Who Do You Write Like?

This morning I found a fun place to start my day. I visited Deirdra Eden Coppel's blog and found a very cool widget! I followed the link to a program that analyses a person's writing style: http://iwl.me/
Rather curious about comparing my own writing style to the styles of others, I posted a small sample of my new novel, "Treasure of El Grado Escaso" and the analysis said that:

I write like
Ernest Hemingway

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

I then posted a much bigger sample of the "in progress" novel and it still said that I write like Ernest Hemingway.
I next posted several excerpts from my yet unpublished book, "Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off" (about my growing up on a lighthouse on the west coast of Canada) for analysis and it said:

I write like
Edgar Allan Poe

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

.
For my third and final post, I uploaded some of my novel, "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" and it said:

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

I'm most definitely flattered!

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 45

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 45

Multiple motors sent exhaust into the night air. The procession of one car and three vans wound their way out of the Midnight Lake Campground. Down the dark dusty road they drove, the Kilronan Valley only vaguely visible in the faint starlight that was mostly covered by clouds. Stan Calderbank lay in the back of Richard and Carlea’s van, Alida at his side, her hand in his once more. Within the van’s dark interior, even the voices of six-year-old Gerald and four-year-old Grant were switched off. The only sound reaching Stan was the gentle rumble of rubber on a well-maintained gravel road.

Minutes passed. Before long, they all turned left onto the main highway. A convoy of four, the two worried families accelerated down the pavement towards the hospital.

“Welcome to Peebles.” Gerald Calderbank read out as Richard sped past the sign.

“That didn’t take very long!” Grant added, and the forty minute spell of silence was finally broken.

Ten minutes later, Glen and Stan both lay on clean white cots in the emergency room. The Peebles Hospital was a small one, and it took another fifteen minutes before the on-call doctor arrived.

Another half an hour found the wizened physician scrutinizing a bank of backlit x-rays. Alida sat nearby. Stan lay still, eyes fixed and wondering. Then the old doctor turned. White-coated and suntanned, he began to speak. The old man’s voice was filled with certainly. “Well Mr. Calderbank.” He stated, glancing briefly at the intense gaze of Alida, “You are a very lucky man.”

In spite of herself, Alida put a hand to her breast and let out a little puff of air. The doctor continued, setting his hand reassuringly on Stan’s arm and nodding slightly as the words cascaded expressively from an aging throat. “The break to your femur is clean and I think it can be set it without difficulty.”

The lines on Stan’s deeply tanned face relaxed a little. “Thank you.” He rasped.

The doctor smiled warmly and continued, “I’ll give you some more Demerol and while it’s taking effect, I’ll tape your ribs. Two of them are broken.”

Stan nodded.

“Then I’ll set and cast your leg.”

Stan nodded again.

“Considering what you’ve been through, your injuries could be seen as being relatively minor. The prognosis of a full recovery is very promising.” The doctor gently patted his wrinkled hand on Stan’s arm. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

An hour later, Stan was wheeled back to his waiting wife. Alida arose. The graceful woman smiled as she moved closer to her injured husband and caressed his strong hand with her delicate fingers. Tears cascaded quietly down her delicate features. Stan’s injuries were an unpleasant surprise. “But he’ll be OK now.” She told herself.

Tentatively, Alida lifted the sheet that covered Stan and inspected the doctor’s handiwork. She nodded approvingly and shot he husband an empathetic look. Stan glanced down at his broken leg. It was encased in a fibreglass cocoon, but the familiar throbbing was strangely absent. The big man’s brain and body were still numb from medication, but his thoughts were his own.

The big man looked up at his wife. He studied her high cheekbones and small nose, her red lips and the tiny wrinkles framing at the corners of her pretty mouth. Finally, he found her opal eyes, pools of sapphire where it seemed he could swim forever.

“I’m sorry.” He finally said.

Alida’s soft voice spoke. “It’s alright my love. You’re OK now.”

Stan closed his eyes, gratitude filling his soul like hot chocolate trickling into a tall mug. Visions of his family paraded across the stage of Stan Calderbank’s memory, the procession led by his beloved Alida. Following her, all dressed in their finest, came his three sons and their sweet wives. Five precious grandchildren ran in their wake, energized by boundless youth and overflowing with the pure joys of life. Children’s laughter flooded the warm air.

Then the big man was in the water – frigid water! Skull Creek boiled over his vulnerable body. Death reached out to claim him but he was delivered. Suddenly, he heard the deafening roar of the grizzly. He felt the hot fetid breath and spewed spittle strike his face, but he lived on. “Why was I spared?” The question burned in his mind.

Next, Stan lay on the field of boulders under Ravenscrag Mountain awaiting a rescue that seemed to forever elude him. He felt the pains of a broken body. He saw the fog. He felt the bonfire. He felt the distress of hunger and thirst. He recalled the lurching travois and their narrow escape in the truck. “I know.” He thought. “I know why my life had been spared.”

Stan Calderbank opened his eyes. His face was wet with tears he hadn’t realized were even flowing. His Alida stared down at him, compassion for him adorning her slender face, her eyes sparkling with mists of emotion.

“I’m sorry... I was unkind... to you.” The big man rasped, swallowing hard. He squeezed Alida’s hand in his. “I’ll do better... in the future.”

Alida reached out her delicate fingers and touched Stan’s broad face. Then she bent down and kissed him tenderly, her own tears spilling. “I love you Stan.” She whispered.

“Big C?” Glen’s familiar voice cut into the tender moment.

“Yeah?” Stan rasped, turning his head and wiping his eyes. With a pair of professionally made crutches under his arms, Glen McPherson approached Stan and Alida. The small man’s face was clean, if one didn’t count the beard stubble. Glen was smiling. The stubborn Scotsman had stark white bandages on both his knees and his left ankle was cradled in a yellowish fibreglass cast. The narrow cut on his face had been cleaned and then stitched shut. Stan’s eyes silently examined the cut for a moment. It had looked much worse before. It definitely gave his small friend a more roguish appearance!

“I haven’t seen... you move so... fast in days!” The big man eventually said.

“We’re quite a pair.” Glen said, grinning. “How are you doing?”

“Much better... but I’ll be... laid up for... a while.” Stan lifted the sheet to reveal his cast.

“Nonsense!” Glen countered, an indomitable twinkle in his eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, in the 1976 Olympic Games, a Japanese gymnast named Shun Fijimoto broke his femur during the floor exercises. He was so committed to winning a team Gold Medal that he got a cast, just like yours, and competed in the ring exercises.”

Stan was listening, but rolled his eyes a little as the small man continued.

“The ring exercises didn’t require the use of Mr. Fujimoto’s legs until the end of the performance when he flew through the air, twisting and turning and flipping before landing hard on a thin mat!”

Stan and Alida both winced.

“Shun Fijimoto gave a flawless performance on the rings and landed his dismount perfectly, holding the landing for just long enough to secure the Gold Medal for him and his team.”

Stan grimaced at the thought and Glen went on with the story.

“Afterwards, when they interviewed Mr. Fujimoto in the hospital, he was asked how he did it. Like a true champion, he smiled and said, “The pain shot through me like a knife, but now the pain is gone and I have a Gold Medal.”

The bold gymnast’s words hung in the air for several silent seconds. In spite of his suffering, Stan smiled. He too was alive – and he had something much more precious than a Gold Medal. The big man gave Alida’s hand a little squeeze and his eyes met Glen’s. Glen saw deep gratitude there, but there was something else too. “Life truly is… about living.” Stan rasped.

Glen nodded, but remained quiet for a few moments while his smile melted into contemplation.

“Well,” Stan finally broke the silence. “Are you ready… to drag me back… to Maple Creek… to get our stuff?”

