The Mountain Between Us

by Charles Martin

  “What do you mean?”

  “The SS knocks on your door. They ask, ‘Are you hiding Jews?’ You answer, ‘No, I’m not hiding Jews.’ When in truth, there are three families tucked down in your basement. Quiet as a church mouse. Or synagogue mouse. Anyway, it’s a justifiable lie. The kind God understands.” She jerked the tether and held it, not letting the tension go. “Ben…?”

  I knew what was coming. She’d been beating around the bush and was finally getting to it. I relaxed, and the tension in the harness went slack.

  “Ben?”

  I was looking forward. “Yes?”

  “You ever lied to me?”

  I turned, and this time I looked at her. “Depends.”

  THE ROAD FLATTENED, then turned right and started descending off the plateau. Every few minutes the clouds would blow over, momentarily clearing, and I could see the road winding down below us for what looked like eight or ten miles. It looked like we were soon to lose several thousand feet of elevation.

  The problem with such a drastic elevation change meant steep pitches and the possibility of the sled getting away from me.

  The first four or five miles were blissful. Gradual decline, easy walking. At one point the sun broke through and we saw blue skies. But late in the afternoon, around mile six, the road corkscrewed, and looked like it dropped off a tabletop. I took it slow and easy. Winding my way down. If I started moving too fast, the sled would pick up speed and get away from me. With an hour to go before dark, the road descended and turned right in a huge horseshoe that curved some ten miles in the distance. It bent around a valley off to our right. The hillsides were steep, but the valley was only a half mile across.

  I weighed the difference—ten miles versus a half mile. If I worked us slowly down the steep incline, lowering Ashley with the rope slowly before me, then anchoring on another tree, moving tree to tree, we could be across the valley before nightfall and cut ten miles out of our trip. Ten miles. With luck, we could make the lightbulb tomorrow or the next day.

  I turned to Ashley. “You up for a little adventure?”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  I explained. She eyed the distance, the valley, then the steep incline that dropped off a quarter mile to our right and then the valley below. “You think we can get down that?”

  We had been down steeper when we left the crash site, but we had yet to traverse anything this steep that was this long. “If we take it slow.”

  She nodded. “I’m game if you are.”

  There was a little voice inside my head whispering, “Shorter is not always better.”

  I should’ve listened to it.

  I CHECKED THE HARNESS ROPES. The sled was secure. I slipped off the snowshoes, tied them to the sled, and began easing down the incline. I needed my boots to cut down into the snow, giving me leverage to hold the sled back. I lowered Ashley over the ledge, and she slowly slid down, pulling the harness tight. Then I began picking my way downhill, using the trees as my anchors.

  It actually worked quite well. I’d step down, dig a foot thigh-deep into the snow, anchoring myself, grab a tree or branch; we’d move forward, then I’d do it again. In ten minutes, we were halfway down. That meant in ten minutes I’d cut out nearly half a day’s worth of walking.

  Napoleon was sitting on Ashley’s chest, staring at me. He didn’t like it at all. If I could have asked his opinion, I have a feeling he’d have told me to walk the ten miles.

  Two weeks of constant snow meant it had piled high. At times I was waist-deep with another ten feet below me. It didn’t take much to set it loose.

  I don’t remember it letting go. I don’t remember tumbling and rolling. I don’t remember the harness snapping. And I don’t remember coming to an abrupt stop where, even though my eyes were open, all the world went black.

  The blood was rushing to my head, so I knew I was upside down, half turned, and the snow was pressing in on me, allowing only shallow breaths. The only part of me free of the snow was my right foot. I could move it freely.

  I tried to clench my fists. Pulling in. Pushing out. Trying to make room. I tried moving my head back and forth, but it was no good. I wasn’t getting much air, and I knew I didn’t have long. I began pulling my arms in. Shoving. Jerking. I knew I needed to get out and find Ashley. I began kicking my right foot trying to clear away from snow. Above me, along my torso, I could see a faint light. Screaming was no use.

