Long Lost

by David Morrell

  I never forgot the name. But as Petey, Jason, and I had made plans, I couldn’t find the place on a map. I finally had to phone the headquarters for park services in Colorado. A ranger had faxed me a section of a much more detailed map than I was using, showing me the route to Breakhorse Ridge. I’d spread my general map on the dining room table, put the fax over the section we were interested in, and shown Petey and Jason where we were going.

  Now we were almost there, turning to the right onto Highway 9, heading north into the Arapaho National Forest.

  “It gets tricky from here on, guys. Keep comparing the map to what’s around us,” I said.

  Jason crawled into the front, and Petey buckled his seat belt over both of them.

  “What are we searching for?” Jason asked.

  “This squiggly line.” Petey showed him the fax. “It’ll be a narrow dirt road on the right. With all these pine trees, we’ll have to watch closely. It’ll be hard to spot.”

  I steered around a curve. The trees got thicker. Even so, I thought I saw a break in them on the right. But I didn’t say anything, wanting Jason to make the discovery. Petey must have read my mind. I saw him look up from the map and focus his eyes as if he’d noticed the break, but he didn’t say anything, either.

  I drove closer.

  The break became a little more distinct.

  “There!” Jason pointed. “I see it!”

  “Good job,” Petey said.

  “For sure,” I added. “I almost went past it.”

  I steered to the right and entered a bumpy dirt lane. Scrub grass grew between its wheel ruts. Bushes squeezed its sides. Pine branches formed a canopy.

  “Gosh, do you think we’ll get stuck?” Jason leaned forward with concern.

  “Not with this four—wheel drive,” Petey said. “It’d take a lot worse terrain than this to put us in trouble. Even if it snowed, we wouldn’t have to worry.”

  “Snowed?” Jason frowned. “In June?”

  “Sure,” Petey said. “This time of year, you can still get a storm in the mountains.” The trees became sparse. “See those peaks ahead and how much snow they still have? Up here, the sun hasn’t gotten hot enough to melt it yet.”

  Taking sharp angles, the lane zigzagged higher. The slope below us became dizzyingly steep. The bumps were so severe that only those cowboys who’d ridden bucking wild horses here years earlier could have enjoyed the ride.

  “Who do you suppose built this road?” Jason asked. “It looks awfully old.”

  “The forest service maybe,” I said. “Or maybe loggers or ranchers before this area became part of the national forest system. I remember our dad saying that in the old days cattlemen kept small herds here to feed prospectors in mining towns.”

  “Prospectors? Gold?” Jason asked.

  “And silver. A long time ago. Most of the towns are abandoned now.”

  “Ghost towns,” Petey said.

  “Gosh,” Jason said.

  “Or else the towns became ski resorts,” I said, hoping to subdue Jason’s imagination so Petey and I wouldn’t be wakened by his nightmares about ghosts.

  The road crested the slope and took us into a bright meadow, the new grass waving in a gentle breeze.

  “It’s the way I remember it when Dad drove us here,” I told Petey.

  “After all these years,” Petey said in awe.

  “Are we there yet?” Jason asked.

  The age—old question from kids. I imagined that Petey or I had asked our dad the same thing. We looked at each other and couldn’t keep from laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Jason asked.

  “Nothing,” Petey said. “No, we’re not there yet.”

  13

  It took another half hour. The meadow gave way to more pine trees and a slope steeper than the first one, the zigzag angles sharper. We crested a bumpy rise, and I stopped suddenly, staring down toward where the barely detectable road descended into a gentle grassy bowl. Sunlight glinted off a picture—book lake, aspens beyond it, then pine trees, then mountains towering above.

  “Yes,” I said, my chest tight. “Just as I remember.”

  “It hasn’t changed,” Petey said.

  On the right, old corrals were the only variation in the meadow. Their gray weathered posts and railings had long ago collapsed into rotting piles. We drove past them, near—ing the lake. There weren’t any other cars. In fact, I couldn’t find an indication that anyone had been around in a very long time.

