Bad Call

by Stephen Wallenfels

  Grahame says, shaking his head, “And now it’s snowing. Mon, dis sheet gettin’ deeper, don’t cha know.” He returns to his pack and sits down. Ellie hopes this means the attack is over. Or it could be he’s reloading. She looks around them, at the cloud that sits on their world and refuses to leave. Feels the cold sinking in, layer by layer, and wonders about Colin. How he’s holding up in that thin nylon jacket and the gardening gloves, which he has been studying ever since she said that she lied about Pepperdine. On a whim she pulls out her phone. No signal.

  After a couple minutes, Grahame says, “Actually, there’s a bright spot in this scenario. We may not be alone up here.”

  “What?” Colin says.

  “While I was on my little walk I heard a couple of guys talking. I thought about introducing myself, but the topic of their conversation seemed a little…weird.”

  After a beat, Colin says, “What were they talking about?”

  “Kitchen appliances, of all things.”

  “And what kind of appliances would those be?”

  “I distinctly heard the words blender and kitten a couple of times. I know. Weird, huh? That got me a little worried. So I decided to look for you guys. Luckily I found Ellie.” He looks at her, eyebrows knitted in concern. “Sorry about scaring you, but there’s some weird shit going on. I should’ve known you’d be all jumpy.”

  Ellie had never seen Colin’s expression so hard, so still. Like his features were sculpted from one of these boulders. She considers the odds of two other men being up here, on this day, in this weather, and determines that they’re beyond imagining. Which makes her wonder what a blender and calibrating a GPS have in common. Colin has barely looked at her since he returned, and that’s what is eating at her center more than anything else.

  She asks, “Colin? What am I missing here?”

  He works those gloves.

  Grahame kicks at a stone.

  The snowflakes continue to fall around them. A few more now than a minute ago. One lands on Ellie’s jacket. Another on her pack. Just when she thinks it’s going to really start falling—they stop.

  Ellie thinks about Ceo’s words if the weather turns.

  And his voice calls out from below, “Strap on your packs, race fans. Time to go home.”

  Lunch is a three-minute cram session of dried apricots, beef jerky, and a few swigs of water from our dwindling supply. We follow Ceo down a section of the summit ridge where he says the rock has more texture so the icing isn’t as bad. I manage with my sneakers, but it isn’t easy. The big toes on both feet are bordering on blocks of ice.

  We turn left and head down the Snow Creek Trail side of the ridge. That much I know for sure because the other side of the ridge leads down to Tenaya Canyon, a place we absolutely don’t want to go. It’s an unnerving sensation, walking down a slope where I could slip and potentially fall an unknown distance. It could be ten feet or one hundred. There could be a cliff, or a tree, or even a bear at the bottom. I have no idea. I think we made the left further up the ridge than when we crested this morning—but like everything else, it’s just a feeling with no point of reference to orient my head. The cloud is just as thick down here as it was at the top. Ellie says it’s worse. She’s probably right.

  The terrain goes from steep to moderately sloping granite to an easy mixture of granite and trees. As the angle decreases, my traction improves and I don’t have to focus so much on where I put every single step. We stay in a tight line, Ceo, me, Ellie, and Grahame. Our progress is slow, since, thanks again to my footwear issues, we continually have to work our way around the rocky patches. The end result is a creeping sensation that we’re meandering rather than heading in a purposeful direction. Amazingly, Grahame has said Me tinks dah GPS would be ah nice ting to have, eh, mon only once.

  Ceo’s plan (which we all agreed on) is to keep walking until we hit Snow Creek, then follow it downstream to the bridge. From that point, finding our way to the switchbacks will be easy. He says if we miss the creek, there is a trail that circles around the north side of Watkins, and we should be watching for that, too. The problem is how long this march is taking. We left the summit a little after one. It must be well after two by now, maybe closer to three. By my calculation, we should have intersected the Snow Creek Trail by now.

