Red Fox Road

by Frances Greenslade

  I watched them for a couple of minutes. Then I plucked one off the stump. I looked at it squirming between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said, squished it and popped it into my mouth.

  It wasn’t too bad. Sort of sour, like vinegar on french fries. I plucked off another and ate it. They’d be better fried, I thought, with some salt. Anything was better with salt. I remembered the salty sunflower seeds I’d finished. French fries from the Jeffer’s truck that parked on Nanaimo Avenue in downtown Penticton. Sometimes Dad surprised Mom and me by bringing home a big paper cup of them, glistening with salt.

  The ants, I noticed, were all making their way up the trunk, or back down again. The nest must be in the top. I wanted to get up there and have a look. I could walk along the downed tree, but especially with the wind the way it was, it would be dangerous. That thought led to another. Was it going to storm? I looked up at the small piece of sky I could see. Still that bright sky-blue, still sunny, but clouds were scudding across in places. At home, it could blow hard all afternoon and then drop to dead calm as soon as the sun went down. Sometimes Mom and I sat on the patio and watched it happen, the leaves of the maple suddenly going still.

  Anyway, I figured I’d better hurry. I probably only had two or three hours of light left. I found a stout log nearby and lifted one end of it, then pushed it over so that it hit the big stump. With a little more maneuvering, I managed to position it to give me a boost that allowed me to scramble up to the top of the stump.

  I’d never been so happy to see ants, a teeming nest of them and some fat white larvae. These I scooped with a piece of bark and stuck in my rain jacket pocket. I squished and ate some more ants, shuddering a bit at the sour taste. Then I scooped more onto the bark. They swarmed over my hand and up my jacket sleeve. I fought to stay focused. I found another piece of bark and sandwiched the two together, squishing quite a few in one go. Then I shook off my hand and brushed the others off my sleeve. I’d save this bunch and try cooking them with the larvae tonight when I got back to camp. For now, I made sure they were all dead and shook them into my pocket.

  Then I hurried back to my pack. It was time to get moving. As I took my compass reading, I noticed something else. Some new trees had come into view to the left of the pointy treetop. They were tall, deciduous trees, a stand of them. That was a good sign. That could mean water.

  No sooner had I noticed the stand of trees tossing in the wind than some other things began to appear: ferns I hadn’t noticed before poking through the soil, a blanket of tiny blue flowers with vivid green foliage, the maple-shaped leaves of a thimbleberry bush. I clocked off my minute of walking, ticked it off on my map and then I was sure of what I hadn’t wanted to allow myself to believe; the rushing sound I heard was not just wind. I distinctly heard the babble of water running over rocks.

  Stay calm; stay focused. One more minute at 190 degrees and then I saw it. Another thirty seconds and I was looking down into a clear, green stream. In places, it stretched ten or fifteen yards across. To my right, west, the creek widened and burbled softly over a field of rocks, beyond which was a narrowed passage that seemed to curve, in which direction I couldn’t tell. To my left, east, the creek was faster and narrower, frothing up around rocks scattered across it. I marked a tree with my knife so I’d know where to take the compass reading on the way back.

  There was a steep bank down to the creek, but the roots of big trees were exposed and formed natural steps that I used to pick my way down. I filled my water bottle, dropped in one of the purification tablets we’d brought for our hike and shook the bottle to dissolve it. I needed to wait thirty minutes before it was safe to drink. I was so tempted to gulp the fresh, cold water just as it was, but I had to be smart. It looked clean, crystal clear, but a dead animal could be rotting in the water farther upstream and I’d never know it. I had to wait.

  I knelt and washed my face and neck. Was this a creek or a river? Would it be on our Oregon road map? I’d left that map in the truck. I dried my hands on my pants and took out my own map, drew in the creek, trying to make it to scale. As I drew, I noticed something: my pencil wasn’t casting a shadow on the paper, as it had earlier.

