The Stories We Whisper at Night

by Sky Corgan

  The sound of disturbed foliage doesn't even phase me, but the growl that follows it makes me stop dead in my tracks. Bear, is the first thing I think, probably because they're the most common predator to encounter on the trail if you don't count snakes. They usually stroll into camps where food isn't secured in airtight containers.

  That wasn't a bear growl though, and I know it before I even turn around. Wolves. Four of them, from what I can see. A very small pack.

  “What are the odds?” I mutter, trying to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. Not good, is the answer. I must just be unlucky, and they must be starving. My voice alone should have driven them off.

  While I didn't physically prepare myself as well as I could have for the hike, I did read a ton about wilderness survival and what you should do if you encounter such predators. It wasn't much of a fear for me, considering that most hikers never run into bears or cougars or wolves, but I still thought it would be good to know. Now I'm glad I took the time.

  “You don't want to eat me,” I tell the wolves, putting on a brave face. I have a feeling they don't care how skinny I've become since starting the trail. They're just looking for an easy meal, trying to survive like everything else out here.

  I pretend to be a bear, making myself as large as I can by throwing my arms over my head and growling back at them. The other wolves cower a bit and turn to their alpha as if asking if they should stay or run away. The alpha glances to the side for a moment, but he doesn't back down. I roar at them this time, trying to shoe them away, and the alpha growls in response, taking a step forward.

  “Crap. Well, that didn't work.” I hold my palms out in front of me in surrender as if it will keep the wolves at bay.

  Panic begins to set in. I quickly survey my surroundings, trying to find the best route for escape. Running won't work. Wolves are coursing predators, which means they're used to running down their prey. I need to climb a tree, but there aren't any good ones nearby. All smooth trunks with no footholds, and most of them are too skinny to support my weight anyway. My only other option is to climb down the side of the cliff to my left and wait for the wolves to go away. There aren't really any good options, but I feel like I'll have better luck going down instead of up.

  I take off my backpack and drop it on the ground. The wolves all lurch back before I see a few more step out of the forest. There are six now. Of course, there are. Because four wasn't enough for me to deal with.

  I slowly back towards the cliff, wondering if I'm making a mistake. Crouching in front of the wolves is a really bad idea. In hindsight, I should have climbed a tree, but they're starting to surround me—to wall me in—so that option is gone.

  A few of the wolves stop to stiff at my backpack, the alpha included, so I take the opportunity to start climbing down the side of the cliff. Thankfully, they're so distracted that they don't seem to notice.

  It's a long way down, but nowhere near as bad as it could be. Maybe thirty feet to the bottom. If the wolves don't go away, I could climb all the way down, but then I'd have to leave my backpack behind, which isn't ideal.

  I've barely gotten my body over the edge of the cliff before the wolves abandon the backpack. “Crap,” I breathe out as they begin to approach. This was definitely a bad idea.

  The smart thing to do would be to make sure that every foot is meticulously placed on the best rocky surface to hold my weight. But I don't have that luxury. The wolves are coming. I have to climb fast.

  By some miracle, I make it down far enough by the time the alpha pokes his head over the side of the cliff. Relief flushes through me. That and exhilaration. To be so near to a predator. His face is mere feet away from mine. His eyes are so green they're almost yellow. Stunning at this close of a proximity.

  “You're a gray wolf,” I tell him, because it's obvious he doesn't know he's a wolf. He makes a pitiful whining sound, upset at the loss of his meal. “You're going to have to try harder than that next time, buddy.” I let out a small laugh.

  A rock shifts beneath my foot. I cling to the cliff face tighter, my heart shooting up into my throat. The rock gives way beneath my foot and tumbles down the side of the cliff. My leg flails, desperately seeking another point of support. I'm thrown off balance as I glance down to try to get a visual on a good foothold, and my grip slips.

  Everything happens so quickly that I barely have time to process what's going on. I'm screaming, and the wolf is still staring down at me. I swear he looks satisfied. A voice echoes in my head, but it's foreign to me. “You're going to have to try harder next time, buddy.”

