Shadow of a Killer

by David Anderson

  Ten minutes later I was able to pass another. I turned around, peered at the rock-hard results in wonder, and let out a whoop of sheer joy.

  I put together three layers of clothing. The Inuit-style snow goggles were helping my eyes considerably and I could always construct a new pair if needed. María’s pants, far too tight for me to wear, were now a makeshift backpack. Straps tied to the end of each leg went around my shoulders and back down to attach at the belt loops.

  I needed some kind of snowshoes for when the sun melted the hard surface of the snow. With a lot of effort and a couple of cut fingers I managed to pry off two large pieces of hard material from the wing of the plane and pare them down to rough ovals. Using strips of cloth and the duct tape sparingly, I lashed these ovals to the soles of my shoes, making an X-pattern across the tops of my shoes and securing the ends around my ankles. I left my heels able to lift freely upward for ease of walking.

  My spirits rose with each success. I felt I was undergoing a kind of purgatory, like Christ’s forty days in the wilderness, but that it would soon end, leaving me a better person. God now seemed real and very close at hand. As I attacked the Cessna’s heating system, stripping off its high-tech insulating material, I quietly conversed in my head with María’s spirit. When I discovered the sophisticated, lightweight material was extensive enough to keep me warm at night outside the shelter of the plane, I began to pray aloud in gratitude. My chances of survival had considerably increased.

  A shadow crossed the snow and I looked up at the sky. A condor flew overhead, circling around in the airstreams. Through my goggle slits I picked out its bald head, white neck and enormous wingspan of nine feet or more. It lifted my spirits even further. My mind roamed with the freedom the condor enjoyed, all the way up the mountain to the west and down the other side. If this condor could do it, so could I. I imagined the expression on the face of the first farmer or herder I found when I arrived down in a verdant Chilean valley.

  Later a cold wind began to blow, whipping up snow flurries. The condor had disappeared. In my fragile state, I suddenly felt depressed and desolate again.

  The next morning I managed to wake early, just before the sun rose. My previous plan to start out at night, under a full moon, had gone by the wayside. Like so much else.

  Today is the day. Whatever day it is.

  I filled the backpack with a small piece of liver I’d been keeping and several big cuts of meat, a bottle of water, and extra seat cover material. A rolled up rubber mat from the cabin floor added a lot of weight but I decided to take it anyway. In the small spaces remaining, I added a toothbrush from my toilet bag and a tiny tube of toothpaste. The latter I could eat if things got really bad. In my deep right pocket I put the Swiss Army knife and in the left one I placed María’s lipstick for my broken, chapped lips.

  For my hands I had two pairs of loose mittens, one a little bigger than the other so that I could wear both at the same time, made from seat cover material held together with duct tape.

  From earlier walks I knew that my biggest problem would be insulating my feet against the intense cold of deep snow. My thin socks were woefully inadequate. I came up with a gruesome solution and, once again, it was María who provided it.

  I extended her arms, took my knife, and swallowed hard. Please forgive me. I made an incision above her elbow and another down at her wrist then pulled away the skin along with its subcutaneous layer of fat. A small strip of duct tape sealed the lower end. I repeated this with her other arm and had a rudimentary pair of socks, with the elbow skin fitting neatly over my heel. They covered my feet perfectly. Please forgive me, María.

  Chapter 40

  I had no idea how long the journey would take or what obstacles I would encounter. The food in my bag was meant to last me a maximum of ten days. If I was still up the mountains by then, I would just have to keep going till I dropped.

  To help me climb I’d torn an aluminium pole off the plane and strapped it to my wrist. I ascended up the valley side, feeling like a hairy yeti or a stuffed, furry matryoshka doll in all my layers of clothing. Movement was limited and I took it slow so as not to sweat. There was no obvious way up the slope so I chose a north-west route for easier walking, knowing that sooner or later I’d have to turn west and climb directly up the mountain.

