Chris Heimerdinger & Tennis Shoes 11: Sorcerers and Seers

Congrats Chris!!! I'm definitely anticipating the continuing adventure! I hope you get some sleep, but tuck an extra pen in your pillow case just in case you have too many autographs to create.

I have especially enjoyed the audio versions of your Tennis Shoes Series. I have twice listened to volumes 1-10 as I've driven my thousands of kilometres each month. I don't have lots of discretionary time for actual reading of books, but in your case, that’s good. In my experience with audio books, your creative creation of audio storytelling is most unique and entertaining. To date (and it's rather tough to pick just one scene from so many great ones), my favourite scene is the armed battle between the warriors Apollus and Gid. I would venture to claim that that clash of those undefeated titans - from two different continents and cultures, is the finest battle ever penned on paper. Legendary work Chris! That scene is certainly the most heart stopping one I have ever read (or heard)! My question now is, “Will you outdo yourself in Volume 11?” Perhaps I’ll have to pull over and park my semi again! (Blaming your pen for an accident just wouldn't seem fair!)

Noble Pursuits and Mundane Necessities

"There's five in the bed and the little one said, 'Move over! Mover over!' So they all moved over and one fell out!"

What can I say? That's the story of my life too Nancy. Noble pursuits and mundane necessities all duking it out with savage sibling rivalry for strategic head-on-pillow placement on the mattress of my life. I need a bigger bed! I need more pillows! Hey, someone turn off the light so I can get some sleep! (Maybe tonight I can dream up a more efficient plan to tame the tangling troops!) Ew! Who ate crackers in bed? Listen you two - stop talking and go to sleep – you can visit in the morning! Ok, ok, go get one last drink of water before you go to sleep!

Am I inconsistent? Sometimes. Am I lazy? Never. Yes, I’m often exhausted but there is a silver lining… I am never bored! I am, however, often frustrated!

I’ve found it helpful to do what Steven Covey suggests: Write down the 6 most important things I think I need to do tomorrow. Rank them from 1-6. Then, in the morning, start on #1 and work until it’s done. Then I proceed to #2 & so on until I finish #6. If I only get #1 accomplished – or even worked on, then I will have at least worked on the most important thing I had to do & can feel somewhat satisfied.

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 19

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By

Davis L. Bigelow

Copyright 2010

Chapter 19

Ominous clouds continued to creep into Green Canyon. So far, no rain had escaped their dark clutches. The lichen-encrusted rocks, covering the majority of the canyon floor were dry. No dew had fallen this morning. Vast and rugged, the fractured, irregular meadow of boulders was anything but warm and inviting. Gloomy cloud-cover brooded over High Tor’s iced summit. Even the much lower peak of Ravenscrag Mountain was under attack. In just minutes, thick rain clouds would swallow everything over seven thousand feet in elevation.

Big C scanned the sky. From his prone point of view, it wasn’t pretty! The clouds were descending more rapidly than they had been earlier. The helpless man could almost smell the inevitable rain. He peered longingly in the direction his hiking partner had taken nearly two hours before. “Where is Glen?” Stan’s lips were dry, but, thankfully, he was warm enough. “I hope that tough Scotsman returns with water pretty soon.” The big man ran his tongued over his chapped lips. His body was dehydrated. “At least the sun isn’t beating down on me.”

In spite of his lack of hydration, a pleasant and much appreciated event had taken place in Glen’s absence. The lowering murk had driven the shrill marmots back to their burrows. The silence was a welcome relief. Now Stan just had the normal things left to endure – his throbbing, broken limb, the stabbing pain with each breath, his cuts and numerous bruises, his dry mouth and throat, and the deteriorating weather conditions.

Glen McPherson suspiciously eyed the trunk of the large tree. It towered just a few feet from the trail where his motionless body stood. Ragged claw marks scarred the bark some ten feet from the ground, perhaps even higher. Only two or three feet above the scars hung Stan’s backpack, still suspended safely where Glen had left it the day before. “I’m glad I had the foresight to tie the rope to a neighbouring tree.” Glen muttered. The angle of the rope had kept the inviting pack out of the focussed reach of the curious bear. Of course, with the remainder of the food in the dangling pack, the bear had probably been more than just curious.

The worn out Scotsman shot worried looks up and down Green Canyon. His earlier search had revealed only one set of bear tracks, but he didn’t want to lower the hanging backpack if a member of the Ursus arctos horribilis family was anywhere nearby. Glen knew that Grizzly bears had relatively poor eyesight and only a fair sense of hearing, but their noses were keen enough to compensate for both limitations. Only Grizzly cubs could climb trees, and the bear whose footprints he has discovered a quarter of an hour ago were certainly not those belonging to a juvenile.

Cautiously, Glen untied the heavy pack and eased it to the ground. He hobbled over to it and sunk to his knees. In seconds, Glen loosened an exterior lash strap. His trembling hand closed on the comforting carbon-fibre handle of Big C’s hatchet. Unsheathing the polished stainless steel head, the vulnerable man nervously glanced around again. He pulled his index finger across the honed blade at a right angle – just to be sure. Stan made an art out of sharpening blades, and the uneasy Scotsman was not disappointed. The polished cutting edge was razor-sharp.

