Animals We Are

by Valerie Brandy

  I’ve been called to the wild not just to discover my most primal, individual, self, but to witness what a partnership can be, when it’s left alone, untamed, wild, and free. My fears about marriage— about closeness— seep out of my pours, dripping onto the snow like blood. I was afraid to commit to anyone because I’d never seen a model for marriage that I liked— at least not in the human realm, the civilized realm. The wolves lean into each other, entirely free from ego, just doing what needs to be done— together.

  You are my model.

  They nod at me, acknowledging that this can be mine, too, if I only pick the right person, if I find someone who can live in the wild with me.

  I hope that person ends up being Mike. But even if he isn’t, I know what I need, now.

  The female wolf stands, stretching her legs and yawning as she looks up at the sky, sniffing the air like she can sense the day passing. It’s time to move on.

  The male wolf nudges the pups, and moments later they’re all standing in the same position, their haunches rippling, preparing for what’s to come.

  Run, the female wolf says to me, and before I know it we’re all bounding through the snow, kicking up slush as we streak through the forest. My right side is flanked by the male wolf and the pups. I look to my left, and there she is— the female wolf— a silver bullet that’s just left the mouth of a gun. My heart pounds, not just because I’m running, but because I’m so terrified of not keeping up, of ruining this magical, perfect moment— the time I got to run with a pack of wolves. My fears are unfounded, though, and we run together for what feels like a lifetime. For some reason, I never get tired. Trees zip by, and the forest is a blur.

  I’m my truest self— pure, authentic, unobserved— running through the woods with wolves. I think about the phrase “man’s best friend,” and images weave through the trees; images of women in caves, sharing food with wild dogs, convincing them that yes, these humans are to be trusted; images of 1950s, stay-at-home Moms taking the family pet for a walk, the two soldiers keeping each other company in the only sphere they’re allowed; images of modern young women crying over the latest heartbreak, the latest disappointment, snuggled into the shoulder of a dog who understands, and loves them exactly as they are.

  The female wolf locks eyes with me, and we take something back for ourselves, reclaiming it with a confidence that says it never stopped being ours in the first place.

  ***

  The wolves stay with me until I reach Bunnel Cascade. Their strategic presence makes it clear: the Great Everything sent them to me as guides. Without them, I’d be dead, or at least asleep, surrounded by snow and oblivion. The wolves made me run when I needed it most, causing my heart rate to rise, keeping me from giving into the cold. Now, my body is warm, and my brain is functioning again. The wolves saved my life.

  When we reach the cascade, a steep riverbank appears, bordered by tall cliffs in the shape of the letter “V.” The map was right when it noted that the cascade is neither a waterfall or a true river, but something in-between. It flows down the mountain at a forty-five degree angle, steeper in some places than in others.

  I side-step my way down one of the cliffs to get a closer look, but stop when I notice the wolves are gone. For a moment I’m afraid they were an illusion, something I imagined in the cold; but then I spot the pups, playing with a pinecone, their father not far behind. The female wolf looks at me with regret in her eyes. Where I’m going, she won’t follow.

  It’s okay, I tell her. Thank you.

  She sniffs at the air one more time, like she she’s recording my scent. Then, she’s off. Her pack follows her, disappearing into the trees.

  I’m alone.

  I creep toward the riverbank, ignoring every natural instinct that tells me to stay away. When the cascade comes fully into view, it makes me gasp. It’s a chaotic, churning, cauldron of chaos, the antithesis of a peaceful creek, the embodiment of unpredictability— a thing I hate.

  White-capped waters pound against the rocks, creating rapids that lap against the bank’s slush coated sides. Despite the drop in temperature, the cascade has refused to freeze. She winds across the valley, unbridled and untamable; God help anyone caught up in her currents. The cascade cannot— will not— be controlled. It’s a death trap, especially in hostile weather, and I wonder how many animals have approached it— lured by the promise of a drink— only to find themselves swept away by the strength of the current, trapped and unable to climb up the cascade’s steep sides.

