Journey By Fire, Part 2: Escape From Tonto Basin

by Bruce W. Perry

  "No, the hump stores fat. They can live off that fat for days on end if they're not getting any food. If the body draws off it too much, then the hump actually flops over. I've seen it, a comical sight…eating restores the hump's former firm position…you'll be riding on that, you know."

  "I gathered that. I hope the saddle's comfortable."

  "I'll put all this together for you–camels, saddle, reins, other gear…food, water for one person for two weeks plus–in an invoice. It's pretty scientific, actually. You'll need to drink at least three liters per day. We'll train you for a day with the camels, tomorrow. It's free…"

  Wade went back outside into the concentrated heat. He vaguely remembered old trips to the southwest, being in A/C-equipped hotels that were actually cold, then going outside to Arizona suburbs and meeting air that felt like a blast furnace. Now no one had A/C.

  He wandered back down the road alone. At least the sun was going down soon. His stomach growled. Edna had said they were cooking pots of cheap food outside the hospital tent for dinner, and there might be some meat. He needed some; he wanted to build up his strength for the long haul. He noticed in the shower that he was getting awful scrawny, losing not only fat but muscle. Eat fat, he told himself, and protein, as much as he could. He squinted into the desert horizon, glowing with the fires that had consumed a nation, then he wandered into the bus and fell fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 37

  He started out at dawn. The Tucker's had packed two camels and saddled up another. The animals sat with their legs curled up under them and waited for him in the grainy light. He hadn't been able to sleep that much, and was grateful he'd passed out in the bus the few afternoons before.

  This was the only moment he'd seen the sprawling settlement almost peaceful. A cool wind gathered strength over the flat pan of sand and stone; the horizon to the east burned magenta. That was New Mexico, the old territory, he thought distantly. He only heard tent flaps and clothes hung out to dry, whipped around by the breeze.

  He swung his legs across the saddle and the beast grunted and stood up on its hind legs first, almost pitching Wade forward off the saddle. He leaned back, hanging onto the saddle horn, and the camel stood up straight on its forelegs, until he was seven feet off the ground, perched on the hump.

  It smelled like a moldy, wet blanket and its five-foot tail lazily swatted at flies. The camel put its nose to the wind and began to walk, Wade's hand insecurely tight on the reins, his boony hat strapped on the chin. He swayed back and forth; another tether dangled behind and connected to the two other camels. They followed along passively.

  He gave it a whack on its flanks with the stick Tucker had given him, and the beast bellowed and bawled. "You have to show 'em who's boss…" Terry had said the day before.

  He'd taken some bearings; they were headed due south toward Flagstaff. It was a dirt road at first, with sand and gravel blown over it. "Never seen Flagstaff, not for myself…" he said out loud, aware of his loneliness. They were headed in the right direction now, the camels made steady progress, and it gave a boost to his spirits.

  The sun cleared the mountains on the horizon; soon, it would seem like there were three suns. The southern horizon was smudged by smog, as though they were headed to Basra or Jeddah. "The fires," he mumbled to himself. "It's the fires that does that…" Flagstaff and its suburbs must be ashen.

  He had an image, as they loped along, of the complexed wildfire like a tsunami, rolling with a terrifying fury across the west, to the midwest. He wondered if the winter would stop them. He wondered if North America would have a winter.

  At one point, he swiveled around on the saddle and looked back north. The low rooftops and defunct power lines of what used to be Page, Arizona had disappeared. He listened to the crunch of the camels' two-toed feet on the gravel. It made a pet-pet-pet sound. The beast picked up its pace if he gave it a nudge with the inside of his boots. "It's better to be alone…" he declared, because he'd been thinking it. He felt the loneliness in his gut as they moved farther into the empty desert; but he'd go faster this way.

  He'd bid farewell the night before to the Santiagos, who had to stay with Pepe. The meds Wade had offered had helped beat the fever, but the child was still weak.

  Terry was right; the saddle was hard on his ass. But the swaying movement and southerly direction had a calming effect; he knew the tortured flow of his journey still pointed toward Kara. Who was now for sale by human traffickers.