Snapping the ready blade back into its oiled leather sheath, Glen threaded the fastening loop onto his belt. “If a bear encounter does become life threatening, at least I have a fighting chance of surviving the attack!” The small man fingered the leather sheath. “The short handle won’t give me very much mechanical advantage.” He clenched his teeth together. “The hatchet is probably sharp enough to split the skull of a charging bruin and hopefully save my fragile life.” Glen shuddered at the image that popped into his distressed mind. “At a maximum weight of 1800 pounds, a full-grown grizzly bear, charging at nearly 30 miles per hour would be a formidable opponent! Even if I killed the bear, the sheer inertia of the massive animal’s lifeless body would probably crush my insignificant carcass!” Glen continued his distressful anticipating. “The bear’s salivating jaws would have to be just inches away before the axe could effectively strike!” Glen shuddered again. “What if I miscalculate the swing of the hatchet?” Glens wits were unravelling fast!

“Get a grip Glen!” He growled to himself. He was trembling all over. His breath was ragged. “You will be OK!” he muttered, attempting to steady himself and push the disturbing images from his head. Feeling quite helpless, Glen knelt next the backpack.

In desperation, Glen bowed his head. “Heavenly Father.” He prayed aloud, “Please help me to be spared from any animal that I may encounter.” He paused to consider his next words. “Please help me to be able to defend myself should that need become inevitable.” Tears quietly made their way to the corners of the weary hiker’s eyes. “And… if I am to die here…” Glen trailed off, choking down a sob before continuing to speak to his God. “Please help me to accept thy will.” Thoughts of Lillie gently paraded across the stage of his consciousness. The Lillie he might not see again in this life. His tears were flowing now, spilling unchecked down his soiled cheeks and onto his scuffed pants. The tough Scotsman spoke from the depths of humility. “Heavenly Father… Please help me to live with honour for as long as thou seest fit that I should live. If it be thy will, please help me to have the strength and protection to be able to save the life of Stan as well as my own life.”

For long moments, Glen lingered; keeling; crying. Raw emotion pulsed through the muscles in his face, twisting at his lips and twitching his chin and neck muscles. Several silent seconds passed. Finally the injured hiker opened his bleary eyes. His scratched leather gloves lay beside him in the soft, dry dirt. The anxious squirrel had long since ceased its cry of alarm. A few, nearby birds flitted among the bushes and branches. Overhead, the dark, descending clouds approached in profound silence. Not a breath of wind rustled even the smallest leaf. The world was tranquil. Within the breast of the small, kneeling hiker came a soothing puff of peace.

In spite of all his worrying, Glen knew that everything was as it should be. “I will try my best to live. I will try my best to save the life of my broken friend. I will try, but whether my immediate future carries life or death, I know that God is watching over me.” A passage of scripture flowed through his mind, [1]“Therefore, let your heart be comforted … for all flesh is in mine hands; be still and know that I am God.”


[1] Doctrine and Covenants | Section 101:16

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 18

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By

Davis L. Bigelow

Copyright 2010

Chapter 18

An hour later found Stan lying alone under the monotone sky. Several of the mountain peaks were shrouded in clouds. Unlike the day before, not one shadow littered the field of rocks in Green Canyon. No brilliant sunlight threatened to bake him. Beneath the grey, the big man felt the unhealthy effects of cabin fever. In spite of the gravity of the situation, though, he smiled to himself. At least he still had a little of his good humour left. Suspiciously, Stan eyed the lowering sky. “A comfortable, cosy cabin would be a wonderful improvement over the exposed rocks that I’m lying helplessly on top of!” He pulled his sleeping bag a bit tighter around him. “If Glen doesn’t hurry, I’m going to get rained on.”

The resident marmot whistled somewhere nearby. Stan gazed in the direction of the sound, but too many large boulders blocked his view. A few seconds later, a second woolly marmot sounded off. Then, as if clumsily choreographed, the marmots began so call back and forth to each other. A captive audience, the big man closed his eyes and did the only thing he could think of to do: He tried to enjoy the concert. “I am most definitely in the cheap seats and walking out, in the middle of the performance, is not one of my available options!” A bitter laugh tried to surface, but the big man stifled it. His ribs hurt too much, even for a snitcher. Instead, he just smiled grimly. The whistling performance, put on by the intrepid woolly marmots, was incompetently composed at best and miserably monotone at worst! “I wish I had brought some earplugs!”

Glen McPherson picked his way across the remaining rocks strewn randomly across his chosen path. He and his trusty crutch had been working their way across the rugged landscape for over an hour now. Red pack perched on his back, Glen’s movements made him look more like a hunchback with a severely inflamed hump than a normal man. In spite of his bizarre appearance, he was making better time using his crutch than he had using his hands, foot and knees the day before.

Stalwart, but staggering, the panting Scotsman felt thirsty. In fact, he was downright parched! His dry, granola bar breakfast had been welcome but without a tall glass of cold milk to wash it down, the food was not as blissful as it might have been. Glen hadn’t eaten much since blacking out two days ago. His body was probably starving, but all his injuries were suppressing his appetite so he didn’t really notice. “Of course, I’m not under any stress.” The hobbling man thought. “I just need some water to keep me going and then I’ll be able to eat!”

With every passing minute, Glen McPherson felt himself weakening. “Can I really endure all that this survival situation will yet demand of my worn-out body?” He continued to plod forward. “What else is there for me to do?” He thought. “After all, no other option but pushing onward carries the sweet promise of remaining alive.”

Two hobbling steps from the level dirt trail Glen halted abruptly. The exhaustion temporarily forgotten, he quickly looked up from the ground at his feet and glanced furtively to his right and then to his left. Up and down the woodland trail, the tense Scotsman saw nothing unusual. That fact mattered little now. His day had just gotten worse!

