The Mountain Between Us

by Charles Martin

  I found myself nodding.

  You interrupted me. “Hey…no nodding at the road in front of you. You’ve got to say it out loud.”

  I smiled. “I hear you.”

  It’s snowing again. Ashley’s in a lot of pain and starting to show the effects of elevation. I’ve got to get her down or she’s going to die up here. I know…but if I don’t try, we’ll both die.

  Grover?

  I need to bury him, but I’m not sure I have the strength. He may already be buried. Plus there’s something up in the rocks that’s got me a bit worried.

  I’ve got to get some rest.

  The wind’s picking up. When it blows out of the south, it funnels through the fuselage, sounding a low whistle, like blowing across the top of a beer bottle. It sounds like a train that never arrives.

  I’ve been studying the compass, trying to find a way out, but it’s mountains all around. Tough to know which way to go. If I choose the wrong degree…well, things are bad here. Real bad.

  I want to tell people that Ashley was trying to get home. I wish they knew. But chances are good they never will.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I woke with the sun, groggy and sore. Rolled over, pulled the bag up over my face, and woke again around lunch. No matter how hard I tried I could not get out of bed. I don’t ever remember sleeping through an entire day, other than the one after the crash. Evidently my adrenalin had finally given out.

  Ashley seldom stirred. Elevation mixed with starvation mixed with a plane crash mixed with a lot of pain had taken its toll on both of us. Toward sundown I finally crawled out of my bag and stumbled onto the snow. I hurt everywhere and could barely move.

  Daylight on day six, the fire had long since died out. But my clothes were dry, so I pulled them on, forced myself to pack my backpack, rekindled and restarted the fire to keep her warm, and dropped a few handfuls of fresh snow into the Jetboil for her when she woke. I tried not to look at Grover.

  We needed food.

  I shouldered my backpack, tied the bow onto the back of it, and stepped out as the sun was just coming up. The air was crisp and dry with ice crystals floating on our breath. I threw fresh snow across the tracks at the entrance. It would let me know if anything visited while I was away. I tied on the snowshoes, pulled out my compass, took a reading, spotted a rock outcropping maybe a half mile in the distance, and set off. I didn’t have the advantage of a mountaintop perspective, so the compass would prove invaluable.

  For three hours I picked points and plowed through the snow. It was dry and frozen, rather than sticky and wet, but I had to keep stopping to tighten my gaiters around my knees. The first lake turned up nothing, so I walked the frozen perimeter until I found the creek that spilled out of it. While the surface of the lake was frozen, the creek was not. The water was clear, clean, and tasted almost sweet. It was cold, and I risked dropping my core temperature, but I was moving so I kept forcing myself to drink. Eventually my pee turned nearly clear. A good sign.

  A mile later the creek made a hard turn left, creating a deep pool below a rock overhang. The banks were mounded with snow. I didn’t put too much faith in my ability to work that fly rod with my hands. They were too cut up and cold to do anything effectively. And not having done much fly-fishing, I couldn’t figure out why a fish would bite at a fly that it knows good and well can’t live in conditions like these. Fish aren’t stupid.

  Grover had a small bottle of imitation salmon eggs. They looked like red or orange peas. I slid one over a hook, threaded line through the hook, and dropped that single “egg” into the water.

  Twenty minutes later, no bites, I packed up and looked for a bigger pool. A mile later I found one. Same routine. Same outcome. Only this time I could see little black shadows darting in and out beneath the rock and into the swirling current. Lots of black shadows. I knew there were fish here, why wouldn’t they bite?

  I guess that’s why it’s called fishing and not catching.

  Thirty minutes later, an ineffective Popsicle, I packed up and continued trudging through the snow looking for another pool. I was tired, cold, and hungry. This time I had to climb a small rise and then descend to another stream. With the elevation and the pain in my ribs, even a simple rise meant a lot of work. I was expending calories I couldn’t afford. I climbed over, then descended and walked down to the bank of one more stream. This one was wider, maybe twice as wide, but more shallow and still running with a good volume of water.

