Wild Life (23 page)

The stillness deepened, and the loneliness, and he dozed and wakened several times before becoming aware that, for a while now, the dawn had been sliding up gradually into a whitening sky. He became briefly alert, expectant; he carefully shifted his stiff legs and his arms several times to keep from paralysis. His mind moved restlessly, and when he realized this, he tried to corral it, to get it to think only of the elk that might be coming down from the ridge. He knew that his mind would settle, that he would gain a mastery of things, bring things under control, once he had killed something.

But he was cold and hungry, and nothing came down the hill. He was not able to direct his thoughts, and helplessly he began to think of himself as a boy lying in his bed listening to the low animal groaning of his parents as they performed the marriage act behind the curtain of their bedroom some three feet from where he lay, and of himself creeping under the curtain to watch them, their heavy brutish bodies grotesquely white in the darkness, and greasy with sweat, the
hair growing wild over his father's back and buttocks. He particularly remembered the smell in the room, which was wild and earthy, and thinking of that now, his body revisited the memory, becoming flushed and hot with disgust and shame.

His mother had been old and peevish—he was the youngest of her children—and for most of his childhood she could not sleep at night, could not digest her food. When she discovered him sitting behind the woodshed with his pants open, abusing himself, she had dragged him screeching into the house and pressed his open palm down onto the stove until the smell of his roasting flesh brought her back into her right mind. He had seldom touched himself since that time, though he often was visited by lewd and violent dreams. He was twenty-two now, and considered himself vulgar—brutish; he felt that women never had time for him, and men had no respect for him.

The sky remained white, faintly suffused with rose; the day would be fair but the sun had not yet climbed high enough to clear the ridge before him. He was no good at judging the time of day by the angle of the light and the shadows that entered the woods. It might have been six o'clock or ten. He put his head down on his hands briefly and then let go the rifle with one hand and picked up a heavy stick and began to poke himself with it about the breast, which he told himself was a means to keep awake and to force his mind away from carnal thoughts and upon the matter of the elk. The stick had a rough point, which he felt only as a pressure through his coat; he fumbled the buttons open and opened a few buttons of the shirt as well, and drove the stick into his bare chest five or six times, a mild jabbing motion, and then deliberately digging the point hard into his nipple so that he had to bite his mouth to keep from crying out; and twice again the impelling motive thrust and the pain; and three times to the other nipple. He had lately begun to practice self-flagellation as a kind of penitence and abnegation, though of course it was also a secret eroticism.

Within a year he would take his own life, and his own blood smell coming to him as he was dying would cause memory to leap up from all the perilous places and flash through his body in a last cleansing tide race; he would experience his death as a kind of intimacy, unutterably seductive, both binding and alienating. But now, as the blood ran down inside his shirt across the smooth, pale skin of his
belly, what he experienced was a sticky heat; and in the smell of the blood was a memory of wildness and of the earth.

There is a certain shock that erupts on realizing you are lost. Fear, of course, is not intended by the body to be mentally crippling; it is a scientific certainty that fear arose in the caveman in order to provoke an unthinking, lifesaving response to the sudden onset of danger. My own situation, however, requires not a quick response but a careful conserving of health and strength, a thorough understanding of my surroundings—the smells, sounds, landmarks, as well as oncoming weather—and a plan.

I cannot blame the unsatisfactory events on lack of a plan. Guns were fired again this morning (which surely were signals), and when I could not make out the direction I shouted and shouted and clapped my hands, which hails went unanswered. Upon finally giving up that avenue of rescue, I climbed to higher ground—which was accomplished only with great difficulty—and carefully studied my situation; discovered, to no great surprise, a surround of ridges and gullies all thickly wooded, a green and silent wilderness covered principally with Western red cedar and Western hemlock, which trees stand straight and tall and close, preventing any clear view of the horizon or of landforms which otherwise might have facilitated my orientation. (I had hoped for a glimpse of the conical little knob, at least, or the Mexican saddle, and most surely the lava ridges.) If the others had ignited a bonfire to mark their position, it was impossible to distinguish it from the wisps and columns of fog rising out of the trees.