  I looked up. Clouds had gathered and darkened to a threatening gray. At the moment I digested that thought, a powerful gust of wind blasted through the forest, churning the branches of the tall trees along the creek. Something snapped and crashed down in the woods above the bank. I’d better fill the bladder and get back to the truck. Then another blast, roaring like an oncoming train. I ducked lower against the creek bank and watched the wind rip off branches and cartwheel them above the water.

  I got out the plastic water cube and crouched by the creek, holding the mouth of the container under the water. I’d boil this later. I gazed upstream. If I followed the stream that way, it was possible I could run into the ridge, head north, and eventually come across my fluorescent orange T-shirt, then follow the trail back to the truck. But if the ridge didn’t extend this far, I’d be in for a long walk. And what if I came to a ridge, but it was the wrong one? I squinted into the distance. Something caught my eye, lying beside the creek—a shock of red in a landscape of gray stones, brown mud and green leaves.

  I quickly screwed the lid on the water cube and laid it next to my pack. The red thing lay about twenty yards off, upstream on the muddy shore close to the water. I had to pick my way over rocks and tree roots in places.

  As I got closer, I saw blue. My heartbeat caught and began to quicken. I knew what it was. I stumbled over slippery rocks and there it was, just as if he’d dropped it and would be back—Dad’s Canada Post toque. I picked it up, my heart hammering. It was clean and dry.

  “Dad!” I screamed. Where was my whistle? “Dad!” Louder. I turned and screamed north, into the wind, then west, east, and south again. And again. The wind bore down on me, roaring then dropping, then rising again and tearing branches from trees. The first spits of rain peppered my jacket.

  I checked my watch: 4:15 p.m. It told me what my mind didn’t want to accept: I had run out of time. I could not try to find my way back to the truck this late or in this storm. It would be stupid. I thought of my warm shelter, my three sleeping bags dry in the truck, my fire. I could sleep in the truck tonight if I went back. I’d be safe from the storm at least. I turned over Dad’s hat in my hands.

  “What should I do?” I cried out loud.

  “Dad!” I shrieked again. The edge of panic, the fear was in my voice. I could cross the creek here. He could be just ahead. Calm down. Hunker down. It was what he would say: “Hunker down, Squirt.” I needed to put thoughts of my “home” camp out of my head. I pulled on his toque and tugged it over my ears. I needed to find another shelter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  With the storm blotting out what was left of the day, darkness was falling fast. The wind had risen to a continuous moaning whistle high in the trees. The gloomy woods rang with creaks and snaps and rushes. I scrambled over the rocks and roots back to my pack. Digging through it, I pulled out the whistle. I gave three long blasts on it in each direction. My hands shook, with cold or fear or hunger, or all three.

  Where to make my camp? I walked down the bank to the west, where the creek slowed and widened. Giant, gnarled tree roots had made a kind of cave in the bank. I followed the roots up. It was a huge cedar and it had been there a long time. The deciduous trees were bending crazily in the wind, but this cedar seemed like it would hold its own. I had no time to be picky. It was almost dark.

  A large rock anchored the tree roots on the east corner. The creekbank would shield me from the worst of the north wind. I crouched down into it to try it out. Immediately I felt warmer, protected. I climbed the roots back up to the woods. There I was met with icy blasts of wind and rain. My flashlight was in my pack, but it wasn’t hard to find good-sized limbs to use for my shelter. The wind had strewn them across the forest floo
r. When I picked one up, the wind tried to rip it from my hands. It nearly knocked me over.

  One by one, I dragged several large branches to the edge of the bank, then threw them over onto the shore. Then I scrambled back down to where I’d be spending the long night. No blankets, no food, no company. But I could make hot tea. That would have to be enough.

  * * *

  A night not fit for man nor beast. Dad used to say that when he came home from work on a blustery winter afternoon. I always thought it was funny, because he’d walked all day in it. He’d tromped up sidewalks that hadn’t been shoveled and pried open screen doors that were blocked by snow. He’d stepped carefully on ice and poked envelopes into slots and tried not to be scared of dogs snarling at the ends of their chains.

