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Like an arrow released from an archer’s fingers, the thought shot through my mind, “So this is how I die.”
My head hit the rocky soil on the far side of a cut in the trail, designed to prevent highway vehicles from driving the defunct logging road.
“So this is it,” I thought to myself, quad jammed face first into a hole as tall as I am.
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| The hole that swallowed Timothy’s quad. |
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They will look for me next week and find glistening bear scat the size of Coke cans arranged on an imaginary dinner plate, spread out like poorly coordinated table settings within 50 yards of my crumpled quad. A bear wouldn’t eat something my size in one go... would he? He would eat, fall asleep somewhere near, mossy and cool, wake drowsily, drop one of those Coke can dinner-plate sized dumps and head back to the table for another helping. It might take three or four naps to finish this meal. Maybe they’ll find a pelvic bone or a chunk of vertebrae too stubborn to yield to a big bear’s molars; a truncated note to those left behind to puzzle. If a blanket of snow is pulled up early, fluffed and laid down, they might not find my bleached remains until after that blanket melts and the dandelions greet the spring rains.
Perish the thought.
That’s how they’d find me, or what was left of me: leaves patted down by evaporating winter remnants, littered with shreds of a plaid sheep’s wool jacket, a sweat-stained waxed canvas hat no bear in his right mind would eat, and maybe a chunk of tasteless beeswax saturated hiking boot… oh, and an indigestible hunting knife with a pair of Hutterite-made deerskin gauntlets.
At the back of the church people would whisper, “At least he died doing what he loved.” That is, if they found enough pieces of me to warrant a memorial.
I felt the abrasion on my forehead reddening, even though I couldn’t see it.
What’s that? Felt? Yeah, man my neck hurts. I think it is broken. Just slide off the quad. Okay, off the quad now, squatting in the deep grass-covered ditch. I can see trees and sky. The trees are blinking black floating chunks, swirling clockwise in my vision. Swirling black, dimmer, dimmer, oh, light, lighter... maybe I’m not going to lose consciousness after all. The trees come in focus and brighten. Pain in my neck. Pain in my forehead.
That’s good isn’t it? If I were dead, I wouldn’t feel anything... would I?
“Where am I?” I say aloud. Well, I am quad-crashed about eight miles from the truck and supposed to pick up Cam, my hunting partner, in 15 minutes, a half-mile or so down this trail. In the woods behind me is my dead bear. I’m not leaving without my trophy.
“What do I have that I can use?” I ask. The backpack, chock-full of gear for an emergency like this one. An axe or a saw would work. I have both.
What can I do? A minute passes. The fog drifting between my eyes begins to thin. I can cut a spruce tree as big as my wrist, about 12 feet long, and use that as a lever to get my quad off its nose and onto its side. That would clear the winch, allowing me out of this devilish hole.
A plan hatches. I remove the folding saw, after putting both hands around my neck and turning my head slowly from side to side. No popcorn crunch. I don’t need a spinal injury after a near death experience. I cut a spruce tree 12-feet long and wrist thick. My small axe swings at the end of my numbing arm, removing branches to a relatively smooth barked pole.
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| Timothy with his black bear. |
I lever the red Honda over on its side after stemming the free flow of gasoline. Forcing the quad off its crumpled red nose, every inch grunt by grunt, it tips triumphantly over on its side. Switching the winch lock to free-spool, I spool off enough steel cable to connect with a solid rooted spruce. Once anchored safely, I lock up the winch spool and slowly the winch purchases an exit.
Gas on. Turn key. Engine cranks, sputters, and fails to fire. I give it a few minutes, time to worry about wearing down the battery and walking eight miles back to the truck. Engine cranks again, sputters, coughs, starts, and runs rough, smoothing out in a few seconds. I shut down the engine, switch off the gas, and survey the damage: front wheels reverse-pigeon-toed to an angle I am sure won’t allow forward progression; gas tank destroyed as if crushed within a giant’s hand; wrap around bumper looks like it had been in a serious crash; and handlebars are bent back to nearly touch the gas tank.
I need help.
What was it those old hunters said? Three shots spaced a minute apart means emergency, S.O.S. I click off the Remington 700 safety, crank the bolt, check the Seiko’s second hand, and fire a shot into a tree stump. Working the 300 Ultra mag’s bolt again, I hold my breath and watch the second hand. Shortly after the third round booms, precisely at 120 seconds, my friend’s smiling face saunters around the bend just like a mischievous boy, right pleased with himself for having untold fun in the autumn forest.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Hear shots?” I say.
“No, did you get something.”
“Yes,” I say, “a good black bear, but first we have to deal with this,” turning around, pointing at my crunched quad.
He has solid medical training, even if mostly on canines. Examining me with the same care he would use on a loyal basset hound, he said, with some question of certainty, that I hadn’t broken my neck. He said I had a nasty mark on my forehead. There was no mirror for me to verify his assessment.
We pile on my bent and twisted quad, find the bear with much strategic wandering in increasing concentric circles, skin it, bone it, load it, and shuffle on four wheels the eight miles back to my truck.
It feels good to be alive. I would have bear bratwurst after all. ■
For previous Reader Stories click here.
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