  I turn away from the churning cascade and open up my pack, taking out Mike’s cell phone to re-reading the second clue:

  “Hold your breath

  and search for red!

  Find it quick,

  Or else he’s dead.”

  Whatever I’m looking for is red, which should be easy to spot. I decide to walk the length of the cascade— easier said than done. The process is tricky, requiring me to creep along the edge of the icy bank in order to maintain a clear view of the cascade. If my boots lose traction at any point, unpredictable water awaits to break my fall.

  I’m halfway along the cascade when the next clue reveals itself.

  It’s a buoy, bobbing up and down in the cascade, tethered in place by bungee cords to reinforce against the current. Somehow, it’s managed to stay in place, despite the cascade’s impossible willfulness. A tall pole protrudes out of its top, accented by a bright, red flag. The flag shudders in the current, taunting me, too far for me to grasp without completely submerging myself.

  My adversary must have chosen this spot because it’s the most hazardous. Here, the cascade’s current is at its strongest, the incline steeper than any other spot along the water’s path. To make matters worse, the cliffs are practically vertical, preventing an easy exit. It’s such difficult terrain that I wonder how my enemy even planted this buoy in the first place.

  I stare at the landscape for awhile, trying to form a strategy. I try to create a kind of choreography, a dance my body will remember, but no amount of planning will help me defeat the cascade. She’s too strong, too unbridled, and there’s only one way for me to capture what I seek:

  I’ll have to give up control.

  It’s a thing I hate doing. I walk up the bank, heading upstream from my ultimate destination in order to give myself time to maneuver within the water. I take off my pack and hang it on a warped, strange-looking tree I know I’ll be able to identify later. My jeans and jacket land in a pile underneath it. I hate to strip them off, but I can’t risk getting them wet.

  I keep my boots on, climbing toward the edge of the cascade in nothing but my bra and underwear. Cold air bounces off the snow and my breath freezes. My body shivers, reminding myself that speed is everything. Moving fast is the only way to avoid getting hypothermia.

  Pebbles scatter as I stop at the location I’ve chosen, maybe twenty feet north of the flag. My arms cross over my chest. They rise with a deep inhale.

  Half-naked, freezing, and terrified— this is the only way. I need to work with the current, not against it, and for once, let go of my need to dictate the terms. For a second I think about Mike, asking me if I saw us planning a future together, and I want to run away again, to stay silent, to say nothing.

  Instead, I close my eyes and slip down the bank, plunging feet-first into the unknown. The snow cuts into my back like a thousand tiny daggers, but I barely have time to register the feeling before I’m shoulder-deep in icy water.

  A gasp— the sound of my own breathing. This feels so much worse than I thought it would.

  Hurry.

  The current pushes me downriver, my head dipping underwater no matter how hard I fight to stay afloat. The floor of the cascade is uneven, and my feet don’t consistently touch the bottom. My arms shake involuntarily against the cold. I’ve purposely positioned myself north of the buoy, hoping the distance will give me time to compensate for the currents. I can’t control my motion in the water. My best chance at getting the flag
means becoming a human pinball, caught inside a watery machine.

  Flailing helplessly in the currents, I keep an eye out for a specific cluster of rocks— the next step in my plan. Brown boulders poke out of the water in an uneven formation, and I ready myself, taking a deep breath and preparing for impact.

  Smash. My body hits the first boulder at full-speed, knocking the wind right out of me. I try to inhale, but my stomach won’t let me. For some reason, the impact knocks me into a different time and space, and suddenly I’m sitting on that rock again, watching the fish jump, a small, checkered bird wondering if building a home with Mike will mean forgetting how to fly.

  My hands scramble over the boulder’s surface, searching for an edge to hold onto. The surface is too slippery, though, and before I can latch on, I’ve missed it.

  Damnit.

  No time to think about it. The boulders are upstream from the flag, and the closest one is just a few feet above the buoy. If the current directs me toward the final boulder, I’ll be able to orient my body toward the flag and use the current to my advantage.

