Red Fox Road

by Frances Greenslade

  I shivered. My back hurt. As soon as the water rolled to a boil, I threw in a few fir needles and carried the pot to my lean-to. I had to be careful. With my luck, I’d trip and burn myself. It just seemed like everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. I tucked in under my lean-to and blew on the hot water. Fishing a mint out of my meager supply, I popped it in my mouth and sucked on it slowly.

  The torn roots of the toppled tree lay only a few steps from my lean-to. Fast-falling snow sifted over it. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. The safe place where I could have ridden out the storm lay smashed under a tree. No other trees had fallen on the road.

  What would have happened if the wind had been blowing from a slightly different direction? If the roots had been weakened in one spot by a burrowing animal? If the roots had let go of their hold on the earth a moment sooner? A slight change in anything and my lean-to could have been crushed. I could have been in it.

  My teeth chattered as I took a sip of tea. Each crystalline flake of snow landed on my jacket and melted. I knew I should start a fire before everything got too wet. A few dry twigs lay close at hand and I gathered these into a pile in my firepit. It occurred to me that I should have had all the kindling I would need with the fallen tree on our truck. But green wood doesn’t burn easily, and it’s especially useless to start a fire. I lit the match and held it to the twigs, watched it catch and gobble the kindling. I needed bigger branches for the fire, but that would mean getting up.

  My shin had begun to throb where the branch had gouged it. Gingerly, I pulled up my pant leg to have a look. It was worse than I expected. A line of blood ran down my leg and into my sock. The wound itself looked like an animal bite, a ragged hole surrounded by red skin. I knew it would get more painful before it got better. I needed to make some kind of bandage to keep it clean. I needed to get warm. I just didn’t want to do one more thing.

  Sick and tired. That’s what Mom said when she was really mad: I’m sick and tired of this. What did she mean by this? I never knew exactly. It could be whatever she was doing at the time: scrubbing dishes or angrily chopping potatoes, sending them skidding across the counter and onto the kitchen floor. Or sometimes she said it more gently, doing some ordinary thing like opening the mail, and that was worse. But now I thought I knew what she meant. Because right now I was sick and tired. I wanted to stop trying. I was cold and wet to the bone. I just wanted to stop.

  The little fire I’d started struggled to burn. The kindling was mostly ash already, trailing a thin wisp of smoke. In another minute or two, it would sputter out altogether. Each flake of snow landed with a tinkle; those that landed on the ashes hissed as they died. A metallic taste filled my mouth, then a buzz filled my ears, traveled to my eyes, and everything went black.

  “Francie?”

  Phoebe. I struggled to open my eyes. Suddenly I was warmer, as if someone had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. The soft smell of Phoebe surrounded me. Snow crystals tinkled and whispered softly. I could just let go. I could sleep here for a while and maybe someone would find me. I tasted the hot chocolate I’d drink then, the sweet heat of it traveling down my throat and into my stomach, warming my whole body. My pillow from home under my head, heat blowing from the vent under my desk, the stars on my ceiling glowing happily. In the morning the sun would shine through my bedroom window.

  * * *

  Somewhere deep in my brain, another thought stirred: shivering. Something about shivering. Was I still shivering?

  I needed to open my eyes.

  Hear the snow falling? That’s the real world.

  A flake landed on my cheek and then another. I opened my eyes. A white sky with long green fingers reaching across it. Snow peppering my face. Yes, I was still shivering. I was shivering like a shrub in a stiff wind. But that was good. That’s what my brain had dug up from somewhere in its memory: that one of the signs of hypothermia (that’s basically on the way to freezing to death) is shivering. But an even worse sign, a sign of being too far gone to recover, is if you stop shivering.

  My fire had died. Everything lay drenched under a crust of icy wet snow. I wanted warmth. My brain stubbornly wanted it to just appear, as it had when I closed my eyes. But that was not going to happen.

  If it happened that way, I would die.