  We stopped fifty feet from the lake, where I recalled Dad stopping. When we got out of the car, I savored the fresh, pleasantly cool air.

  “Look at this old campfire, Dad!”

  Petey and he were on the right side of the car. I looked over toward a scorched circle of rocks that had charred hunks of wood in the middle.

  “Old is right,” Petey said. “I bet it hasn’t been used in years.” He looked at me. “I wonder if this is the same place you and I and Dad built our campfire?”

  “It’s nice to think so.”

  Jason brimmed with energy. “Where are we going to put up the tent?”

  “How about over there?” I pointed to the right of the old campfire site. “I think that’s where Petey and I helped Dad put up our tent.”

  “Can I help, Dad?”

  “Of course,” Petey said.

  There was a moment after I lifted the back hatch and we unloaded our gear when the déjà vu I’d been feeling reached an overwhelming intensity. Everything seemed realer than real. I looked over at Jason and Petey as they pulled the collapsed tent from its nylon sack and tried to figure how to put it together. Jason’s glasses and freckles, his sandy hair at the edge of his baseball cap, his baggy jeans and loose—fitting shirt, made him look so much like Petey had looked as a boy that I shivered.

  Jason noticed. “What’s the matter, Dad?”

  “Nothing. This breeze is a little cold is all. I’m going to put on my windbreaker. You want yours?”

  “Naw, I’m fine.”

  “Big brother,” Petey called. “You’re the expert in how buildings are put together. Do you think you can show us how to put this damned tent together?”

  The three of us needed an hour to get the job done.

  14

  By then, it was almost 1:30. Kate had packed a lunch in a cooler: chicken, beef, and peanut butter sandwiches, along with soft drinks, apples, and little packages of potato chips. Jason didn’t touch the apples. Otherwise, he wolfed everything down, the same as Petey and I did. We saw fish splashing in the lake but decided to get our poles out later. For now, there was plenty to do, exploring. We put our lunch trash in a bag, locked it in the car, and set out, hiking to the left around the lake.

  “I remember there was a cave up there.” I pointed above the aspens. “And lots of places to climb.”

  Petey yelled to Jason, who was running ahead of us. “Do you like to climb?”

  “I don’t know!” Jason turned to look at us, continuing to run. “I’ve never done it!”

  “You’re going to love it!”

  The lake was about a hundred yards across. We reached the other side and found a stream that fed into it. The stream was swift from the spring snowmelt, too wide to cross, so we followed its cascading path up through the aspens, the roar of the water sometimes so loud that we couldn’t hear one another.

  Even though we were three thousand feet higher than the altitude of five thousand feet we were used to in Denver, the thin mountain air didn’t slow us. If anything, it was invigorating. It was like inhaling vitamins. Stretching my legs to climb over fallen trees or to clamber on and off boulders, I felt such pleasure from my body that I criticized myself for not having taken time from work to do this earlier.

  Across the stream, above us, a deer moved, its brown silhouette stiffening at our approach, then bounding gracefully away through the white trunks of the aspens. With the noise from the stream, it couldn’t have heard us coming, I thought. It must have smelled
us. Then another silhouette stiffened and bounded away. A third. Even with the noise from the stream, I heard their hooves thunder.

  Soon we reached where the stream cascaded from a high, narrow draw that was too dangerous to go into. We angled to the left, following a steep upward trail that had hoof marks on it. The trail veered farther to the left, maintaining a consistent level along a wooded slope, so predictable that when a sunlit outcrop above us attracted our attention, we decided to explore. Getting to it was more difficult than it appeared. At one time or another, both Petey and I slipped on loose rocks underfoot. We’d have rolled to the bottom, scraping our arms and legs, maybe even breaking something, if we hadn’t managed to clutch exposed tree roots. By contrast, Jason scurried up like a mountain goat.

  Breathing hoarsely, Petey and I crawled over the rim and found Jason waiting for us on a wide slab of rock that provided a view of the stream below us and the chasm through which it churned. Two hundred feet above it, we were far enough from the roar for me not to need to shout when I warned Jason, “Stay away from the edge.”