  A sharp, angular rock pokes out of the water, this one less centered, more off to the side. Not ideal, but it’s a second opportunity to control my direction. My arms reach out, and for a moment my feet touch the bottom of the cascade. I try to kick off from the bottom to propel myself toward the rock, but the Earth falls out from underneath me before I get the chance.

  The second boulder whizzes by.

  No.

  Brock’s whistle echoes in my ears, and I remember climbing off the boulder, Mike taking my hand in his, leaving the moment behind without an answer. I always assume there will be more moments, but what if I missed ours, because I was afraid? What if he never asks again?

  I’m down to my last chance. The flag is in sight now, bobbing up and down in the distance. In front of it sits the biggest boulder yet, an oblong, uneven island in the chaos of the water.

  I reach out, praying the Great Everything can stop my forward motion. This isn’t up to me anymore, but to the Cascade. The current pushes me onward, and at first it seems like I’m going to miss the boulder, but then another white-capped wave rolls over my head, and the Cascade is pushing me sideways, back to the center of the stream. My hands slam against rock, my fingernails scratching at its surface, determined to find a hold. They do, and then my elbows are on the boulder, and suddenly I’m not moving anymore.

  Third time’s the charm.

  My lungs expand— I’m dizzy from being tossed about in foamy water. As much as I want to stay still, my legs are shaking, and I can’t feel my face anymore. Time to end this.

  I look over my shoulder, gauging the distance to the flag. I’ll need to estimate the perfect trajectory before I launch myself toward the buoy, like a missile heading into space.

  When I’m sure I have a strong grip on the rock, I rotate my body toward the flag. My boots push against the boulder, and suddenly I’m thankful for their presence even though they add extra weight. My legs bend, and in one smooth motion I’m pushing off as hard as I can, shooting toward the flag like a cannonball.

  I’ve committed. There is no choice now but forward, and I’m imagining this is what it would have felt like if I’d said yes to Mike by the lake where the fish jumped, if I’d told him I’d build a home with him in the place where Earth and Sky became one.

  My body makes it halfway there before I’m back in the water and the currents are moving me away. My arms thrash. My feet kick. I muster the last of my strength and fight— a fish swimming upstream—forcing my way toward the buoy. I think I might miss it, but then my fingers brush up against cold plastic, and even as water fills my mouth, I’ve never been so glad to be exactly where I am.

  I grip the buoy, examining it for any sign of a clue. I think about pulling down the flag, but as I reach for the pole, the top unscrews. It twists in my frozen fingers and the buoy breaks open, causing the pole fall into the water. The blood-red flag floats for a moment, then disappears downstream, never to be seen again.

  My hand searches inside the hollow buoy, landing on something slippery. It’s the next clue, laminated in plastic to avoid water damage. Something about the lamination strikes me as important, but I’m too cold to think about it now. I roll it up into a scroll and stick it under my bra strap, readying myself for the third, most important part of my plan: escape.

  I pull myself along the bungee cord that tethers the buoy in place, using it to haul my body toward the river bank. It’s tied around a rock and only covers half the distance; I’m forced to swim the rest of the way. When I reach the bank, my fingers dig into the earth. The snow along the cascade’s edge has melted a little, revealing soil underneath. The soil has been soaked by melted snow, creating mud. My boots dig into the ground, and I push myself upward, bit by bit.

  The earth is too slippery and suddenly I’m falling back toward the water. I’m so cold— submerging myself again could be a death sentence. I thrash, trying to stop my descent toward the cascade. Some voice in my head, one of the darkest pieces of me, tells me that yes, it knew this would happen all along. This is what always happens when you give up control, when you jump without looking first. Mud soaks into what little clothing I’m wearing, coating my skin, making me look like a thing of the wild.

  A fish, I think, laughing at how stupid I must seem, thrashing about the bank. But then I remember that I’m not a fish: I’m a wolf.