  Five minutes later I’d worked myself into a frenzy, which produced absolutely no helpful result. I was stuck, and chances were good I was going to die upside down, frozen and suffocating in the snow. When they found me, I’d be a blue Popsicle.

  We were so close. Why go through all we’d been through to end here? None of it made sense.

  Something with really sharp teeth began biting my ankle. I heard snarling and began kicking at it, but it wouldn’t let go. Finally I kicked it loose. Seconds later, I felt a hand on my foot. Then I felt snow being pulled away from my leg. Then more snow. I could move my whole leg. The second came free. Then the snow around my chest, and finally a passageway to my mouth.

  Her hand shot in, pulled out the snow, and I sucked in the sweetest, largest breath of air I’d ever known. She worked out one arm, and with it, I righted myself, pulled myself out of that snowy grave and rolled onto my side. Napoleon, seeing me emerge, jumped onto my chest and began licking my face.

  It was almost dark, causing me to question what dim light I’d seen moments before. Ashley lay to my right. She was off the sled, out of her bag, and lying on the snow. She was lying facedown, trying not to move. Her hands were cut and bloody. Her cheek was swollen. And then I saw her leg.

  We didn’t have long, and I knew I couldn’t move her.

  THE AVALANCHE HAD CARRIED us down to the base of the hillside. I’d been buried in the snowbank. The harness to the sled had evidently saved my life, because while the sled surfed the topside it kept me, albeit only for a few seconds, from being totally swallowed by the snow. When the ropes broke, Ashley shot off the top like a missile careening down the mountain and collided with a huge boulder laid there by the last ice age.

  She’d worked her way back up to me, crawling. Her leg had rebroken, and this time the bone had pierced the skin. It was poking up underneath her pants. She was in shock, and any movement, absent drugs, would send her back into unconsciousness.

  “I’m going to turn you.”

  She nodded.

  I did, and she screamed louder than I’d ever heard a woman scream.

  I crawled out across the snow and found the sled. Stripped clean. Her sleeping bag lay crumpled where she left it when she climbed out of it. One wool blanket lay twisted around the sled. Everything else was gone. No pack, no food, no tarp, no water bottles, no lighter fluid, no down jacket, no snowshoes, no fire drill, and no fire.

  I unzipped her bag and laid her in it. Blood had soaked through her pants, spilled around her, and painted the snow. I pulled the sled up next to her, laid the wool blanket across the bottom, slid her on top of the sled, and wrapped the blanket over her. I wanted to cut away her pants and look at her leg, but she shook her head and managed a whisper.

  “Don’t.”

  She lay still, unmoving. Her bottom lip was shaking. I’d kill her trying to set the leg in place, and even then there was no guarantee. She’d lost blood, but not much. The bone had come out the top outside of her thigh, which was better than the inside. If it had gone the other way, through the femoral artery, she’d have been dead a long time ago. As would I.

  Clouds had moved in, and the snow returned, hastening the return of the darkness.

  I knelt, whispering, “I’m going for help.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t leave me.”

  I tucked the bag around her. “You’ve been trying to get rid of me since we started this trip, so I’m finally doing what you asked.”

  She shook her head once more and said nothing. I leaned in, my breath on her face.<
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  “I need you to listen to me.”

  Her eyes were still closed.

  “Ashley?” She turned to me. The pain was rifling through her.

  “I’m going for help.”

  She gripped my hand. Squeezed it tightly.

  “I can’t move you, so I’m leaving Napoleon here with you, and I’m going on for help, but I’m coming back.”

  She tightened her grip as another wave shot through her.

  “Ashley…I’m coming back.”

  She whispered, “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She closed her eyes and let go of my hand. I kissed her on the forehead, then the lips. They were warm and trembling, and both blood and tears had puddled there.

  I tucked Napoleon in with her, stood and stared off down the road. Clouds were thick, and I could not see where it went.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I’ve spent my life running. One of the things I’ve learned is to look just a few feet ahead. Not more than four or five steps.

