One Step Too Far

by Lisa Gardner

“Fire and knots,” I mutter. “Former Boy Scout?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you don’t love camping?”

  “Hey, I was there for the soapbox derby cars. Even from a young age, I had a need for speed.”

  I don’t know car design, and I’ve never been good at physics. But as Miggy explains it, the intent of this particular rope-and-pulley system is to use the pulleys to create enough friction to lighten the load of the descending weight. Given we don’t have actual mechanical pulleys, Miggy plans on using two to three natural formations handpicked by Scott to wind the rope through and around in a fancy figure-eight.

  Rope will be forced to twist left around this tree, then right around that tree, creating the friction necessary to naturally slow the descent of the travois while easing the burden on the two bottom hikers trying to catch it.

  Sounds good to me, though given all of Miggy’s muttered cursing, I gather it’s not quite that simple. Or maybe even possible.

  Scott and Bob return with their tree choices, and after one final sigh, prayer, and expletive, Miggy declares we’re ready.

  Miggy and I glove up. Miggy will be the primary for slowly feeding the rope into the elaborate tree-trunk system. I get to serve as backup, in case the friction isn’t enough and the rope starts uncoiling too fast. Which leaves Bob and Scott to serve as the descending hikers. If Miggy and I do our job right, Miggy explains, the weight should be low enough for Scott to handle.

  Miggy threads the rope through the system, using a few carabiners to guide it around select trees, then connects the rope to the head of the travois. Then Bob and Scott each take a pole at Neil’s feet and start their initial descent. Within seconds, the travois is tilted sharply upright, with Bob and Scott having to fight to keep it from plummeting down. Miggy yanks the rope hard to the left as it wraps around the tree closest to him, creating a temporary brake. Then the adventure begins.

  In the beginning, I’m a big fan of the system. For one thing, I get to stand around and do nothing, which is about all I feel capable of. For another, even Miggy seems at ease as he unwinds the rope bit by bit through the first carabiner, around the first giant tree trunk.

  I can hear the rope as a thin whisper against textured tree bark. Then the sound becomes a little louder. Miggy grimaces, the rope definitely unspooling faster now. He leans back, putting more weight into his makeshift braking system.

  “How . . . much . . . further . . . ?” he shouts out. But there’s no answer.

  He gives me a single look and I spring into action. But my weight barely makes a difference.

  “More . . . friction.”

  Standing behind Miggy, I spy a skinny fir near me and run around to the other side, adding a small cog to Miggy’s tree-based pulley system. The rope slows slightly before once more starting to accelerate as the racing cord shreds the bark from the anchor trees, reducing the friction and increasing the weight of the load. Miggy grits his teeth. We both throw our weight against the pull, Miggy’s muscled arms bulging, my scrawny sticks screaming. Then . . .

  The rope goes slack. So much so that Miggy and I both almost topple over. We don’t hear yelling or cursing. Quickly we scramble forward and peer down.

  Bob and Scott are standing way beneath us. Bob is wearing a huge grin, while Scott is partially keeled over, laughing hysterically.

  “That was fantastic!” Bob booms up at us. “Again!”

  Miggy sways. Before I can catch him, he falls to his knees. I stumble down in alarm. But he’s not collapsing, he’s not crying. He’s just shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe that actually worked,” he mutters. Then his eyes rise to meet mine: “I’ll be damned if Tim wouldn’t be proud of us right now. Son of a bitch, he would’ve loved this.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The sky is darkening by the time we finish our strenuous descent. We’re an exhausted, messy group of misfits as we splash our way across the stream at the bottom of the hill and stumble our way into the clearing. Bundled in the travois, Neil opens glazed eyes.

  “Please tell me . . . done.”

  “Almost,” Scott soothes his friend. Scott’s feverish coloring has now faded to ash white, and he’s spent the past twenty minutes shivering uncontrollably. The temperature has plummeted with the sun, but Scott’s shaking clearly has more to do with his internal thermostat than the outside.

  “I need out,” Neil moans.