  He'd be there in as soon as 12 days. Then someone would pay.

  The Santiagos clung to their dreams of returning to Nicaragua. He thought of floating down the Colorado, on essentially a wedge of sticks, with Pepe. He hoped the young boy would eventually find harmony, a safe calm rhythm, like the flow of a river in the wilderness. Javi insisted Wade would meet them again on the road south.

  When Carmen hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks, his eyes had moistened. Riding along and watching the desert scenery, he vaguely thought of Phoebe. He had 340…perhaps 335…miles to go.

  He reached into a pocket, took out a lozenge, and chewed it. Terry had sold him some caffeine pills, which came in handy. He'd be traveling by night as well. The pills made him feel a little jacked up. He had his crossbow strapped to the back of his saddle, and a handgun in the side pocket of his pants.

  Halfway through the morning he stopped to drink and take another bearing with his compass. His legs were cramped and back stiff; he stretched, drank from a gallon bottle of water that was strapped to one of the other camels. The sun was punishing. The camel he'd dismounted rested on its knees; the two others towered over him. He was still a little wary of the beasts. As he watched, they lowered their heads and nosed around the scrub, then began to chew at it and graze.

  He was impressed at the ease with which they took to such harshness. They ignored him; it seemed they mostly looked straight ahead, or up into the sky.

  They were making good mileage, but Terry had warned him about pushing the camels too hard each day.

  The trail they followed petered out into plain desert landscape, strewn with coarse sand and red boulders and clusters of cactus, some with yellow blooms. No crumbled communities were visible, or vehicles. In the near distance, he saw swathes of yellowed, dry grasses. The map had indicated that he was generally following a highway south; he couldn't make it out, but it was about two miles to the east of them.

  He thought they'd stop beside some boulders, for the early evening. He didn't want to go too far off-trail, but he took the beasts through some of the grasses. They lowered their heads, and quietly fed, looking up once in a while and chewing. He thought he was getting the hang of this ride, by shifting his position to aid his sore hips, about as much as he ever would.

  Everything had changed. In travel mode not too long ago, he'd be driving a rental down that highway, with a gallon of Poland Spring in the backseat, maybe a Subway sandwich of cold-cuts on the seat beside him. He'd make the drive to Phoenix in one day, stopping over at something like a Holiday Inn Suites. A Super 8. He shook his head and laughed, watching the ground amble by, hearing the steady, crunchy footfalls. Things change in an instance; you never see it coming.

  He reached a point where he saw a falling-down billboard, hulks of cars, some of them blackened and stripped. The flat landscape had a sameness in all four directions, like the bottom of a coral sea, but without the varicolored nature. The few clouds were motionless, frayed, and white.

  "I'm going to call you Moe, Curly, and Larry," he called out, as the camels meandered along. He began to think of what he'd do when he got to the Scottsdale region. Would he know he was there in the first place? He kept the most minimal juice in the cell phone–maybe an hour of activity left. He'd answered Kara's texts; told her to "sit tight" and that "Daddy's coming."

  Just when he'd almost fallen asleep in the saddle, his camel raised its head and bawled, a detestable sound. Instinctively, he reached for and displayed his handgun. The camels stopped. He trained his
eyes on the ground, and there was a large, thick-bodied, coiled snake in front of them. It was hard to distinguish–yellow and black scales that blended into the surroundings. It was stock still; until, without thinking, he shot at it two, three times, killing it. He saw a second snake, which had been sunning nearby, slither away speedily.

  He dismounted; the camel crouched down and settled on its stomach. He got out his Swiss Army knife, carefully approached the body, put his boot on it, and sawed the snake's head off. He took down his backpack from "Curly" behind the first camel, removed a plastic bag that contained some food, and stored the limp snake body in the bag, skin and everything. He took the opportunity to snack on some crackers and old government-issued cheese. He'd cook the snake-meat that night; he'd have to make a fire anyways. At least he hadn't encountered any rain or cold yet. He wondered how the camels took to bad weather.