From high ground there was a lightened aspect at the edge of the overcast sky where (unquestionably) lay the eastern sunrise. I realized, as I oriented myself, that I must have wandered roughly southeast of the camp, and that I should be able to return to known landmarks—the black outbreak of lava invisible in the forest cover—by traveling west, or north of west, which was a simple matter, as I thought, of putting my trust in the compass; which I did, after breakfasting prudently on an ounce of cheese and a morsel of hardtack.

Of course, straightforward travel is impossible under the circumstances, what with the fording of streams, dense thickets, jumbles of house-sized boulders, and so forth. (I shall not recount the miserable procession of mishaps and difficulties and disappointments.) A compass will lead you straight up a sharp peak or straight down into a deep canyon, so I made a zigzag course, returning as I could to the westward direction. In the early afternoon, for some two miles or so, I followed a seemingly beaten path which I believed (joy!) to be a manmade trail, perhaps leading to the logging industry along Canyon Creek or the Pierce brothers' rumored cinnabar mine, but which eventually twisted off to the north before dimming and quite disappearing. Here is what I think: I may have misjudged my direction and meandered too far west, which has led to my skirting past the lava field entirely and into unknown country southwest of the rocks. I have, for much of the afternoon, kept to the course of an unknown creek, which at first took me northwest but has now turned squarely west—proof it is not Canyon Creek as I had hoped, but some other nameless stream; and therefore I will leave it tomorrow and turn more northerly.

The weather, as may be imagined, continued showery and cold throughout the day. In any case, I became rather wet—impossible to keep from it—and afterward suffered from bitter shivering; my feet in wet boots became chafed and sore. This is the kind of discomfort which can lead (I know) to a fatal weakening of confidence, and thence to hopelessness and dire thoughts. I therefore gave up my tramp at an early hour of the afternoon—it was by then already clear that I must spend another night alone in the woods—and began to make provision for staying (or rather becoming) dry and warm.

I have more than a passing familiarity with the techniques of wilderness survival—have made a study of them for the sake of my intrepid heroines, who are very often thrown upon their own in hostile surroundings. I have no doubt of my ability to develop a successful
plan and survive until I am rescued. I am certainly not unduly worried, and as comfortable as one can hope under the circumstances. I have made my camp on relatively flat ground beneath the drooping umbrella of an enormous cedar; have gathered rotten log castings and have cut long sticks with which I've fashioned a small lean-to with a lapping bark cover (very like Spanish roof tiles), and then laid cut boughs over the bark for double protection against the rain; as well as hemlock tips for a comfortable bed within. The open face of my little house is out of the wind, with a long fire fronting it, and I have removed the outer layers of my clothing, which are hanging to dry slowly while I become dry myself, sitting here in my underwear.

Firewood has been my most worrisome problem, which is hardly to be believed, given that I am surrounded by dense forest, and indeed there is fallen timber lying about me everywhere. But the canyons and gullies are cleft deep—little sunshine can penetrate—and rain (or snow) falls for all the winter months. So every bit of wood into which I put my knife was thoroughly wet or green, dead logs and limbs mostly moss-covered and sodden. I believe there must be few places on earth where a campfire is harder to light in April. I was almost in despair—log after rotten log—before finally discovering a cache of dead alder lying dry (or nearly) along the south side of overhanging rocks—sticks sufficient for the night. And after a slow start, have a strong fire burning. Tomorrow afternoon as I am tramping (that is, if not rescued) I shall have to begin to keep a particular eye out for dry limbs, even to the point of choosing my camping spot for its proximity to burnable wood.

