Animals We Are

by Valerie Brandy

  The thought makes me roll over, trying to find a way to out-maneuver the ache in my chest. My eyes blink open against my will. A hazy red glow spills over the edge of the ravine. The sun is up, and I’ll never fall asleep now. My body clock is off, my REM cycles destroyed from too many nights out of sync with the Earth. A quick stretch, a yawn, and I’m scanning my surroundings; everything is as I left it, except that my fire has burned down.

  It’s morning, and I’m alone.

  The powdered scrambled eggs Sue gave me make a swooshing sound as I mix them with water, swigging from my canteen as I go. A choking, nagging feeling bubbles up in my chest— it’s the feeling that I’ve forgotten something, even though I’m not sure what it is. Finally, I realize it’s that I’m used to talking to someone else every morning. Since Mike and I moved in together, I’ve lost the ability to wake up alone and feel okay about it.

  Loneliness isn’t a new feeling for me. Not being able to cope with it— that’s something novel, something unsettling.

  When I’m done with breakfast, I wash my face with water from my canteen, then roll up my sleeping bag. The ravine is beautiful in the morning, but I’m so distracted by an omnipresent feeling of lack that I barely pause to take note. I feel the need to search through my pack and make sure I haven’t misplaced anything. It’s like I’ve lost a limb but I’m not sure which one.

  Someone once tried to explain the difference between solitude and loneliness to me, but it didn’t seem relevant to me at the time, so I didn’t listen.

  I think it was my High School English teacher, Mr. Sandoval. He was well-intentioned in a painful way. His idealism coated him in a kind of invincibility that allowed him to completely ignore the kids who talked about him behind his back, making fun of him for his badly-groomed goatee, imitating his lisp in the hallways after class. None of it ever affected Mr. Sandoval, who was the personification of Teflon. He let every unkind word roll off his back, and continued to teach with the same enthusiasm, the same verve, he’d always had. He never mentioned a family, or indicated that he had people who cared about him, waiting up for him at night. Yet, somehow, he always seemed perfectly happy.

  I used to feel sorry for Mr. Sandoval. Now I wish I were more like him.

  Solitude. Loneliness.

  What was it he said?

  One is a choice, and the other is an unmet need.

  This is the second one.

  ***

  An hour later, and I’m crouching in front of a seam where two pieces of Earth have been sewn together by years of seismic activity. My arm bends at a perfect right angle, trying to estimate the incline, confirming what I suspected but didn’t want to believe:

  This side of the ravine goes straight up.

  There’s no slope. No slight grade to help me make my ascent. Just a completely vertical cliff face.

  Three checks of my bag confirm that it’s zipped. Cassandra’s letter crackles as I fold it, then unfold it, then fold it again. The compass won’t fit neatly in any pocket, so I move it from spot to spot, trying to find the ideal place to store it. Somewhere it won’t escape from. The plastic bag Sue gave me whines as I rip it into shreds, fashioning a pair of hand-wraps to protect my palms from sharp edges. My shoelaces don’t look right, so I tie them more neatly, then try for a double-knot before changing my mind and tying them again, just once, in a bow.

  I’m procrastinating.

  Finally, my hand reaches out for the mountain, and as my feet lift off the ground I imagine I’m bouldering back home in a gym, but with a very unreliable climbing partner. He’s the guy who half-heartedly yells “On belay!” while holding his phone and checking his instagram account. I name him Frank, and promise myself I won’t die because of him.

  Fuck you, Frank. Pay attention.

  My arms have— for the most part— recovered from my earlier climb, but I still try to use my legs as much as possible. My pattern for the ascent is the reverse of the one I used to climb into the ravine. My feet take the lead, finding nooks and crannies to shove the toe of my hiking boot into. I’m forceful each time, ensuring that both shoes are deeply wedged within the mountain before I dare to move a hand.

  This side of the ravine presents fewer tree roots than the last, making it difficult to find good holds. Options to move myself upward are limited, presenting themselves as holes in the rocks, or boulders that jut out at strange angles. Each time my hand finds a cutout, I swallow, praying that it won’t meet a snake or a lizard hiding in the dark recesses of the mountain.