  His wool toque was pulled low over my forehead and ears. I’d been instantly warmer when I put it on; it was like he’d left it for me. There was no way that was true, but it made me feel better. My fire sparked and twisted in the wind. I hoped I hadn’t built it too close to my shelter. I was comfortable enough, cross-legged on a springy bed of fir limbs, with others pulled in around me to protect me from the worst of the cold. My back was against my pack. I had my hands around the small pot of tea. I’d forgotten the tin cup, but the pot worked well enough. On my knee lay two mints, which I planned to savor once I’d finished the tea. Through the opening I’d left to watch and tend the fire, I could see a slice of the creek, lit by firelight and pitted with rain.

  Where was Dad? Was he close by, close enough to see my fire? He must have dropped the hat, but when? Was it on the day he’d first set out walking? If it was, he was far off a southern course, even farther than I had been when I discovered my error today. I pushed away my next thought, barely formed: Dad was left-handed. He’d veered left. But that didn’t make sense, because he had the GPS. At least at the beginning of his walk, it should have been functioning. As long as he checked it, he should have been able to stay on course.

  As long as he checked it.

  The other possibility was that he’d dropped the hat on his way back, looking for the road and the truck. What were the chances we’d crossed paths? What were the chances he was at the truck right now? I felt sick to think of it. My head buzzed and I leaned farther back against my pack to steady myself. It must be hunger.

  Then I remembered the ants and larvae I’d stuffed in my jacket pocket. I’d have to fire up the stove again to fry them. I fished them from my pocket and looked at them lying in my hand. Then I popped them into my mouth raw instead and quickly washed them down with a gulp of warm tea.

  Where was Mom? Could she still be out in this? She had no knife, no supplies of any kind. She must have reached the road. For some reason, she wasn’t able to get back to me. But she’d said she would and I believed her. She said to wait for her. Maybe she’d fallen and hit her head on a rock.

  I would not think of that. Instead, I suddenly felt Phoebe near me. The way her hand felt in mine, warm, always a bit sweaty. I felt her nestled next to me, her head on my shoulder and her happy laugh. When we used to sit on the couch together watching TV, she always dug her feet under my legs to keep them warm. Sometimes we brought the blankets off our beds and made a tent of them. Phoebe usually fell asleep in there and I had to try to pull myself out without waking her up.

  I ate my mints, sucking every last crystal of sweetness from them. The gnarled piece of root I’d put on my fire had burned through. I pulled another section onto the flame, leaned back to watch it catch. The storm raged above me, a night not fit for man nor beast. I stretched my legs out to try to warm my toes without setting my boots on fire.

  * * *

  I don’t remember lying down. A thunderous crash woke me. I sat up. The fire smoldered. Somewhere close, a big tree had fallen, making the ground shudder. I was cold, especially my legs, which had only one layer of protection, and my feet. I found my poking stick and dragged another piece of wood onto the fire, then poked it and blew on it till it flared back to life.

  Flicking on my flashlight, I swept the beam across the creek and up along the shore. It had stopped raining. I thought I saw movement down by the wide, slow part of the creek. I shone the beam in that direction, but it was hard to see. Maybe that dark bulk near the water was something. But with the wind churning everything into motion, it was hard to tell. I withdrew back into my cave and tried to warm my feet and legs.

  What if it was Dad down by the creek? What if he was weak and crawling?

  That was a stupid thought. That was my imagination getting carried away.

  Part of me wanted to get out of the cave and run down the shore. Another part wanted to lie down, squeeze my eyes shut and pray for morning. If the shape were an animal—a bear, or a wolf—would the fire keep it away? They’re just trying to survive like I am, I reminded myself. They’ve got no reason to bother me.

  Under the moan of the wind, I thought I heard something else—a cry. It sent chills up my spine. An owl or a coyote? I leaned out into the wind and listened. As the wind relented to gather itself, the air rang with a blood-curdling scream that sounded like something being tortured. I jumped in fear and dropped my flashlight, watched it roll into the fire before I could catch it.

  I grabbed my poking stick and tried to fish the flashlight out. Sparks flew up in the night as I fumbled for it. Some landed on the boughs inside my shelter. The flashlight rolled deeper into the nest of flames. I could barely see it.

