Field-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  More groans.

  “Bunch of wussies,” Burt mumbles.

  “We’re going to try something different today,” Art chimes in. “You’ll be working in pairs with a member from the other team.”

  I slump down in my chair. Watch those dicks pair me up with Alan.

  “How long is the hike?” Wang asks.

  “It’ll take you most of the day to get there. But there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Our hut’s in the protected wilderness, next to the most pristine hot springs you’ve ever seen. This ain’t no overcrowded amusement park, folks. The only other guests you’ll probably run into is a bunch of wildlife.”

  Sabrina raises her hand.

  I brace myself for the stupidity about to exit her mouth.

  “How do we get there?” she asks.

  “Snowshoes,” Art tells her.

  “Malcolm!” Burt yells. “Bring out the list.”

  Donning a floral scarf and a Camp Proton sweatshirt, Malcolm sighs dramatically and flounces to the front of the room with a clipboard. “When I call your names, go stand by your partner and bossman will give you your gear. Team one: Stanley and Sabrina. Team two: Skip and Joy…” He names a few more pairs and then calls out Alan and Preeti.

  I unclench my pant leg then reclench it when I realize the only pair left is Charlie and I.

  I squint-smile at Burt.

  He squints-smiles back.

  A ridge twitches in Charlie’s jaw. She is not amused with her godfather’s hijinks.

  Nor am I.

  Still, I can’t ignore the spark that just ignited inside me. The whole day to ourselves. So many ways this could go. I focus on the sexual path. Why? Because I’m a masochist.

  Loaded down with our equipment, Burt hands me a map at the door. “Have fun, Beav.”

  I tear the paper out of his grasp and study it.

  Charlie arrives by my side with her dogs.

  “Sure that’s a good idea, bringing them?” I ask. “What if Julius has another episode?”

  “They’ll tear up the lodge otherwise. Bad separation anxiety.” Without another word, she takes off on her own.

  Apparently, we’re taking the other path today. The rocky, grudge-y path.

  Neither of us are in a particularly chatty mood. So we crunch through the snow for over an hour, in search of the red canisters containing our first clue.

  Finally, we discover the first one hanging from a post. We unroll the next map and continue on in silence.

  The air’s too fresh, like it’s about to snow. There’s no indication how much longer we have, and there’s no way to find out. All we have is the GPS. No walkie-talkies. No phones. No way to call for help. This is an incredibly stupid idea on Proton’s part. They should know better.

  I grew up in the mountains. I know how dangerous it is out here. Sweat mixed with chilly wind and wet snow is the perfect recipe for hypothermia. It’s a good thing we’re both experienced hikers.

  For the next half-mile, I focus on the beautiful scenery. Namely, her ass. A memory of hiking with her in college pops up—her ahead of me, holding my hand, quietly taking in nature.

  She stops and calls out the coordinates on the GPS. “This is it, right?”

  A white jackrabbit bursts out from behind a tree and scurries away.

  One of her dogs takes off after it and bounds up a steep incline.

  “Shit!” She unloads her pack and drops it next to a tree.

  “I’ll go,” I tell her. Her shoulder has to be killing her after wearing that heavy thing.

  “No!” she snaps. “Just stay here.”

  I ignore her and climb the peak.

  This infuriates her. “I told you not to come.”

  “You might need a hand.”

  “I don’t need you.” The double meaning of this is not lost.

  I stop and stare at her. “Why is it such a big deal for you to ask for help?”

  She marches on, her fists probably clenched in little balls in those mittens of hers.

  We follow the tracks to the top. It’s an incredible workout. My knee burns, especially since I’m still wearing my pack.

  At the top, her mutt is digging under a tree on the edge of a cliff.

  The view is insane—saw-toothed white ridges jutting up above black trees. We’re close to timberline—around 11,000 feet.

  In the distance, the fourteeners, Grays and Torreys, stretch up to the sun. It’s staggering how high up we are.

  Up here, where the air is thin and the view expands for hundreds of miles, it’s humbling, like a religious experience. This is where church should take place, out here in this cathedral.

  I silently give thanks for the creation of this magnificence.

  Meanwhile, Charlie’s having a helluva time trying to drag L.L. away from that tree. Now the other three are in on the chase.

  I amble over to give her hand, and then stop in my tracks. There’s a rumble beneath my feet. “Don’t move,” I whisper. “Don’t even breathe.”

  Crack! Bang! Whoosh! And then, wham! All that’s left is white and a tiny whimper above me.

  Know what I was thinking in that instant? Hope I die first.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Charlie Lets Go

  THIS IS IT. I finally get to see my family again. I just have to let go.

  Snap! I drop an inch.

  Searing pain stabs my hand. I need to rest my arm and get my mitten off. Then I can hold on for a bit longer.

  I try to switch my grip, but my injured shoulder won’t let me.

  I stare down at what meets me thousands of feet below. There are no giant mattresses or nets or trampolines—just boulders and skeletal trees.