Glen held his head perfectly still. Ridged, the small man might have been a stone statue. His ears were pricked for danger. Not a breeze puffed against his face. Within the nearby scrub and trees, not one leaf rustled. No twig snapped. No animal grunted. No bird sung. No sound, audible to him, betrayed the presence of any living thing. Glen’s heartbeat began to pound through the veins at his throat. He could hear that! Precious seconds passed. Nothing!

The terrified Scotsman again focussed his eyes on the patch of soft dirt that lay right in front of him. There, pressed in the soft soil was a perfectly formed foot print - and it was not human. Well over a foot in length, five claw marks punctuated one end of the massive print. Glen drew in a deep breath. His heart pounded in his throat and ears.

The lame man staggered onto the dirt trail. He paused again for several silent seconds before stooping awkwardly. Glen McPherson examined the impression, touching the deep contours with a dirty finger. The characteristic claw marks were curved towards the centreline of the print. Five distinct toe pad marks punctuated the space between the claw grooves and the deep dent of the heel pad. The alert Scotsman blew out a breath of frustration.

Glen had seen photographs of perfectly formed tracks like this. In all his trekking, however, this impression was the first one he had ever seen that matched the perfection of the photographs! He observed the distance between the claw marks and the rest of the track. Glen shook his head. The deep indentation pointed towards the south. That was the same direction he had to go to get water!

Glen swallowed hard. A mix of despair, powerlessness and terror engulfed him. He gawked down the trail in disbelief, shaking his weary head again. There was no mistake. Shortly before their hiking adventure Glen had read about the powerful carnivore that had obviously passed this way sometime in the last several hours. The perfectly formed print had most certainly been created by the right hind paw of a rather large grizzly bear!

Glen’s thoughts settled on the pressurized bottle of pepper spray they had brought on the hike. To save weight, he had left it with Stan! “What and idiot!” He muttered. A deep furrow ravaged the balding brow of the sweating Scotsman. The only weapon Glen possessed was the three-inch blade of his Leatherman multi-tool. He patted his right hip for comfort and found the tool resting peacefully in its leather sheath and securely hanging from his belt. Glen began to scold himself for his poor planning. “My baby knife won’t save me from a bear attack!” Then suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted.

Unexpectedly, a squirrel sounded the alarm. Glen rose quickly from his examination of the disturbing track. He glanced in all directions. His feelings of terror were reaching new heights. His throat tightened and his respiration rate increased.

The small, injured man felt like a wounded deer during hunting season! He glanced furtively around some more. “Where are you?” He whispered his staccato demand into the still mountain air. Glen’s unblinking eyes scanned. His gaze was as intense as a laser beam from a spy satellite. Nothing moved.

Glen tried to relax his tense shoulders but they refused. “Perhaps the squirrel sounded the alarm because of me?” He looked and listened some more but the only movement Glen could detect was his own chest - heaving in panicked breath. Thirst gnawed at him. Glen swallowed again. “I cannot go back for the pepper spray. I have to go on to Maple Creek. I have to have water.”

Finally, Glen dropped his eyes back to the dirt near his feet. Methodically, he scanned the ground in all directions. If the big bear had a cub in tow, he should know about it now!

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 17

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2010

Chapter 17

Before Glen could try out his crutch and crab-walking techniques, Stan required some serious assistance. His bathroom needs had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. “Ok” Glen coached. “I’ll hold the end of the travois up and you try to slide off the end.” Stan nodded and the two men began to work. The doubled up sleeping mats made the sliding process easier, but that didn’t remove the agony from the short, but excruciating journey. Before Stan was even close to being in position to relieve himself, at least ten minutes had elapsed. Glen untied the splint’s upper strap so Stan could sit up a little. That helped, but as soon as the big man’s trussed feet touched the rocks, the sliding stopped.

“I really… have to go!” Stan muttered, panting hard. In desperation, Glen shook his head.

“There must be a better way to do this?” he mumbled to himself. Then, Glen had an idea.

“Hold on Big C.” he cautioned. “I think I know how to make this work.” Hobbling and crawling to the back of the travois, Glen plunged his crutch directly between Stan’s splinted ankles. In seconds, the tip was jammed deeply into a thin crevasse. Then, returning to the opposite end of the travois, the gritty Scotsman slowly yanked the apparatus out from under his groaning friend. The crutch held the big man, but the pull on his broken leg took its toll.

Finally the rough rocks were supporting Stan’s bruised hind parts. “That’s… enough!” He wheezed, sounding like a man broken under severe torture and ready to admit to anything. Instantly, Glen ceased pulling the travois. “I need… to get… my legs… apart.” Glen nodded and clamoured quickly to his side. As each denim strap was untied, Stan’s pain intensified. At last, the final knot pulled loose and the big man was free of the confining wooden splints. “Help me… sit up… before I… wet myself.” Stan sounded terribly desperate. The wiry Scotsman scrambled to hoist his shoulders up.

Several more minutes passed before Stan was done. Glen waited patiently behind the big man, supporting his broad shoulders against one of his own. “I can’t… believe how… hard this… is!” Stan whimpered.

“It’s almost over now.” Glen reassured. “You’ll be feeling a lot better in a few minutes.” Sweat beaded on the big man’s forehead. Neither of them could afford to lose their valuable moisture this way! Glen eased his large friend’s shoulders back onto the tail end of the motionless travois.

“Can you… just splint... the broken leg… by itself?” Stan was still gasping for air.

“I think so.”

“My good… leg is… so stiff.” Stan managed.