  Meanwhile, along with everything else, I’m thinking about what Grahame said at the summit. He obviously overheard me and Ceo talking, although I don’t know if he heard everything Ceo said. I have to assume he heard enough to figure things out. That would explain why Grahame went off on Ceo and all his decisions. He doesn’t like being played by him—ever, and Ceo played us all from the start. I haven’t had a chance to tell Ceo that Grahame knows about his scheme. I’m hoping to get that chance before Grahame unloads on him. Which he will definitely do. That clock is already ticking. I also think that Ellie suspects something is amiss after Grahame told that bizarre story about overhearing two random guys talking about blenders. She basically asked me flat out, What am I missing here? I hated not telling her the truth and how that truth changes everything. It’s Ceo’s job to go there, not mine.

  The more we walk, the more some of the terrain is starting to look disturbingly familiar. We just passed a tree with a lump on it that I swear I’ve seen before. Maybe we passed it on the way up, but what are those odds? This adds to my growing apprehension that we have absolutely no clue where we are. Looking at the ridiculously simple trail map, without contour lines or the benefit of visual landmarks, is a waste of time. Grahame has a better word for our state. He calls out from the back of the line, “Hey, chief! Are we freaking lost?”

  Ceo stops.

  We gather in a sagging clump, breathing heavy and sweating despite the cold, while Ceo takes off a glove and pulls out the trail map. He studies it for the fifth time since leaving the summit, rubs his chin.

  “It’s like a bad hand in poker,” Grahame says. “No matter how long you stare at it, it just ain’t gonna change.”

  “You are the wrong person to be handing out poker tips.” Ceo points to a spot on the map. “I know we’re somewhere in here, between the creek and Mount Watkins. I thought we were headed west. I honestly don’t know anymore.”

  “It feels to me like we’re circling,” Ellie says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “That’s possible, but I’m pretty sure we’re not.”

  “Pretty sure?” Grahame says. “Well, guess what? I’m pretty sure we’re fucked.”

  They exchange dark looks.

  I say, “How much daylight do we have left?”

  Ceo looks at his watch. “It’s three seventeen. We have an hour before it starts getting dark.”

  He said during lunch that we’d be switchbacking our way down by three.

  We all let that sink in.

  “Any luck with a cell signal?” he asks.

  Grahame and Ellie check their phones, shake their heads. I don’t even bother.

  “I guess that leaves us with two options. Look for a place to camp and find the trail tomorrow. Or keep walking and hope we get lucky and hit the trail before dark.”

  “And what direction, O wise one, would that be?” Grahame asks.

  “Whatever direction you pick.”

  “Is there a third option?” Grahame says.

  Ellie says, “We could try yelling for help.”

  “Great idea,” Grahame says. “All that will do is attract the bears.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Ceo says. “Before we make any decisions, how are we set for water?”

  We do a count, and between the four of us, we have two full quarts and a half of Ceo’s CamelBak. He says that should last us until we hit the creek. During that process a soft drizzle starts to fall. I’m surprised this isn’t snow. If we’re not at the freezing mark, we can’t be far from it. This new development reduces our two options by 50 percent. We find a clearing nearby at the bottom of a small slope and set up the tents. Ceo takes the ax and brings ba
ck a couple of dripping limbs. They’re too wet to start a fire. We don’t hang the food because we cut up the rope to stake out our pathetic rain fly, so we leave it in a stuff sack on top of a boulder. By the time we crawl into our respective tents and I have to face Ceo spending yet another night with Ellie, on top of everything else, the drizzle switches gears. Now it’s a steady pounding rain.

  Grahame and I pull off our soaked clothes down to the skin and crawl shivering into our cold sleeping bags. From there we watch water collect on the pathetic rain fly, which is sagging already. The water creates mini rivers that form mini waterfalls that pour through the exposed mosquito mesh and onto the floor of our tent. I already feel it soaking through the end of my bag.

  Grahame says through chattering teeth, “Want to know my three wishes for today?”

  “That we didn’t leave the toilet paper outside?” I say, having no idea where this list is headed, but certain that I won’t like it when I get there.