  I can’t blame him. We’ve been banging him about like a human doll for hours. If he wasn’t in pain before, he certainly should be by now. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so wrung out, but then, I’ve been saying that for days. Apparently, physical exertion is a never-ending scale, and as fast as you think you’ve reached your limit, there’s still more to go.

  Now we all stare at the growing shadows self-consciously. Bob has the rifle slung over his shoulder, trigger at the ready. I tell myself nightfall is good. The dark offers cover. The late hour meaning we’re that much closer to imminent rescue. Surely Nemeth, Luciana, and Daisy have hit the town by now. I picture them on the phone with this highly respected Sheriff Kelley. Then some cool, movie-set airfield where a chopper is even now revving to life, filled with eagle-eyed search experts who are heavily armed and bearing platters of hot food. While I’m at it, I add a steaming bubble bath to the rear cargo section, even if it does strain credibility.

  In real life, we make our way to a line of pine trees, then stare at one another uncertainly.

  This is the same area where we broke for snacks just two days ago. When we were younger and fresher. When Martin was still alive, and the college buddies had only their grudges to nurse and I thought my impulsive decision to join a wildland search was an adventurous lark. Now we look like earthquake survivors, and not all of us made it out of the rubble.

  Bob peers up in the direction from which we came. He holds up a hand for silence, and we do our best to quiet our labored breathing. We listen for sounds of crashing tree limbs, advancing footsteps, sliding rocks. Mostly, I can hear my thundering heart. Then, as my pulse slowly calms, the sounds of night emerge around me. The whine of insects, a growing chorus of frogs, a lone owl’s inquiring call.

  My pulse slows more. Such a busy place, the grand outdoors. We are the interlopers with our enormous appetites and booming guns. I wish we could truly settle, spend a single evening savoring the cacophony of life all around us.

  But while we don’t hear any sign of our pursuer just yet, it’s only a matter of time. Once he investigates the camp closer and realizes we’ve abandoned our post, his next logical step is to pursue us down the lone trail leading out of the canyon.

  Maybe our hunter will decide he has all the time in the world to catch such wounded prey, and not rush on our account. Stop and have a hot meal first. Take a nap. Wash up in the lake. Make himself look his very best before tracking down and shooting five innocent people. More wishful thinking on my part, but it’s all I’ve got.

  Scott is shivering so hard his teeth are clacking. Miggy digs through his own pack, then produces a thin, lined jacket. Scott accepts it gratefully.

  “What now?” Miggy asks Bob.

  The Bigfoot hunter hesitates. “We should get out of immediate sight. Find shelter somewhere deeper in the trees.”

  “Where we’re not sitting ducks?” Scott speaks up wryly.

  “Help will come. We just need to hold on a bit longer.”

  Miggy nods. He has a small flashlight in his hand. “My memory is the meadow is that way. Not much cover in a meadow, so I’ll head this way first, do some recon. Be back in a jiff.”

  He heads into the pines, turning himself sideways to slide between the trees. I hate that we’re once again separating, but don’t see a way around it. To keep myself occupied, I retrieve my water filtration system and use it to refill everyone’s bottles from the stream. We are going through massive quantities
, given our brutal exertions and parched conditions.

  A few days ago, I’d never heard of the rule of threes. Now, I’m living by them. Find shelter—Miggy’s task. Procure water—my job. Produce food—Josh already did that with his stash of peanut butter cups. I’ve never looked forward so much to candy for dinner, even if it’s only a few pieces.

  I return with the filled bottles just as Miggy reappears from the woods.

  “Not far,” he says, which is probably all we can manage with the travois.

  Bob grabs one corner, Miggy the other, and we’re off again.

  The woods are dark. Deep dark. Like take-a-left-at-the-witch’s-hut dark. The sounds captured within these thickly branched evergreens already feel more ominous. Less chirping, more slithering. Fewer hoo-hoos, more shrieking.