  Around noon I decided I was getting too far off course and turned west. I quickly discovered I’d made the wrong choice earlier and should have been climbing straight up all along. By now the snow was melting in the sun and even in my improvised snowshoes I sank up to my knees. It was very heavy going and every few yards I had to stop for a short rest.

  I persevered and by mid-afternoon was already very high. Beneath me, I could see the Cessna, looking small and indistinct. After some slivers of meat and another rest, I continued upwards, planning to reach the top before dark. If I failed, it would be almost impossible to sleep on the acute slope of the mountain. As I climbed, I imagined the view that would greet me on the other side; a lush green valley, busy farmsteads, Chilean gauchos herding cattle.

  By the time the sun dipped behind the mountain I was still nowhere near the top. Somehow I would have to sleep here without tumbling down the slope and breaking my neck. I looked around for a level spot; of course, there was none. In fact, the higher I climbed, the steeper the slope became. Tiredness was setting in and my legs felt like heavy logs, the backpack now a lumpy, brick-filled burden. I clambered over an enormous rock, so that I wouldn’t have to trudge around it, and nearly toppled off when the weight of the bag on my shoulders pulled me backwards.

  Suddenly, total exhaustion came over me and I knew that I couldn’t go on. It was rapidly growing dark and I was getting panicky and desperate. I dug into the snow at the top of the rock, hoping to excavate a hollow where I could lie flat for the night, and found only more rock. In sheer frustration, I punched it with my fist, my gloves and lack of strength keeping me from seriously hurting myself. Then I started to weep uncontrollably. I felt utterly depressed and dejected.

  Eventually I stood up and got going again. A little further on, I came to another boulder, even bigger than the last. This time I went around it. At the top, the wind had blown a deep furrow in the snow. It was not horizontal, but the wall of snow would keep me from rolling down the mountainside.

  The sky was clear and the air on my exposed cheeks as cold and sharp as knives. I covered my face with extra layers and used the rubber mat for a bed. The view was magnificent, with the snow-covered landscape laid out before me, though its beauty was hard to appreciate in my circumstances. I closed my eyes, prayed, and utter exhaustion dragged me into fitful sleep. Later, I was woken by lightning illuminating the black sky in the distance. I wondered if a storm was coming my way, soon to break over me. But there was no wind, no flurries, and I quickly went back to sleep.

  Cold and the hard snow kept me semi-conscious, and as soon as it was dawn I was wide awake. While I waited for the sun to thaw me out a bit, I drank water from one of the bottles and ate some meat.

  When the sun came up above the eastern mountains I started to climb again. My limbs were stiff and aching from yesterday but I found a sort of fold in the rock which seemed to lead to the summit. By now I was so high that the air was rarefied and my heart was beating fast. After every few steps I had to pause and rest, clinging to the sheer wall of snow. I no longer dared to look down and the thought of a slip and fall sent tremors of fear through me.

  I reached the top of the peak and found it was a false one, no more than a ridge in the snow, the real summit still far off. I climbed on and by the middle of the afternoon still hadn’t reached the top. Ascent was becoming increasingly difficult as I tired and the wall of snow became almost vertical. I had to dig steps for my feet and hollow out handholds in the snow. One slip and I knew I would fall for hundreds of feet. Only the thought of trying to go back was worse than that of continuing upwards.

  I had to be near the real summit by now. For the first t
ime in my life I felt the excitement of the mountaineer arduously approaching a peak, his triumph almost at hand. As I climbed I kept repeating in my mind optimistic phrases about what I was soon going to see on the other side; a waterfall tumbling into a lush river, cows drinking in the shallows. Sheep, goats, green grass, trees, well fed people, people, people . . .

  Suddenly the white vertical face, in front of my eyes for so long, was gone. It eased off to a slight gradient and then became completely flat. I knelt on a level surface about ten feet wide. The top of the mountain.

  I scrambled across to the far side and looked for the expected landscape. All at once, elation gave way to despair. Instead of a green valley leading down to farmsteads and food, in front of me there was an endless expanse of snow-covered mountains. Peak after peak after peak, all the way to the far horizon. I hadn’t a chance in hell of getting through it all.