Glen grinned wryly, “Ok, but this time we’ll have to take a roll of duct tape and some real crutches - just in case!” Then he winked at Alida, a rakish smile climbing his ruddy cheeks. “And maybe you and Lillie can accompany us too! Stan’s just too heavy to drag by myself!” 

*******   The End   *******

PS. A heartfelt thanks to all you readers who visited my blog and read this novel - my very first one. The only editor this manuscript has seen is me, and since the manuscript has been circulating, I have been made aware of a few minor errors. I hope the mistakes haven't spoiled the story for any of you. Adventure should never permit interruption by spellchecker!!! When this novel is formally published, and I do plan to publish it soon, I hope all the mistakes are corrected. Stay tuned for more on publication.

If you can spare a minute, I would very much appreciate knowing how you feel about the book, plot, characters, spelling or whatever. Any comments are welcome, so please be honest. You can email me at davisbigelow@gmail.com. Also, if you do email me a comment, please also indicate whether of not I am allowed to publish your words on some future day. If you will allow me to quote you, please indicate how you'd like your name to appear at the end of the quotation. And... if you just want to be anonymous, that works too. My goal in writing this novel has been to have a bit of literary fun - and I have. Hopefully you did too.

My next project is a short story / novella  about a fictitional character in a Mexican sea port. There will be some scuba diving, spanish speaking, mystery solving and plenty of adventure - and who knows what else I'll toss in before I'm done. I should consider some romance too, cuz like Brooks and Dunn's song says, "Put a girl in it!" The bottom line is that I'm gunna have some fun with the project - and of course, I'll share it with you all. Due to having to work for a living (what is with that anyway), I write slowly, but I'll post about this very fun project as it comes together. Thank you for you interest. Hasta luego! (And "Yes", I do speak a little Spanish.)

Davis L. Bigelow

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 44

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 44

It only took one brief glance before Lillie tore away from the gawking group and sprinted though the darkness towards her own campsite. A flashlight flared in the McPherson campsite, but it went unnoticed by the rest of the group. In seconds, Lillie held her husband’s cellular phone, staring at the glowing display. “We need an ambulance!” she panted to the darkness, but the phone refused to connect. “No Service” was its only response.

By the time Lillie returned to the dusty pickup, Richard Calderbank was manoeuvring his van closer. Lillie McPherson pressed close beside her friend. “Alida, are you ok?”

Moist, sapphire eyes settled on Lillie’s green ones. Alida was dishevelled. Blonde tresses streaked with noticeable accents of white obscured her tear-stained face. A slender arm was draped over the side of the truck bed and a delicate hand absorbed the warmth of her husband’s chapped and dirty fingers. “I think so.” She breathed, looking down again at Stan.

Lillie embraced her friend, and her own unbidden tears trickled into Alida’s hair. After a moment, Lillie found her voice, and whispered softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Alright” Richard announced, already out of the van. His wife, Carlea had the rear door open and Harlan and Irvington Calderbank stood ready at the tailgate. Glen leaned on the travois stick he had used to operate the clutch, Val Marie on one side and his daughter, Laura McTaggart on the other. Val Marie was intently watching the drama unfold while Laura was content to put her arm about her father’s waist. Laura silently wiped tears from her eyes, but Glen was too preoccupied to notice. The small man had done his part. Now more able hands were finally lifting his heavy burden.

Laura’s husband, Kelstern moved to assist Richard, Harlan and Irvington. “On three.” Richard orchestrated. The four healthy men gently drew Stan towards the bed that waited a few steps away in the back of Richard and Carlea’s large van. Stan Calderbank gritted his teeth once more. His jaw muscles were sore from the innumerable efforts of the brutally painful day. Alida’s hand was lost in the darkness. “Dear God?” Stan silently prayed. “I’m almost there. Please help me to endure just a little more.”

Juniata and the four Calderbank boys stood nearby, corralled by Harlan’s wife, Daphne and Irvington’s wife, Lorlie. With strong hands gripping the edges of the ragged tent, Stan floated into the air, borne upwards as if on a cloud. Lillie and Alida joined in the lift too. Laura McTaggart pulled away from Glen, wiping tears from her youthful face, her long red hair sweeping through the dim light like a blood-red sunset.

Val Marie McTaggart watched as her mother took a position at Uncle Stan’s head. Val Marie wiped at her own tears. Before today, the little girl had never shed tears for someone else’s sorrow. Val Marie tightened her grip on her grandfather’s careworn hand and stared on.

Mylar crinkled and flashed a myriad of tiny reflections of the fire and lamplight. Stan Calderbank felt like an overstuffed, foil-wrapped sausage at the centre of an oddball art exhibit.

“Ok Dad.” Richard interrupted the big man’s thoughts. We’re going to slide you in onto the bed. Surrounding him, Stan could hear laboured breathing and the soft shuffles of shoes on the dirt and gravel of the campsite’s driveway. At his feet, Carlea appeared. The mother of his oldest grandson knelt on the bed inside the van, reaching out for the tent. In seconds, Stan felt the soft foam mattress caress his body. Grunts and groans sounded from all quarters as his family and friends struggled to keep him lifted into the air until he was over the bed. Richard and Harlan joined Carlea inside. Then, the mattress had him, and mercifully, the motion ceased.

Carlea Calderbank was the first to emerge from the van. “Mom?” she said, looking through moist eyes at Alida. “You can ride in the back with Dad and Glen can ride up front with Richard.” Glen heard, and began to hobble forward.

“Can I go with you Grandpa?” an innocent voice asked.

Glen paused to gaze down upon the face of his precocious granddaughter. Before he could respond, however, another voice answered. “If it’s OK with your mother, you can go in our car Valley.” Lillie’s gentle voice soothed as she crouched down in front of her granddaughter.

Lillie looked up Glen McPherson. The bruised Scotsman’s eyes reflected his approval. “Carlea?” he called. “Lillie’s going to drive me.”

“OK.” Came Carlea’s quick reply.

“Lillie and I will follow you.”

Carlea replied once more, but her voice was drowned out. Simultaneously, the roar of three additional engines joined the motor pool choir. Glen looked around. “It seems everyone’s going to the emergency room.”

Why Am I Publishing My Novel Online - for Free ?

Queen of Chaos said...     (In the Comment Section on Chapter 43)

Woah! You're posting your book on your blog? I have never seen this before! I must go back to previous posts and find out the answer. ;)

I think you're brave. Aren't you afraid of copyrite laws- even though you wrote Copyrite 2011 at the top of each post?

Guess I'm just a little worried for you.

But, besides me being worried, I'm excited to read your book right here on your blog!

My response:
Thank you for your kind words Autumn. I think that you raise a good question - one that I've thought about a lot. Here is my lengthy answer.

I decided to open-publish my fiction novel, "In Ravenscrag's Shadow", on my blog for a few significant reasons.

My first reason was that I loved writing this novel and didn't want to keep all the fun I had doing it to myself. At the beginning, I wasn't sure if I would ever publish the book (in print), so I thought, "Why not". Truth be told, I only spent about three and a half months creating "In Ravenscrag's Shadow", so if someone did try to 'rip me off', at least the loss wouldn't be unbearable. That said, however, Blogger puts date & time stamps on every post, so proving that this manuscript was mine first would be a no brainer (not to mention my original notes).

My second reason was that I hoped to soon publish my non-fiction book, "Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off" and felt that with my lifestyle of working all the time, I needed an advertising / promotion tool that didn't involve travelling around to do book signings. I thought that publishing "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" on line would assist me in getting noticed - hopefully in a positive light. Since I have a worldwide readership on my blog, I hope that at least some of my visitors are entertained. I also hope that my readers will tell their friends about a free online novel that their children can read without fear of moral contamination to their young minds.