  The black shadows reappeared. A good number, too.

  I brushed away the snow and lay on the rock, a facedown snow angel, salivating at the sight of mountain trout. This time I lowered Grover’s hand net slowly into the water below the bait. The problem with this method was that it submerged one hand into water that was probably twenty-eight degrees. The pain was excruciating until it went numb—which didn’t take long.

  The shadows disappeared, then slowly returned. Swimming closer. Slowly, they approached the egg and began to nibble. Maybe it was the cold water, but they too were sluggish. I slowly raised the net and caught seven finger-sized trout. I dumped them into the snow several feet from the creek and buried my cold hand in the pocket of my down jacket. With the hatchet I cut a limb, lashed it to the net, and submerged both it and the egg, catching a couple more.

  I ate everything but the heads.

  When they were gone, I crept back to the bank and kept “fishing.” I did that off and on for more than an hour. When the sun started casting my shadow on the snow, I counted my catch. Forty-seven. Enough for us tonight and tomorrow. I packed up and followed my tracks home. The packed snow, along with colder temperatures that had frozen the surface, made my return quicker. On the way back, I pulled an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, took a deep breath, and drew hard on the string. It resisted, then gave and released all the way to my face. The pain in my ribs was sharp, but I had the bow at full draw. I set the top pin on the base of a wrist-sized evergreen some twenty yards away and released. The arrow missed the base by about two inches and disappeared in the snow on the right. I dug around a few minutes and retrieved the arrow, embedded in the frozen earth. Drawing the bow was not something I could do quickly. But it was something I could do. And while I had not hit the tree, I was close. And at that distance, close was good enough.

  It was well after midnight when I climbed back onto our plateau. Oddly, it was plenty light. I approached the last half mile slowly, keeping my eyes peeled for anything moving. I saw nothing, but the entrance to our cave told a different story. Beneath the moonlight there was no mistake. The tracks were closer. Parked right at the entrance, with a rounded indentation between them where something had lain down, resting its stomach on the snow. Chances were good that it was lying here as I walked up. Chances were also good that it was lying in wait less than a hundred feet from me now.

  ASHLEY WAS WEAK, and her eyes hurt. Classic altitude sickness mixed with a concussion and lack of food. I found some more wood, stoked the fire, gutted six trout, and fed them onto a long slender stick, piercing them through the middle like a kabob. I cooked them and made coffee at the same time. Caffeine would help her digest and absorb the nutrients—not to mention fight the hunger. She drank and ate slowly as I held the cup to her lips and then peeled off a fish and held it while she chewed. She ate fourteen like that and drank two cups of coffee before she shook her head.

  Napoleon sat quietly licking his face. I laid out six fish on the snow in front of him and said, “Go ahead.” He stood, smelled them, wiggled his nose, and devoured them. Eating everything, including the heads.

  I gave Ashley the last of the Percocet, packed and elevated her leg, and checked the circulation in her foot. She was asleep before I realized we hadn’t said two words to each other since I’d returned. I sat up a few more hours feeding the fire, making myself eat, watching the color return to her skin, and listening as her shallow breaths deepened. Much of that time I sat in my bag with her foot pressed to my stomach. Just be
fore midnight, I walked outside. As I did, a long shadow disappeared up a rock face and into some trees on my left. Napoleon stood next to me, snarling. He’d heard it too.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Caught some fish today. Sort of like big sardines without all the mustard sauce and aluminum can. Nothing to brag about, but we’re alive. And I shot the bow. If it came to a pinch, I think I could hit what I’m shooting at. As long as it stayed inside twenty or twenty-five yards. I know, not many things will, but it’s better than jumping around and waving my arms in the air.

  Ashley is sleeping. I gave her the last of the Percocet, hoping she’ll get some sleep. Maybe put some energy back in her tanks. I need to put together a plan. I know folks will tell you to never leave the crash site, but we’ve got to get down out of here. Even if a helicopter was hovering a hundred feet over us, I’m not sure they could see us. It’s snowed almost four feet in five days. We’re pretty well buried by now.