  There was nothing else to do but force myself to stand up. I stomped my feet. My limbs felt heavy, like my boots were full of rocks. A sharp stinging sensation ran through my toes and heels. I jumped up and down and cartwheeled my arms a few times. Finding dry tinder or anything bigger to keep the fire going was going to be a problem now. Each needle on the tree boughs, the bark on the trunks, the dry grass along the road, the forest floor and fallen logs were coated in wet crystals. Even the lichen hung from the branches like the white beards of old men.

  I gathered some of that and shook the ice out as much as I could. Then I stripped some branches whose needles had turned orange and I beat them against the fallen trunk to knock out the ice. The needles fell off, too, which I should have known they would do. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I remembered that I had stashed some larger branches under the truck. Would it be possible to get to them? I had shoved them under the driver’s door, in just about the worst place to try and get to them now. That’s where the thickest branches of the fallen tree fanned out.

  I gave up that idea and scraped the sticks I had into a pile around some lichen. I mentally crossed my fingers, then lit a match. The flame licked at the damp lichen and caught. The dead needles threw up a bright tongue of flame and then died. In a few seconds, the pile became a smoking, soggy mess. I tried again, my fingers shaking crazily. I dropped the match too soon and it went out. At this rate, the matches I had left would be used quickly.

  One match. That’s what Grandma taught me to do—light a fire with one match. The reason, she said, was not to be cheap with matches. Using only one match taught me to take time with the preparation. A good fire was all about the preparation. I knew that. But I was freezing and if I didn’t get warm soon, I was pretty sure I’d be in big trouble.

  All the more reason to take your time, Francie. One match. Get it right.

  All right, all right. What could I use? I blew on my trembling red fingers, stood and stomped the blood back into my feet again.

  Maybe I could get to that dry wood under the truck after all. I might be able to shimmy under the truck from the back. I walked to the rear, which hadn’t been crushed by the tree, and I looked underneath. I’d have to get down on my stomach and elbows. It would be wet and muddy, possibly oily. I ducked under a little more to see if I could even reach any of the wood.

  That’s when I smelled gasoline.

  I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. Now that I did notice it, the smell seemed to fill the air. Obviously, gas was leaking out of the tank, which must have been damaged by the crash-landing of the tree.

  My first thought was to wonder whether there was any danger of the gas igniting. My fire was far enough away that it seemed unlikely. My second thought burst into my brain like the spark of flame I so badly needed.

  Gasoline would be a good fire starter! But how could I get it out of the tank? Could I find the leak and try to catch some of it? That would mean crawling under there and probably coating my clothes in gasoline, not a good idea. I’d seen Dad siphon gas from the truck when he needed to do a repair. He’d stuck a hose in through the fill hole, and then sucked on it to get the flow going.

  “I don’t recommend this method,” he told me. “You have to be super-quick. I’ve ended up with a mouthful of gas more than once when I didn’t pull the hose away fast enough.”

  I could probably use my jackknife to cut a piece of hose from somewhere in the engine. Then I’d need something to catch the gas in. I looked around, considering what I could use. But then I got a better idea.

  I didn’t need to put the gas in a container. All I need
ed to do was get some on a cloth. And to do that, I could just stick something down into the tank and pull it back up. The bonus to this idea was that I wouldn’t have to take the chance of getting a mouthful of gas.

  Beside the road, I found a bush that looked like a willow. I cut a long, flexible branch and stripped off the side twigs. I considered tying a piece of cloth from my backpack to it, and then I considered my fluorescent orange T-shirt. But I didn’t want to use either of those and, also, I didn’t think those types of fabric would absorb gasoline that well. I thought about cutting a piece of the hood off my hoodie, but the hood was good protection against the cold. So instead, I cut off one of the pockets. I pulled out the drawstring and wound it tightly around the fabric, fastening it to the willow branch. It looked almost like a wiener on a roasting stick, a thought that made my mind wander again to Carly and the field day and then to Carly’s dad’s barbecue, burgers and wieners lined up sizzling on the grill.