  This wasn't a good place to stop yet, he thought; too snake-ridden. He scanned the horizons. On one side, to the northeast, were beautiful red spires, maybe 25 miles away. That was the edge of Monument Valley, he thought. He'd always wanted to see that place, during peaceable times.

  He liked not having to look after the camels much. The Tuckers were correct about them being a better mode of desert travel–despite their terrible dispositions. They had the ability to convert the fat in their humps to water, Terry had told him, not just calories. Their bodies recycled water, rather than flushing it through the kidneys and pissing it out. Wade couldn't imagine finding any standing water until maybe outside of Flagstaff, which actually had a snowy mountain range.

  He awkwardly mounted Moe again, giving the flank a whack with the stick. It hissed and bellowed; he feared the teeth if Moe turned around to take a bite at him. Abruptly the camel stood up, hind-legs to fore. Wade leaned back and gripped the saddle horn for dear life, with one hand holding his hat on. He aimed for what looked like low mountains, with the late afternoon sun dipping toward the Grand Canyon and the Colorado River.

  CHAPTER 38

  The nights were surprisingly cold. They approached the mountains of northern Arizona over ground that was hummocky with thorny vegetation, a surface of coarse sand. He slept maybe three hours at most in a row. He had no problem traveling by night; the pristine clarity of the webs of stars were like companions to him.

  The camels rested huddled together at night; a strategy they used in the sun as well.

  He avoided lying on bare ground, due to the scorpions and especially the fire ants. Tucker told him a gruesome story about a man who'd fallen off a camel and broken his leg; what the desert fire ants did to him afterward, when he couldn't get up. So he put his bed roll down on flat slabs of rock when he found them, and did the best he could.

  The first night he made a fire and placed the whole snake in it, skin and all. He ate the roasted meat with his hands, and crunched the small bones ravenously, grateful for both the fire and the food. He couldn't get over the fact that the temperature typically dropped about 80 degrees F. at night, from almost 120 F. or 49 C., to as low as 40 F. or 4 C.

  The snake meat was a nice break from beans, crackers, cheese; there wasn't much processed food left in the river or desert communities, due to most of the factories being closed and regional food transport having ground to a halt.

  He heard a chorus of coyotes the second night. After they cried and bayed through his sector, inspiring loud grunts from the camels, he didn't sleep a wink.

  He was traveling fewer and fewer hours during the day; it was a cauldron. He couldn't stay on Moe for very long at a time either, perhaps two hours at most, before he urged and cajoled Moe to let him down, usually precipitated by a solid whack on the hindquarters and a spitting response from the camel.

  Once, he saw a small group of horsemen in the distance. You could see clear 50 miles across the baking flats. Then they disappeared into the shimmer. He figured they were Navajos.

  By the fourth day he was within 50 miles of old Flagstaff. The southern horizon darkened during the day into a chocolate brown, interspersed with flashes of yellow, as if a bombardment took place. The ponderosa forests, the lower flanks of the San Francisco Peaks, must be aflame, he thought. He wasn't surprised; it must have been 115 degrees F., at least 46 C., during that day. Wherever the wildfires found fuel; it was like one insatiable beast coursing across the countryside.

  He had to water the camels soon. They were remarkable–complaining bitterly whenever he made them get up or down, but seemingly impervious to thirst or brutal heat. His days and hours were marked by the "pet pet pet" of their feet on the sand.

  He guzzled water during the day, huddled under his tarp or whatever shade they could find, and shivered at night. He felt his strength being sapped. If he was 100 percent in Vermont, he was down to about 90 percent in Chicago, 80 in Denver, and 60 now.

  Please God, he mumbled to himself, head bowed, in the boony hat, under a blazing sun. Keep me strong. Alive. At least for her sake.

  Early on the fifth day, they ran into an armadillo, waddling through the dry underbrush. He briefly thought of putting a bullet into it for food, until he felt sympathy for it. It was only doing what he was doing, trying to survive. It didn't even lift its head as man and three camels lumbered by.

