend the hill I saw nothing but thick fog on all sides.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a parking lot down here?”
“Better be. That’s where I parked. It’s down this way,” he pointed opposite where I stood and struck off in a fast stride down the hillside.
“Name’s Tom,” he called over his shoulder.
“Jack,” I answered.
He stopped and took my hand with a firm grip. He gave it a single, unceremonious snap. “That’s it? Just Jack?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not Jack Lionheart or Bramblefoot Jack or Skidrow Jackie or something?”
“What are you talking about?” I stepped around him and continued down the hill.
“Most hikers give themselves a Trail name. Stupid if you ask me. Buncha hippie crap. I bet you’re running low on food. You set up any food drops?”
I laughed.
“Of course not. You’re the kind of guy who wants to go all on his own. No help. I bet you have a credit card.”
I laughed again.
“A wad of cash, that’s what you carry! And you keep it tucked in your clothes. And you always carry the knife.”
“You’re getting the idea.”
“Well, you’re going the wrong way, aren’t you?’
“No. I plan to make it to Hot Springs and rest. A week. Two weeks.”
Tom whistled just to whistle. “I’m not exactly a shit-in-the-woods kind of person. I’ll come up here with Carla once a week, but I’m not much into camping.”
“Is Carla your wife?”
He frowned and pointed to the handsome dog rolling in the snow. “Carla. I live pretty close to Hot Springs. You’re more than welcome to a shower and some coffee. I can drive you into Hot Springs, too. Maybe buy you some out-of-season oysters at Rock Bottom.”
His truck was a rusty, canary yellow International Harvester. Carla excitedly leapt up on the opened tailgate and climbed into the passenger seat. She showed her teeth at me through the window. Tom yelled at her and she sheepishly relinquished the seat to me. The door made a shotgun bang as I opened it.
Tom fired up the truck and turned a dial on a small space heater bolted between the seats. Wadded wrappers from Taco Toro decorated the floorboard.
“The heater takes a few minutes to warm up.”
The ball of wires taped to the back of the heater sizzled and smoked. Then, the smell and the smoke disappeared as Tom gunned the gas.
“Couple things, Jack.”
I opened the flask and took a long drink.
“You’re dumb and you’re lucky and you’re dumb.”