My third reason was to give a little back to the online writing community. I have personally benefited from the words of many others but have never seen anyone offer to show me their writing-in-progress. As an author, I felt to keep all my unedited words to myself, so I decided to breach my comfort zone and let those who might be interested see a part of my creative process. The novel, you are reading here in this blog, has been edited only by me. It is my raw writing and my very first attempt at fiction writing in excess of 1,000 words as well as well as my very first novel. ("Three Seconds On, Three Seconds Off" is a collection of historical, autobiographical short stories.)

My fourth reason was that I thought that "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" did need a little fine tuning, and what better way to get some helpful feedback than to put it out there for the world to read and respond to. (As awesome as it might be to do it, I'm not naive enough to believe that I could write a fiction best seller on my first attempt - only in my dreams.) Once the book concludes with Chapter 45 (on Feb 26th) I'm going to re-edit the manuscript with consideration given to any comments that you, my readers offer. In November, I printed and hand-bound one copy of "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" which has been read by several friends.

Once the feedback is all in and I've completed my next edit, I plan to submit the manuscript to a publisher or two. If I get no takers, I'll probably self publish and offer the book for sale on Amazon - or, I might just produce hand-bound copies at home. Or perhaps both. It is a lot of fun to transform a bunch of pages into a real book!

So there you have it... It's been a rewarding, fulfilling, exciting, scary, demanding and fun experience to publish "In Ravenscrag's Shadow" online and I figure... what's the point of creating if I don't enjoy it to the max and climb a little way out of my comfort zone! If you enjoy reading this novel half as much as I enjoyed creating it, then I'll smile in gratitude, draw in a big breath, exhale slowly and feel very satisfied!


Thank you all for visiting my blog!!!

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 43

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 43

Midnight Lake shimmered calmly in the sunset’s afterglow. It would be dark in just a few more minutes. Alida’s oldest son Richard had just lit the propane lantern before retaking his seat by the warm and cheery campfire. The full spectrum of yellow, orange and red danced in the eyes of the onlookers, four boys and two adults. The four Calderbank boys each gripped short sticks and were thoroughly entertaining themselves by poking at the coals. Four pairs of dirty knees shifted in the dirt as swirling smoke determined the source of each boy’s next breath of fresh air.

Just out of reach of the smoke, Glen’s son-in law, Kelstern McTaggart, chatted amiably with Richard Calderbank about the latest stock market trends, but the boys paid no heed to such boring conversation. As smoke and flame gently rose into the night air, six muted shadows danced against the backdrop of ebony evergreen trees.

Twenty feet from the fire, Lillie McPherson sat with Alida at the picnic table, wrapped up in a game of Saskatchewan Rummy - which Alida was winning. In fact, the picnic table was surrounded by six additional, card playing adults as well as two children.

Beside Lillie nestled her five-year-old granddaughter, Val Marie, intently studying Lillie’s cards. Juniata Calderbank sat quietly on her grandmother’s lap. Cobwebs of sleep were knitting thickly over the two-year-old’s closed eyes and her head lay against Alida. In the lamplight, Juniata’s fine features gave her the look of a porcelain doll. Apparently, keeping up with her four older cousins had run the little girl completely out of steam.

Spread out on either side of the two grandmothers sat Lillie’s only daughter and Alida’s two younger sons as well as all three of the Calderbank daughters-in-law. Sixteen in number, the only missing members of the two families were Glen and Stan.

“It ‘s a campfire!” The pinpoint of light twinkled through the trees. Glen turned his head towards the open rear window of the cab. “We’re here Stan! We made it!” Tears swelled once again into the eyes of the big man. Glen guided the pickup truck into the Calderbank campsite.

Val Marie was the first to notice the slow-moving headlights in the darkness. Her sharp emerald eyes peered through strands of claret hair, an unspoken question on her alert mind. Then, a dirty black pickup swerved into the campsite’s driveway.

Four red-tipped sticks and one energetic card game abruptly froze as sixteen sets of eyes focused on the dusty pickup. The headlights winked off and the engine died. Except for the gently crackling campfire, the air in the Calderbank campsite went as quiet as a funeral. Then Val Marie pulled away from her grandmother’s embrace. “It’s them!” she cried out, joy gushing. “Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpa!” The scampering of Val Marie’s bare feet in the dust was instantly followed by an audible gasp as Glen opened the door of the pickup, activating the truck’s interior light. The light’s glow revealed only one occupant!

Alida let out a cry and shot to her feet. Lorlie Calderbank reached to grab the waking Juniata. A dozen slightly curved cards fell unnoticed from Alida’s trembling hand, landing helter-skelter on the picnic table. Concerned murmurs sounded. Both families mobilized.

Val Marie reached the truck first, her bright green eyes curious. When she saw Glen, however, she stopped short. “Who was in Uncle Stan’s truck?” The man rose to stand, retreating a little from the dim light that seemed to eerily emanate from within the cab. The man’s face was streaked with dirt and dried blood. The little bit of hair he had was tousled. The stranger’s shirt was badly torn and he only stood on one foot. Val Marie took a step back. Tears spilled from the man’s eyes, tracing silver rivulets on his cheeks. “Sunny Valley!” called a familiar voice. Val Marie’s eyes widened, but her response was drowned in the cacophony of approaching voices.

“Where’s Stan?”

“Are you OK?”

“What happened?”

“Are you hurt?”

Lillie rushed forward to embrace the spent Scotsman.

For a brief moment, Glen McPherson wrapped his aching arms around his Lillie, more tears gushing. Then, as if trying to halt traffic, Glen held up a hand. He drew in a deep breath. Glen had rehearsed this speech several times in the past few hours, but now that he was about to give it, everything felt so different. He opened his mouth to speak. “Stan…” The name caught in his throat as another powerful wave of emotion pulsed through him.

Alida stiffened. “Stan?” She screamed, but the sound was squeezed from her throat by raw realization. Her hands flew to her open mouth. Her eyes were whirlpools of terror. The fine features of her face were twisted by unspeakable grief. Her shoulders shagged. Then, like a giant redwood undercut by the sharp saw of an experienced woodsman, Alida began to fall. Her youngest son, Irvington was the closest to the distraught woman. As Alida collapsed into Irvington’s strong arms, her other two sons, Richard and Harlan sprang to her side. Alida’s boys gently eased her limp body to the ground. The campsite went silent once more.

Several stifled sobs shattered the stillness. “No!” Glen blurted, shaking his head. “Stan’s alive! We just need to get him to the hospital.” Alida began to stir. The faces of the group all turned away from Alida and stared again at the battered and shadowy countenance of Glen McPherson. The small man continued, gesturing with his upturned thumb. “Stan’s in the back of the truck with a broken leg.”

As if choreographed by a master director, all eyes silently shifted to the shrouded blackness of the truck bed. Kelstern McTaggart pulled his flashlight from his belt and shattered the darkness. There, wrapped in motionless silver, lay Stan Calderbank.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 42

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By

Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 42

The starter engaged and the truck’s engine came back to life. A third blow pulsed through the truck’s metal skin, this time sliding the rear tires sideways. Stan heard Glen grind a gear into place. The engine roared. Springing over the rocks and grass, the faithful pickup truck regained its footing. Dirt and rocks and shredded grass spun from the wheels, scattering wildly into the air behind them. The grizzly bellowed one final time. The pickup fishtailed forward, gaining momentum.

A minute later, the dusty black truck was bumping and lurching down the narrow excuse for a road, dodging trees and rubbing against encroaching bushes. Yarbo Road was merciless! With each passing second, its ruts, bumps and potholes produced pain for Stan Calderbank. The big man’s face was a moving mask of wrinkles and grimaces.

“How you doing Big C?” A familiar voice rose above the sounds of the chugging engine, squeaking suspension and pulsating tires. Glen had opened the sliding rear window in the cab so he could be heard.

“It’s too… bumpy!” The big man hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sorry. I’ll go slower.” For the past several minutes, the small bruised and bloodied hiker had stared into the rear view mirror, watching with relief as the furious grizzly grew further and further away. Now the silver-tipped terror was gone from sight. “We’re lucky that bear didn’t give chase!”

