The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  I bolted awake instantly on the sound. Heavy footsteps and the sharp snap of a twig. Buzzy was upright next to me, eyes white and wide. We both looked over at Pops, who was snoring contentedly.

  “What was that?” he hissed. I shook my head. More footsteps. Buzzy reached under his sleeping bag and pulled out the crossbow pistol, already loaded and cocked. The steps came closer. I nudged Pops, but he just grunted and rolled on his side. Two more steps toward the tent, another twig snap. A three-quarter moon was washing the inside of the tent with diffused light, and as the intruder came closer, his bulk obscured the moon and cast a shadow over us. Buzzy clicked the safety off the crossbow and raised it to the tent door, hand shaking. I nudged Pops’ shoulder to roust him awake, but all I got was sleep talk. The shadow lingered for a moment, then moved swiftly away, making no attempt at stealth.

  We stayed upright, motionless, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps bothering the night. Soon it was quiet again except for a few crickets and Pops’ light breathing.

  “What the fuck was that?” I hissed. “Was it a bear?”

  “Warn’t no bear,” Buzzy replied.

  “How do you know?

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think those were bear footsteps. Sounded like boots to me.”

  “Who would be up here this time of night? Maybe a hiker or somebody.”

  Buzzy kept looking at the zippered flap of the tent. “Maybe.”

  We sat up for another hour not saying a word, just listening to the night sounds in the woods—the hooting of an owl, the hissing of a distant cougar, crickets. After a while we lay back on top of our sleeping bags and eventually found restless sleep.

  “Likely a bear,” Pops said, seeming unconcerned about our camp intruder. “He probably smelled our food bag and wanted a taste. Most of the bears up here are harmless; there’s plenty for them to eat. So as long as you don’t startle a mother with cubs, they’ll give you a wide berth.” He was cutting thin strips of fatback into the skillet. “You boys go get canteen water to boil, then scout some wood for a courtesy pile. Let’s leave it bigger than we found it.”

  We walked to the edge of the clearing and down the ridge into the forest toward the spring. “You think Pops is right about the bear?”

  “I got no idea, but I don’t know which’d be worse, a bear or some creepy mountain man stalkin us.”

  “Whatever it was, I don’t want to be meeting it again. Sooner we get out of here the better.”

  We made it down to the spring, which spewed out of two rocks pushed together against the ridge face. It ran to a shallow pool ringed in mud. In the soft ground near the water was a clear, fresh boot print. Buzzy saw it first. “Look at this. You see it? Tole you it warn’t no bear.”

  The boot print was so clear we could read the make and size—Timberland, eleven. “It could be an old one,” I offered. Buzzy said nothing. I filled the canteens and we dragged fallen branches back into camp for the courtesy pile. “Pops, we saw a man’s footprint in the mud down by the spring. Buzzy doesn’t think it was a bear last night. He thinks it could have been a man.”

  “Well, this is a popular camping spot, what with the spring and the protection of the boulders.” He turned a piece of fatback with a fork. “Could’ve been a hiker or a poacher.” His confidence gave me comfort. If Pops, with all his wisdom, experience, and courage, wasn’t concerned, then neither was I.

  We wolfed instant oatmeal and coffee and a few strips of the fatback, then packed up the tent, overfilled the courtesy pile, and broke camp, careful to haul out all our trash. It was eight thirty and the sky was bright blue, with a few billowing clouds to the south. “We’ve got thirteen hard miles to do today if we’re going to make Glaston Lake by nightfall. Kevin, why don’t you lead us?”

  “Do I get the walking stick?” I put out my hand and smiled.

  He picked it up and appraised it with obvious affection. “This is one you have to earn, son.” He turned his palm up in an “after you” motion, and I took off down the trail, Buzzy behind me, Pops bringing up the rear.

  We followed the trail for another few miles across the ridgetop, then down into a beautiful wooded valley, stopping halfway in to snack at the Pancakes, an outcropping of four flat table-size rocks nature had stacked on each other.

  The trail took us to the edge of a raging river, mud infused and swollen to flood from the weeks of rain. The jet roar of white water as it crashed down a thirty-foot cliff to rocks below.

