A Hike in the Woods, Day 3

Day 3, Part 1

Sleep didn’t come easy last night. There were several distant cries and hooted screams. There were several bumps in the night, each one had my eyes dart open and my mind racing. I guess recounting the dead deer story last night did an unexpected number to my own imagination. At the first hint of the sun breaking into the dawn, I abandoned all thought of sleep and decided to make a cup of coffee. I dug out my small stove and crawled from my tent, still wrapped in my unzipped sleeping bag like a puffy blanket to ward off the morning chill. With a yawn, I lit the stove and put water to boil. Rubbing my sleep crusted eyes, I glanced toward Little Foot’s tent to see if she was rousing. To my surprise, her tent was gone, no sign that it had been there. Any amount of sleep that still clung to me instantly fell away. Did she leave in the middle of night or did she silently break down her tent at the very first light? She must have really wanted to get out of here to risk a night hike. Night hikes are inherently risky. Even the most mundane obstacle, jutting roots or rocks, become dangerous. A lot of wildlife become more active at night, straying closer to human trails that tend to be busier during the day. I can’t help but wonder how much of her decision was because of me, at least because of my story. Other than the deer story, our talks were pleasant and our company cordial. I guess I may never know why she booked it out of here. We’re traveling in the same direction, maybe I’ll meet back up with Little Foot in the next day or so. I really want to find out what happened, what caused her to leave so abruptly. 

After sipping my coffee, I decided to investigate Little Foot’s tent site. I wanted to see if anything obvious happened. Nothing looked out of place. There were some scuffled boot prints in the dirt, as though she was hurrying back and forth around the area. The holes left from the tent stakes looked as though the stakes were carelessly jerked out. But all that really means is that she left and she wasn’t careful about it, nothing else. I took a wider walk around the site, not sure what I was looking for or hoping to find. Something did seem a little off. The trees had spots on the trunk that were missing chunks of bark; as though it had been rubbed or raked from the tree. Small tufts of fur clung to jagged bits of bark. At first, I thought this really was something. I thought I found some clue in a terrible mystery. But, if you look close enough, almost every tree in the forest has bits of fur or oddly rubbed areas. I found some hair on a tree near my tent. Animals live out here after all. Who knows when or what kind of animal left that fur behind.

Having concluded my impromptu investigation, I took down my tent and packed my bag. I was about to sling my pack up to my back when I heard a quiet whistling coming from the lean-to down the hill. Hesitantly, I lowered my pack to the ground, not taking my eyes off of the back side of the shelter (I purposely chose a tent site behind the shelter, it felt more private somehow.) The whistling never faltered, never changed beat or pitch. Whoever was in the shelter was softly whistling “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” (a classic by Otis Redding.) My fright took a moment to shift toward curiosity, it truly was a good rendition, and now I was curious to see who was in the lean-to. With eyes still locked on the shelter, I started to creep toward the whistle. Without realizing it, I was walking on the balls of my feet while in a hunched position; trying to walk soundlessly through the fallen sticks and leaf litter. I did not want the whistler to know I was coming toward them. I have know idea what I was thinking, trying to sneak up on someone as though I’m some kind of master woodsman. About eight feet into my creep, I stepped squarely through a largish stick, creating a loud snapping sound.

“I know you’re back there.” the voice called. “You’ve been back there for a while, have you finally gotten your tent packed up? Stop creeping about, and come on over. Come say hi to a friend.”

It was Harry! He had, for some reason, backtracked to Hikers’ Nest #3, getting here in the small hours of the morning. After a few minutes of greeting and catching up, I asked if there was another tent set up when he got here.

“Sure. Right over there,” Harry pointed to Little Foot’s site, “but she left not too long after I settled in the lean-to. Not really sure why she jetted in the night. It was kinda weird if you ask me.”

That answered when Little Foot left but not why. Hopefully I’ll see her again so I can ask. Harry and I talked for a minute or two longer before he got to his feet, boots already in place and tied (as though he slept in them,) and made his way down the trail. He again headed in the opposite direction that I would be going. Harry still had no pack, and he left with only the same thread bare flannel shirt with that one water bottle slung over his shoulder, and stained khaki hiking pants torn off at the bottom. What a weird and cool guy.