As the unbearable seconds ticked by for Stan, Glen retied all the splint straps except the very top one. The topmost strap would have to wait until Big C was back on the travois. With only one leg securely bound to the four lengths of sturdy wood, Stan could move his good leg freely. Of course, the term freely was misleading. Even the slightest movement of the uninjured limb sent lightning bolts of distress into the broken one.

Glen again moved behind the big man. “Let’s get you up onto the sleeping pads before I leave.”

“If I… have to.” Came the reluctant reply.

“You’ll be a little more comfortable.” Glen rationalized. “Besides” he added, trying to lighten the mood, “maybe you’ll be able to sleep some and dream of Alida.”

“Yeah right!”

“Weren’t your kids and grandkids going to arrive in camp last night?” Glen hoped that thoughts of family would help to distract the big man from his severe ordeal.

“Yeah… I just hope… I see them… again.” Stan sounded low.

Glen slowly shook his head, silently scolding himself. “What am I thinking bringing up such a painful subject?” Their reality was certainly dim and their outlook awfully bleak! Nothing he could say would change that! Glen bit his tongue. “There are no cheerful thoughts to think this morning!”

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 16

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By

Davis L. Bigelow

Copyright 2010

Chapter 16

Green Canyon lay nearly silent. A few resident birds and animals were just beginning to awaken. Several hours before, the mountain breeze had stilled to the strength of a baby’s breath. Now it was even less perceptible. Below the snow-capped peak of High Tor and the clouds that obscured it, two forlorn adventurers lay motionless on their rock beds. The only padding provided by nature for them was a scattered smattering of paper-thin lichens that clung tenaciously to sharp angles and rough surfaces of innumerable, randomly scattered rocks.

Glen McPherson’s body felt slightly uncomfortable and a little restless. Bits of crimson light stabbed at the thick clouds overhead, but his face hid from them under the protective flap of his sleeping bag. The dawn of their third day had arrived but the oblivious man didn’t know it yet. Clothed in his warm chrysalis, and still deep within a sweet dream, Glen was nowhere near the despair, discomfort and potential death that was his reality. In fact, he was lying comfortably on his own bed talking on his cellular phone. The smiling Scotsman was just finishing up a pleasant conversation with his three-year-old granddaughter.

“Ok Val Marie” he said. “See you next week.” Glen paused to listen attentively to the child’s excited voice tumbling from the tiny speaker. Val Marie was his one and only granddaughter. Obviously his favourite, the precocious five-year-old was Glen’s pride and joy. In fact, an impartial observer would easily conclude that the doting Scotsman spoiled Val Marie even more than his wife did – if that were possible. Incurably optimistic, the joyful child had earned herself a splendid nickname. Nearly from the day of her birth, Val Marie’s proud grandfather had called her Sunny Valley.

“I love you grandpa.” Val Marie bubbled as their conversation concluded.

“I love you too.” Glen confessed warmly. “Bye Sunny Valley.”

“Bye grandpa!”

Glen squirmed in his sleeping bag but continued to dream. “Hey Lille?” He called out, closing the cellular phone. “Laura, Kelstern and Val Marie are going to join us at Midnight Lake.” Laura was the McPherson’s only child and Kelstern McTaggart was their genuine, bona fide, Scottish son-in-law.

“That’s wonderful news!” Lillie’s voice sang out. “What day are they coming?”

“It’ll be on the third day of our hike.” Glen called back, repositioning his feather pillow and consulting his watch. “Then they’ll stay until Stan and I get back.”

Glen squirmed again. He was downright uncomfortable. “Something is wrong!” The bed felt like Lille had spread a dozen golf balls on top of the mattress. His wife entered the bedroom. She still wore her pyjamas and a frothy toothbrush gyrated in her mouth. In spite of the pain in his back, Glen tried to grin up at her. Even with her auburn hair in a tangle and toothpaste foaming on her delicate lips, she was beautiful. “Why is my bed so uncomfortable?” Suddenly, Lillie removed the toothbrush from her mouth and spoke.

“Glen!” She said brusquely. The Scotsman stared at her, dumbfounded. He had seen her lips move, but he had heard Stan’s deep voice. “Glen!”

The wiry Scotsman’s eyes burst opened. His eyes darted about. All around him was darkness. “What’s happening?” He moved his arms. They protested with stiffness. “Aaaaaah!” Glen moaned, throwing the top part of the sleeping bag off his warm face. Cool mountain air shocked his unprepared skin. A dim dawn greeted the disoriented man.

”Lillie?” Glen called out.

“It’s ok Glen.” A deep voice sounded.

“Big C?”

“I’m here.”

Then, in an unstoppable cascade, reality washed over the Scotsman! “Oh! I must have been dreaming again!” the smaller man lamented.

“You were talking… in your sleep.” Stan observed.

In the faint light, their eyes met. Glen shook his head in disgust and let out a heavy sigh. “My dreams are so much nicer than our current reality!”

“Mine too.” The big man whispered compassionately.

“Are we really going to make it out of this… this…” Glen searched for an appropriate word to fit his foul mood, “this… lifeless moon crater!” he finally blurted, peering out into the morning’s gloom.

“If we don’t… lose our heads.” Stan concluded.

Glen said nothing. In fact, he pressed his lips together in a effort to remain silent. The stiff Scotsman crawled out from inside his warm sleeping bag and began pulling on his cold hiking boots. A scowl furrowed his brow. He glared up at the obscured sky. “Obviously, the sun will not warm us very much today.” Glen drew in a large breath and blew it out purposefully. The deep furrows in his brow began to disappear. At last he spoke. “I guess there are only two things we can do.” Stan’s eyebrows lifted at the change in tone. The trussed man turned his head to listen as his friend went on. Glen started tightening his bootlaces. “We either keep on struggling to live or we will die!”