  “Nah. I’ll just use one of your socks. Number three is I wish I was in our dorm room studying for the ASVAB instead of freezing to death in the world’s crappiest tent.”

  “Okay. What’s number two?”

  “I wish we hadn’t let Ceo talk us into climbing that mountain.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Ready for wish number one?”

  “Make it quick. My organs are shutting down.”

  “I wish it wasn’t so foggy today. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “That way I could’ve snapped a picture of your face when Ceo said the whole reason he talked us into this fucking trip was to hook you up with goalie girl.” He laughs between shivers. “Dog, I’d turn that into a poster and never it take down.”

  With the rain bouncing off their tent. With the gray day outside sliding into night and his sleeping bag pressed against hers. With their conversation not on the storm but on everything else because talking about the shit they’re in now won’t change a thing. With all that behind them and winding down to the improbability of sleep he asks, “You warm yet?”

  “Almost.”

  “Do you need any of my clothes?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Don’t be trying to score my comfy socks.”

  “Your socks are safe.”

  He goes quiet for a while. Then rolls onto his side, facing her.

  It’s so black in here she can’t see him, but she feels the touch of his breath on her face.

  He says, “You’ve been quiet way over there in Ellie land. What’s on your mind?”

  She considers all the thoughts in her head. Colin in that leaking tent and all the rain. How he looked so wet and cold, like a cat pulled out of a well. About what his night will be compared to hers. About the withering look he gave Ceo. About the prospects of tomorrow and the odds that the weather will clear enough so they can find their way out of this forest. About her parents and the conversation waiting for her when this part is over. She puts it all into a mental list, ranks them in order of priority and the number one spot is occupied by two words:

  “Kitchen appliances.”

  “Wow.” A laugh rolls out of the dark. “Did not see that coming.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “My favorite kitchen appliance? Hmmm…that’s a tough one. There are so many good choices. Most guys would go with the microwave. For me it’s a tie between espresso machines and dishwashers.”

  “If you had to pick one?”

  “Espresso machines. Doing dishes is optional. Caffeine is not.”

  “Funny,” she says, “I had you pegged for something totally different.”

  “Not a garbage disposal, I hope.”

  “I heard you’re a blender guy.”

  She counts ten seconds before he says, “Who told you that?”

  “Grahame.”

  “When?”

  “After you threw the GPS off a cliff.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said you need a new therapist.”

  “A new therapist?”

  “As in the therapy you got from me last night didn’t work.”

  Ceo rolls onto his back. After a deep sigh he tells her, “I’m sorry Grahame said that. And he will be, too. That’s a promise.”

  He turns away, his back to her.

  The silence in their tent drowns out the infinite drum of rain.

  Grahame nudges me with an elbow.

  Whispers, “You hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Shh. On the boulder.”

  I listen.

  The first thing I notice is that the rain has stopped. It’s a different sound. Not the splat of rain. Soft, like petals falling on skin. Something passes through the mesh and lands on my face. Cold and wet.

  Snow.

  Then I hear the other sounds.

  A snort. A grunt.

  Claws scraping on rock.

  My heart surges against my ribs.

  Grahame hisses, “Oh shit oh shit.”

  Cloth tearing.

  Boxes shredded, cans rolling down.

  We listen to it feed.

  Then nothing.

  Padded feet in mud.

  Is it still hungry?

  Fur brushing our tent.

  The side next to me bulges in against my head.

  It pauses.

  The fabric relaxes.

  Silence.

  Minutes pass.

  Snow falls.

  Grahame finally whispers, “Is it gone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Dude, it was inches from your head.”

  “Yeah.”

  “My feet felt like a couple of rib eyes.”

  “At least they were frozen,” I say.

  “Dumb-ass me leaves the ax outside.”

  “And Smokey lives another day.”

  After a bit he says, “The end of my bag is soaked.”

  “Mine too. I think we put our tent in the runoff from that hill.”

  “How is it without a sleeping pad?”

  “It’s like sleeping on an Eskimo pie. There’s a dry spot under my left elbow.”