  We stood on the bank, watching the powerful torrent throw itself over the edge. “This is the Blackball River,” Pops said, as if reading my mind. “Very dangerous water, especially now. There’s a footbridge about eight miles up for crossing.” We followed the trail riverside for most of the afternoon, past screaming rapids at first, then miles of lazy curves, until the trail ended abruptly at the bank, then continued ninety feet across the other side, the rope tatterings of the old footbridge streaming into the water like abandoned fishing lines.

  Pops stood on the edge, hands on hips. “This is an unhappy complication.” We looked up and down the stream for a narrowing or a fallen tree to help us cross, but there was none. “All this water’s coming off Glaston—unlikely it’ll let up anytime soon. Looks like we’re gonna have to get wet.”

  “Yahoo! I could use a swim,” I said with mock levity.

  Pops took his pack off and dug into it. “Kevin, I appreciate the humor, but this is a dangerous situation. This river is full of boulders and undercuts that can suck you down and not spit you back for days. Frankly, I’ve half a mind to turn back rather than risk it.”

  “Sorry, Pops,” I said sheepishly. It was the first time he had ever admonished me, and it stung.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a thin smile. “We’re fifteen miles into the wilderness with no chance of help. Don’t be sorry; be vigilant.”

  Just then, the carcass of a drowned deer raced past us as if to punctuate Pops’ warning. Its head was submerged, its belly down, with hind legs pointing to the sky. It looked like an outsize duck diving for fish. We watched it pass and continue down the creek, turning belly up on the turbulent edge of an eddy. It circled, as if two-stepping with the current, then disappeared under the surface. We all stared at the space where the dead animal had been.

  “Let’s not be that deer,” Pops said.

  Chapter 27

  THE CROSSING

  Buzzy and I shook off our packs and Pops brought out a long measure of nylon cord. “We’re gonna work this just like a clothesline with a pulley on each end—only the pulleys are us.” He unfurled the rope and tied the two ends together with a square knot, testing it twice. He tied a loop in the middle, then put it over his head and under his arms.

  “I’m gonna swim across with my end of the rope; then we’ll work this loop back clothesline-style. Send the packs over one at a time, then the first boy puts the loop under his arms and swims it while we hold the ends and feed him across. The last boy loops in and swims while we two pull him as fast as we can from the other side. You got that?”

  We nodded solemnly and moved upstream about a hundred feet. I looped the rope around a boulder.

  “Good thinking, Kevin. How else can we cut our risk in this operation?”

  I thought for a moment. “Don’t fight the current so much. Swim diagonally with it.”

  “That’s exactly correct. What else?”

  “Swim like you got prahanas bitin at your ass,” Buzzy said to break the tension. Even Pops laughed at that.

  “It’ll be easier for us because you’ll be on the other side pulling,” I offered. “We just can’t get loose of the rope.”

  “Under no circumstances can you get loose of the rope. At all costs, don’t get loose of the rope.”

  Pops took off his hiking boots and shirt and put them in the top of his pack. We did the same. He stepped off the bank, letting out a yell about the cold water. The current took him immediately ten yards downstream. He quickly
recovered and cut across the water with powerful strokes.

  The current kept pushing him downstream, but with each stroke he made good headway. He was three-quarters across just as the rope lost the last of its play. He reached up and grabbed an overhanging limb and pulled himself half out of the water, then jungle-gymmed to the far bank. He scrambled onto the shore, dog-shook the water off, then walked back to the crossing point. “Go on and send the packs over,” he shouted above the racing-water sounds.

  Buzzy picked up Pops’ pack. “This sucker ain’t gonna float. Weighs a frickin ton.” He tied the rope to the aluminum frame.

  “Wait just a second.” I opened the pack and pulled out the cooking supplies and Pops’ clothes, which were encased in extra-large plastic ziplock bags. I opened the first just a crack and blew air into the top. It expanded like a balloon. I sealed it and did the same with the four other bags and repacked everything, barely fitting it all into the space. “Great thinking, Kevin,” Pops shouted. Buzzy eased the pack into the maelstrom. It went under for a moment, then bobbed on the top. I held the rope, feeding it as Pops pulled the pack across quickly. He grabbed it from the river and shook the water off. I pumped up the clothes bags in our packs. Buzzy tied each to the rope and Pops pulled them one by one to the other side.