“We will make it.” Stan predicted. “You will save… us both!”

Glen stopped tugging at his laces and stared at Stan. “I’m not sure I have enough strength.” He shook his head and dropped his dark eyes back to his boots. A leather lace was wrapped around the index finger of both his scuffed hands. “I’m so very tired already.” The smaller man sighed. “I’ve done so much, yet it seems like nothing!” He finished tying the bow in the leather and snatched up the second set of bootlaces. “It seems like it will take more than what we both can offer to rescue us!”

“No!” Stan sounded unusually determined for a man who was trussed up like a large baron of beef in a butcher shop window. “If anyone can… do it… we can!”

Glen briefly regarded the big man. They had been on so many adventures together. This, however, was much more of a tragedy than any exciting adventure they had ever shared. “I just hate being so powerless!” Glen muttered. “If I could just walk!” In bitter silence, Glen looked away. Chaffed fingers mechanically tied the second set of laces. “The accident was so unfair! Why did we take the risk of climbing without a rope?” Glen continued his brooding. “We both knew better!”

Glen stared out over the field of boulders. The two of them were supposed to be having the time of their lives! Glen shook his head in despair. Suddenly, he was face down in his imagined fighting ring once more. The frenzied crowd was on their feet roaring their approval. The referee began the second ten count of the match. Glen saw his opponent lift his hands in a gesture of triumph. The partisan crowd cheered again. “It’s no use Glen.” His own voice whispered inside his throbbing head. “You are defeated.”

Suddenly, Stan spoke again, jolting Glen out of his private pity party. The big man knew all too well that Glen was their only hope for survival. He needed to say something to help his friend and potential rescuer from losing the will to live. “But what?” Glen McPherson was drowning in discouragement! “Think Stan! Think!” The big man closed his eyes to consider. “We can’t give up!”

“Glen.” Stan said gently, scattering the sorrowful sights and sounds in Glen’s imagination. “Neither one of… us are jam-tarts. Neither one of… us are quitters. And neither one… of us are going… to give up hope!”

Glen met the big man’s intense gaze. He knew his own depressing thoughts were not helping, but they were pummelling his mind anyway. Glen shook his head in defeat. “I know.” He muttered. “It’s just so hard to keep going when it doesn’t look like we have any chance to win.”

“I know.” whispered Stan. “But we’re tough… enough to keep… trying. You... are tough enough!”

A long moment of silence passed before Glen spoke. “I’m sorry.” He said finally.

“It’s OK. We’ll make it.”

The small man began to gather himself. “I guess I should get going.”

“Before you go” Stan began. “I need to go… to the bathroom… again.”

“OK.”

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 15

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By

Davis L. Bigelow

Copyright 2010

Chapter 15

The night deepened, but Stan’s brief encounter with sleep came to a speedy end. Beside him, Glen’s rhythmic breathing sounded more like the ticking of a large mechanical clock in a bell tower than a human being. The exhausted Scotsman had been motionless for over an hour, but Stan knew that tomorrow would be a hard day for him. Glen needed all the rest he could get.

The big man lay, warm but uncomfortable and wide awake, peering blankly into the blackness of the cloud-covered sky. A prayer of gratitude had just breathed quietly passed his lips on its way heavenward. If it rained, they would be in serious trouble, but there had been a heavy dew a few hours before! “At the very least, the rain will wait for morning and perhaps not arrive at all.” As bad as Stan Calderbank felt, he was mostly glad for one thing, “At least I’m still alive.”

Stan scanned the horizon, but couldn’t make out any silhouettes of the Mistawasis or the Lajord Ranges. “The jagged towering mountain peaks are both protector and captor to me.” The cruel irony drifted through his mind. “Tomorrow will make the third day I’ll be in the shadow of Ravenscrag Mountain.” Last night, Stan Calderbank had hated that craggy, scree-infested peak. Tonight however, he had changed his mind about the mountain. Strange, yet as the time passed, he felt like the peak was protecting him instead of holding him prisoner. “Tomorrow I hoped to leave its shadow and see the inviting face of my Alida once again.”

“Alida.” The big man’s thoughts caught her fleeting image. Her face was like the sun gleaming through a hole in thick clouds. “She is so beautiful!” His mind caught hold of a picture of her, flying back thorough time to their wedding day, some twenty-eight years before. Alida had been getting dolled up for hours before the ceremony. Her blonde hair cascaded in ringlets over her shoulders and down her back. A sparkling tiara sat elegantly on her head. The pure white dress, that draped her graceful, feminine form, shimmered in the light like a million twinkling stars on a cloudless night. It was just like when he had first seen her at the fountain in high school, only worse. Butterflies flew everywhere inside him and his feet were congealed blocks of cement. Stan grinned at the memories. “I even had to tell myself to breathe! Alida was the most beautiful girl in the world – and I was the luckiest man alive!”

He recalled the gentle touch of her delicate hand in his as they walked the beach on their honeymoon. Warm sand sifted between four sets of tanned toes. Surf pounded out its percussion just a few feet away. The passion for life, magnified by Alida’s sapphire blue eyes, was infectious under the clear tropical sky. Stan remembered her loving kiss; her soft voice in his ear; her sweet laughter. A tear slipped silently from the big man’s eye. Stan closed his eyes, lost in Alida’s warm embrace. Then, like a feather floating to the ground on a still summer’s day, Stan drifted off to sleep once more.