  Stillness slows my slide. Neurons form new connections. Something in me breaks. I howl into the forest, a guttural, primal sound, declarative in its essence. A light illuminates those dark pieces inside me, catching them flowing through my arteries, ripping them out through my mouth so they evaporate with my howl, fading into the cold, winter air. I’m back in that moment by the lake, and this time I tell Mike that I love him, and I’m not afraid to plan a life together, because I’ve found my wolf, and she handled the currents. Bit by bit, paw over paw, I claw my way up the bank, landing on soft, forgiving snow.

  Every piece of me shakes as I pull the clue out from underneath my bra strap. My priority should be getting back to my warm clothes, but the clue can’t wait.

  I unroll it, and begin to read.

  17

  Congrats! Good luck!

  You’re nearly there,

  You’ve stuck it out,

  You’ve showed you care.

  At this place sits

  The man you seek—

  Its incline isn’t

  For the meek.

  It’s not a whole,

  It’s not so stable,

  It’s not a third,

  Please grip the cables.

  Not tough to spot,

  Wherever you roam,

  You’ll always see

  Its curved, round dome.

  So come get Mike!

  At least, you’ll try.

  I’ll be waiting,

  butterfly.

  ***

  Half-dome.

  He wants me to go to half-dome. A second search of the map for other possibilities comes up dry, confirming it. No other landmark even comes close to meeting the requirements of the clue.

  Not a whole, but not a third. Curved round dome. Grip the cables…

  Mention of the cables shocks me back into my body, and suddenly I remember that I need to get back into dry clothing. From the time I stripped down to the time I entered the water, less than five minutes have passed. But the cold can kill in ten.

  I run up the bank, searching for the warped tree where I left my pack. A spare pair of socks sits inside; they’re rough on my arms, but I use them to scrape the frost off my skin. Fabric blankets me, but I don’t stop wrapping layer after layer over my shivering limbs— tank top, thermal shirt, my trusty jacket, three pairs of underwear, my jeans, and mittens on my hands. It’s everything I packed, but I’m still not warm.

  Heading straight for half-dome is an option, but there’s a strong chance I won’t survive the trek. It’s only a few
hours walk from here, but my stomach caves in on itself with hunger, and I’ve been cold so long that “warm” is more of a concept than a feeling worth remembering. I need to start a fire. To eat. To rest.

  The ground is still covered in white powder. It’s possible to build a fire on snow, but doing so would require dry materials to work with. Every twig at ground-level is coated in slush. In the search for dry tinder, there’s nowhere to look but up.

  The strange, gnarled tree looms over me, its branches twisting at awkward angles. It might not make for a pretty sight, but it’s perfect for my purposes. My arms wrap around the tree, asking it to help me for the second time today. I pull myself upward, grabbing onto the lowest hanging branch. Hand over hand, I climb toward the top, where thick piles of leaves have spared one section of branches from the snow’s touch.

  Breaking off the dry branches without disturbing the leaves above— which form a miniature umbrella, filled with snow— is a tightrope walk. Slush rests on the higher-up leaves, waiting for the chance to fall. It can’t be allowed to soak the dry tinder— for all I know, these are the only branches in the entire forest that were spared from the snow.

  Snapping noises fill the forest as I break off the dry branches one by one, slipping them into my sweater so as not to disturb the snow above. When it’s done, I exhale, letting myself relax on the climb down. My feet hit the ground, and it’s onto the second challenge—

  Lighting a fire.

  My fingers are numb, so I pull off my mittens to investigate. The tips have changed from pink to beet red; pale white patches of skin glisten next to small sores growing near my knuckles. If my fingers were a picture in a medical textbook, the caption underneath would read, “Early Symptoms of Frostbite.” I’ll lose them if I can’t get a fire going.

  My original intention was to find a less exposed place to make camp, but there’s no time. This strange, warped tree is my new home. I crouch down underneath it. Hands shaking, I arrange the tinder in a pyramid, leaving enough room for air to pass between the twigs. Too tight and the flames will be smothered, too far apart and they won’t spread. When the twigs are the perfect distance apart, I palm the most precious piece of the equation— a woven bit of kindling salvaged from an old bird’s nest up above. It’s a miracle the nest didn’t get wet in the snow. Accidentally dropping it into slush would be a poor way to repay the Great Everything.