  Speaking of which…I’m going to move Grover tomorrow. Get him someplace where he can see the sun come up and set. Where he can count the stars at night. Someplace a good distance from us. I’ll have to make a stretcher of some sort, but I can use that again when I move Ashley.

  You remember that cabin in the mountains? Our daytime hikes, nighttime fires, watching the snow stick to the windows as a mountaintop wind leaned against the door and whistled atop the chimney.

  Our honeymoon.

  The second night…we’d finished dinner and were sitting in front of the fire. Between our student loans and the cost of life, we didn’t have two pennies to rub together. I think we’d paid for the cabin with a then-maxed-out credit card. Drinking a cheap bottle of Cabernet. You were wearing your robe…and my sweat.

  Seems I remember that we’d agreed on a no-present wedding. Promised to do it again when we could afford it. Good thing I knew better than to put much stock in that. You reached behind the couch and handed me the box. Wrapped perfectly. Topped with a red bow. Every corner perfect. You raised both eyelids and said, “This is something you desperately need.”

  The firelight was dancing across your skin. The vein on your left arm.

  “I thought we’d agreed no presents?”

  And you said, “This isn’t a wedding present. It’s something you need if we’re going to stay married for seventy years.”

  “Seventy years?”

  You nodded. And then asked, “You sure you’re going to love me when I’m old, wrinkly, and can’t hear a word you’re saying?”

  “Probably more.”

  You crossed your right leg over your left, and the split in your robe climbed halfway up your thigh. Then you said, “You going to love me when my boobs sag to my belly button?”

  There I was marveling at the picture of you, and you were thinking about sagging boobs. I still can’t believe you said that.

  I stared up into the pine rafters, shook my head once, and tried not to smile. “Don’t know. Might be difficult. You’re a runner. You don’t have much to sag to begin with.”

  You slapped my arm. “You better take that back.”

  I laughed. “When I was a kid, I saw that very thing in National Geographic, and it’s not pretty. Cured me from wanting to look at girly magazines.”

  You pointed at me. Your voice rising. “Ben Payne.” Your crooked, double-jointed finger was pointing everywhere but at me. “You are flirting with the couch. You better watch it.”

  “Okay, but if you start sagging to your belt, we might consider a tuck here and a nip there.”

  You nodded. “Trust me, we’ll be tucking and nipping long before that. Now open.”

  I remember staring down at the split and marveling at how comfortable you were at being with me. Your smile. The tired eyes. Sweat above your ears. Flushed cheeks. Firelight. Laughter, beauty, spunk. All of you. I remember closing my eyes for a brief second and burning the image onto the back of my eyelids because I wanted to take it with me.

  And I did.

  Rachel, you’re still the measuring stick. No one else holds a candle.

  You smiled. “The way I look at it, there’s Eastern Standard Time, and then there’s Ben Time. And Ben Time can be anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour and a half behind. This could help that little problem.”

  You were right. I’m sorry I was ever late for anything.

  I peeled away the paper, and there sat a Timex Ironman. You pointed at the face. “Look…it has no hands, so you can see exactly what time it is—down to the exact second. And to help you out, I set it thirty minutes fast.”

  “Have you ever thought that maybe everyone else is just randomly early?”

  “Nice try, but…” You shook your head. “No.” You curled up against me, your back to my chest, your head on my arm, and we talked and laughed as the coals turned white and the snow painted the windows.

  An hour or so later, just before you dozed off, you whispered, “I set the alarm.”

  “What for?”

  You pressed against me, pulled my arm tight, and we drifted off.

  When the alarmed sounded, I was somewhere beyond a deep sleep. I jumped and tried to focus. 3:33 a.m. I reached for my wrist and punched every button trying to get it to hush. Not wanting to let it wake you. Moonlight broke through the skylight and showered both of us, casting our shadow on the wall. Highlighting the tips of your hair. Finally I just stuffed the watch under my pillow ’cause I couldn’t get it to shut up. It sounded for a full sixty seconds. You laughed, dug yourself deeper beneath the covers. The room was cold. Fire dim. Coals a dull red. My breath a misty cloud of smoke. I slid out, naked, on the floor. Goose bumps crawling up and down.