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 14

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By
Davis L. Bigelow
Copyright 2010

Chapter 14

First, Glen pulled out a flashlight and then untied the backpack from the travois frame. The night was deepening quickly and the dew was falling fast. “I’m sure it’s alright with you.” Glen said, “But I think we’d better just leave the tent and both sleeping mats under you for the night.”

“Ok.”Stan rasped.

“Getting anything out from under you tonight will just cause you too much pain. And besides,” Glen added, “then we’d have to waste time in the morning redoing the travois. I’ll just level the ground and sleep on the rocks.”

“Ok.”

Glen frowned at the thought of bedding down on the rocks again, but kept his thoughts to himself. “At least it’ll be a little more comfortable than last night!” He thought. The small man withdrew the sleeping bags from his backpack and began to untie them.

“Guess what?” The big man asked, breaking into Glen’s ponderings.

Glen stopped unzipping the main pouch of his pack to listen. “What?”

“The dew… is falling. No rain… before morning.”

Glen extended a bare hand to touch a nearby rock. Sure enough, a tiny brush stroke of water lay there. He sighed, obviously relieved. “I guess that means it won’t be a mistake to keep the tent under you.” He concluded, a wry smile on his face. “That’ll make things a whole lot easier for tomorrow!”

“I need a few… Tylenol before… we go to sleep.”

“I’ll get you some as soon as I cover you up.”

Stan nodded as Glen covered him with a sleeping bag and then protected it with an emergency blanket. Glen worked as quickly as he could, but it still took a while. Soon, the Mylar space blanket was held along the edges by a row of fist-sized rocks. The cooling breeze, puffing down the canyon, would make no difference to Stan tonight.

As soon as the warmth hit Stan, his eyelids grew heavy. His day had been an marathon of pain! “Tomorrow will be an ultra-marathon!”

“Here are three Tylenol.” Glen offered. Stan downed them in a jiffy, washing them into his stomach with the last of their precious water.

Glen frowned as he stowed the empty flask and then immediately went to work on his own sleeping arrangements. The flashlight beam illuminated the uneven rocks, causing animated shadows to dance in the gathering darkness. It didn’t require an engineering degree to see that a bit of ground levelling was in order to create a level sleeping area. As the exhausted Scotsman scuttled and scraped and tossed and filled, his stone bed slowly took shape.

Glen spread his sleeping bag over the relatively flat surface of discarded mountain rock and covered it with the other Mylar blanket. Since he wasn’t yet inside the bed, he pushed the centre of the plastic sheet together, creating some slack for his body to fit in. In a few more minutes the rock perimeter, holding down the Mylar, took shape. Glen felt thirsty, but nothing could be done about that – at least not unless he was willing to use his filtering pump to recycle some urine. Glen screwed up his face at the idea. “I would have to be knocking at death’s door before I embraced that option!”

Pulling his pack close to the top of his sleeping bag, so the bottle of pepper spray was near at hand, Glen carefully slipped off his boots. His ankle still throbbed, but at least he would be a little more comfortable in the warmth of his sleeping bag. In seconds, Glen had the sprained ankle unwrapped. The LED illumination highlighted the few patches of unbruised skin. Glen tentatively rubbed the aggravated joint. It was so tender! He was so tired! After a several minutes of lightly massaging the severe discoloration, Glen re-wrapped the ankle and gingerly slid his sock back into position. Scraped, bruised and exhausted, the small man switched off the meagre flashlight beam and nestled into his lumpy bed – clothes and all. “Glen?” Stan’s voice rose over the crinkling of Glen’s Mylar covering.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking.” The big man trailed off. “We are out of water… and still a long way… from the trail.” This was information the worn Scotsman knew all too well, but he listened politely while Stan continued. From the big man’s breathy voice and laboured gasps, Glen knew that Stan’s broken ribs were still greatly paining him. “I think… that you’re not… going to be able… to pull me… all the way… to Maple Creek….” Stan paused to catch an extra breath. “I think… you should go… back to the creek… for more water… before you move me… any further.”

The stony campsite went silent for several seconds. Glen pondered the suggestion. It was true that they were out of water. The two litres of liquid Glen had lugged back to Stan were mostly inside the big man. The last good drink Glen had taken was at Maple Creek that afternoon.

A light breeze caressed twin chapped faces. Both men stared upwards at an inky black sky. “Maybe with the cooler temperatures, I will be OK.” Glen finally offered, not really convinced himself, but looking for a second opinion. It was true that Glen would have more endurance if he had additional water, but the enormous amount of time it would take to fetch more was unacceptable to him. They had to get to medical help while he still had the ability to get them there!

Finally, Stan spoke again, “You might… be able to make it… without water… but it’s risky.” Stan shifted his broken body, groaning from the effort. Once he was settled again, he continued, “If you get… too dehydrated… we could both die. You shouldn’t… chance it.”

A long minute of silence passed before Glen replied. He really didn’t want to waste the time it would take to get more water, but what if Stan was right? If he did get too dehydrated while pulling Stan out, he might not be able to make it back to the creek. The frustrating fact of the matter was that Glen was already feeling dehydrated! “Ok.” He reluctantly muttered. “I guess it’s better to be slower and safer than faster and dead!”

“Sorry.” Stan said. “I wish… things were better.”

“Me too.”

“Goodnight Glen… And thank you… for coming back… for me.”

The small man swallowed hard. “It’s ok.” He managed. “You would have done the same for me.”