Stan heard the words, but made no reply. Silently he prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, thank thee for sparing our lives once more.”

Glen sat in relative comfort, cradling the steering wheel in one hand and the front travois support crutch in the other. Activating the clutch with his left foot was impossible, but on his retreat into the cab, he had brought the discarded chunk of wood. He glanced down at the crutch. “I’m sure glad you came along for the ride.” He said, patting the scuffed bark and smiling a little. “Of course, idling along in first gear doesn’t require your services at the moment.”

“Glen?”

“Yes?”

“I’m cold.”

Glen considered a moment before replying. He didn’t have much to offer his friend. “Ok.” He said, “I’ll stop and cover you with the emergency blankets.”

The barely moving truck came to a halt and Glen set the hand brake. Warily, he opened the door and stared long and hard down the rutted track. Only the tips of the tallest trees showed movement. Glen drew in a deep breath. His heart was still racing as his good foot touched the earthy surface of the rutted road. In seconds, the wiry Scotsman was in the bed of the pickup. Spreading the twin Mylar sheets sideways over the big man, Glen tucked in the edges and offered some commentary. “Considering how fast we are going, these probably won’t blow off you anyway, but better safe than sorry.”

Stan grunted his agreement.

When Glen was done tucking him in, the big man resembled a giant, plump caterpillar cocooned by a shiny chrysalis. “Snug as a bug in a rug.” Glen observed. In spite of the gravity of the situation, the battered Scotsman grinned. His cocooned friend might easily have been a special effect in a cheap sci-fi movie from the 1970’s! Glen’s grin then melted. The determined man glanced warily about. Satisfied, he clamoured from the bed of the pickup and hopped for the truck’s open door.

The day waned as the truck crawled slowly onward. Glen McPherson manned the helm. Stan Calderbank was his silent, silver-robed cargo. At just five miles per hour, and sometimes even less, Yarbo Road lasted forever! Inch by inch, however, the black truck lurched its way along.

“There it is!” Glen shouted, jubilation spicing his voice. “Fairlight Road!”

Stan lay motionless, unless you counted the perpetual jostling of the ride, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and measured. At the sound of Glen’s voice, he looked around. Trees towered above him, reaching towards a leaden sky. The summer air was cool. “What time… is it?” He wheezed.

Glen glanced at the battered face of wristwatch. “It’s 4:00pm.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too big guy, but we’ll be there soon.” Glen turned the wheel and four dusty tires bit into Fairlight Road.

The next twenty miles went by a little faster, but still required nearly three hours of additional torture for Big C. As his faithful truck bumped and bounced over crushed gravel, protruding boulders, gyrating washboards, the occasional rut and several gnarly wooden bridges Stan kept his silent mantra going. “You’re almost there! You’re almost there!” The words echoed down the corridors of his focused mind, seeming to bolster the big man’s will to endure. Somewhere in the middle of the trip, Glen had made a bathroom stop, but their quest had quickly resumed. The monotonous rumble of the rough road under inflated rubber seemed a near permanent event.

“Stan?” For being nearly killed twice that day, Glen sounded unusually positive. In fact he might have just won the lottery.

The big man pried open his tired eyes and stifled a cough. He was in pain, but the Mylar blankets enrobed his broken body in radiant heat, helping to ease some of his extreme discomfort. After the hypothermia, it was good to feel warm again. “What?” Came his weak reply.

“I see the sign to Midnight Lake!”

Stan Calderbank smiled and sighed. He was too spent to speak.

“Ten more minutes and we’ll be there!” Glen chortled. “Mercifully, you haven’t been rained on yet! It could be worse!”

A tear of gratitude slipped from the corner of Stan’s eye. His emotions had been systematically stifled and callously crushed by unrelenting agony for an endless blur of time. Except for the several sweet seconds when Glen had stopped the truck along Fairlight Road, the big man’s body had been in constant motion for hours.

“You’re almost there! You’re almost there!” Stan’s mantra continued to echo down the corridors of his failing mind. The sturdy brick wall, protecting Stan’s concentrated-enduring from pain-induced insanity, was now a translucent membrane, weaker and more fragile than a dragonfly’s wing. “You’re almost there!” The big man desperately clung to sanity, but an impending breach felt imminent! “You’re almost there!”

Twin, unrelenting beasts of prey, thirst and hunger, gnawed at the ragged hikers. Fairlight Road was behind them and Midnight Lake was drawing near. Glen McPherson rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to relieve the knots. He reached for a switch and turned it on. Lights flared onto the road ahead, illuminating the darkening access to the campsite. He moved his hand upward to massage his temples. Lack of water had produced an unwelcome headache. “We’ll be there soon.” He breathed aloud. His empty stomach rumbled. Glen scowled. He hadn’t eaten for hours. “That awful bear will no doubt be chewing on my food by now!” Then, suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a glimmer of light.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 41

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 41

 

Glen grabbed the door handle and glanced skyward. Overhead, the afternoon sun was still shining, but that was about to change. Thick clouds were billowing in from the west and a fresh breeze was puffing their way. The exhausted Scotsman opened the door and plopped onto the driver’s seat. “It feels so good to sit on a soft seat!” He muttered. With a dirt-stained hand, he inserted the key and turned. “Yes!” Relief washed over him. The truck’s engine roared to life and settled into an easy idle.

As Glen emerged from the cab, a broad grin was plastered onto his ruddy face. Stan was smiling too. “Ok Stan, it’s time to leave.” Glen gripped the edge of the truck box and hopped towards the tailgate. “I’ll have you in the bed of your truck in a jiffy and then we’re finally going to high tail it for Midnight Lake.

“Glen?”

“Yeah?”

“Try the… cell phone… first.”

Glen stopped, nodded, and dug into his fanny pack. The small man shook his head and frowned. “Why did I forget such an obvious thing?”

The phone came into view and Glen flipped it open. Stan waited, the top of his head towards Glen, his neck craning to see. “A helicopter ride to the emergency room would be much nicer than a bumpy ride in the back of my truck.” Stan thought as he waited for the phone to power up.

Glen blew out a sharp breath. “The phone’s dead!” His lips pursed tightly. As Glen stared off towards Skull Creek he shook his head again. “It looks like the phone drowned in the river.”

Stan considered, then replied, “Better it… than us.”

Glen stashed the dead phone and hopped to the head of the inclined travois. He bent down and crawled back underneath the front crossbar. Lifting the laden litter one final time, he drew it the last three feet. His smile was gone now, replaced by concentration. With the forward tips of the travois at the truck, Glen lifted them a little more than usual and set them on the tailgate. Half climbing, half crawling over the front crossbar, Glen gained the truck bed and prepared to hoist Stan in.

It was an epic struggle, but finally the top of the travois was most of the way into the truck bed. “We have a problem.” Glen puffed. “The travois is too wide to fit all the way into the bed. I’m going to have to take it apart and leave it here.”

“Ok.”

“Not that we’ll need it again anyway.” He rationalized. “It’s just that it would be nice to get to our wives and get some help before we die of old age!” Glen sounded frustrated. His stomach growled and thirst gnawed at him.

Glen withdrew his Leatherman and snapped open a blade. “Since the tent’s obviously ruined, I guess cutting the cords won’t really matter that much.”

Stan regarded his friend. Between the two of them, they had begun their backpacking adventure with some nice equipment – equipment that was expensive. The big man frowned. He understood, but didn’t like it either. “You can… get a better… tent.” He wheezed, trying to apply a bit of healing salve to Glen’s wounds.

“Yeah, I know.” Glen muttered. “But I really liked this tent!” The sharp blade made short work of the lashings, its light slicing sounds nearly covered up by the breeze. “At this point, I guess any tent would be better than this one!”

Stan nodded.