Day 3, Part 2

I didn’t put in a ton of miles today, maybe only six or seven. For reference, I had been putting in ten to fifteen miles before today. My hike started off well. My boots hit the path shortly after Harry left, I actually caught a quick glimpse of him going around a bend in the trail, whistling as he went. From Hikers’ Nest #3, I continued in a general southwest direction, the trail meandering its merry way to the western side of the mountain. But, as the trail made it to the western face, it started a fairly dramatic descent from the ridgeline. I plunged back into a thick old growth forest from the more sparse offerings of the mountain top. The constant downhill put a strain on my lower legs that I had not experienced. Until now the trail had mostly been an uphill push that transitioned to rolling hills. With the quick change in the trail also came a change in the substrate on the path. Boulders and large rocks became pebbles and gravel. Worse yet, the pebbles would slide underfoot. Each step becoming more and more treacherous. I’m not sure the elevation lost in that first mile, but it was considerable. In the beginning I was relieved, excited even. Walking downhill was so much easier than climbing up. But as the trail continued with a steep descent, I learned my folly. By ten in the morning the trail taught me to detest downhills, my thighs were burning, my knees were shaking with the strain of constantly catching my body weight plus a twenty pound pack, my feet would land only to slide under me. And that’s when I injured myself.

I took tired steps, leaning backwards to keep a semblance of a center of gravity so that my bodyweight didn’t send me cascading down the mountain. I took a step with my right foot as my left foot landed on loose rocks that began to slide under foot. This caused my entire body to lean wildly to the left, and my right leg to swing around in an attempt to compensate for my loss of balance. After a half spin with my arms flung out wide, I came crashing down. My body fell with considerable torque and mass on my left ankle. I could have sworn there was an audible snap as I landed. A sick nauseated feeling washed over me, there was no immediate pain, only shock and terror. I wanted to vomit, I needed to vomit. As a natural instinct, I curled into a fetal position holding my left ankle to protect it from any unseen threat. But, the damage was already done. In the back of my mind, I noted that the swelling had started to settle in; my hiking boot would soon be tight against my ankle. After riding the latest wave of nausea,  I worked up the courage to look at my damaged ankle. Using my left elbow, I pushed myself into a seated position. My right leg on the ground, bent gently at the knee to support my weight, while I coddled my left, I started to gingerly pull up my left pant leg. As the nausea ebbed away, pain started to creep ever deeper, ever more a focal point until it became my primary thought. And the pain was fierce. It was a sharp, bright, hot pain; it was a stabbing pain that demanded all your thought and all your attention. I pulled my pant leg up and wedged it above my calf, then I started untying my boot. The pressure inside my boot was intense, but I didn’t want to take my shoe off for fear of not being able to put it back on. Instead, I loosened the laces to relieve the pressure as best I could. My ankle itself was bruised and swollen, my sock left deep indentations where it had compressed the skin. 

I felt and prodded my ankle as best I could, and nothing seemed broken, (there were no bones glaringly out of place,) my ankle just felt very damaged. Oh my God, the relief I felt running through my entire body when I decided (and it was really just me “deciding”) my ankle was in fact not broken was amazing. The pain was still there, it was still front and center, but it seemed to loosen its grip a little. I had a small light in the darkness of my mind. If my ankle was only sprained or strained or whatever, I could still make it out. I could make it to safety. I sat in the dirt for a few more minutes to gather some strength and courage before I heaved myself upwards and got my good leg under me. Then came the next test. I started toe-touching my left leg, trying to find the weight limit that it could bear. Unsurprisingly, my left leg could not take much of my weight, but it wasn’t completely useless. I managed to hobble over to my pack. It had flown off my back during the fall. Inside the bag, I found my medicine pouch and took three ibuprofen to help with the pain and reduce the swelling. I counted the rest of the pills and made a plan to ration them through the coming days. I then slid back down to the ground, leaning against a large and smooth tree trunk. Thirty minutes of rest to let the ibuprofen start its job. All the while, hoping that another hiker would walk by and help me. My phone had no reception, it hadn’t for the majority of the hike. I was deep in the Virginian woods, on a trail that was not very popular. In the end, I knew walking out was really my only option. After thirty minutes and without another person coming around, I figured it was time to start walking again. I pulled myself up, the pain had lessened by a fraction in the past half-hour. It took me a few minutes of searching through the underbrush to find a suitably sturdy walking stick. It was a sad excuse for a crutch, but it would have to do. I took a single step with my right foot, my left foot bent at the knee with the toe of my boot barely tapping the dirt, and my left arm supporting my weight through the walking stick. I started off. 