A moment of silence passed before Glen spoke again. “Do you wan to join me in prayer before we go to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

Except for the gentle rustle of the Mylar blankets in the alpine breeze, their campsite fell silent around them. With the heartfelt prayer concluded, Glen pulled the flap of his sleeping bag over his face and drew in a long slow breath and willed his body to relax. He was so tired and still so far from civilization. “At least I’m warm!” He thought, trying to keep himself positive about something. His friend seemed to be trying hard to keep up his sense of humour. The least he could do was to follow Stan’s lead. Glen silently scolded himself, but as he closed his eyes, one thought hung on to the last fading bit of his consciousness. “I hope a bear doesn’t bother us tonight.”

“In Ravenscrag’s Shadow” – Chapter 13

In Ravenscrag’s Shadow

By

Davis L. Bigelow

Copyright 2010

Chapter 13

Glen worked silently on the travois and Stan’s thoughts slowly spiralled away from all the pain, all the doom, all the enduring.

“Well that’s just too bad!” he heard his condescending voice speaking to Alida. The two of them stood near the picnic table at Midnight Lake. Stan’s backpack lay nearby. He was about to leave the camp and go backpacking with Glen. “What was I even fighting with her about?” Regret gripped him once again. “When did I start being gruff with the one I love?” A tear slipped silently from his eye.

Then suddenly, Stan’s mind transported him back in time. Alida stood at the water fountain in the hallway. As Stan’s memories solidified, the walls of his old high school filled in around the blond-haired beauty. He remembered the day well. He looked around at the familiar surroundings. “Has it really been over thirty years?” The sounds of moving, chattering students, all anxious to be homeward bound, filled the painted cinderblock hallway. Stan had just exited the gym. Hot, sweaty and dishevelled from an intensive wrestling practice, his much younger body stopped short. For the very first time his eyes came to rest on her. Holding a splash of hair out of the fountain, Alida bent forward to drink. The girl had no idea the effect she was creating.

Stan ran a large hand through his thick shock of brown hair, but made no other movement. He drew in a deep breath of amazement. The girl seemed to hold him in a spell. She had delicate features and moved with the grace of a ballerina. Of medium height with high cheekbones, a small nose and opal eyes, she was a vision in blue jeans and a pastel pink shirt. He didn’t remember whether or not his mouth sagged open, but he vividly remembered standing and staring – his mind swimming with awe. Or perhaps swimming wasn’t the right term at all. Perhaps he was drowning. His legs wouldn’t move – well at least not until another student burst through the gymnasium door behind him, effectively knocking him off his feet!

Into the throng of fellow students he tumbled. Alida hadn’t noticed him before then, but now, everyone seemed to freeze and stare. There had even been some spontaneous laughter. “Nice move Calderbank!” Someone had shouted. Stan recalled the hot flush that had washed over his face. After that clumsy event, it took him a full month to dredge up the courage to finally introduce himself to Alida. A warm, easy smile drifted across his chapped lips at the musings. “I was a much kinder man back then.”

Stan made a brief return to reality. Glen was still working on the travois. By the look of things, he was nearly done. Soon the frame would be ready for the tent and then for his injured body. Stan surveyed the inhospitable meadow of rockslide leavings. He scowled to himself. From crumbling boulder to disintegrating pebble, the travois crossing was going to be rough on them both. “And probably worse for me!” He thought. “At least for the moment, I’m in relative comfort.”

Much more pleasant thoughts drifted back into his mind. Stan replayed his first awkward meeting with Alida. She was so beautiful. She had taken his breath away. It was funny now, but not then! Back then, he had felt painfully embarrassed! “What if she hadn’t moved into their town for her senior year? What if she hadn’t caught a flicker of the real man behind the stammering words of his first greeting?” The questions made him appreciate her all the more. He was a lucky man! “Why don’t I treat her better now?” He wondered.

Smart, pretty and genuine, Alida had swept him off his feet! He recalled their first date, walking along a picturesque lakeshore pathway in their town. He could hear, once again, her musical laughter. And then, there was the first time she watched him wrestle. He was pitted against the toughest opponent he had ever fought. He could no longer recall the boy’s name, but he would forever remember the look of encouragement Alida shot him during the match! His opponent had been so very tough to beat. That look of pure faith in him had propelled him to victory. “Crossing these rocks will be harder than that match!” Stan thought darkly. He closed his eyes. He needed to see Alida’s look of encouragement one more time – even if only in memory. Stan wiped at a tear. “Why don’t I show more appreciation for her?”

Sounds of rustling pulled the big man out of his revelry down memory lane. Glen had just yanked the nylon tent out of its bag. “Be careful… not to lose… anything down… the cracks.” Stan instructed, but the thought was already running through Glen’s head.

The small man nodded. “I just hope I can get the tent tight enough to suspend you off the ground.”

“Maybe you should… stretch the rope… across a few times.” Offered Stan. Glen paused to consider the idea as Stan went on. “You could put… a sleeping mat on… top of the tent… to help spread… my weight out?”

“Good ideas.” Glen replied, nodding in agreement and snatching up the rope. “By the time I get this fabric stretched, and you on this contraption it looks like we’ll only have about a half hour to move before we’ll have to stop for the night.” It was a long way across the rocks, but both men knew that every inch closer to the waiting truck would be to their benefit. Stan gazed upwards at the dimming clouds. Glen’s voice sounded again. “Once I get this contraption ready, I’ll try to pull you up using the other mat as a slide.”

“Sounds like… the best plan.” Stan agreed, knowing that no matter how the event unfolded, it would be excruciating for him.