Glen clamoured out of the truck. In seconds the travois poles lay scattered in the alpine grass. Glen then crawled back into the box and heaved Stan’s remaining bulk off the tailgate and fully into the truck‘s bed. “Finally!” The panting man muttered.

Glen stood erect, stretching. One hand sat on the roof of the cab, while the other massaged the lower regions of his sore back. They were almost there! Glen shut his eyes and breathed in a satisfying breath of alpine air. At his feet, Stan Calderbank lay prostrated on the softness of the sleeping mats, resting, at last in the bed of his truck. Miraculously, the mats had not been punctured during their ordeal. Glen looked down at his large friend, opening his eyes. “Well Big C?” Glen sounded optimistic for a change. “I think we’re ready to make like Skull Creek and flow quickly away.”

“Indeed.”

Glen looked up, preparing to make a calm exit from the bed of the truck when his eyes caught movement. He froze, an inaudible gasp caught in his throat. Glen’s blue eyes widened. His heart redlined. Up Wynyard Hill, following the trail the two hikers had just scraped into the alpine dirt, lumbered a silver-tipped shimmering mass of fur! Death was coming for them!

Without thinking, Glen propelled his alert body into the air, hands grabbing the edge of the truck box. Like an awkward gymnast at end of an intense performance, the wiry Scot rotated in the air and struck his good foot against the dirt. “Aaaaaah!” The jarring forces swept pain into his damaged ankle, but he mostly ignored it. Stan looked up, bewildered as Glen’s flushed face bounced towards the tailgate.

Terror shrieked in Glen’s frenzied mind. The muscles in his neck were bowstrings awaiting release. His fingers found the driver’s side edge of the tailgate. His bulging eyes never left the charging bruin. From his lower vantage point, all Glen could see of the animal was its massive hump. The bear’s thick hair undulated in the summer sunlight. It looked like a field of ripe grain in the wind. Then, exploding like a jack in the box, the beady eyes of the charging grizzly bear emerged above the edge of the hill.

Glen screamed! The tailgate flew upwards, slamming shut. Glen McPherson pivoted. His stormy eyes fixed on the door of the truck. “I should have left it open!” Determined hopping began in earnest. Then, with sudden abruptness, his foot struck the tip of a discarded travois pole.

Within the bed of the pickup truck, Stan Calderbank lay puzzling over Glen’s strange behaviour. The big man hauled his weary head off the soft sleeping mat, seeking understanding. Then, Stan heard the scream. His heart leaped into his throat. At his feet, the tailgate slammed. Glen’s stricken face turned his way. “Oh no!” he muttered. Like a deadly blow to the solar plexus, realization struck the big man. “Glen’s panic can only mean one thing!” Then the unthinkable happened. Glen’s bouncing, terror-twisted face fell forward and disappeared from sight.

Glen landed heavily. The dazed man was completely unprepared for the fall. His right hand was unceremoniously ripped from the edge of the truck bed while his left somehow got to the ground just before his face arrived. The strewn travois pole dug into the shin of his good leg. The wiry Scotsman rolled over and looked up. “I’m a dead man!”

Paralysed and helpless Stan felt the gentle vibration of the truck’s engine against his back. The view from his vantage point included just a few emerald-green treetops and the black insides of the truck box. He strained to hear, but the world beyond the truck had gone deathly silent. Then his blood ran cold. From just beyond the confines of his metal prison a mighty snarl vibrated the metal under his fingertips! “The grizzly!” Stan heard Glen scream again! “What’s happening?”

Stan Calderbank had never felt such intense frustration. He had never been so utterly powerless. “At least in the tent I was able to fight!” Stan clenched his jaws together and gripped the edge of the truck box. “I have to see!” The big man tried to hoist his shoulders into the fresh air, but the longest of the splints was still lashed firmly to his chest. His fingers flew to the knot. Thankfully, Glen had tied it like a shoelace. Glen screamed again. If it were even possible, this latest scream sounded even more desperate than the last. The knot came loose.

Stan Calderbank’s head and shoulders lifted. The big man’s eyes were wide and filled with terror. Blood pounded in his head. Over the edge of the truck bed the giant grizzly’s massive maw reared into the sky. Stan gasped. Then suddenly, Glen’s fingers slapped onto the black paint near Stan’s face. Big C gasped again! The struggling Scotsman’s face popped into view. There was a bright scarlet smear beginning at his nose and running across his right cheek! The distressed hiker was panting feverishly, but then he was gone.

The grizzly roared. This time, Stan’s gaze riveted on the ivory teeth glinting against the traces of blue that the dark clouds hadn’t quite painted out of the sky. Then the mighty growl died out. Stan heard wood hit steel. The grizzly dropped to all fours. The truck door slammed. The bear snarled again, but this time the sound came from just over the edge of the truck box from Stan’s upturned and unprotected face. “Would the bear climb into the truck bed?”

A powerful blow shook the pickup truck. Stan gasped again and sagged back onto his makeshift bed. His ribs and thigh were throbbing. “Have we come all this way just to die here?” The truck lurched. The engine died. A second blow struck the truck. “Oh God!” Stan prayed. “Please spare us!”

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 40

In Ravenscrag's Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 40

“Get up!” From some distant mountaintop, the sound floated into his mind. Like the feet of a tiny butterfly alighting on a rose petal, the sound caressed and soothed Glen’s water-soaked eardrums. “Get up!” Suddenly, the prostrated hiker’s eyes popped open. Through water-speckled glasses, he stared blankly at some strange plant that clung to the wet soil of the river bank.

“Ooooooh!” Glen moaned. His body was shivering uncontrollably. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but his tongue was an overstuffed sausage and his jaw was unresponsive. The waterlogged hiker fought to move his head, his arms, his legs, straining unsuccessfully against seized joints. He was a partially thawed Christmas turkey that had been rushed through the defrost phase of its existence by immersion in running water – except the water hadn’t melted his unyielding flesh, it had immobilised it! The small man’s mind reeled on the brink of oblivion. “Get up Glen!”

Finally, the determined Scotsman moved. He rose unsteadily to his knees, a disoriented tightrope walker without a safety net to catch him if he fell. Glen’s head lolled about atop his shoulders like a disjointed bobble-head figurine. “I haff ta mae a far.” He slurred. Glen’s brain was barely working but somehow he remembered that slurred speech was a sign of advanced hypothermia. Death was gently wrapping him in her lifeless embrace, lulling him to relax in her welcoming arms, coaxing him to sleep in silence. “No!” he muttered, resisting the inevitable. “I haff ta mae a far!”

From his kneeling position, Glen could see a small nest of deadfall on the riverbank. The clutch of smashed branches and shredded bark appeared to have been washed there by a spring flood and then left to parch in the summer sun. The nest of limbs was far enough from any trees or other flammable materials to do the job Glen required. The determined Scot eyed the potential fuel for the lifesaving bonfire he and Stan required if they were to remain alive. He tried to grin, but his face was senseless. “If I can just get a fire going.” Glen thought through his haze of hypothermia. He took a deep breath. Then, with superhuman effort, the soggy Scotsman abandoned the travois and crawled towards the deadfall.

Bruised knees drug in the dirt. Gloved hands clawed forward. Inch by inch Glen closed the distance between himself and the nest of deadfall. Soon, he was keeling again, sitting on his heels and digging out his match container and fire starter kit.

Beside the shivering hiker lay his soggy gloves. Glen puffed a few warm breaths on his unresponsive fingers and went to work on the lid of the watertight match container. Finally Glen had a dry match ready and a wax-impregnated cotton ball squished into a thin patty. He placed the ball under a few thins sticks and struck the match.