  It took a few tries to get it to work. First, the fabric was too bulky to go in the fill hole. Then I broke my stick. After that, I lost the cloth down the hole and had to cut another, smaller piece from my other pocket. And I’d forgotten the tank was nearly empty. In the end, the cloth didn’t get soaked; only a corner was dampened with gas. But that would be enough.

  I poked the cloth, still on the stick, under the tinder and kindling. I didn’t want to get too close to light it. The map was still on the dashboard, under a corner of cracked but not broken glass. I carefully reached my hand through the broken part of the windshield and pushed it along the dash until I could fish out the map. I tore off the southern third. I wouldn’t need it now. Scrunching it into a ball, I pierced it with another long branch. Then I lit it.

  With the long branch, I touched the ball of flaming map to the pile of kindling. Whoosh. It ignited in a burst. I jumped back.

  Within minutes I had a hot, good-sized fire that wouldn’t be drowned by the drizzly snow. The blood began to warm in my hands and feet. My shivering gradually calmed. I could breathe, I could think again.

  A spot of color caught my eye. My first thought, crazy as it sounds, was Phoebe. Was I starting to lose my mind out here? She felt close somehow, as if she was with me. But it was the red fox, tiptoe-tiptoeing through the slush, with something hanging from her mouth.

  “You’re back,” I said, and she stopped and stood watching me, her bright eyes intense, as if she were trying to tell me something. Her bushy tail nearly touched the ground.

  “What is it? What do you want?”

  She stepped closer and I saw that the thing hanging from her mouth was a frog, its legs dangling limply.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Could I eat a frog? Frogs were edible.

  All frogs? I didn’t know. My survival guide was in the truck, buried under a tree. But if the fox could eat it, I assumed I could, too.

  She tiptoed softly away, melting back into the woods on the other side of the road. It seemed miraculous to me that a little creature like her could survive out here on her own.

  If I could get over the fact that it was May and snowing, and my only protection was a lean-to made of sticks and a fire I’d had to light with gasoline, I could have better appreciated how beautiful it was. But it was beautiful anyway. Not just the little red fox. Not just the clear crystals landing softly on my knees, their intricate structures dissolving within seconds. Not just the snow frosting the road and bush in sparkling ice. Something else poked through like the crocuses that poked through the snow in our garden in spring. It wasn’t exactly happiness. It was just—warmth. My face was warming and a glow spread from a tiny spot deep in my chest. I was alive. And that was something.

  I realized I’d been seeing this all wrong. I could have been in the truck. I would have been in the truck, huddling against the windstorm last night, if I hadn’t been lost and holed up down by the creek. It wasn’t bad luck at all. It was good luck. Amazing, incredible, stupendously stupid, wonderful good luck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Dense brush, wet with rain, blocks my path. I fight through it, the branches pushing me back like the big waves that surge in on Okanagan Lake and knock me to my knees. Up ahead, beyond the bush, yellow lights pulse out of the darkness. I fight my way closer. A rain-slick highway shines in the flashing yellow light. Wet branches slap at my face and arms. The lights can’t be more than a few steps away, but I can’t seem to get any closer. I feel tears rising, clogging my breath. Then a movement shudders the brush. It’s the little red fox, down low, picking a clear path through. I bend and follow her.

  Out on the highway, the only vehicle is a tow truck, two flashing yellow lights on its roof. There’s Dad, leaning against the side. Above the diesel rumble, I hear him.

  “Hi, Squirt. You made it.”

  I can see the silhouette of Mom’s head inside the truck. She doesn’t turn to me, but I hear her voice.

  “I told you not to leave the truck.”

  * * *

  It was dark when I woke. My heart burned like a fresh bruise, beating in my fingertips and ears and throat and toes. The embers of the fire still glowed red but the flames had died.