  “I will,” he promised. “But, gosh, this is totally neat, Dad.”

  “Beats watching television, huh?” Petey said.

  Jason thought about it. His face assumed an expression of “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Petey laughed.

  “Where’s that cave you mentioned?” Jason asked.

  “I’m having trouble remembering,” I said. “Somewhere on this side of the stream is all I know for sure.”

  “Can we look for it?”

  “Absolutely. After we take a break.”

  I settled onto the stone slab, unhooked my canteen from my belt, and took a long swallow of slightly warm, slightly metallic—tasting, incredibly delicious water. The park ranger I’d spoken to on the telephone had emphasized that we needed to take canteens with us and knapsacks containing trail food, a compass and a topographical map (neither of which I knew how to use), a first—aid kit, and a rain slicker in case the weather turned bad. “Dress in layers,” she’d advised. “Keep a dry jacket in your knapsack.” I’d already put on my denim windbreaker before we left the car. Now the hike had so warmed me that I took off the jacket and stuffed it into the knapsack.

  “Anybody want some peanuts and raisins?” I asked.

  “I’m still full from lunch,” Petey said.

  Jason looked uncomfortable.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I have to …”

  It took me a moment to understand. “Pee?”

  Jason nodded, bashful.

  “Go around that boulder over there,” I told him.

  Hesitant, he disappeared behind it.

  My parental obligations taken care of for the moment, I stepped forward to admire the chasm. The stream tumbled down a series of low waterfalls. Spray hovered over it. How had Jason described the view? “Neat”? He was right. This was totally neat.

  Behind me, he suddenly shouted, “Dad!”

  Something slammed my back with such force that it took my breath away. I hurtled into space.

  15

  The drop sucked more of my breath away. The little that was left jolted from my mouth when I struck loose stones. Avalanching with them, rolling sideways, I groaned. Abruptly, I hurtled into the air again, plummeting farther, my stomach squeezing toward my throat. I jerked to an agonizing stop, my left arm stretching as if it were about to be ripped from its socket. My arm slipped free of something. I dropped again and hit something hard. Cold mist swallowed me. Darkness swirled.

  When my eyelids slowly opened, black turned to gray, but the swirling continued. Pain awoke throughout my body. Delirious, I took a long time to realize that the gray swirling around me was vapor thrown up from the cascading stream. The roar aggravated my dizziness.

  I felt that I was breathing through a cold, wet washcloth. Gradually, I understood that my left arm was across my nose and mouth. My shirtsleeve was soaked from the vapor that the thundering stream tossed into the air. Then I trembled, seeing that my sleeve was wet from something besides the mist. Blood. My arm was gashed.

  Alarm shot through me. I fought to raise my head, and discovered that I was on my back on a ledge. Below was a fall of what I judged to be 150 feet. A series of outcrops led sharply down to the roaring stream.

  Jesus, what had happened?

  I peered up. The vapor made it difficult for me to see the top of the cliff. Nonetheless, through the haze, I could distinguish a long slope of loose stones below the rim. The slope had saved my life. If I’d fallen directly to where I now lay, my injuries would have been catastrophic. Instead, I’d rolled down the slope, painfully reducing the length of the fall. But beneath the slope of loose stones, there had been a ledge over which I’d tumbled to the ledge I’d landed on, and the distance between them was about twenty feet. A potentially lethal drop. Why wasn’t I dead?

  My knapsack dangled above me. It was caught on a sharp branch of a stunted pine tree that had managed to grow from the side of the cliff. I remembered stuffing my windbreaker into the knapsack and hanging the knapsack over my left shoulder before I’d walked over to peer into the chasm. The branch had snagged the knapsack. The sharp pain in my left shoulder indicated the force with which I’d been jerked to a stop. My arm had slipped free from the strap. I’d fallen a body length to this ledge. Luck was all that had saved me.

  Every movement excruciating, I strained to sit up. My mind tilted, as if ball bearings rolled from the front of my skull to the back. For a moment, I feared that I’d vomit.

  “Jason!” I tried to yell. “Petey!”