A tiny yellow ball of fire erupted from the tip of the thin wood, sending a miniature ball of heat past Glen’s downturned face. The smell of sulphur briefly filled his nostrils and then was gone. Anticipation flooded the small man. “Cuuu-mmmon!” He shivered, his jaw chattering like a steel wheel over gravel. Between his senseless fingers, the match quivered and nearly went out. Then the wax ignited. A growing flame licked hungrily at bits of fractured fuel above it. “Cuuu-mmmon!” Glen slurred again, trying to will the fire into being. He pushed a few tiny branches over the fragile flame, and the pile began to burn. Then, like an injection of morphine to a trembling addict, heat took over Glen McPherson’s world, overwhelming him, wrapping him, filling him with indescribable relief.

Before the blaze, like an albino shaman in a fictitious nether world, Glen McPherson began to strip, shedding his wet clothing and exposing his numb skin to the growing warmth. When the goose-bumped man was down to just his underwear, and his skin had finally dried, he pulled his waterlogged boots back on and headed for Stan.

The litter rested on the dirt some twenty feet from the fire, its lower shredded tips of green wood still protruding over the swirling stream of Skull Creek. Big C lay motionless between the long poles. “Stan?” Glen crawled up to the big man and shook him.

Stan Calderbank’s eyes fluttered open. Glen grinned from ear to ear. “You’re alive!” Stan grunted, his voice barely audible above the rushing creek. Glen could feel the fire’s heat on his bare back, but he was still shivering. “I have to get you closer to the fire.”

With that, Glen crawled to the head of the litter and began dragging his big friend across the weed-punctuated dirt. In another minute, both men were basking in the intense heat.

Glen helped Stan out of his boots, socks and shirt, but removing the big man’s pants was not an option. “I’m going to use an emergency blanket to help warm us.” Glen said, pulling the scuffed, dripping Mylar from his fanny pack. As Glen held it up, the blanket’s reflective surface bounced heat onto their pale hypothermic bodies. Glen gazed down at Stan and chuckled.

“What?”

“It’s just that you look like a small Beluga whale in a giant reflector oven.”

“Ow!” Stan said, beginning to feel deliverance from the icy grip of a watery grave. “Don’t make… me laugh.”

“Sorry.” Glen offered, but continued a silent smile. The small man propped up the Mylar with a branch and then scuttled off. He laid out their clothing to dry before employing his own reflective blanket. With the immediate crisis passed and the sun finally beginning to burn off the fog, Glen collapsed beside his friend. “Too bad we didn’t think to bring a pot and some hot chocolate.”

“You could… go back across?”

Glen McPherson eyed his big friend, tilting his head a little to one side before responding. “I would,” he finally said, a smirk on his face, “but my boots are still wet.”

Nearly an hour passed in unspoken silence. Radiant heat from the bonfire began to force the chill from their bones, and finally, the men had to retreat a little from the blaze. “It feels good to be warm again!” Glen said. Stan nodded, but managed to add a smile to the exchange before his face again resumed a slack expression. The big man was warm, but his pains hadn’t been washed away.

For the next hour, Glen held piece after piece of wet clothing between himself and the fire, waiting until each began to steam before selecting the next one. The sun finally poked through the fog to add its warmth, but the enormous bed of crimson coals did the majority of the work. Soon, the dark stains of water in the fabric gave way and the clothing’s colour grew lighter.

“Good thing I listened to you.” Glen said, rubbing at his empty stomach. “If we hadn’t brought the water filter, we’d be in more trouble than we already are.” Stan nodded and Glen crawled to the creek to get a much-needed drink.

The battered Scotsman sat on the bank of Skull Creek, right leg out over the raging rapids, the water purifier’s intake hose dangling into the current over his bare foot, his hands methodically pumping. Glen’s nervous gaze slowly swept the distant tree line. They were at least a hundred feet downstream from their previous night‘s campsite. He shook his head. “I still can’t believe we’re alive!”

Goose bumps swarmed Glen’s muscled chest and then disappeared into the sunlight. He continued to pump. His left ankle throbbed mercilessly and the battered hiker stared down at it. The blue and purple skin looked like some dismal Vincent Van Goth painting, created on a day when the master painter was unusually downcast and dejected. Glen shuddered. “Heavenly Father?” His prayer came out as a whisper, swallowed by the sounds of the surging stream. “Thank thee for helping me and Stan to get across this river.” The small man’s eyes took in the bonfire, and he continued to speak. “Thank thee for preparing that pile of wood and twigs so I could start a fire so easily.” Unbidden tears rose and began to weep out onto his ruddy cheeks. It was painfully obvious that the two men were alive only by the grace of God.

Five minutes passed before Glen McPherson was crawling again, carrying a pump water pouch toward his big friend.

“Hey Big C?” Glen sounded a little more upbeat. Stan’s eyes met his. “I think I can still pull you without my crutch.” A look of curiosity flickered across the big man’s face, but he remained resigned to listen. If I lean on the front support of the travois, I should be able to make it work.

Stan nodded his understanding. His breathing was shallow. His face was drawn. After a pregnant pause, he spoke. “Are the clothes… dry enough?”

“I think so.”

“Then… let’s go.”

Glen scuttled in the glow of the coals, relishing in the final minutes of heat. He dressed first and then worked on Stan. With the Mylar blankets again gathered into his fanny pack, the water drank and the pump refastened to the litter, the small man took up his position of draft horse.

Without his crutch, Glen balanced on one leg and then bent down and hoisted the head of the travois into the alpine air. Gravity swung the front support into a vertical position and Glen let the litter’s weight settle onto it. Pushing downward on the front cross bar with both hands, the determined Scot shuffled his right foot forward a little and then simultaneously lifted and pulled forward. The travois slid ahead nearly a foot. “It looks like this is going to work.” He called out. Behind him, Stan smiled with relief. “Looks like we have about five hundred yards to go!”

Stan’s thoughts were both bitter and sweet as he watched the river slowly retreat. “I’m glad to be rid of you!” He thought as he eyed the raging, glaciated waters of Skull Creek churn relentlessly by. Raw memories of his helplessness in the churning river haunted his thoughts. In spite of the ordeals of the past several days he had never faced certain death before. But today he had. The terror he felt in the river had eclipsed everything. In that prolonged moment of distress, his life had paraded before him. The big man had experienced a rush of gratitude for good deeds done and a rush of regret for things left undone. How Glen had pulled him to safety he didn’t know. “Truly, it was a miracle.” While Glen had been drying their clothes and boots, the big man had offered a silent, but sincere prayer of his own. God had given his life back to him and Stan knew it. “God gave life back to us both!”

For several minutes, Glen struggled forward across the relatively level riverbank. His intense blue eyes fixed the top of Wynyard Hill. “You’re almost there!” he muttered under his breath. “You can do this.” In spite of the self-fabricated, psych up success speech, Glen McPherson knew the truth. Pulling his large friend up this final grade would be tough – perhaps even the toughest test of the week. The small man stopped to rest and to catch his breath. The water he had consumed was already feeling used up and his empty stomach housed no fresh power for the small man’s abused muscles.

“Hey Big C, you’d better get your good foot against the bottom crossbar for this hill.”

“Ok.”

“I can’t leave you now, so close to the truck and all!” A vision of Stan sliding off the travois played across the stage of Glen’s mind. In spite of their sombre situation, he grinned. “Of course, if you did slide off, it would be so much easier for me!”

Stan smirked and shook his head. “You’d like that… wouldn’t you?”

The men were silent for a few seconds as the brief moment of humour was absorbed into the fleeing fog that still clung to the tallest tree tops of Wynyard Hill. Finally Glen spoke. “Not really.” He said. “We’ve come this far. No point in quitting now!”

Stan’s smile faded, and two tiny rivulets ran down his cheeks. In the past five days, his tenacious friend had saved his life more times than he could count. His debt to Glen McPherson was too large to ever repay. Stan stared absently off into space. “I would have done the same for him though!” Fresh tears spilled over the big man’s lower eyelids. With a large hand, Stan wiped at his face and then pressed the foot of his god leg against the lower bar of the travois. Hope filled his heart and the big man’s mind found the face of his devoted wife. “I’ll be home soon Alida!” He took a shallow breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll be home soon and things will be better between us.”