  “You want me to go first?” Buzzy asked.

  “I think I should, since I’m lighter. I’m gonna need you holding that rope hard. When you get in, bring the line with you and we’ll pull you across, like Pops said. The current will swing you most of the way, I think.”

  Buzzy nodded. “All right, let’s go.” I put the loop over my head and secured it under my arms. Buzzy braced himself against a rock. I stepped off the bank into cold river water.

  The force of the current immediately knocked my feet out from under me. I regained footing and moved off the sandy bottom into the deep water. The rush of it pushed me downstream until the rope tightened. Buzzy braced against the pull and fed the line to Pops, who was pulling hard and fast. I swam as best I could, but most of my progress was due to him.

  I was halfway across when I heard Buzzy yell above the din. “Tree comin!” I looked upstream and saw a huge tree stump with a ten-foot root spread, half submerged and bearing down on me from fifty yards away. Buzzy hesitated for a moment, then took a running dive into the water. The rope went slack and Pops turned, slung it over his shoulder, and pushed away from the bank like a draft horse. I reached the overhanging tree and grabbed the branch, slipping the loop off my shoulders. Buzzy was still in the middle, swimming hard, but the giant stump was nearly on him. I scrambled up the bank, grabbed the rope, and pulled with Pops.

  Buzzy’s head kept bobbing in and out of the water as he tried to swim and watch the stump at once. As it came near, he flipped over to fend it off with his feet. The stump parried and the sharp roots turned to him. Pops and I heaved once more and pulled him clear just as the stump rushed past. A few more pulls and he was up on the bank, on hands and knees, heaving for air. Pops and I collapsed on the ground.

  We stayed catching our breath for a few more minutes. Finally, Pops stood. “Buzzy, that was quick thinking. No way we could have held on if that stump had hit.” He walked over and put a hand on his back. “You okay, son?”

  Buzzy nodded and coughed.

  “We all best get on the trail,” Pops said. “The hardest part of the hike is still to come.” We put on dry clothes and affixed the wet packs to our backs. The woods were in the first brush of evening as Pops took off up the trail.

  “You saved my ass!” I said to Buzzy. “Thanks.”

  “You tole me this was gonna be a vacation. That was no fuckin vacation.”

  “Look, man, from here on out it’s gonna be great. Pops said Glaston Lake is unbelievable.”

  “Then let’s jus get our asses there.” A tired smile flashed the gap in his two front teeth.

  We hiked a few hundred yards through the trees, then paused at the base of a huge mountain. Its foundation shot up sharply from the valley, as if it had been driven out of the earth by some cataclysm deep in the core. Its sides were thick with pine and oak and ash that caressed the rise like a thick green beard. And rocks. Strewn rock bowling balls, beach balls, VW Bugs, sedans, trucks, trailers, houses, that all seemed to have been tossed casually from the granite top to alight at the pleasure of gravity. I could see a twisting murmur of trail drawn brown on the green and gray, snaking the face like a scar.

  “This is Old Blue, one of the highest mountains in Kentucky and the hardest part of the hike. Three miles of uphill switchbacks, but once you see the lake, you’ll know it was worth it.” We stood with our packs, looking up the long, steep climb. “Buzzy, why don’t you lead this last leg?”

  The trail wound back and forth up the base of the mountain. Buzzy grabbed the straps of his pack, leaned forward, and pulled it higher on his back for leverage. I was three steps behind him, and Pops was following close after. We traversed the slope of the hill, then across the face of the next mountain, then back on Old Blue. Buzzy was huffing, I was sweating, even Pops was red-faced. “The good news is we’ve got this downhill on the way back,” he said between breaths. After two more switchbacks he called for Buzzy to rest. Buzzy stopped at the elbow of the trail and bent over with hands on his knees. I did the same, while Pops leaned on his walking stick. The sun had sunk below the mountaintop, and it was cool in the shade. Despite that we were sweating with effort.

