A Hike in the Woods, Day 4

Before we get started, I wanted to make sure everyone knows that this is a fictional story. I know I left it very vague in the beginning. I let everyone think that this truly happened to me, but we’ve made it the the point that I wanted to make sure nobody thought that anymore. With that said, please enjoy the forth installment of A Hike in the Woods.

Day 4, Part 1

I just found Little Foot’s tent, or what’s left of it to find anyway. Shreds of tent cling to the bark of several nearby trees; larger chunks droop from low hanging branches. Tent poles lay snapped and scattered on the ground, and the blood…it covers all of it.

***

Shortly after writing about my terrifying visit last night, I downed a  couple of ibuprofens and broke down camp; leaning on my walking stick as I went. I then hobbled over to my hanging food bag. My eyes burned as I stared unblinkingly into the woods, my ears perked for any miniscule noise. I had the feeling of a dozen lifeless eyes, hidden by the trees, watching my every move. A stick broke to my left, and my head violently twisted in that direction. Then a rustle of leaves to the right brought my head the other way. I could feel my heart pounding and sweat popping from individual pores on my forehead.  But when I made it to my food bag, there were no raking claw marks on the nearby trees. No sign of fur in the bark or prints in the softer dirt. Even the fallen leaves in the area seemed immaculate in their normalcy. Whatever came to my tent last night, it did not care about my food that was hung only a short walk away. I pulled my food down and shoved that on top of my sleeping bag. Then, groaning with the effort, I slung on my pack and started off as quickly as I could manage; leaving drag lines in the dirt and leaf litter from my left leg.

My arms burned by the time I made it back to the ridgeline; my walking stick would visibly bow under the weight as I pulled myself up the mountain. Boulders and rock scrambles seemed to grab at my left foot, tugging at every footfall. I noticed that I had slowly stopped peering into the deep woods as the miles passed. I was still very wary of the beast from last night, but it was impossible to maintain that hyper awareness of my surroundings. Instead of swiveling back and forth, my head hung in exhaustion. As the forest thinned with the elevation gained, the sun started to beat down harsher. Sweat dripped from the bridge of my nose, my shirt clung to my chest. I drank greedily from my water bottle until I was down to just half a bottle left. But I made it. I made it back to the ridge, and I nearly collapsed onto a rock for rest. I ate the last of my trail mix and dry-swallowed more pain pills. It felt like I had walked a million miles, but it was probably three, four miles tops. I knew I couldn’t rest long. I had to go soon, but I just needed a minute of rest. 

A crashing noise from behind me broke my moment of peace while I was still sitting on the rock I had nearly collapsed upon. The sound of popping twigs, crunching leaves, and sliding earth came from behind me. It was the beast! It had followed me here and finally it would kill me. I could almost feel its heavy breath on my neck, its reek surrounded me. As I twisted my body towards my assailant, I caught sight of light brown fur bounding away towards my left. It was only a deer. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Relief washed over me almost as quickly as terror had crashed into me a moment ago. I was trying to calm my racing heart when the thought hit me; “What had startled the deer?”

I didn’t wait for an answer, I started down the trail again with new found energy. My steps were a little faster, and my left ankle could bear a little more weight than it had been able to a few moments before. Noises from the trail: squirrels playing on overhanging branches, birds taking flight with a mighty flap of their wings, and deer crunching through the brush, I heard it all. My eyes darted from left to right, constantly scanning the forest that surrounded me. The forest itself seemed closer. Trees crowding into the narrowing path, and the branches looming ever lower overhead. It was here that I came upon Little Foot’s camp.

***

Yellow tent fabric hung lazily from a branch about twenty yards off the trail. It looked as though a flag was somberly dancing in the light breeze. I shambled toward it, simultaneously knowing it was Little Foot’s tent and not accepting that it belonged to someone I knew. I could not process the idea that this was real. Tears warmed my cheeks, and I was yelling her name; having completely forgotten about not drawing attention to myself. I hadn’t even made it to the tent when I fell to my knees, jagged rocks sending barely noted pain through my knees. 

“Little Foot! Little Foot!” I yelled. All the while, knowing it was useless.