Well over an hour of puffing, panting, sweating and straining passed before Glen spied the truck. The exterior, of the sought after vehicle, was covered in rain-splattered dust. The ebony paint bore the haunted look of ten thousand chicken pox scars, but the struggling hiker didn’t care. All that mattered was the fact that they were nearly saved!

Ten additional minutes saw Stan laying quietly on the inclined travois atop the grassy knoll that marked the highest point of Wynyard Hill. Glen knelt at his head, panting hard while fumbling in his fanny pack for the precious truck key. As battered hands and knees crawled for the ignition an unspoken thought ran through the minds of both hikers. Neither man however, dared give the dour thought a voice. “I just hope the truck starts.”

As Glen McPherson plunged the key into the door lock and turned, four hairy feet approached the bank of Skull Creek and came to a halt. Five hundred yards below the oblivious hikers, twin beady eyes scrutinized the embers of the dying bonfire before finally gazing upwards at Wynyard Hill. “Where are those human’s now?” The bruin paused for only a brief moment longer, sniffing at the moist alpine air. Then silver-tipped hair felt the icy sting of Skull Creek as the grizzly boldly stepped into the water.

"In Ravenscrag's Shadow" - Chapter 39

In Ravenscrag's Shadow
By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2011

Chapter 39

“Glen?” Lillie’s voice floated into his ears. The sunlight dazzled her delicate features and caused her hair to catch fire. “Come on Glen.” Lillie was running across a verdant meadow of green. The vivacious redhead stopped and turned. “Hurry Glen!” She called again. Her smile was alluring. Glen willed his legs to move, but they were like firmly rooted oak trees. “I’m trying.” He called back. Lillie began to run again. Her graceful form danced across the lush grass, but Glen could not seem to move. Cords constricted around his heart as he watched his beloved wife fade into the distance. The exhausted Scotsman thrashed in his sleep and then went still once again.

Muted morning light finally seeped softly through the holes in the tent, dappling the two weary men with splashes of illumination as they fitfully slumbered. Above the shredded tent, the sky was completely hidden from view. A thick blanket of fog hung in the alpine air, obscuring the plentiful overhang of tree limbs. The moist murk seemed determined to remain attached to every leaf and blade of grass it could touch.

Stan’s eyes popped open. The big man hadn’t meant to fall asleep. “Glen?” Came his harsh whisper. “Are you asleep?” The wiry Scotsman stirred, then drew in a sharp breath of the humid air.

“What? No.” Glen shook his head and then opened his eyes unusually wide as if trying to stretch his eyelids. Suddenly, a powerful yawn contorted the small man’s stubbled face. “Ok.” He finally conceded. “Maybe I was asleep.” The small man peered out through the nearest overhead hole and scowled. “I must have been asleep. I was dreaming again, except this time it wasn’t very nice.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you hear the bear again?” Glen asked, now wide-awake and worried.

“Not a sound.”

“I still can’t believe we chased it off like that. I thought we were dead men!”

“Me too.” Came the wheezy reply.

Glen pulled his feet out of his sleeping bag and donned his clothes. “Well, my friend…” Glen sounded a little playful as he buckled his belt. “If that bear comes back now, at least I can outrun you.”

“You mean… out limp me!” Stan countered adding his own efforts to the stress relieving humour. The truth was however, that the tension was like the fog that hung over their tent – thick, oppressive and inescapable!

The small man laughed as he unzipped the tent door, but then cut his chuckle to silence. “Aw!” He chortled. “What is this?” Glen picked up one of his boots and displayed it to Stan. A large portion of the boot’s tongue was missing, obviously gnawed away by some animal. Stan face reflected Glen’s scowl.

“It must have… been a squirrel… or something.”

“Disgusting creature!” Glen glared at the boot, fingering the ragged edge of the padded leather tongue. “I guess it could be worse.” He rationalized. “At least I can still wear the boot!” The tired Scot blew out a breath and pulled on his footwear.

With all the food gone, their morning rituals took less time than usual. Glen McPherson hustled to get the tent off of Stan. “Ok Big C.” He said. “Time to get onto your chariot.

“After I go… to the bathroom.” The big man groaned.

“Right!”

Fifteen minutes later, still under the thick grey repression of fog, Stan Calderbank was nearly back in his place atop the tent. “Almost there!” Glen encouraged, tugging once again on the sleeping mat and sliding it a little more. “We’re definitely going home today!”

When the mat, and its prone human cargo, were finally positioned on the flattened tent, the struggling Scotsman wrestled the travois back into its place. Punctuated by furtive glances in all directions, the wary Scotsman attended to his work. In minutes, Glen’s practiced fingers tightened the ripped tent back onto the travois.

With the litter ready, Glen hobbled to retrieve the hanging backpack. Stepping over the strewn tent poles, the determined man untied the rope and let the pack drop to the dirt. He withdrew a water pouch and took a deep draught. “Ahhhhh! That’s nice!” Dropping the pouch back inside, Glen shouldered the backpack and limped over to Stan and spoke evenly. “Hey Big C, you’d better have a drink before we go.”

The big man was still panting from his bathroom and repositioning ordeal. “Ok.” He said and reached out a hand to accept the half full pouch. Glen watched as his friend swallowed the cool liquid.

“I think we’d better leave as much stuff as we can.” Glen said, obviously still thinking about their escape plan. The small man’s eyes mechanically swept the perimeter of their campsite. “The less we have on the travois to get caught in the current, the better.” Stan continued to drink, but nodded his approval and grunted slightly. “We’ll send someone back to get our things.” Glen’s eyes swept the edge of the trees. “Right now, all I wana do is get us to the truck and find some help.”

Stan stopped drinking. “Just remember… the cell phone… and keys.”

“I’ll put them in my fanny pack.”

Glen rummaged in the backpack and held up the trophy. “Here are our tickets out of here.” He said, trying to mask the tiredness in his voice. The small man zipped the phone and keys into his fanny pack and looked around again. The fog was still low, but beginning to lift. “At least I can see across Skull Creek.” He muttered to himself. The fact was, a bear could be napping in the bushes on the opposite bank and Glen still wouldn’t be able to spot him. In the distance, the foaming bank was just barely visible. The proximity of Stan’s unseen pickup truck fuelled his strange sense of optimism. The determined Scotsman drew in a full breath and pushed it out past pursed lips. He shook his head and prepared to move. “I feel like a paranoid homing pigeon!”

Glen paused for long enough to stuff the strewn tent poles into the top of the open pack and then turned to face Stan. “Should I leave the water and pump too?”

“You could put… one pouch and… the pump… beside me.” He wheezed. “We’re not there… yet.”

The small man’s brow furrowed, but he nodded silently. In seconds, Glen had the full water pouch and the nylon bag, containing the pump secured to the free end of the topmost tent string on the travois. “There.” He said. “Now let’s get outa Dodge before the big gun comes back to town!”

With that, Glen McPherson zipped up his faithful red backpack and tossed it to the edge of the wide trail. “We’ve sure wrecked a lot of our equipment.” He observed aloud. “I hope some bear doesn’t rip our packs to shreds before we can get someone to retrieve them for us.”

Stan said nothing. He agreed, but a few lost items were infinitely less precious than their lives. The big man’s eyes followed Glen as he hobbled to the head of the litter. He heard the wiry Scot grunt as he bent down to pick it up.

“Glen?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s have prayer… before we go.”

Glen knelt at the head of the litter while Stan lay quietly behind him. Glen’s pleading words carried over the rush of the nearby creek.