The rope and tent quickly transformed the open travois skeleton into a fairly hopeful-looking transporting device. Glen pulled the nylon fabric over the edges of the frame and used the tent’s strong guy lines to make it taut. He may have gotten off to a slow start, but things were moving right along now. With the other sleeping mat in place, the determined man leaned back to examine his work. He nodded his approval. “This travois is about to get a serious workout!”

Stan began psyching himself up as his friend slid the travois into position. “This is going to be the worst part of my day!”

With the bottom crosspiece of the travois nearly touching the top of his ratty, blood encrusted hair, Glen shuffled, hopped and crawled over to his big friend. Glen untied the denim strap that held the splint to Stan’s waist before moving behind his shoulders. With Glen’s hands under him, Stan sat up again. It was for the third uncomfortable time that day, but because of the splints and chest bandages, moving wasn’t quite as bad as the first two events. Glen held Stan in a sitting position while he grabbed for his crutch. Jamming it into a large enough crack, it stood upright on its own. “Here!” The small man breathed. “Hold onto that while I get the travois under your back.” Big C grabbed the stout stick and held himself. It hurt to do so, but the action meant less moving later on.

As quickly as he could, the wiry Scotsman pulled the travois under Stan’s back. Glen positioned the two mats one on top of the other so that when Stan laid back on the first that he could pull the big man up onto the second mat. The plan worked well. The nylon-covered mats weren’t as slippery as either man would have liked, but that would be good later on when Stan rode at an angle to the ground.

Grunts, groans, moans, whimpers, howls and wails all rent the alpine air for several prolonged and tormented minutes as Stan Calderbank and Glen McPherson struggled. Inch by inch, the big man shifted and shuffled and slid onto the travois. Glen heaved and strained as his large friend gritted his teeth, crying out from searing assaults of agony nearly every second of the ordeal. When it was done, both men were gasping hard to get enough oxygen. Stan’s heart pounded mostly from enduring the intense pain. Glen panted from the Herculean effort required to drag the big man with as few jolts and jostles as possible.

With Stan finally on the travois, and after a few minutes of rest, Glen retied the denim waist strap, snatched up his crutch and hobbled to his pack. He had already zipped it up. All that remained was to tie it to the travois near Big C’s feet. In moments, the job was done and Glen scuttled to the front of the lashed poles. “Time to find out if this contraption will work.” Glen muttered. The wiry Scotsman planted his foot just inside the front crosspiece and jammed his crutch in a crack. Out came his trusty gloves. Under the dark clouds and dimming sky, he lifted the load. Even with the mechanical advantage of the travois, Stan felt heavy. “Hey Stan.” He called over his shoulder, “Let me know if anything falls off.”

“Ok.” Came the breathy response.

Glen positioned the crutch under his arm and began to pull. The travois lurched forward a few inches before stopping so Glen could limp ahead a little. The small man pulled again. Stan moaned slightly, but mostly just tried to hang on. “Enjoying this ride is certainly not going to be an option!”

During his first crossing of the rock field, Glen had learned the value of moving slowly for a prolonged period of time. “Slow and steady wins the race.” He muttered to himself. The field was wide, rugged and unforgiving, but eventually, if he just kept on moving, he knew would reach the other side. He pulled, then shuffled, then pulled again. From the speed they were moving, it would be a long and arduous crossing!

For a half an hour, the only sounds in Green Canyon were panting, moaning, creaking, scraping and the occasional sharp clunk of wood striking stone. Intent on his task, Glen McPherson forged onward. His keen eyes swept the pockmarked field ahead, searching for the optimal route through the maze of dimly lit bumps and holes and fissures and boulders. Determination flowed through his bulging veins but he would have to rest soon. The small man paused to catch his breath. “A prolonged soak in a hot tub followed by an extended night filled with blissful sleep would be really nice about now.” He puffed and then pulled forward once again.

Just before he could no longer see, Glen stopped. His chest heaved to draw in sufficient air. Sweat ran from his brow, along the side of his nose and into his gaping mouth.

On the ground ahead of him, the beleaguered Scotsman surveyed the rubble. He needed a flat place to set Stan down on. “Hold on Big C.” he warned. “I’m going to set you down while I level a spot for us to spend the night on.”

“Ok” came the laboured response. With that, Glen gingerly lowered Stan to the rocks and moved a few feet ahead of the travois. Following a few pushes with the tip of the crutch and several rocks tossed from his gloved hands, Glen soon levelled a small area. The spot wasn’t perfectly flat, but it was acceptable. He hobbled back to the sluggish travois and proceeded to drag it over the spot.

“Ok Stan.” He stated. “Down you go again.” Stan groaned a little, but mostly remained silent. The big man’s jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. In the half-light, Glen eyed him compassionately. Without asking, he knew that Stan was trying to will his pain into oblivion. Glen shuffled to the back of the travois to untie the backpack.

Finally, Big C spoke, “Are we there yet?”

In spite of exhaustion, Glen laughed out loud. The response from his injured friend was so unexpected. “Yeah!” He panted, grinning for the first time in what seemed like months. “We’re there!” The small man looked around. The tip of Ravenscrag Mountain was obscured by clouds, but it was nearly too dark to matter anyway. Their current reality was oppressive. “Well at least we’re not where we were last night.” Glen stated evenly peering though the growing gloom. In the twilight, it was tough to make out their old campsite – if you could even call it that. In that tragic spot there remained nothing left but broken rocks - broken rocks with some leftover traces of their precious blood, sweat and tears.