Inasmuch as knowledge is the first step in overcoming the debilitating effects of undue fear, I have just now taken thorough stock of my equipment. The greater part of my outfit—my folding sink!—of course remains in our camp, the whereabouts of which are unknown. And the provisions I had carried on my person have unfortunately been lightened by the first day's blithe lunching and nibbling, and today's judicious rationing, during which I expected at any moment to come to the end of this entire adventure. But in my pockets and rucksack I discovered a remaining small handful of dried apricots and hardtack, a square of chocolate, and a small tin in which reside at this moment five soft soda crackers and an ounce of cheese. I am, in addition, in possession of a collapsible Sierra cup, Agent Willard's deer-footed hunting knife, as well as my own folding sportsman's knife, the explorer's compass, a match safe which is quarter-f of matches, and a tin can opener (though the cans, of course, all remain with my other equipage in camp). I have also a small rubber sheet which I was carrying to keep my rump from getting wet while I sat to eat my lunch, etc. Though as a bedsheet it is too small by far, it now protects my head and shoulders from the damp ground as I am lying here, and I hope may keep me from pneumonia.

My clothes, altogether, are suited to my situation. How very much worse would be my state had I stuck to a woman's decorous and altogether impractical trappings! As it is, I am well furnished in ribbed cotton underwear (a vest and long drawers); a corduroy shirt; tin pants, which of course are not fashioned from tin but from heavy canvas treated with paraffin (thus waterproofed), and held up by a boy's police-style suspenders; a lumberman's sheep-lined coat, which, until it came to be doused in a stream, had seemed impenetrable to both wind and water; double wool mittens with a heavy tufted lining and rubberized inner lining; and a man's corduroy cap with an inside fur band, which in this cold weather can be turned down over my ears. I have, furthermore, a quite damp and soiled handkerchief, and two pair of wet socks. (With great good foresight, I had carried dry socks in my pocket and exchanged wet for dry while sitting at my lunch yesterday noon. Of course, the dry socks of yesterday noon are by now also wet, and both pair steaming by the fire even as I write.)

I am in low spirits—do not doubt my survival and eventual rescue but find my own deficiencies and weaknesses a frightening embarrassment. And of course I am uncomfortable with cold and damp, somewhat peckish with hunger, and smarting from a great many scratches, bumps, and bruises. The night is black beyond the circle of fire, and I have at moments imagined the glowing eyes of beasts—the phantoms of bears or lions eyeing me from between the pillars of tree trunks, their shadowy forms not quite visible against the darkness. The limbs of trees in the darkling forest can easily become grotesque leaping figures, and the wind has the sound of a wild and weirdy scream. I have a new and heartfelt understanding of the classical mythologists, who populated the dark forests of Europe with an entire menagerie of lesser gods and demons—satyrs who ravished women and carried off the children who ventured into their wilderness lairs.

I have thought often today of poor Harriet, and hope she did not suffer much from fear or pain.

My plan is to turn back to the north and strike the lava field at its middle range, then turn southeasterly along its rim until I should find the camp. Of course, I can no longer count on being able to find it—I fear that the great field of rocks strewn with green lichen and stunted trees may remain, like a fairy forest, unseen until one stands at its very edge. So if the lava field remains lost to me by tomorrow night, then I shall abandon the effort to reunite with my party and simply strike out west, which direction will lead (inevitably) to the logging activity along Canyon Creek or (failing that) the North Fork of the Lewis River, which I can follow to civilization.

I am turning every effort toward remaining calm. To feel fear is normal and necessary, but undue fear is usually caused by the unknown. I look carefully at each situation to determine if my fear is justified, and upon investigation usually find that it is not. (A dangerous noise is discovered to be a squirrel or a bird dropping his nut from a tree, which bounces with great energy through the leaves.) I keep my mind busy and plan for tomorrow. My doorway faces east, toward the rising sun, and I will get up as soon as it is light and get under way.

 

And in snow on the mountain above the lake, a race of man-stealing giants lived. At night, these giants would come to the lodges while people were asleep, put people under their skins, and take them away to the mountain. When they awoke in the morning, they were entirely lost, not knowing which direction their home was.

K
ATHERINE
J
UDSON
,
Myths and Legends of the Pacific Northwest
(1910)