In moments, the heartfelt prayer was concluded. Feeling marginally refreshed from their night’s sleep, and buoyed by the prayer, the two battered and humbled hikers set out. Stan watched as the litter pivoted his limp body under the grey dawn. There was a strange smearing of colours. Streaks of muted greens and browns mysteriously blended with the brooding, translucent haze. Then, the big man felt his head fall towards the ground. Above his head, he heard Glen gasp and moan. The river crossing had begun.

It seemed to take forever before the rear tips of the fourteen-foot travois reached the damp dirt that marked the bank of Skull Creek. As the shredded tips of green wood slipped downward into the water, Stan wondered something very strange. “Why is this river called Skull Creek?” Then, with shocking abruptness, the question, like dirt in a gold miner’s sluice box was swept away by the clear water.

Ahead of the big man, Glen McPherson struggled against the powerful current. The raging waters of Skull Creek surged and swirled about his legs and the two crutches. Progress was slow, but he was moving. Glen’s good foot slid unsteadily on the thin coatings of algae that clung to the submerged and unstable river rocks. “My legs!” He muttered under his breath, screwing up his face and gritting his teeth. The small man’s legs were rapidly losing feeling and he had only just begun the crossing.

The determined Scotsman fixed his stare on the opposite riverbank. It was one hundred feet away, but it might have been a million miles! “Come on Glen!” He hissed through clenched teeth. “You can make it!” Glen felt the rear of the travois drop into the river. Then, suddenly, the river took hold.

“Ahhhhh!” Water coursed and surged about Stan Calderbank instantly soaking him through. All his aches and pains drowned as frigid waters wrapped about his body, suffocating him in a watery cocoon. There was no veiled promise of mercy here! Skull Creek boiled over the big man, its glaciated droplets of death splashing onto his face. The litter lurched ahead. “Oh God!” Stan puffed aloud. “Help me… to survive… this river.”

The tips of the travois headed downstream, dragged by the frothing current. The inflated mattresses, that cradled Stan, began to rise. For Glen, the litter was nearly weightless, but another problem quickly demanded his attention. The small man had to keep the travois from pulling him off his feet and sweeping them both downstream.

“If you fall, you’ll both die!” The terrifying thought was demanding, insistent, and reeked the acrid, stultifying scent of intolerable truth! Powerless to resist it, the anxious warning echoed through the empty corridors of Glen’s mind, and refused to fade.

“Hold on Stan!” Glen shouted. The roar of rapids diluted the small man’s voice like water does thin soup, but Stan heard the struggling Scotsman anyway. Glen pivoted his body to accommodate the river’s pull.

Big C’s white knuckles clung frantically to the travois. The litter’s stout poles now made up the rigid portion of his hull and provided the only stability within reach. The travois had transformed into an unexpected life raft! Stan grimaced, his head still miraculously above water. “At least I’m not drowning!”

Hour long seconds trickled by, and with the passing of each one, the struggling hikers floundered. The menacing river gave no quarter. Rushing, glaciated waters penetrated further and further into the flesh of each man. Then, its icy grip went after their bones.

Inch by inch, the far bank of Skull Creek drew nearer. It would have been a faster crossing if Glen could have hobbled directly across, but that was an impossibility. The best the wiry Scot could do was to maintain a heading of about 45 degrees to the current.

Breathing hard, Glen McPherson willed his good leg to pull. The small man and his hapless raft lurched onward. Fifty feet left. Forty feet left. Thirty feet left. From his thigh down, all feeling was gone.

“Ahhhhh!” Glen’s water-anaesthetize foot slipped and he went down. Suddenly, everything began to move in slow motion. “No!” He heard himself scream, but his pathetic sound was drowned out by the raging river. Glen’s mouth filled with chilled water. His eyes were wide with terror. The small man’s hind parts struck the slippery riverbed. The merciless river tore at his body. Then, before he could break his fall, water boiled over his head!

Big C felt Glen collapse. The big man’s face went white as his mind released a clear message to his body. “This is it!” As the roiling waters of Skull Creek powered over him, he drew in as big a breath as he could. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, but he was virtually helpless. Stan’s eyes stared up at the morass of murk smothering the landscape. For a prolonged moment, the big man noticed the wispy gauze that reached out from the ragged bottom of the overhead fog as it attempted to brush against his upturned face. The fog was spectral, a phantom reaching with gentle tendril-like fingers to claim the stricken hiker. Then, the nightmare took a turn for the worse. The litter went into full reverse. It was picking up speed. “Alida!” Stan moaned. Then, Stan’s helpless head was buried in the rapids! “Oh God, not yet! Please not yet!”

From the protection of the thick evergreens that rimmed the northern bank of Skull Creek, the large bruin stared at the surging stream. His black eyes were fixed on the strange spectacle. The human and his human cargo were bobbing up and down in the water like pieces of driftwood during the spring runoff. Silver-tipped hair caressed the press of foliage that camouflaged the massive bear as he watched. The Grizzly’s encounter with the two men in the tent had been painful, but with the coming of dawn, curiosity had prevailed. He would not be cowed a second time by these puny humans!

At the head of the travois, Glen McPherson’s fingers raked at the slimy riverbed. Sputtering, the struggling Scotsman fought for breath. The front bar of the travois pressed into the small man’s stomach, dragging him forcefully backwards. Hiking boot heels and unprotected hind parts scraped and bumped unceremoniously across the slippery, submerged rocks. Glen’s injured ankle begged for relief. Suddenly, the small man’s backside hit a high spot in the riverbed. Glen was propelled upwards. His lips found air, but the moment didn’t last. As the small man frantically tore against the turbulence, he slid off the boulder. Icy water again boiled onto Glen face. “Dear God help me.”

Holding a precious breath of air, Glen took firm hold of the travois’s crossbar and flexed every muscle in his midsection. The wiry Scot pivoted his legs downstream and twisted his body until his stomach faced the river bed. His traumatized ankle bawled. His concentration was all consuming. He knew what was required. “If I don’t find my footing fast, we’re both dead men!”

Face downward and still buried in the frothy fray, Glen McPherson dug the tips of his hiking boots into the riverbed. His feet shuddered, stuttering over the slippery stones. Fire filled his injured ankle, but he blocked it out with all the mental power he could muster. The travois stopped! Glen struggled to stand, pulling his shoulders clear of the raging river and gasping for breath. A mighty upward pull lifted the head of the litter clear of the river. Behind him, Stan Calderbank sputtered and coughed.

Like a lone fence post in a brutal prairie blizzard, Glen McPherson stood stoically in Skull Creek. His chest heaved for breath! His crutch was gone! His hat was gone! His body was numb! Somehow, he was still alive!

The determined Scotsman glanced around. The southern bank of Skull creek was only fifteen feet away. “Are you Ok?” He panted.

“Yeah.” Stan wheezed.

“I have to crawl the rest of the way out of this river.”

“OK… just let… me catch… my breath…first”

“Me too.” Glen replied, hyperventilating hard. The small man shook his head. His muscles were close to failing from hypothermia. “We might make it out of the river alive” he thought, “but surviving the next half an hour will be the real trick!” He looked down at his waist. “At least I still have my fire starting kit!”

“Alright Big C, are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

Glen sucked in a deep breath and dropped to his knees. Froth, from the closest rapids, lathered his stubbled chin as it plunged into the river once more. Head down, travois crossbar pressing against his stomach, Glen scratched and scrambled forward with all his might. Eternity passed, but Glen’s numb bald spot finally struck the earthen bank. On hands and knees, a dripping apparition rose from the deadly waters into the hanging fog, dragging the litter behind him. Glen shut his eyes in concentration. As the laden litter lifted from the river, it’s weight returned. The spent Scot heard Stan sputter and cough once again. In spite of their perilous predicament, Glen grinned for a split second before sagging to the dirt.

Several precious seconds passed. The two soggy hikers lay panting and shivering on the southern bank of Skull Creek. Across the boiling water, twin beady eyes stared on.