My voice was harsh and my face stung as I sat there hunched with my head in my hands. Sorrow and pain and fear swelled together in the edie of my brain. I had to get up, I had to find my friend. No, I had to run! Strips of tent were scattered on the ground like so much confetti. The strips were limp and wet with drying blood. Saliva still clung to branches reaching toward the horrible scene. Unwittingly, my nostrils flared with the scent of the monster that still settled in the air despite the mild breeze. I found Little Foot’s pack, it was ten yards deeper in the woods as though flung carelessly. One of the shoulder straps was ripped and dangling. Claw marks tore through the face of the bag, as though it was pulled from her back and cast aside. A winding path of crushed and scattered brush led deeper into the woods. Blood smeared indiscriminately on the forest floor, and the occasional tracks of fingers that had clawed deep gouges into the very earth. I didn’t follow the horrible path I found, I couldn’t face what I might find at its end. My ears did prick up at the sound that started to faintly echo around me. I folded my arms around myself to protect against the light breeze that chilled my skin, I felt as though my blood had completely drained from my body. The sound my ears had pricked to was a light and carefree whistle coming from deep within the woods. Moments passed before I could shake myself from terror’s grip. I quickly and quietly made my way back to the trail, only stepping on rocks and bare dirt as often as possible. The unchanging whistle lingered in the air long after I had put more than a mile between me and that haunting noise.

Sweat dripped from my forehead and my breath came in ragged gasps as I slumped down against an old oak. I could still hear phantom whistling echoing inside my head but I couldn’t take another step. I had to rest, again.

I’ve propped myself against a tree, broken and exhausted and weak and completely terrified. But even now, I can sense a will to survive deep inside of my soul. Energy is slowly building back up in my body. I know I have to pull myself back to my feet. I have to put more miles behind me, I have to get to my car and get out. However, I can also feel my heart painfully pounding in my temples, and I can feel my knees tremor. My eyes are darting from tree to tree, trying to peer through the shadows and into the horror held within them. I have to get moving again, I have to go as quickly as I can manage. I just swallowed two more pain pills along with the last bit of my water. Should I even take my pack? I’d travel faster without it. This thought was followed with a look down the trail and then skywards. Gray clouds were building, and a crisp wind blew back my hair. I’ll take my pack, at least my tent will give me shelter if not protection.

Day 4, Part 2

The rain came. A steading soaking rain that is still rapping on my tent walls. The rain started an hour or so after my break. At first, I saw the rain as a blessing, the first good thing in a few days. Before the rain, my throat was dry and burning, and my labored breath brought on a raspy cough. I grabbed my water bottle but it was startlingly light. The bottle was completely empty, and I had no idea when or where I would be able to find water again. My mind was racing with this new problem. My breath quickened as panic further tightened its grip. Just then, the sky opened up and joy came over me.

Looking back on it, I can’t believe I found even a shred of happiness in that moment. Little Foot had died today, that monster was still out there somewhere, and I could die tonight. But, at that moment, I was truly happy. I was staring up at the sky, letting the rain patter on my face and cool my burning muscles. However, the moment was fleeting. The reality of rain set in as the water started to soak into my clothes. The sky was a dark gray and the wind was sharp and brisk. The wind was pushing the clouds at a swift pace, would this be a quickly passing shower or a long soaking rain? In the end, I pulled off my pack to retrieve my rain gear. I had used a thick trash bag as a liner to protect my sleeping bag, tent, and spare clothing in case there was rain; at least that was paying off. I fished around for my raincoat and tugged it on after I had peeled off my soaked and clinging outershirt. Flipping up the hood, and with the moment of joy behind me, I started off again 

Slick mud formed where the trail had been dirt. My wet pack pulled on my shoulders, my thighs and (most cruelly) my left ankle burned with the added weight. A sharp pain coursed up my shin with every step; a stabbing pain rang out like warning bells with every slip. Water ran in little rivulets across the trail. No noises came from the woods save the pouring rain; the rain was a roar in my ears as it came down upon my hood. I was now deaf to all else. I tried to quicken my pace, pushing my tired and battered body harder until what had been an ache grew to something more severe. Dim shadows moved amongst the trees, just beyond the point of true and reliable sight allowed with this downpour. Figures danced in and out of sight. I would see something (someone) in the woods on my left only to have it disappear and pop up a moment later on my right. One figure would be keeping pace between the trees and brush, then three or more shadows would catch my other eye. There was no sound, no guttural roar, just the pounding rain. But, in my head, I heard Harry whistling “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.”