  You tucked the cover beneath your chin. Studied me. Smiled. Tired eyes. You whispered. “You cold?”

  My embarrassment was obvious. “Very funny.”

  I stoked the fire, added three logs. Slid back under the blanket—which, if I remember correctly, was a fake bear rug—and you slid your leg across mine, then placed your chest to mine. Warm. You cradled me. I asked, “Why’d you set it for the middle of the night?”

  You wiggled, wedging yourself closer to me. Your feet were cold. You pressed your lip to my ear. “To remind me.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you’d be cold.”

  Sometimes I wonder how you ever fell for me. You believe in things you cannot see and speak a language that only hearts know.

  “Oh.”

  A while later, the first ray of daylight broke the ridgeline, crowned in blue. Red crimson spilling across a sea of black. You lifted my hand off your chest and pushed the button on the watch. Green light showering the space around us. You whispered, “When you push this, and the light shines back at you…you think of us. Of me.” You laid your head against me, staring up, and pressed my hand flat across your chest, you in the center of my palm. Hiding nothing. Your heart pounding inside. You said, “…of this.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Napoleon’s growling woke me up. Low and different. His tone told me he wasn’t kidding. I opened my eyes to ice crystals hanging in the air on my breath. Ashley lay quietly. Her breathing had become labored again. The dog stood between us, staring at the entrance. Moonlight filtered in, casting shadows. It was bright enough to walk outside without a flashlight. Napoleon lowered his head and took two slow steps toward the entrance. Two eyes stared back at us. Crouched low, seemingly growing out of a shadow. They looked like two pieces of red glass. Behind the shadow, something waved. Like a flag. There it was again. This time more like smoke from a fire. I sat up on an elbow, rubbed my eyes, and Napoleon’s growl grew deeper, louder, more angry. I put my hand on his back and said, “Easy.”

  Evidently, he didn’t understand that. As if shot out of a cannon, he launched himself toward the thing staring back at us. The two collided, spun in an angry ball. A loud catlike roar erupted from the middle of the ball and then disappeared, leaving Napoleon standing at the entrance, barking and jumping two feet straight into t
he air.

  I crawled toward him, wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him backward. “Easy, boy. It’s gone. Easy.” He was shaking, and his shoulder was wet.

  Ashley clicked on the flashlight. My palm was sticky, red, and the snow was splattered red beneath us.

  Didn’t take me long to find the cut. It was deep from the side of his shoulder toward the top of his back.

  I grabbed my needle and thread, and Ashley held him still while I stitched him up. He didn’t like me poking him with a needle, but I closed it with four stitches and, given the location, he couldn’t chew at it. He chased it, turning in a few circles, but gave up, stared at the entrance, then licked me on the face.

  “Yeah…you did good. I’m sorry I ever thought about eating you.”

  Ashley cleared her throat. “What was it?”

  “Mountain lion.”

  “Is it coming back?”

  “I think so.”

  “What does it want?”

  “Us.”

  She closed her eyes and didn’t say anything for a while.

  We slept in fits throughout the rest of the night. Napoleon curled up in my bag, but kept his eyes on the entrance. I scratched his head, and it didn’t take him long to fall asleep. I perched the bow next to my bag, nocked an arrow, and propped myself against the tail of the plane.

  Only when the sun came up did I finally drift off.

  WHEN I WOKE, Ashley lay half turned, staring left, the flare gun in her hand.

  Napoleon too was trained on the entrance.

  Something was crunching the snow below us. I crawled out, grabbed the bow, and clipped my release onto the string. Compound bows look complicated, but in truth they’re simple. The release is like a trigger. It takes the place of your fingers, so that the same thing happens exactly the same way over and over again. You draw, hold the pin on the target, and squeeze the release. The release lets go of the string, sending the arrow toward the target. Grover’s bow was a good one. A Matthews. His draw was a bit longer than mine, but I could manage.