The going was slow, painfully slow (pun intended.) Luckily, the trail evened out, ending the incessant downhill, and even reverting back to rolling hills. But, this didn’t last. Soon I was climbing back up to the ridgeline. This time, with only one good leg to carry me. Needless to say, I didn’t make it far. About a mile into the climb (the climb itself was actually somewhat more gentle compared to the first day) I started flagging. I had to find a campsite to bunker down for the night. The spot I finally settled on was not ideal, but it would suffice. Usually I like to go at least twenty yards off trail, but I ended up on twentyish feet instead. I also broke one of the cardinal rules of camping; after struggling to set up my tent, I couldn’t muster the energy for a hike downwind to cook and eat dinner. Instead I ate dinner slumped awkwardly next to a tree not seven feet from my tent. All that food smell will surely linger over my tent all night. I did force myself to hang my food bag a ways downwind from camp, but even that probably wasn’t more than thirty feet. 

I just now took two more ibuprofen, recounting the pills to reestablish my rationing plan. The sun isn’t even set, but this is where I’ll have to stay for the rest of the night. I can’t manage another step, much less another mile. Hopefully my ankle progresses some tonight, and the inflammation goes down. I’ve got a good distance still to go before I make it to the trailhead where I left my car. Emily isn’t expecting me home for another two days, but I told her the hike could take as long as a week. My food supply is starting to dwindle. I can’t have too many more days where I make this little progress.

Day 3, Part 3 (I think)

It’s dark outside. I don’t actually know what time it is, but it’s been dark for a while. I woke up to a loud sniffing sound outside my tent, followed by a low guttural growl. It was deep and rumbling. Soft but careless footfalls padded their way around my tent, the snapping of sticks and crunching of leaves marked its slow journey around my tent. A journey punctuated by the beast sniffing the air; taking in the scent of its terrified prey. I didn’t dare turn on my headlamp. Panicked as I was, I knew not to bring any more attention to myself, and a beam of light shaking inside the tent would be the worst thing I could do. I sat up, my sleeping bag falling forgotten around my waist. A cold sweat beaded to trickle down my brow. The pain and throb of my ankle momentarily gone. Only this new threat existed in my world. I could feel my skin tighten like needle pricks covering my body. More sniffing, followed by a deep and distinctly canine throaty grumble. The body of the beast leaned into the right side of my tent, showing the imprint of fur as it grazed past. The moon, full and bright in a cloudless night sky, cast distorted shadows against my tent’s walls. I could make out the silhouette of tree branches high above me, then a massive shape passed over, blocking out all definition. It did not linger. For less than a second the beast blocked out the moon light, as though it stood up, looming over me. In that moment I could hear its wet breath, ragged with an excited rage. Saliva dripped from its maw to slowly roll down the tent’s wall, and a reek flooded in. An unnaturally thick smell of wood and rot and blood and death fell heavy upon me.

As quickly as the shadow came, it was gone, leaving only the shadows of the moonlit tree branches dancing on a light breeze.The smell was slowly replaced by the natural odor of the outdoors. A breathless moment passed, then another. I didn’t dare make a sound, but I did finally take in a silent gasp of air. It felt like a lifetime, minutes creeping by like years; frozen in fear and staring straight ahead while I waited for the impending attack. The beast was still in the woods, sitting and waiting. I was expecting my tent to be torn around me, and then I would see death as it fell upon me. My heart was pounding, I was sure the animal, the monster, outside my tent could hear it and know that I was afraid. Sweat slicked my hair and ran in beads down my body. But no attack came. No death bared its grotesque fangs. 

It has been at least an hour since I woke up expecting to die. I heard the monster once more, deeper in the woods giving another haunting growl. I could have sworn I also heard a faint whistle from the same general direction, but it must have been an early morning bird singing from a high branch. I didn’t even try to sleep, I knew it would be futile. I may never sleep again. As I write, the sun is starting to light the morning sky. A red sky. It’s officially day four. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here. My phone has no reception. I know I won’t be able to walk very far again today (the pain in my ankle has come back in full force.) And now I know there’s some terrible beast out here. It’s close, and there is nothing I can do. I don’t know how I’m still alive this morning. I don’t know how I’m going to make it another night.