In the end, the rain forced me off of the trail. Steel gray clouds still spread themselves across the midafternoon sky. The inside of the tent managed to stay relatively dry during the set up, and now I’m hunkered in here with all of my drenched gear. The campsite itself has a slight downhill slope, and I’ve piled my wet gear on the downward tent wall. I have no hope that any of it will dry out. The only things saved from the rain were my spare change of clothes, and my sleeping bag and pad, having both been stored in the trash bag liner. And now, I have the unzipped sleeping bag pulled tight around my neck and shoulders. I hesitate to confess that I really want to pull the makeshift blanket up and over my head like a child afraid of the boogie-man hiding under the bed. 

I ate a dinner of a cold-soaked oatmeal packet, some dried fruit, and two more ibuprofen. I know I should hang my food bag out in the woods, but I’m not going to; not tonight. It’s too much, it’s all too much to ask. The rain has started to ease, what was a roar is now a soft pattering on the tent. A gray blanket still covers an afternoon sky that is slowly becoming darker. I think I’m done for the night, I don’t think I could go out there again today. My legs throb every time I have to adjust my posture. My shoulders hummed and my hand shook while lifting my spoon to eat cold oatmeal. Even my brain is having trouble focusing. Everything feels fuzzy? I’ve started having lapses in my awareness. I’m not sure when I stopped trying to listen to the woods around me, the monster could be right outside my tent and I’m not sure I would even care. It’s going to get me, I just don’t know when.

Day 4, Part 3

I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in my bag, twisting onto one side just to toss onto the other. My ankle has come down in size from a grapefruit to an orange; purple bruising has started to change to a sickly yellow. In general, the ibuprofen is helping a little, but my ankle would still bark every time I twisted a little too carelessly in my sleeping bag. Worse than the constant pain, my brain would not shut off. The rain has gone from a roaring downpour to a soft drizzle, and, with the roaring quieted, my ears have automatically tuned into hearing any outside noises. But the woods have fallen deadly silent. There was no wind rustling the leaves, no animals crunching leaves or breaking twigs, no birds calling in the night. The rain had made everything quiet. The world, it seemed, had stilled, and was now waiting in silent anticipation.Waiting to exhale the breath it was holding.

 Sitting up in my sleeping bag, I began to rapidly bounce my right leg. My head involuntarily jerked back and forth as shadows danced at the edge of my vision. I had to get out of this tent before it became my coffin. I pulled on my boots, deciding to not bother tying them, and I hobbled outside. 

A deep breath of crisp air filled my lungs. The rain had finally stopped, and the clouds  had begun to split apart in the night sky. With an exaggerated exhale, a measure of nervous anticipation left my body. If that monster came back, at least I would be on my feet, not laying helpless in my tent. I paced a small circle around my camp, putting slightly more weight on my left foot. I had purposely left my walking stick where it laid. I was testing my ankle, trying to see how far it could go. My walk was slow and ginger, but my ankle felt a little better (a little more stable) than it had yesterday. Hopefully with another night’s rest, it would improve still more. While walking, I took a mental inventory; my food supply was getting low with only one more full day’s rations left, my water was okay (I had filled my bottles with the streams of rainwater,) and my body could only be considered as “mending” with the most positive of spins. Tomorrow had to be my last day out here, if I made it through the day. 

I could feel my energy start to drain away again. I was flagging after only fifteen or twenty minutes of walking unassisted, and it was time to take shelter again in the tent. During my walk I still had not heard a peep from my surroundings, the woods remained silent. I stooped to pull aside the tent flap when a rampaging rush came from deep within the woods. I whirled (instinctively on my right foot) to face my attacker. The crashing was still too far into the night for me to see the source, but I knew what it was. Soon the reek of its blood stained breath would surround me, the sound of its unnatural roar would fill my head, and its fangs and claws and fur would engulf me. Whistling would fill the air and mingle with my screams. 