  He laughs at our comedy of errors. “This trip can’t get worse. Right?”

  Something breaks loose and slides down the rain fly.

  I reach up, tap on the roof. It unleashes an avalanche.

  I sit up in the cold. Grope for my headlamp, switch it on.

  My breath clouds in the beam. I open the door. Aim it out into the dark.

  Big flakes falling through the trees. Lots of them.

  The ground is white. Totally white. Except for the footprints. The footprints passing next to our tent. They’re still black. But already filling in.

  “Sorry to break the news,” I say, reaching for the water bottle.

  It’s frozen solid.

  “This trip is officially worse.”

  Later, after the rain changed to snow. After the bear. After the wind. After the dream where Colin is in her room in a pink towel looking for the soap under her bed, Ceo asks Ellie what she thinks of Q.

  Her eyes fly open.

  “Before you answer that,” he says, “I have something to tell you.”

  Morning can’t come soon enough. But when it does it brings a sledgehammer.

  The snow is piling up. The bear prints are long gone. The trees around us are vague shapes behind a curtain of white. And just as the gray light of dawn brings focus to the day, the wind is unleashed. It shakes and shudders the tent, claws at the rain fly, pops the stakeout lines, whips snow through the mosquito netting like flour through a sifter. I look at the other tent. Their fly is better, but not by much. One side already has a drift covering half the door. The branch that Ceo chopped is reduced to a white bump. I figure we’ve had six to eight inches, and our clearing is sheltered by trees. Make that ten inches out in the wide-open spaces where I would hate to face that wind. My stomach sinks as I realize that the trail will be covered. If it keeps f
alling at this rate, by the time we’re all packed and ready to go, there will be close to a foot on the ground and much higher than that in the drifts. With the wind blowing like it is, who knows what the visibility will be. Worse than yesterday, that’s for sure. And I’ll be wading through it all in tennis shoes with holes in the toes.

  I upgrade the task of trail finding from difficult to impossible.

  Grahame hasn’t spoken for the past hour. I know he’s awake because his teeth are chattering.

  I hear the sound of a zipper outside.

  Ceo’s hat-covered head emerges from the door. He punches through the drift and walks the ten feet to our tent, saying, “Good morning, lads. It’s a fine, fine day in the neighborhood!”

  All he gets from our tent is a collective groan.

  Ceo crouches down, raises the rain fly, and peers in. His eyes darken as he surveys our world. He says, “It’s like the Titanic in here.”

  I say, “We’re in the runoff from that hill.”

  “That’s some bad luck,” he says.

  “No…shhhhh…shit,” Grahame says between convulsive shivers.

  “You guys hang in. I’ll be right back.”

  He drops the rain fly and leaves.

  Ceo returns a few minutes later, unzips the door to our tent in a blast of wind and snow. He tosses Grahame his sleeping bag, then hands me two stuff sacks and his sleeping pad. “Grahame, your bag is soaked. Use mine. It’s Gore-Tex, so it won’t get wet. Q, the small sack is a waterproof bivy. Put your sleeping bag inside it. You won’t get dry, but at least you’ll preserve body heat. My foam pad should help. The first thing is you all need to get dry and warm. I have extra socks and a sweater in the big stuff sack. I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?” Grahame says, pulling off his shirt.

  “To start a fire.”

  “In a freaking blizzard?”

  “Not a problem,” Ceo says. “With a little help from Team Coleman.”

  The fire roars and snaps. It rages against the howling wind and stinging snow that are determined to snuff it out. Ceo had to use most of the remaining Coleman fuel from his stove to get it started. He’s saving the rest of the fuel in case this fire goes out. No point in saving it for food because the stove wouldn’t start and the bear ate it all except for one small tin of chicken meat with a puncture hole in the top. We shared it out of the can. The four of us huddle around the flames in a tight U, shoulder to shoulder, backs to the wind, holding out our wet clothes, hoping they will dry. This isn’t the best arrangement because the wind carries away most of the heat. If we move, the fire will be overcome by the storm and die.