  But the words were like stones in my throat.

  “Jason!” I tried harder. “Petey!”

  The roar of the stream overpowered my voice.

  Don’t panic, I fought to assure myself. It doesn’t matter if they can’t hear me. They know where I am. They’ll help me.

  My God, I hope they don’t try to climb down, I suddenly thought.

  “Jason! Petey! Stay where you are! You’ll fall and get killed!”

  My voice cracked, making my words a hoarse whisper.

  Straining to see through the haze, I hoped to catch a glimpse of Jason and Petey peering over the rim to try to find me. No sign of them. Maybe they’re trying to get a better vantage point, I thought. Or maybe they’re hurrying back to the mouth of the chasm, hoping to reach me from below.

  I prayed that they’d be careful, that Jason wouldn’t take foolish chances, that Petey would make sure he didn’t. Trembling, I parted the rip in my sleeve. Wiping away the blood, I saw a gash five inches long between my elbow and my wrist. Blood immediately welled up, obscuring the wound. It dripped from my arm, pooling on the ledge.

  Bile shot into my mouth.

  Do something, I thought. I can’t just sit here and let myself bleed to death.

  My knapsack seemed to float above me. I stretched my good arm but couldn’t reach it. In greater pain, I mustered the strength to try to stand.

  The first—aid kit in the knapsack, I thought.

  My legs gave out. I clawed at a niche and barely avoided toppling into the chasm. Despite the cold from the stream, I sweated. Shock made me tremble as I grabbed for a higher niche and wavered to my feet. For a moment, I saw specks in front of my eyes. Then my vision cleared, and I stared up toward the knapsack. Despairingly, it seemed as high as ever. My injured left arm dangled at my side. I extended my right arm upward. Another six inches. All I need is six inches more, I thought.

  Pressing my chest against the cliff, standing on tiptoes, wincing from new throbbing pain in my hips, my sides, and my ribs, I stretched as high as I could, then breathed out in triumph as I touched the knapsack’s strap.

  Vapor from the stream had slicked the nylon. I lost my grip but instantly pawed for the strap again, pushing my tiptoes to their limits, this time clutching with all my strength. I tugged the knapsack to the side, toward the chasm, working to free it from the stout branch it had
snagged on. I tugged once, twice, and suddenly felt weightless as the knapsack jerked free.

  Falling, I dove toward the ledge. I screamed as my injured arm landed, but I couldn’t let myself react. I had to concentrate solely on my good arm hanging over the ledge, the knapsack dangling from my fingers.

  Cautiously, I rolled onto my back and placed the knapsack on my chest. The temptation to rest was canceled by the increased flow of blood from my arm. Nauseated, I opened the knapsack, pawed past my windbreaker and rain slicker, pushed the Ziploc bags of trail food aside, and found the plastic case of the first—aid kit.

  I clumsily pried it open, dismayed to find only Band—Aids and two—inch—square pads along with scissors, antiseptic swabs, antibiotic cream, and a plastic bottle of Tylenol. None of that was going to stop the bleeding.

  A tourniquet, I thought. I’ll use my belt. I’ll tighten it around my arm and …

  But even as I unbuckled my belt, I remembered something I’d read about tourniquets being dangerous, about the risk of blood clots and gangrene if the tourniquet wasn’t loosened at proper intervals.

  What difference does it make? I thought. I’ll bleed to death before I die from gangrene.

  A pressure bandage. Whatever I’d read about tourniquets had warned that a pressure bandage was the safe way to stop bleeding, something that put pressure on the wound without cutting off the flow of blood. But where was I going to find something like that?

  The bleeding worsened.

  Perhaps because I was light—headed, I took more time than I should have to remember something else that might be in the knapsack. Once when Kate had been on a college trip to Paris, she’d sprained an ankle and had limped painfully from drugstore to drugstore, trying to find an Ace bandage, the wide, long elastic material you wrap around a sprain to give the injured area some support. Since then, whenever she traveled, she made sure to carry one in her luggage, and she always took care to pack one for me.