  Dozens of holds later, and my aching muscles make me zero in on a ledge that sticks out from the rest of the cliff— an opportunity for rest that’s too good to ignore. Gingerly, my left arm reaches toward the dirt-covered shelf, testing it with my weight before allowing my right arm to join it. I pull myself over the edge and sit with my legs dangling over, giving my arms a break. Then, in the middle of safety, I make a huge mistake.

  I look down.

  My stomach turns; the powdered eggs threaten to come back up. I choke them back and look away. The climb didn’t take long, but I’m already about three quarters of the way up the side of the mountain. The ravine stretches out beneath me, and while I’m not sure how far down it is, the change in perspective tells me it’s far. Rocks that were the size of my head when I started my climb are now as big as my fist. The world spins.

  I shouldn’t have looked. My eyes close, resisting, trying to get back in the frame of mind that enabled me to make it this far.

  I’m in a gym. I’m rock climbing in a gym. Frank is an unreliable idiot. If I fall, there’s a mat. But I should try not to fall.

  “Okay, Frank!” I shout into the void, knowing no one hears me. “If I end up a human pancake because you’re not paying attention, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

  Frank doesn’t answer. Probably still on instagram.

  “Belay on?”

  Somewhere, a creature hoots, and even though it’s definitely a bird and not Frank, I decide it was “On belay!” and take it as my sign to continue.

  Shaking, my fingers reach for a crevice about ten inches above my head. It’s a reliable hold; now, a spot for my opposite leg. The toe of my boot discovers a home and pushes me upward, allowing me to grab onto another miniature rock formation with my left hand. The climb continues, the procedure repeated again and again. Leg, hand, other leg, boot…

  It’s tempting to look down and see if I’m still above the ledge, but I’m too afraid to risk it. Instead, my boot finds another foothold. It’s a little narrow, but it’s a necessary stop, so I force the hold anyway, jamming my boot in with all the strength I can muster. It’s a secure enough hold that my hands can release in search of the next move. My palm closes around an orb, and a peek upwards reveals that my fingers are wrapped around a tiny rock. It’s not great, but it’ll do. That glance down was costly. It ruined my concentration, instilling a sense of urgency, making me want to finish my climb as soon as possible. Without testing it first, I put my entire body weight onto the small stone, letting go of my other grip.

  The tiny rock pulls away from the side of the mountain, slipping out of my fingers so that I’m left holding onto nothing but thin, unhelpful air. It’s nearly a complete disaster— one that’s about to send me tumbling down to the bottom of the ravine— but I manage to avoid a fall by jabbing my left hand into a cutout, a tiny sliver in the Earth that’s the difference between life and death. For a moment, I’ve avoided danger, but then, something terrible happens.

  The tiny, meaningless little rock cascades down the side of the mountain, causing a chain reaction like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Two medium-sized rocks about the size of my head break free, tumbling after the little rock that supported them, causing five more to follow suit. It’s apocalyptic, and I swear I see a hole open up at the top of the cliff. It looks like the mouth of a dragon, breathing jagged, rocky fire in my face.

  Huge rocks tumble toward me, hundreds of them, dislodged and angry, seek
ing to enact revenge on the person who disturbed the littlest among them. The entire mountain is coming down.

  The ledge juts out beneath me— my only hope, maybe ten or fifteen feet directly under my shoes. If I can jump down in time, I might be able to avoid being knocked off the side of the mountain like a rogue pinball that’s escaped its machine.

  I try to pull my boot from the crevice it’s in, but it’s lodged too tightly. The rocks are coming, and they’re going to shatter my bones and fracture my skull, leaving me broken and bleeding at the bottom of the ravine. There’s only one thing to do.

  I let go of my handhold, falling backward, and suddenly I’m hanging upside down, blood rushing to my head, hands covering my face as dirt and debris cloud my eyes. My boot is still stuck, preventing me from dropping toward the ledge like I’d hoped.

  Something hits my leg and I scream, feeling a burning sensation in my shin. The pain brings with it a hyper-awareness, wiping all conscious thought from my brain and activating my instincts. My body acts on its own, like a runaway train who’s ejected her incompetent conductor. Without my consent, my fingers reach upward, my abs engage, and in one desperate motion, I crunch up and pull at my shoelace.