  My life doesn't flash before my eyes. Maybe because I don't die. The wind is knocked out of me in a whoosh as I land on my back. Pain shoots through my entire body. I lie there for several moments, staring up into the gray sky, fearing the worst, that I broke my spine and am now paralyzed.

  The wolf disappears from the cliff's edge. He knows the way down. I'm sure of it. Now I've become an easy meal for them.

  Is anything broken? I wonder, wiggling my fingers and then my toes. The pain of the impact is quickly fading from most everything except my ankle. I take a deep breath and roll up to look at my legs, fully expecting to see blood and a bone sticking out. I see no such thing. I move my legs. Only the one is injured. In fact, I seem pretty okay overall. A miracle, I realize as I sit up, testing my limbs out again before trying to stand. It appears that my ankle is sprained. Aside from that and a back that's definitely going to be purple tomorrow, I'm fine.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe out, unable to keep the laughter from traveling up my throat while tears spill down my cheeks. I don't think I've ever been happier to be alive.

  But my joy is short-lived because I have other problems now. There's no way I'm going to be able to climb back up the side of the cliff for my backpack. And my backpack has everything I need in it. Food. Water. Supplies. My only choice is to go back the way I came. It's going to be a long seven-mile hike. It would only take me a little over two hours if I walked at my normal pace. But now I'm going to be limping, which will slow me down significantly. On top of that, the cliff curves around away from the trail. I have no idea how I'm going to get back to it without climbing. With no compass to guide me, I'll have to be incredibly vigilant about the direction of the sun and where I came from if I want any hope of finding the trail again.

  I take a deep breath, trembling slightly as my nerves settle from the fall. I can't believe I got myself into this mess. If I had just not been stubborn and stopped with the more experienced hikers at the last resupply point, then none of this would have happened.

  I begin walking. Or limping, rather. Following the side of the cliff back in the direction of the last resupply point. Pain shoots through my foot with every step. It's not long before I'm looking for something to make a cane out of.

  It seems colder down here, but that doesn't make much sense. Maybe it's because I'm moving slower. My body isn't generating as much heat as it was when I was walking at a fast pace. Between being injured and the gloomy weather, my energy is zapped.

  I'm thankful that I didn't break anything in the fall. I know that I was lucky to survive it. So many things could have gone wrong. I could have tumbled down the side of the cliff, breaking multiple bones. I could have landed on a jagged rock in just the right place and broken my spine. Or I could have hit my head and died instantly. Still, despite knowing how lucky I was, I can't help but have a pity party. I can't help but wonder how much more could possibly go wrong.

  And then it starts to snow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KIT

  I pull up to the old rickety cabin where Rob and I spent so many summers with our family when it was still whole. It seems like a lifetime ago. Grandma and grandpa were alive back then. The place originally started out as grandpa's hunting cabin, but as he aged into his sixties, it turned into more of a family vacation spot, a reprieve from our busy lives.

  I climb out of my jeep and inhale the clean forest air
. It smells pure and fresh, of trees and dirt and another world unmarred by human suffering. There are no sad memories here. Only the one I'm about to create.

  I take a few more deep breaths, savoring the mere act of breathing. Savoring the abundance of untainted oxygen that most people in the city don't have the luxury of. And thinking about how strange it is that air smells different in different places. Like people, each place carries its own scent.

  Wondering what surprises I'll find, I walk to the cabin and give the front door a good push to open it. Maybe I should have knocked first, but I never really expect there to be anyone inside. There isn't, and for the most part, everything is as we left it that last time we were here. It was five years ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I had just finished my first tour of Afghanistan. We had all been looking forward to the hunting trip so much. My grandfather regaled us with tales of his boyhood, and I told them all about my new and exciting career. Rob soaked it all up like a sponge. I didn't realize at the time that I was feeding him cyanide.