  The dream had been so real; the diesel smell still stung my nostrils. I tasted salt tears. I had not meant to fall asleep. It was dangerous, without my sleeping bag; the side I’d been lying on was stiff with cold. I drank some water, then rekindled the fire. In the firelight, I checked my watch. Only five after nine. Five after nine and I’d just slept about four hours. Maybe more. I’d be awake now most of the night, awake with the smashed truck, the black night, and the dream. I needed to do something.

  In the glow from the fire, I climbed onto the hood of the truck and used the crowbar to clear the glass remaining in the windshield, fighting back the thoughts that pressed in on me like mosquitoes at the screen door of a tent.

  Mom told me to stay with the truck because it’s what she always told me. When we were little, when Phoebe was still alive, she told us that if we ever got lost, we should just stay put and wait for her to find us. Every once in a while, someone would go missing in the hills and mountains around our town. From our kitchen window, I could look across the back lane beyond the hydro wires lined with pigeons and magpies, past the shingled rooftops steaming in the sun, and I could see the mountains that rose up from the valley, the closer hills sage-­dotted on the lower slopes, and behind that another range, furred with trees and snow-dusted in winter, and behind that, one more range, blue in the distance. Sometimes we heard helicopters and I watched them circling and hovering as they searched for a lost hiker or snowmobiler. I knew that the people who were found were usually the ones who stayed put.

  When I had cleared the broken glass away, I reached into the cab of the truck and was able to grab hold of my sleeping bag. I could see that it was stuck under the steering wheel, which had been jammed nearly against the seat by the fallen tree. I dug my hands in and tried to tug it out, being careful to feel first for bits of glass that could have fallen in.

  It took me about half an hour, but I finally pulled it free, only tearing it in one place. I couldn’t reach Mom or Dad’s bags, and since my flashlight wasn’t working, I couldn’t see to try to find anything else. But as I stood and shook out my sleeping bag, I noticed the radio. It didn’t seem to be damaged. I reached down and turned it on.

  Jumping down from the truck hood, I spread my sleeping bag in the lean-to. Then I went back to the truck. Except for a slight crumple near the windshield, the hood had escaped damage from the tree. The crumple had caused the hood to pop open, and that allowed me to pry it open further without having to reach the lever in the front.

  “R.I.P.”

  Dad gave me that warning about the dangers of getting battery connections wrong. “Red is positive.”

  That’s the order to follow, too. Put red on the positive post first, then black on the negative.
I hoped there was enough juice left to get the radio working. I’d left the wrench next to the battery, and I was thankful for it now. But I didn’t even have to wait until I tightened the bolts. The radio crackled to life as soon as I put on the black cable.

  “This is Heartwood Hotel at KLCC, coming to you from Eugene, Oregon, wherever you are tonight, on your couch, in your car, or working the night shift.”

  I pulled out what was left of the Oregon road map and brought it over to my lean-to. A high clear voice was singing. The glow of the fire against my sleeping bag filled me for a moment with a rush of well-being. At least I had this. I would be warm tonight. I had this voice to keep me company. A voice from Eugene, Oregon, a town where people were driving their cars and waiting at stoplights and picking up groceries, eating snacks on their couches while they listened to the radio. I looked at the map. Eugene looked to be a long ways away, west, I thought, of where I was. The town of Bend was to the east.

  Mom had said to stay. “Don’t go anywhere.” How many days had I been waiting for her?

  I heard her voice:

  “You didn’t listen and look what’s happened now.”

  Then Grandma’s:

  “Stop it, Del. You’ll say something you’ll regret.”

  We were in the boat, Grandma at the tiller of the outboard motor. Phoebe lay pale and quiet in Mom’s lap, her eyelids flickering in the sunlight. Afternoon, and the lake had blown into a chop, waves slapping the hull of the little tin boat. When the spray hit Phoebe’s face, her eyes fluttered open and Mom wiped her cheeks gently with her sleeve.

  I knew it was serious. Fainting spells weren’t unusual for Phoebe, but normally she’d sit up afterward, have a drink of Kool-Aid and a cookie. She’d be tired then for the rest of the day, but more or less herself.

  “Why did I bring her out here?” Mom said.