  It helps in long distance, because you’re already in a lot of pain, and breaking it into small, doable pieces is about all you can handle. Others will tell you to keep your eyes up, focus on the finish line, but I’ve never been able to do that. I can only focus on what’s in front of me. If I do that, the finish line will come to me.

  So I put one foot in front of the other. The road wound down, snaking toward the valley in which we’d seen the orange light and single smokestack. I figured I had twenty-five to thirty miles to go, and if I was lucky I was averaging two miles an hour. All I had to do was run until the sun rose over my right shoulder.

  I could do that. Couldn’t I?

  Yes.

  Unless I came to the end of myself first.

  That wouldn’t be so bad.

  What about Ashley?

  What about Ashley.

  I CLOSED MY EYES, and Ashley was all I could see.

  IT WAS THREE, maybe four o’clock in the morning, day twenty-eight I think. I’d fallen a thousand times and pulled myself up a thousand and one. The snow had turned to sand. I could smell and taste salt. I heard a seagull somewhere. My dad was standing at the guard shack, a doughnut and coffee in his hand. A scowl on his face. I slapped the red lifeguard’s chair, cussed him beneath my breath, turned, and kept running—picking up the pace. What if I beat him home? The beach stretched out before me, and every time I thought I was getting close to the house, it would fade, reset, and the beach would lengthen, and another event or moment would take its place. The past played before me like a movie.

  I remember falling, pulling with my hands, standing and falling, again and again.

  Many times I wanted to quit, lie down, and sleep. When I did, I’d close my eyes and Ashley was still there. Lying quietly in the snow, laughing over a leg of rabbit, chatting from the sled, yakking from the kitchen in the tub, embarrassed over a Nalgene bottle, shooting the flare gun, sipping coffee, pulling me out of the snow….

  Maybe it was those thoughts that got me up and helped me put one foot back in front of the other. Somewhere under the moon, on a flat section with a concrete bridge and a river trickling below me, I fell, eyes wide open. The picture changed. I saw her.

  Rachel.

  Standing alone in the road. Running shoes on. Sweat on her top lip. Trickling down her arms. Hands on her hips. She motioned me forward and whispered. I couldn’t hear her at first, but she smiled and whispered again. Still nothing. I looked down, tried to move, but the snow had frozen around my feet and clung to me. I was stuck.

  She ran, held out her hand, and whispered, “Run with me?”

  Rachel before me. Ashley behind me. Torn between the two. Running both ways.

  I reached, pulled, took a step, and fell again. Then again. And again. Soon I was running. Chasing Rachel. Her elbows were swinging, her toes were barely touching the ground, and I was back on the track with the girl I’d met in high school.

  The road led up, to a gate and a sign of some sort. I don’t remember what it said. She ran with me, up the hill, toward the sunlight, and when it cleared the mountaintop, I fell. Face forward for the last time. My body would not go. I could run no more. I had done something I’d never done. Reached the end of myself.

  She whispered. “Ben…”

  I lifted my head, but she was gone. I heard her again. “Ben…”

  “Rachel?”

  I could not see her. “Get up, Ben.”

  In the distance, a few hundred yards away, a single column of smoke spiraled above the trees.

  IT WAS A LOG CABIN. Several snowmobiles parked out front. Snowboards leaning against the porch railing. Lights inside. A fire’s reflection off the wall. Deep voices. Some laughter. The smell of coffee. And maybe…Pop-Tarts. I crawled up the drive, climbed the steps, and pushed open the door. Given my experience in ERs, I’m practiced at squeezing as much information into as few words as possible while still conveying what’s needed. But as the door pushed open, all I could muster was a cracking whisper.

  “Help…”

  Moments later, we were screaming across the snow. My driver was wiry, on the short side, and his snowmobile was not slow. With the engine wound, I glanced around him at the electronic speedometer. The first time it read 62. The second time it read 77.

  With one hand I held on for dear life. With the other I pointed up the road. He followed my finger. The other two guys followed us. We made it to the valley, and I pointed again. Ashley’s blue sleeping bag lay flat and highlighted against the snow on the far side. She was not moving. Napoleon barked at us and spun Tasmanian-devil circles in the snow. The kid cut the engine. In the distance I could hear the helicopter.