  I was finished. This was the end. I slumped to my knees again and quietly wept.

  Chapter 41

  I tried to curse the tears away but no sound came out of my mouth. Eventually my breathing returned to normal and I was able to assess the situation rationally. Yes, the view was depressing but it had one good point; I was higher than any of the mountain tops ahead. I had climbed one of the tallest peaks. That had to count for something.

  For a while longer I sat and admired the view, coating my almost skinless lips with María’s lipstick and drinking a little of the remaining water. I focused on some of the peaks furthest west. They were many miles away but weren’t covered with snow. Did that mean they were in Chile? It was a good thing to think and I needed positive thoughts.

  In the middle distance there was a valley leading down to a sort of Y-fork. Could I get down there? In reality, I had no alternative but to attempt it as going back was not an option. I ate some meat, packed away everything carefully, and began my descent.

  I soon discovered that there was less snow on this side of the mountain. Inevitably, the slope was very steep and, worse still, instead of solid rock under the snow there was sometimes soft, easily disturbed shale. When I hit a patch, I had to slide over it on my butt, sending small avalanches of gray rocks cascading down the mountain. My knees soon became weak and wobbly, and several times my feet twisted dangerously on loose stones. I became terrified that I would sprain an ankle. To get thoughts like that out of my mind, I started putting together bits of whatever song lyrics I could remember. One in particular;

  On Canal Street in April when it’s 60 and the snow is melting fast

  It’s still shady in the morning when you’re laughing in your t-shirt, running past

  At Tomkins Square Park a couple is meeting

  Say what you want, but I feel my heart beating

  ‘Cause I love springtime in New York, springtime in New York, I do.

  Jonathan Richman, off a great album called ‘Her Mystery Not of High Heels and Eye Shadow’. I struggled to recall the whole of the second verse and eventually succeeded;

  Springtime in New York when it’s May and the leaves are on the trees

  When demolishing a building brings the smell of 1890 to the breeze

  On First Avenue our couple is fighting

  Springtime is wild, New York is exciting

  And I love springtime in New York, springtime in New York, I do.

  The lines poured out of my mouth, over and over again, though I only had enough breath to sing them quietly.

  I descended for several hundred feet and the valley I was making for became more clearly defined as I progressed. Then I hit an area where the side of the mountain was in the shadow of another peak and the snow became very deep. The gradient was as steep as ever and the surface firm and smooth from the colder air in the shade. I stopped and pondered what to do. If I only had skis . . .

  I took the rubber mat from my bag. Smooth side down, it slid over the solid snow pretty well. I sat on it and decided to try to toboggan down the mountain, legs apart, holding the front of the mat between my thighs with both hands. The aluminium stick jutted out behind to act as a rudder and a brake.

  I pushed off and immediately began to accelerate until I was descending shockingly fast. When I dug the pole into the snow behind me, it had zero effect. Soon I was going at literally breakneck speed, sixty or seventy miles an hour. I dug my heels into the snow; almost ripping the snowshoes clean off. It risked causing a crash and didn’t slow me either. One swerve too sharp, one tumble head over heels, and in seconds I’d be at the bottom – dead.

  Suddenly, right in front of me, I saw a gray mass of solid rock that I was approaching at terrifying speed. I raked the pole as hard and deep into the snow on my right as I could and veered left. An instant later, the pole smashed against the rock, broke in pieces, and was wrenched from my grasp. I swerved around the rock and kept going.

  Down . . . down . . . more boulders appeared ahead but they were smaller and somehow I managed to miss them all. The gradient gradually eased and I could almost breathe normally again despite the intense pounding of my heart. I manoeuvred around a bend and started hyperventilating again.

  An immense wall of snow lay right across my path. There was no way past it. If there’s rock behind the snow, I’ve had it. Before I had time to think, I hurtled straight into it. The abrupt stop pitched me forward face first and I hit a white wall that felt as hard as bricks.