  Be careful now. My stick pushed some red-hot coals aside. I tried to roll the flashlight toward me, without flicking hot embers onto myself or my highly flammable bed of fir boughs. That was a bad idea, I thought. Roll it to the side.

  The crazed scream came again, close by. I felt the tears rising. With a strong flick of my wrist, the flashlight finally bounced out of the fire, landed on a rock and rolled away into the mud of the shore. It was safe now. I would let it cool. I should get it before morning, before the dew or more rain came. I wanted light, but even more I wanted not to set foot out of the safety of my cave.

  My ears strained for sounds of movement, something creeping nearer or another scream, but anything I might have heard was drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears. I leaned out again. I couldn’t see far—an orange glow of firelight reflected on the water, the gloom of shoreline.

  It was not human, I told myself. There was no way it was human. It was animal, some animal I’d never heard before.

  Suddenly, I was struck with the powerful sense that I’d made a big mistake in leaving the safety of the truck. Stay put; that’s the rule when you’re lost. Stay put. I should have stayed put. I could be wrapped in warm sleeping bags right now, inside our trusty old Mazda, safe from the storm—a windshield and steel between me and whatever those noises were.

  * * *

  I couldn’t possibly sleep. I lay half on my backpack staring at the fire. Once in a while I sat up, pulled another branch onto the flames. Then I lay back with my ears alert, my heartbeat roaring. Finally, I couldn’t stand the listening and waiting to hear that scream again, so I tore corners of paper off my map, wadded them up and stuffed them in my ears. All I could hear now was my own blood rushing furiously.

  I drew closer to the fire and checked my watch by its light. It was only 12:30 a.m. I couldn’t believe it. I still had at least another six hours shivering in this cave, waiting for the morning light. I was too scared and too cold to sleep. I’d drift toward it and then jerk awake in the middle of strange dreams.

  I dreamt a giant dragonfly hovered above the road by the truck. It lowered a basket of food—donuts, hot chocolate, french fries. It was so close, I could smell it, that deep-fried, sugary smell. But I couldn’t reach it. In another dream, I chased the fox, which had Phoebe’s face and Phoebe’s happy laugh. But I couldn’t catch her.

  By 3 a.m., I’d burnt up most of my stockpile of firewood and I realized I would have to leave my cave to find m
ore or I’d freeze. I might not freeze to death, but my temperature could drop enough that I’d get hypothermia and it would be hard to recover from that, out here, alone, in the dark, far away from help of any kind.

  I stuck my head out and looked up and down the shore. I couldn’t see much. In a stargazing book, I read that we lose a lot of our night vision just staring into a campfire. It takes about half an hour to get it back. I climbed out of the chill of the cave into the biting cold of the open air. I picked up my flashlight, dried it on my jacket and turned it on. Nothing. I gave it a shake and tried it again. Still nothing.

  I closed my eyes and stood listening. The wind buffeted against my back, whistling like ghosts through the trees above. But I thought it was not quite as strong as it had been. The storm was dying out, passing over these woods, moving south. When I opened my eyes, I could see better. The debris of torn trees limbs littered the shore. Some of them might be dry and burnable.

  Picking my way carefully over the rocks, my eyes gradually adjusting to the dark, I saw that the shape I’d seen moving by the water earlier was gone. That convinced me that it had been an animal. But strangely, out in the open I felt less afraid than I had been huddling in my cave with my ears plugged. It’s better to face things, I thought. Better to be standing on my own two feet than crouching and waiting for something to pounce. Sometimes hiding from something makes it seem scarier.

  I remembered a field day at my school two years ago. Carly and I had just bought hotdogs for fifty cents each. We were about to eat them when four older boys walked up to us. One said, “Give me that.” We took off running and they chased us. We scooted under the bleachers on the edge of the field. But when they saw us, Carly, who is just as small as me, stepped out and stood in front of them. I tried to pull her back and caught her by the sock. She kicked her foot away from me.