  “I reckon we’re two hours out with about four hours of light left, so we need to keep the pace. Once we’re on top, it’s all downhill to the lake. Buzz, let’s take a quick rest every third switchback.”

  Buzzy nodded, took a deep breath like he was diving into a pool, and started up the trail. Pops and I followed like lemmings, back and forth up the steep slope.

  We paused by a spring that Pops said was clear to drink and cupped our hands to catch the water. It was cold and flinty.

  Pops dug into his pack and pulled out three oranges, throwing one to each of us. “How did Grandma ever get up here?” I asked, orange juice and pulp running down my chin.

  Pops laughed. “What are you talking about? I struggled to keep up with her.”

  “Yeah, but weren’t you carrying all the gear?” I spat an orange seed.

  Pops spat a seed and shook his head. “She carried her share. More than, if you factor it by body weight. She was a thin girl but strong.”

  “My grandma’s thin too,” Buzzy said, spitting three seeds at once. “But I doubt she could get up this mountain.”

  “Think we’ll have orange trees here when we come back next year?”

  “Now, that would just make it perfect, wouldn’t it?” Pops said. “Pick our own oranges as we slog up this mountain.” We laughed at the notion.

  After another half hour of switchbacks and rests, the top of the mountain came into view through the trees. “We’re almost there,” I said, as much to urge myself as to encourage Buzzy, who was slowing noticeably.

  “I see it,” he said. “Let’s keep goin til we hit the top.” It was past time for a break, but there was no argument from Pops or me. The switchbacks began to get shorter as the mountain narrowed near the summit; however, with each turn the trail became steeper, until, finally, we were crawling up a forty-five-degree angle, trying for footholds and handholds to give us purchase. Fifty feet from the summit our pace quickened to a mad scramble over rocks and dirt—gnarled roots propelling us to the apogee of Old Blue.

  Buzzy was first over the top. He threw his pack off and stood in the sunshine, hands on knees, catching his breath. “Mutha.”

  I grabbed a rock on the summit lip and pushed off another into the light. I sloughed my pack next to his and joined him gasp for gasp. We both looked back at Pops, whose head top was just above the lip. In an easy movement he was up and over, standing next to us.

  The summit of Old Blue was stocked with ragged juniper, windswept and stunted by the altitude, sneaking up through the rock an
d the moss. Behind us, through the thin brush, I could see the land we had just traversed, the rain-swollen river snaking the valley and the long signature of Irish Ridge. In the distance, the wound of mountaintop removal looked like a cancer on otherwise exquisite skin. Next to it, the few twinkling lights of Medgar.

  We turned, and before us, in a valley bounded by Old Blue, Little Big Top, and Harker Mountain, was the most beautiful lake I had ever seen. It was a mile long, almost perfectly oval, with dark-blue water ringed on one side by a sandy beach and on the other by granite sheer. At either end and in the middle next to the beach were huge outcroppings of rock thirty or forty feet off the surface of the lake—the water was like a layer of just-laid glass. A fish broke the surface and sent out rings of tiny waves. It felt as if we were settlers making first way west and coming upon a place that had never known man.

  “Isn’t it something, Buzzy?” was all I could think of to say.

  “Ain’t it just,” was all he could think of to reply.

  We stayed on the top of Old Blue for ten minutes more, taking in the extraordinary splendor of the valley. The sun had just slipped behind the farthest mountains and turned the summit to dusk.

  “Boys, let’s get on down to camp. We’re losing daylight fast. It’ll be slap dark before we get set up.” We took our packs and followed Pops over the edge of the mountain. The trail down to Glaston Lake was even steeper than the ascent, zigzagging sharply through more boulders and jutted rocks. At times we had to turn sideways and half slide down the gravelly trail, bodies nearly parallel to the slope. “Mind your step. You don’t want to be tripping on this hardscape.”

  Glaston was tucked into a high mountain valley, so the descent on the back side of Old Blue was much shorter than the ascent, and as the trail moved to switchbacks we made quick work of it. The air was rich gloam when the course leveled and we could see the blackness of the lake water in front of us.