I tensed my body and planted my feet as the crashing grew louder. Warm liquid ran down my leg unnoticed, as the monster was now just beyond the tree line. For a split second I saw its form, pale and gray in the moonlight between the clouds; the monster was smaller than I thought. And then it was on me! But, it didn’t leap upon me; it fell into me. We toppled into the mud, its weight landing on my chest. My hands came up to claw at its eyes, to punch at its nose, to do anything I could to survive. My left hand reached out for my walking stick to use as a club. My right hand reached for its face. I felt my left hand wrap around the stick as my eyes and brain registered what was on top of me.

A woman’s face came into focus. Crusted blood obscured the right side of her face, but her eyes were wide and her pupils were dilated. She stared at me with a wild and uncomprehending gaze for a moment, then she let out a screaming sob that threatened the limits of my hearing. Little Foot lay on top of me crying and yelling. Snot flowed unchecked from her crooked nose, tears streamed down her face; cutting paths through the dried blood. She slowly fell to her hip on my right side and sat hunched in the mud. Her shoulders shook violently, sobbing as she struggled to gain control of herself. I gently lifted her head with the palm of my hand so that our eyes could meet again. 

Alive! Little Foot is alive! How is this possible? How could she have survived the gruesome attack I saw at her campsite? 

Our eyes met, and I could finally take in her mangled face. Blood had run freely from a deep gash at her hairline above her right eye. Her hair was matted down and slicked with gore. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around her forehead, and it had long since been stained red. Mud and bramble clung in her hair and covered her body. Long and ragged gashes ran the length of the back of her puffer coat. Little Foot’s right sleeve was ripped off at the shoulder seam. Puffer coat and undershirt sleeves were both gone. Claw marks dug deep into the flesh above the elbow and ran through the forearm. Blood still dripped from her right arm, making small pools and mixing with the mud. Despite all of this, despite the torment she had gone through, she was alive. 

Little Foot sat clutching her knees to her chest, rocking slowly. She had stopped screaming, she had stopped crying, but she still wouldn’t meet my eyes. Once I had let go of her chin, she had tucked her face between her knees. I lit my stove and quickly made her a packet of instant oatmeal. It was one of the few food items I had left. She refused it. All I could do was sit with her and carefully put an arm around her shoulders. After a while, I started tending to her wounds. My spare shirt turned into bandages and rags. First, I tied a tourniquet around her right bicep. I had to stop the active bleeding. Second, I looked at her shredded back as best I could without removing any clothing. There was no active bleeding, and I was afraid to move things around and reopen any sealed wounds. I decided to leave it alone. Lastly, I started to clean her face. A crimson mask covered half of her face. As I reached to lift her chin from her knees, Little Foot’s hand grabbed my arm, leaving nail impressions in my wrist. “What are you doing?! Stop it! STOP!”

Little Foot staggered to her feet. “What are you doing? We have to go. Now!”

“No.” I said, “We have to take care of you. Sit down before you fall. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You couldn’t possibly make it further like this.”

With that Little Foot stumbled closer. Her bloody hands came up to my cheeks, I could feel the sticky wetness of them, and her unnaturally wild eyes finally met mine. “He’s coming.” She said in a voice that was too soft. “He’s coming, and he’s going to kill you.” Her Voice started to rise. “He’ll kill you, he’ll kill me.” Her voice, nearly a shout. “He will eat you. We have to run!” Her hands fell from my face and our eyes parted. She was now staring in the direction she had come. “He’s out there,  and he will kill you! We’ve got to go.” She finished breathlessly.

I understood those wild eyes, that terrified intensity, and I started to shove what I could into my pack.

“Leave it!” Go. Now!”

She stumbled a step or two, as though she were drunk, then she made for the trail. Thankfully she paused at the trail, I’ll never know if she was waiting for me or if she was looking for the monster, and she saw me limping in her wake. “Hurry!” She said, waving her left arm in my direction. I saw terrified impatience and sympathy fight in her eyes as she watched me make it to her side. After I made it to the trail, I was able to quicken my pace a little. And, in this manner, we fled through the night. We didn’t stop until the morning sun was peeking through the brilliant red and yellow leaves of autumn.