  Maybe the memories aren't so pleasant after all, I think with a painful twinge. Even the happy ones seem to lead to tragic moments. But I can't think about that right now because there's so much to be done. Why I'm even going to do it, I don't know. Perhaps to honor the memory of better times. I want to feel safe, but there's no safety in death—in the unknown. If everything that my grandparents believed in is true, then Rob and I won't be going to the same place. That should scare the shit out of me, but living with my regrets seems far worse.

  I take stock of everything in the cabin, not that there's much. Just a wood-burning stove, a table, and an empty cabinet. The place is pretty bare bones. My grandfather built it with his own two hands. I can feel the cold wind blowing in through the small spaces between the logs where the chinking has weathered away. It reminds me that it's going to be a cold night and I need to get busy chopping wood.

  I frown when I notice my grandfather's ax is gone. No doubt, hikers have been in here. But at least they didn't leave the place a mess. I check the cabinet to find my grandfather's raggedy old blanket still there. There's also a ten dollar bill with a rock sitting on top of it and a bag of Reeces Pieces candies. A smile crosses my lips. Looks like they tried to pay for what they took. That would make my grandfather happy—feed into his thought process that most people try to be good and honest.

  I close the cabinet and sigh before heading out to my jeep to grab my things. I didn't bring much with me. A blanket, a pillow, a pot and a coffee cup, some coffee, enough MREs to last a week, and a case of water. In my backpack are a box of matches, a few rolls of toilet paper, a small medical kit, and enough prescription medication to kill a racehorse. I didn't even bother to bring a change of clothes.

  Once I get everything inside, I go back to my jeep to grab my ax. If there's one thing my grandfather taught us, it was that if we were coming to the cabin alone, we should always come with the expectation that there would be nothing there. Seems like it was a good lesson.

  I walk into the forest, taking in the beauty of the nature around me. Mom used to love it here, though she was never a big fan of the hunting aspect. I smirk as I remember the first time we all came out together. Rob shot a small buck, and she had guilted him about it until he had started crying. He was always the softer of the two of us. At least, I thought that until we went to war. He loved the thought of fighting for his country—like it made him more of a man. I only ever really wanted to save people. It looks like we both failed to some extent. He died, and I couldn't save anyone.

  I swing my ax into a Douglas-fir, the blow connecting hard against its trunk. The sound echoes in my ears like the blast of a gun. Memories flood back. For as much as I want to, I can't stop them. This isn't the first tree I've chopped down, so I try to think about all the ones before it. But those memories are mundane. Every time the ax hits the wood, I'm transported back to the battlefield. So I just chop faster, wanting to get through it, burning out all of my energy in the process. It's not long before I have to take off the heavy coat I'm wearing, sweat soaking through my shirt despite the chill in the air.

  It's exhausting work. I'd almost forgotten how tiring it can be. Maybe it will wear me out so much that I won't have it in me to take my life tonight. That I can just go back to the cabin afterward, start a fire, and sleep. Push on for one more day like I've been doing, an endless slog of just getting by. But I know the dreams will come again—the nightmares that have me thrashing and screaming in my sleep. I don't want that.

  The tree comes down. I don't bother yelling timber. Rob would have shouted it from the top of his lungs.

  I think about the saying if a tree falls in the woods but no one is around to hear it, does it even make a sound. Of course, it does. To think it wouldn't is just silly.

  I break the tree down until it's just a trunk and then drag it back to the cabin to chop it into firewood. The sound of the ax splitting through the wooden flesh isn't quite as reminiscent of gun blasts, but it still conjures up the memories. Who knew that chopping wood could be so psychologically torturous. I thought this would bring me peace, but I guess I was wrong...like with so many other things. Had I known I'd feel this way, I would have just brought firewood from town. But I had wanted to sweat and feel alive one last time. To remember what it felt like to be a man instead of just the shell of one.

  I start stacking the freshly chopped wood inside just as it begins to snow. I'm never happier than when the deed is done and I can settle in for the night. My body is already sore from the exertion. If I were at home, I'd take a nice hot shower. This is roughing it, though. Unless I want to stand outside and pour water on myself in the freezing cold, getting clean isn't going to happen.