  Poor Bob is nearly folded in half as he struggles to pull the travois through the dense forest. I grab the end of the litter, lifting it awkwardly to help get it over one rock, then a large bush, then a particularly steep rise. After a few more feet, Scott does his best to assist from the other side as we heave and curse our way forward, slipping and sliding on all the pine cones underfoot. I hope our tracker is miles away, because we must sound like a herd of elephants, trampling our way through the forest.

  Miggy draws up short. We come to a crashing halt beside a slight bend in the stream. In the falling light, I can just make out a pile of moss-covered rocks, then a giant hollow formed by a toppled pine tree. Half its roots are now ripped out of the ground, standing at attention like a massive, fan-shaped wall. Between the gentle cradle in the ground and the thick backdrop for defense, it is the perfect resting spot for a group of humans looking to disappear.

  Miggy has done good.

  We start setting up camp in the dip of cool earth. We left our sleeping bags and tents behind, but I’d grabbed all the emergency blankets I could find, given the nighttime temps. Now I pull them all from my pack and start doling them out. The blankets are thin and crinkly, but with a silvery lining designed to reflect body heat; they’re warmer than they look. Bob removes a heavy-duty black garbage bag and spreads it on the ground to create a barrier between the damp earth and his body. We all quickly follow suit.

  “Out,” Neil moans from the travois. “Please!”

  Miggy and Scott work on untying Neil from the travois and help him sit up. He winces, holding his head.

  “Fuck me,” he states. He tries to stand. Miggy catches him just before he falls. This time, Neil stays seated next to the travois. “Not getting back into that . . . ever again.”

  None of us argue.

  “We don’t have any of the instant cold packs left,” I offer up finally, “but I could ice down a bandana in the stream.”

  “We’re near a river? Freezing-cold water?”

  “Pretty cold.”

  “Take me . . . to it.”

  He holds up his arms. Miggy grabs him from one side. Scott attempts the other, then gasps as it pulls at the infected wound in his chest.

  I nudge him aside and take over. One invalid at a time.

  It’s only ten feet to the stream, which is good, because I don’t think Neil could’ve made it an inch farther. Now unwrapped from his cocoon, he’s shivering hard. When we get the water’s edge, he collapses onto all fours.

  “How deep?”

  Miggy shines his flashlight on the water. I stick my hand in and move it around. “Shallow,” we declare at the same time.

  “Awesome. I’m gonna . . . on my back. Can you . . . put head. Just let water . . . flow over. Need cold. Very cold. Please . . . be fucking freezing.”

  I get what he’s doing. Using the stream itself as an ice pack to both clean his wound and help reduce the swelling. Not a bad idea, especially given the day’s abuse of his already-concussed brain.

  It takes both Miggy and me to get him in position. We all end up wet. And yet, the second the back of Neil’s head makes contact with the cool stream, his sigh of relief is palpable.

  Miggy and I stay on either side of him, squatting in the rocky streambed to help cradle his neck. We’ll need to get out of these wet clothes the second we return to the tree hollow. Bundle up for the impending chill. But for now, witnessing Neil’s badly needed respite, it’s worth it.

  “If the chopper doesn’t make it tonight . . . tomorrow I walk. No travois . . . litter . . . death trap. Done.”

  Miggy and I both nod, then exchange glances above Neil’s head. Rescue chopper had better make it tonight.

  Finally, Neil’s had enough. We help him sit up, then give him a moment to get his bearings. Miggy examines the head wound by the beam of his flashlight. I think it looks slightly better, but that could be more fanciful thinking on my part.

  Neil holds out his arms; we help him to standing. At least his steps back to our little encampment are stronger than the ones he took away from it.

  We lower him onto a trash bag. Miggy peels off Neil’s soaking-wet T-shirt. I dig out a long-sleeve top from his pack, then add a flannel shirt and jacket over that. Miggy handles the redressing, then tends to his own clothes.

  I turn my back to the men to strip off my top layers. Then realizing how much I soaked my pants in the stream, I change out of them as well. We’re all much too exhausted to worry about things like modesty.

  I pull on all the layers I have left in my pack, then grab one of the crinkly blankets and wrap it around my shoulders. I’m still cold. We all are.

  “Fire?” Miggy asks Bob softly.