  It comes loose and my foot slips out of my boot, and now I’m falling, falling, praying I land on the ledge and not at the bottom of the ravine.

  My body slams into the Earth.

  I’ve landed somewhere, but before I can figure out where it is, everything goes dark.

  ***

  My eyes feel open, but everything is black, so they must be closed. Maybe I’ve blacked out. Maybe, this is what darkness feels like— a coma, a living death.

  My right arm tries to move, but it’s trapped above my head. I’m curled in the fetal position, my arms covering my face, shielding me from impact. I blink. The world stays dark.

  I shift my head back and a space opens up. A vague shape comes into focus. It’s beige with uneven edges— a boulder that landed millimeters away from my face, obscuring the light.

  Moving away isn’t an option. My arm is still trapped above me, and something else is pushing into my back. I’m buried alive, rocks covering my body, trapping me in a coffin, waiting for me to die so they can consume me, make me one of them. I thrash— panicking— but finally manage to flip over onto my back, freeing my arm so I can slip out of my stone cage.

  Dirt and dust scatter. Tiny pebbles shake out of my hair and off my shoulders as I step back, trying to find perspective in the new, bright light.

  The space I’ve escaped is a pile of rocks, and most of them are small, except for two, massive boulders laying side by side. One of the boulders— the one that trapped my arm— is carved into a crook-like shape, with a cutout in the middle like the letter “C.” The longer ridge trapped my elbow over my head, but the groove in the middle kept the boulder from crushing me completely.

  Something about it makes me want to cry, and suddenly I’m thinking about that doorknob at my old apartment, and all the plans I’ve made in my life, and how none of them— not one— ever stopped me from getting hurt. This boulder was cut to perfection, pre-destined with me in mind, carved to create space so that I would survive. No amount of planning, no adherence to a pattern, could have saved me from its wrath. Only the Great Everything could do that.

  “Thank you,” I whisper into the forest— into the Great Everything— because she saved my life.

  When I stand, it feels less like an act and more like a resurrection. All my weight moves to my right leg, because something is wrong with the left one, but I won’t look at it. If I do, I might decide to quit and let myself die on this ledge, and that would be a poor way to repay the Great Everything. A dark, cranberry stain marks my jeans around the calf area, and even though it’s blood, I’m not about to roll the leg of my pants up and investigate the damage.

  After making my way back to the line where the ledge meets the mountain, I look up, taking in the distance.

  Twenty-five, maybe thirty feet to the top. Climbing down is the more difficult option— I’d have more distance to cover, and would be stranded at the bottom of the ravine, dying a slower, more painful death than a fall. There’s no choice but to finish what I’ve started.

  An object juts out from a crevice in the mountain: it’s my hiking boot, still stuck in the hole, a sad acknowledgement of my near demise. A rush of gratitude fills my lungs that I didn’t double-knot my laces.

  At this point, three competing strategies outline the way forward, and none of them is particularly appealing.

  In one scenario, I climb up, retrieve my boot, put it on, then continue to the top. This carries with it the risk that my arms give out, the muscles fatigued to exhaustion, leaving me stranded on the ledge or crushed at the bottom of the ravine.

  In scenario two, I forget the shoe completely. It stays wedged in the hole while I climb straight to the top, and carry on with my journey as best I can without it. This is problematic, though, seeing as walking through the forest shoeless comes with multiple risks. The least of these is damage to my foot that leads to an infection. The worst is frostbite and loss of toes. It’s not snowing— for now— but the bitter, cold rain we had earlier was a warning sign. What if the weather gets worse, and I really, really need my shoe? Sure, I have a sock on, but that won’t help me if the ground is covered in slush, or if my feet get wet.

  Then there’s scenario three, where I combine both strategies and head straight for the top, but try to grab my shoe on the way, holding it as I continue the rest of the climb bootless.

  Scenario three it is. My hands shake as I approach the mountain, and with every step I instinctively look up, expecting a shower of rocks to fall across my face.

  You’ve already caused one rockslide, I lie to myself. How many more loose boulders could there possibly be?