  I seemed to lose consciousness for a minute or two. When I opened my eyes behind the slitted shades, I was completely buried. My arms and legs still moved and I backed out of the snow as quickly as I could. I felt around my body and my hands came away bloody from my sore, stinging face. Otherwise, I was unharmed. The wall had only been made of snow. Hard, icy snow, but nothing more than a snowdrift.

  From then on, I continued on foot. I estimated that I was now about two thirds of the way down the mountain. If I pushed myself to the absolute limit, I might reach the Y-junction before dark. I drank from the second bottle, ate some more of the meat and set off.

  It was a crazy hope, and by the time I reached the entrance to the valley that led to the Y-junction dusk was already setting in. The valley was full of deep snow, which at this time of day was wet and slushy. The snowshoes, now battered and hanging loose, made little difference so I found a flat, dry rock and settled on it for the night. It was not as cold here in the lee of the mountain but the rock was sheer torture. My utter exhaustion and frayed nerves got me a few hours of fitful sleep.

  Chapter 42

  I started late the next morning. The strap on my makeshift backpack snapped and it was difficult to tie the broken ends together. It kept coming apart and by the time I had fixed it permanently, it was too short and tight to string over my shoulder. I had to take it apart yet again and attach a strip of cloth to both ends. The expenditure of nervous energy on this one frustrating task exhausted me, and I realised just how tired I still was – the night’s sleep hadn’t restored me at all. My strength was failing me and apart from eating some more of the meat I couldn’t do anything about it.

  I trekked on down the valley, taking energy sapping strides that plunged me thigh deep in the soft, wet snow. The sun rose and shone brightly on me, making me extremely hot. I chose to sweat profusely under my many layers of clothes, rather than spare time and energy to remove them.

  By mid-day each step had become a challenge and I neared complete collapse. Almost delirious by now, I took to saying María‘s name each time I raised my leg in a new stride.

  María. Step.

  Suarez. Step.

  María. Step.

  I stopped every five or ten minutes to rest and run my fingers over the rosary around my neck, hoping there was someone listening to my silent prayers. After many such stops, I noticed movement down the slope to my right and plodded wearily over to take a look.

  It was a small stream coming down from the mountain, the first fresh water I had seen since I’d left Argentina. I murmured a heartfelt “Thank you” into the air and plunged my mo
uth under the ice-cold flow, drinking until my belly was bloated.

  Coarse, beige-coloured grass grew in tufts around the water flow. I pulled out a handful, rinsed it to soften it a bit, and stuffed it into my mouth. If nothing else, the fibre might help alleviate my chronic constipation. I filled the water bottles and crammed more of the grass into my pockets to eat later.

  It was now late afternoon. I was deep in a valley between tall mountains and night would come early. As soon as the sun disappeared behind a peak, the temperature would start to drop precipitously. I was in two minds whether to press on down the valley and discover what lay ahead or make camp. My legs felt numb and dead, my arms were aching, the backpack straps were cutting into my shoulders, and the snowshoes were barely hanging on my blistered feet. I decided to dig a windbreak in the snow and crawl in behind it for the night.

  The shadows increased and darkness fell. I lay on the rubber mat and looked down the valley to the Y-junction at its bottom. Despite all the peaks directly ahead, the sun still shone on the mountain on the far side of the left arm of the Y. For the first time I realised how far off course I’d strayed, going in a northwest direction rather than west. I’d tried to correct this early on but the curves and slopes of the mountain had sent me inadvertently northwards again.

  As time wore on I watched the left-hand junction of the Y with increasing fascination and then outright excitement. Since the sun set in the west, the fact that it continued to light up that mountainside late in the evening meant two things had to be true. First, the leftward route was true west and, second, there couldn’t be any other mountains standing in the way of the sun.

  One arm of the Y leads to open ground further to the west. I just have to get that far.

  For the first time in ages, I slept deep and well.