  “The smell of the smoke . . .” Bob shrugs. In other words, no.

  We all nod morosely, no one surprised. We’re a pathetic little crew. Terrified and wrung out, but hanging in there. One by one, we peer up at the sky. Looking, listening, for a sign of our imminent rescue.

  Not yet.

  I recover Josh’s stash of chocolate candies and start doling them out. We each get three mini peanut butter cups, though Bob tries to wave his off.

  “I’m not that into chocolate.”

  “Everyone’s into chocolate. Come on, we all need each other to remain as strong as possible. Take them.”

  Bob eyes the gold foil with longing, then caves with a sigh, snatching up the candies and cradling them like precious gems. I understand. I can’t decide whether to eat mine or simply inhale the intoxicating scent over and over.

  Just yesterday, I promised myself that if I survived this expedition, I’d never eat granola again. Now, I think if I just survive this trip, I’ll never complain about granola again.

  One by one, we polish off our treats. Scott produces two PowerBars. We break them into thirds, creating six shares for five people. Scott hands the extra share to Bob. “Because you’re, like, twice our size.”

  Bob looks tempted to argue again, but Scott’s voice is firm, his logic sound.

  We finish dinner, such as it is, and return to staring at the sky.

  “Time?” Neil asks quietly. So far, he’s managed not to vomit up dinner. More signs of progress.

  “Nine thirty,” Miggy supplies.

  “How long, do you think . . .” Scott, glancing at Bob.

  “Not sure. I’ve never been medevaced before. They gotta locate an available chopper, summon the volunteers, arrange some supplies. Might be closer to midnight. Or”—he hesitates—“they’ll launch first thing in the morning.”

  “Nemeth will push them to come sooner versus later,” Miggy murmurs.

  We all nod. What Nemeth wants, Nemeth gets. Finally, we’re grateful he’s such a stubborn ass.

  “Either way, we have a few more hours to kill.” Bob pauses, clearly regretting his word choice. Then Neil starts chuckling and Scott starts laughing and next thing, we’re all rolling on the ground like punch-drunk hyenas because he said kill and that’s probably exactly what’s going to happen next.

  Bob manages to pull
it together first. “Sorry.”

  I giggle again, slap a hand over my mouth. Hiccup.

  “Guard shifts,” Bob manages this time. “Watch duties.”

  Miggy glances around our encampment, then back at Bob. “We could set up an overwatch position. One of us in a tree, with the rifle. Better line of sight, not to mention better angle for shooting.”

  Bob looks around. “Um, yeah. Is now the time to say I don’t do trees? Or trees don’t tolerate me? Something like that.”

  I raise a hand. “I can climb.” More advantages of a youth spent running wild.

  “Can you shoot?” Miggy asks.

  “No. Can you?”

  “I know how to load a gun and pull the trigger.”

  “In other words, you can’t hit bupkes.”

  “Is bupkes a big-ass target? Because if so, you’re right.”

  I’m feeling stronger now. I prefer doing to waiting, participating to watching. This is something I can offer.

  “You’re in luck,” I volunteer. “Monkeying up trees and staying awake all night happen to be two of my core strengths. I’ll take overwatch, but I don’t want the gun. I have my whistle. First sign of approach, I’ll signal. Those of you who can handle a rifle, have at it.”

  “I have a handgun in my pack,” Miggy says, opening it up. Well, well, the man is full of surprises. “Not so great for stopping grizzly bears, but . . . other kinds of predators.”

  He gives us all a look.

  “Still, your gun, I’m tree duty.” At the last moment I turn toward Bob. “And if I hear the chopper?”

  “When you hear the chopper”—he corrects—“blow the whistle. I have a flare in my pack. I’ll activate it to reveal our new position.”

  Or attract our happy hunter, I might say. But I don’t want to ruin Bob’s optimism.

  I tuck my whistle into my jacket pocket, grab my blanket and water bottle, and head out. I still have my knife at my waist. Not sure if that’s a good thing or bad, but more and more I’ve come to appreciate the feel of it against my hip.