  When I made it to her, Napoleon was licking her face and looking at me. He was whining. I knelt. “Ashley?”

  She opened her eyes to look up at me.

  THE KIDS POPPED a green handheld flare, and LifeFlight landed in the road. I briefed the medics, they got her breathing oxygen, injected her with painkillers, loaded her onto a stretcher, started an IV, and slid her into the single patient bay of the helicopter. I backed out, they began winding up the propeller, and she reached for me. I gave her my hand, and she slid something into it. The helicopter lifted, dipped its nose forward, and shot across the mountains, blinking red lights fading in its wake.

  I opened my hand. The recorder. It was warm where she’d held it close to her. The tether had broken, the frayed ends spreading across my hand. I must have lost it in the avalanche. I stared at it, pushing the power button, but it would not play. The red warning light for low battery was flashing, keeping time with the one on the tail of the helicopter.

  The kid I’d ridden with slapped me on the back. “Dude…mount up.”

  My knees nearly buckled. I grabbed Napoleon, and we climbed on. Coming into town, the posted speed limit was 55. Tucked behind him, I peered around the kid’s shoulders. The speedometer read 82, and he was laughing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  It was a single room. She lay beneath a sheet of white, sleeping beneath a fog of sedation. Her vitals were good. Strong. Blue lights and numbers flickered above her. I turned the blinds, keeping daylight at bay. I sat, her hand resting in mine. Her color had returned.

  LifeFlight had bypassed Evanston and rerouted her directly to Salt Lake, where in two hours the ER docs put in a few bars and pins. When I arrived at Evanston atop a snowmobile, they were waiting on me. I was loaded into an ambulance and, with a police escort, sped to Salt Lake. They started me on an IV and began asking me a bunch of questions. The answers surprised them. By the time we arrived in Salt Lake, camera crews were everywhere.

  They put me in a room, and I asked for the chief of surgery. His name was Bart Hampton, and we’d met on more than one occasion at conferences around the country. He had been briefed on our situation, and when he learned it was me, he, along with the nurse feeding my IV, led me to a viewing room above the OR where we observed the last hour of Ashley’s surger
y. The intercom allowed the doctors to talk me through what they were seeing. What they were doing. She was in good hands. There was no need to interfere. My body was trashed, and my hands were little more than raw meat. I was in no condition to be a doctor.

  They rolled her into her room and quickly left. I walked in, flipped the switch on the light, and viewed her X-rays pre- and post-op. I could have done no better. She’d make a full recovery. Tough as she was, probably better.

  I turned. Blue light above her lit her forehead, showered the sheets. I pushed her hair back and gently placed my lips to her cheek. She was clean, smelled like soap, and her skin was soft. I slid my hand beneath hers. Blister to tenderness. I whispered in her ear, “Ashley…we did it.”

  Somewhere in there my adrenaline ran out. I was falling when Bart caught me. He laughed. “Come on, Steve. Time to get you to bed.”

  All I wanted to do was sleep. Something about his comment didn’t register. “What’d you call me?”

  “Steve. As in Steve Austin.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The Six Million Dollar Man.”

  THE NEXT THING I knew it was daylight, and I was in a bed with white sheets, in a room filled with the aroma of fresh coffee, where the sounds of people talking echoed down the hall. Bart was standing over me, holding a Styrofoam cup. The perspective was odd. I was used to standing in his shoes. Not lying in mine. “That for me?”

  He laughed.

  It was good coffee.

  We talked awhile. I gave him more of the details. He listened mostly, shaking his head. When I finished, he said, “What can I do for you?”

  “My dog. Actually, he’s not mine, but I’ve fallen in love with the little guy, and…”

  “He’s in my office. Sleeping. Fed him some steak. Happy as can be.”

  “I need a rental car. And I need for you to protect us from the media until she’s ready to talk to them.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah. I’m not.”

  “I suppose you have your reasons.”