  A noise leaks out from a foreign place inside me, animalistic almost, like a whimpering dog. It is a whimpering dog. My dogs! Their cries of distress give me a burst of strength and allow me to cling a little longer.

  Why can’t I let go? I’m not ready. I need more time.

  “Charlie, let go!”

  “I can’t!”

  “I’ve got you. Let go!”

  “No! Not yet!”

  “Goddammit, Chicken, let go of that goddamn branch! I’ve got you!”

  Everything gives out—the branch, my strength, my arm—and I give in.

  Life rushes by in a translucent blur, and all at once, I’m terrifyingly free.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Eli Dies

  December 2005

  I DIED three times in two weeks.

  The night before my first death, snow dumped fresh powder on the mountain, and while it softly piled up on the slopes, I was cozy under a pile of covers, buried inside Charlie.

  Earlier that evening, we’d celebrated my qualification for the Olympic snowboard trials. In a few weeks, I would be leaving to train in Turin, Italy, with Team USA.

  She didn’t know it, but I was going to propose before I left.

  But first, I had to tell her brother I was in love with her.

  Patrick had been my best friend since the age of eleven. We were in Scouts together. We drank our first beer together. We smoked our first pack of smokes, experimented with drugs, watched porn, and even jacked off together one weird night in his basement.

  We never went anywhere without each other. In junior high, we played in a band and snowboarded all nine months of the season.

  He was the one who got me into racing. And his family’s support was the reason I excelled at the sport. They were the ones clanging the cowbell at the finish line. My family was too busy.

  The Sullivans were everything to me. They were the parents I wanted. And I didn’t want to lose them.

  For years, I’d had a crush on Patrick’s wild tomboy sister, but he made it clear she was off limits. Clear, as in, he threatened to slice off my balls if I touched her.

  Part of his reasoning was justified. He was worried if something happened between Charlie and me it would affect our friendship. That worried me too, quite honestly.
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br />   I tried to forget her by dating others, but that just made me look worse in her brother’s eyes. He saw me slam, bam, thank you ma’am so many women that he was convinced I’d do the same to his sister.

  I concentrated on snowboarding instead and started winning every race. A lot of that had to do with Charlie standing at the finish line with those “Loser” signs. It became a running joke with us, because I always won.

  Even though my mind was always on racing, my heart was always with her. And her brother, for that matter. I loved them both.

  I was so torn. What if falling in love with her meant losing my best friend?

  When Charlie and I finally got together, I begged her to keep it a secret. I wanted to be sure we would last.

  Also, it was kind of fun, sneaking around. It made things more exciting.

  At the end of our first year, I won the nationals and qualified for the Olympic trials.

  It’s difficult to explain how satisfying it is to be madly in love and reach the pinnacle of your career at the same time. It’s like the biggest high in the world.

  A week later, the day of my first death, I stood on top of that snowy peak, and I shouted to the world. “I am God!”

  Sounds cocky, but that’s how I felt. Like I was one step away from ruling Heaven.

  I let go and flew down the slopes, my body flowing, my soul soaring, and my board carving up the mountain.

  And then I caught a weird edge and slammed into a tree.

  At the time, I thought it was the worst pain ever. I was wrong.

  After I came out of surgery that night with my leg in a cast, Charlie wouldn’t leave my side.

  “It’s okay, if you cry,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  I laughed a little at her sweetness. Most people only saw her tough exterior. But I’d seen enough of her vulnerable side to know she was as girly as they came.

  “I’m not going to cry, Chicken,” I told her. “You’ll make fun of me.”

  She jerked back in horror. “I would never do that!”

  I squeezed her hand. “I probably wouldn’t have made it through the trials anyway. No big deal. I’ll live.”

  When I’d said that, I really believed it. I’d graduate from college and get on with my life. I’d take a job in graphic design, maybe become a snowboard coach. I was only 21. I had my whole life ahead of me. Hell, maybe I’d try out for the Olympics again.

  They let me out of the hospital two days later, and I went home with her. When I tried to walk on my own, it hit me—the loss.

  I couldn’t help but remember my arrogance on the mountain. Someone had knocked me down a peg and reminded me not to take things for granted.

  For the first time ever, I slipped under the dead weight of depression. I wouldn’t eat or get out of bed. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  But Charlie wouldn’t let me wander through the dark alone. She made it her mission to get me out of bed. And she did it by taunting me.

  She bought me a walker and an alert button for the bathroom. “In case you fall and can’t get up,” she told me. “Now that you’re old and handicapped—”

  “I’m not old or handicapped.”

  “Well, I just assumed…since you won’t get out of bed. Oh, by the way, I called Dad to build a ramp for you, and I checked into a handicapped sticker for the Jeep.”

  I got up and limped over to her. “Do not call your father.”

  “Look at you!” she said with a devious grin. “You don’t even need a cane.”

  “All right, I get the point.”

  “Good. Because you need to get in the shower.”

  By the end of the week, I was damn near at seventy-five percent. I felt good enough to let my girl ride me. In fact, I felt so damn good I refused to answer the phone calls.

  Then her phone started ringing.