  I start a fire in the stove and begin boiling water in my pot for coffee. Then I go through my MREs to pick out what I want for dinner. Chili mac is the best option by far, but I'm saving that for my last supper. Maybe that should be tonight, I think gloomily. Maybe I brought the rest of this stuff for nothing. Chili mac definitely seems more appealing than anything else I have, especially after burning so many calories.

  I say fuck it and bust open the Chili mac, devouring the entire MRE like a fatty. All the while, I think about all the nights sitting and eating with my fellow soldiers. Back then, it seemed endless. Then life came to an abrupt halt.

  Tears blind me as I remember in vivid detail so many friends taking their last breaths under my hands, their eyes looking up at me desperate with the hope that I could save them. I realize that I can't do this anymore. That I can't go on one more night. I don't want the nightmares. And I no longer care about feeling safe. I just want to see an end to this.

  I inhale deeply before getting to work setting up my IV. I'm no idiot. If I take pills, there's a high probability that I'll throw them back up. I want something guaranteed, so I made a nice little liquid cocktail of Fentanyl, HCl, Midazolam, and Nembutal that should humanly euthanize me.

  I take the bag out of my backpack and feel the weight of it. The coldness. Things most people wouldn't even care about. I'm hyperaware of everything, soaking in my last few moments of life. The bag feels extra heavy as I hang it on the hook, weighted with the burden of what I'm about to use it for.

  There's only one thing left to do.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IVY

  The snow is falling in billowy waves. If I were somewhere safe, I would find it beautiful. Right now, it just looks like white death. Like ash I've seen in movies, descending in aggressively heavy layers to snuff me out.

  The cliff curved too far away from the trail. I lost my bearings a while ago. For the longest time, I didn't want to admit it to myself. But now I need to face reality. I'm lost. Hopelessly, unequivocally lost.

  I shiver as I walk, knowing its only a matter of time before hypothermia sets in or I get frostbite. I have to find somewhere to take shelter for the night. But finding anything is difficult when the snow is falling so hard, hampering my visibility. I'm prob
ably going to die out here, I realize with despair, then quickly shake the thought away. Being negative will only make me give up. And I can't afford to give up.

  I think about all the movies and television shows that I've watched about survival. Most of the time, people find a cave to hole up in. That doesn't save them from frostbite, but at least they escape with their lives. The lucky ones. I'm nowhere near the side of the cliff anymore, though. Once I had gotten lost, I had thought that if I moved away from the cliff and searched for a source of water to follow, it might be a smarter move. I think I remember seeing a river on the map somewhere, but having no idea where I am, I could be heading in the opposite direction. Surely to God, I'll have to run into a river or a road or a cave or a cabin eventually.

  I trudge onward despite the cold zapping what little energy I have left. Each step is excruciating on my sprained ankle. You'd figure it would have gone numb by now. The cold is searing my face. I'm not sure which pain is worse.

  Hobbling turns into stumbling. The snow is getting so deep that I can't see what's on the ground beneath it. I trip and fall, then get back up, walk a few more yards, and trip and fall again. The second time, I think about not getting up. I close my eyes and begin to fade, but as soon as I realize what's happening, panic brings me back to. It would be so easy to just let go. But I can't allow that to happen because I have so much to live for. I have to stand. Have to force myself to. Have to press on, because who knows what's around the next corner. I could be close to salvation. If I give up now, I'll never know. But I'm so tired.

  I lean against a nearby tree, trying to rally my strength. Just a little farther, I tell myself. It may be a lie, but if that's what keeps me going, then I'll lie to myself for as long as I have to to get through this. And then I'll have an exciting story to tell my parents when I get home. To my friends. To my future children and grandchildren, about how I survived the Pacific Crest Trail against all odds after making a stupid mistake. Maybe someone will even turn my story into a movie someday. Wouldn't that be cool?