  My body wants to rest, to wait before trying another climb, but my panicked brain associates resting with death. I’ve gotten myself into a bad situation, and I can’t stop until I’m out of it.

  The climb begins.

  My progress is slower this time, partly because my left leg hangs uselessly at my side, unable to take much weight. I’m sure the damage is bad, but I’ll have to deal with it when I get to the top. For now, I focus on using my right leg and my arms. My arms are taking more pressure than I’d hoped, but as long as my body stays close to the mountain, it’s not unbearable.

  After what feels like a lifetime, I reach the boot. Ignoring it and continuing with my climb is an option, but I can’t bring myself to move on without trying, at least once, to get it back.

  My body’s full weight balances on my good leg and my right hand. When I’m confident in my hold, my left hand to punches at the boot’s heel. It wiggles, and if I pull in the right direction, it might just—

  Pop!

  Freedom. The boot is in my hand, but I can’t climb while carrying it. Tying the laces in a knot and stringing the boot over my shoulder might work, expect that I can’t do it with just one hand, and my right arm is growing tired, slipping, slipping, with every second that goes by.

  Inaction is a choice, too, and if I don’t do something soon, I’ll fall. Left without any other options, I open up my mouth and bite down on the tongue of the boot. My left hand returns to the mountain and my muscles sigh with relief. The climb continues, the boot in my mouth, which is arranged in a permanent snarl.

  Hand over hand, one move at a time, with slow and steady progress, my fingers reach up and finally touch soil; horizontal Earth.

  I’ve made it.

  I pull myself over the edge of the mountain, rolling onto my back, heart pounding as my jaw relaxes, dropping the shoe onto the ground beside me like a dog letting go of a bone.

  I’ve never appreciated a shoe so much.

  There’s something romantic about this, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Then, it comes to me:

  I am the world’s most pathetic Cinderella.

  13

  I
t’s a long time before I work up the courage to look at my leg.

  I prepare myself for the worst-case scenario, visualizing every possible horror. Bone that pokes through skin. Flesh rippling over pink meat, flush and ripe in its exposure. An intricate network of stretchy tendons and veins, recoiling from the harsh bite of air. By the time I roll up the bottom of my jeans, I know that whatever I find there won’t be worse than the carnage I’ve imagined.

  The jeans get stuck above my ankle— I’ll have to take them off to investigate the wound. I know better than to wear skinny jeans on a camping trip, but it was my first vacation with Mike, and skinny jeans are the only things that make my boyish butt look curvy.

  Before this trip went off the rails, I envisioned a picture-worthy, idyllic romp in the woods— hence the logic behind wearing my ass-lifting skinny jeans. I even thought we’d recreate that much blogged-about photo series where the girl with impossibly perfect hair leads her boyfriend around the world by the hand.

  Now— as I strip off my pants and try not to cry out at the way the denim peels off the meaty, searing wound on my leg— that vision seems like something from another lifetime. I’m not a perfectly coifed catalog model leading Mike through the forest in pristine, romantic bliss. No, I’m a raging lunatic chasing him down the side of a mountain, screaming in terror, my hair matted with soil, my face streaked with dirt. Appearances are last on my list of concerns, and the fact that I ever worried about what I looked like strikes me as the kind of random factoid you’d find in a trivia book.

  Did you know that elephants are the only animals that can’t jump?! Also, Zoe used to worry about what she looked like!

  My breath crystallizes in the air. Today is the coldest I’ve experienced in the valley, and my skin can’t be exposed to the elements for too long.

  My jeans land in a crumpled pile as I toss them aside to look at my leg. The wound isn’t deep— there’s no bone visible— but the length of the injury takes me by surprise. Most of the pain up until this point has been focused on my shin area, but the cut wraps straight down my leg and around the left side of my calf. The rock must have slammed into my shin first, then scraped its way toward my heel. My shin is black and blue, but my calf looks worse— the skin has been stripped away, revealing the pink, bloody flesh underneath. It’s begging for an infection, but Sue has taught me well. I open my pack and remove a few of the leaves she salvaged, laying them on top of the wound like garnish on a steak. The rest, I place gently back in my pack, saving them for future injuries that now seem inevitable.