  She stopped moving. “Something’s wrong,” she said.

  “Hand me the phone.”

  “No.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  I held her for a moment longer then reached for her cell, just to prove her wrong.

  I’ll spare you the details of what happened next. After all, you’d have to be a sadist to want to hear about her entire family dying in a car accident.

  The only thing I will tell you is that thirty minutes before the call from the police came, Patrick texted me this:

  I know Ur seeing my sister, U asshole. Mom and Dad and I are coming to beat Ur assets.

  It’s hard to laugh at a typo when it’s the last text you ever get from your best friend.

  On the way to beat my ass, they lost control and crashed through a guardrail and hit a semi.

  I killed the Sullivans.

  A week after that, Charlie killed me.

  Where do you go when you die? For me it was the opposite of Heaven: New York City.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Eli Kills

  Survival Tip: Deep wounds may have to be drained or reopened to prevent infection.

  Eli’s Mixtape: The Dead Weather, “60 Feet Tall”

  ON A LEDGE no more than three feet wide by six feet long, I caught Charlie in my arms.

  Between you and me? I didn’t think I could do it. Or that she could do it.

  I stumble to my knees and set her down. For a brief expanse of time that feels like light years, we exist on the ledge, inhaling and exhaling, grasping each other, trying to fathom the unfathomable, marveling that we survived this extraordinary peril together without serious injury.

  “Are you hurt?” is the first phrase out of my mouth.

  She’s shaking violently and darting glances everywhere.

  “Charlie.” I hold her chin in place. “Are you hurt?”

  Wild terror seizes her expression. “Where are my dogs?”

  Shit! I didn’t even think about them.

  She calls out their names, and the little guy with the bad eye prances out from a crevasse hidden underneath a wall of ice. It’s amazing he lived.

  It’s amazing we lived.

  We fell a good thirty feet. Evidently, we were standing on a snow cornice, and there was nothing to support it.

  It must have formed during the ice storm, along with the glacier covering the cliff. Now there is no way to get back up without ice climbing gear.

  The tree above fell over, and by some miracle, didn’t crush us.

  I don’t know how Charlie managed to hold onto the branch as long as she did, without pulling it over on top of her.

  Overhead, I spot two furry heads poking over the edge. “There are the other two.”

  A whoosh of air blasts out of her. “Thank God. L.L.? Are you up there, too?”

  Whimpers spring up from below.

  We peer over the cliff. Eight feet down, stuck on an even thinner ledge than ours, the St. Bernard is shaking and whining, unable to move without killing himself.

  Charlie crouches like she’s actually capable of leaping down to save that hundred-and-fifty pound goliath by herself.

  I grab her elbow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not leaving him down there.”

  “I’ll get him.” No idea how I’m going to accomplish this, but hey, I just survived an avalanche, might as well commit suicide.

  My backpack lies to my left, still half-buried in the snow. I dig it out and dump out a zippered bag with the words Proton Sports Survival Kit monogrammed on front. Inside is the following:

  1 rain poncho

  1 space blanket

  1 mini-flashlight

  1 signaling mirror

  1 whistle

  1 emergency fishing kit

  4, 12” cords and plastic stakes to make the space blanket into a shelter

  2 carabiners

  2 hand warmer gel packs

  1 all-in-one tool

  1 fire starter rod

  6 chemically treated tinder balls

  1 first aid kit, with gauze, tape, moleskin, bug spray, s
unscreen, and three bandages

  3 freeze-dried meals

  1 packet of beef jerky

  1 packet of energy chews

  10 water treatment tablets

  1 half-filled water bottle

  We also have one trek pole and three damaged snowshoes.

  I huff and stuff everything back in the bag. “No rope, no axe, no shovel, no goddamned walkie-talkies. What the hell were they thinking?” It’s an absurd question at this point. “And why did they pack those meals and nothing to cook them in?”

  “All of that was in my pack.” She rubs her shoulder and glances down at her dog. “What are we going to do?”

  I stare at our meager supplies. “I don’t even have a hat.”

  She hands me her red knit beanie. “Use mine. I have a hood.”

  I don’t take it. I just keep staring at the things that may or may not keep us alive for another two or three days max.

  With her hurt shoulder and my hurt knee, we’re not exactly freehand ice climbers. And there’s the other matter—her dogs, which knowing her, she’d sacrifice her own life to save them.

  In other words, it’s looking bleak, and hauling her dog up to us is looking even bleaker.

  I tell her like it is. “Without a harness, I could slip and die.”

  Deep creases line her forehead. “I know. Don’t do it.” There is such despair in her tone it overshadows every obstacle we’re facing.

  “Let me see your scarf,” I say.

  She unravels it and hands it over.

  I dangle it over the edge. It covers half the distance. I pull it back up and drag my hand down my beard. “We can try to make a harness out of the space blanket and your scarf,” I say. “But we don’t have anything to anchor it. Or anything to make a pulley system.”

  “What if we cut the blanket into strips and tied it in knots?”

  I dip my chin and give her an are-you-kidding-me look.