  Just before sundown, as he was making camp, he saw a helicopter, metering across the sky from east to west, near the mountains. He felt afraid to make a fire then. He figured it had to be the regime. He thought he recognized the black tone and the logo. It was the only night he didn't make a fire. He ate two cold cans of beans and lay under double blankets and tried to sleep. He could smell the distant desert fires. He finally got up, shivering, and roused the camels, just as a fiery orange sunrise appeared. For once, he wanted the sun.

  He took a piss and it was dark yellow, almost brownish, like some of the ash was mixed in. Some misery had set in; he had a little diarrhea. He squatted in the rocks a long time, and when he came out, buckling his pants, the camels were gone.

  CHAPTER 39

  He frantically looked everywhere, all around him, and saw nothing. All of his stuff was still there. So he didn't think the camels were stolen.

  "Mo Larry Curly!" he yelled out, expecting them to at least grunt. The desert was silent.

  He grabbed half a liter of water and his pistol and he ran at a slow trot, which he couldn't keep up beyond a fast hike. He thought he would cover 360 degrees about 50 meters from his camp, which he didn't keep out of his sight. Everything looked the same in the desert; he'd be a pile of bones soon if he got lost.

  Thoughts galloped through his mind about the camels walking back north, like a loose dog might return homeward, when he came over a small rise and saw them, not far, dragging their tethers and grazing on tufts of sparse heather. "Moe!" he screamed, grateful for the mangy beast. He caught up with them and took Moe's reins, making sure the lines to the other two camels were connected, and led them back to the campsite.

  Part of the way there, he saw two other camels in the distance. They held their heads high in the air and were trotting in his direction. Moe suddenly got agitated, pulled on her reins, bawling and growling. The camels were bigger and shaggier, had no saddles or restraints on them.

  They got closer; the one in front didn't seem at all afraid of him. Then he thought about what Terry told him about the male camels. When it got within about 25 meters he noticed that gobs of frothy white saliva dripped from its swollen lips. It was huge; he figured 800 to 1,000 pounds. He pulled out the handgun he'd taken off the guy at the Glen Canyon dam; he figured it had six to nine rounds. His old pistol only had about two.

  He couldn't lose the camels. Distressed grunting and whinnying came from all three of his animals, which he let go. The big, crazed one stopped about 20 meters away, growled and bellowed terrifically, then began to trot toward Moe. Wade aimed for the shaggy neck and shot once, twice, four times; the sounds crackled across the hard desert floor. He saw the brown coat leap where the bullets hit. The beast's knees buckled an
d it collapsed. The other one had run away.

  "Damn," he said out loud. That was close, and now he probably only had abut four to six rounds of ammo left. His own camels, carrying his essentials for the next week, stood still as if in shock. He gathered them, led them back to the campsite, and loaded the rest of his stuff onto Curly.

  It occurred to him that the dead male camel was a useful store of meat now. He could make some use of that; if he didn't, the coyotes, the fire ants, perhaps a lion, and the other surrounding desert species would. But he didn't want to spend the day butchering this corpse and trying to figure out how to store the meat.

  He pondered this for a moment; that was a lot of calories there, meat and fat. He was feeling weak lately. Survival was about recognizing opportunities when they arose; taking advantage of them. Then he thought of Larry, his third camel, which was so far expendable. He hadn't strapped much to carry on it; Curly had most of the water and food, and he was drinking up almost all the water that had been loaded onto Larry. He thought he ought to keep free a round for Larry, in case he started to starve.

  It was a relief to get moving again. He'd taken a few minutes to get another bearing with his compass and look over his highway map. They'd been making more than 20 miles per day/night, and today's march would take him damn close to due east of Flagstaff.

  He swayed atop Moe; listening to the "pet pet" of her feet. He thought of his wife Lee and his son. Hopefully, they were comfortable and safe in Ottawa. He'd dreamt the night before that he was waking up in his bedroom, next to Lee in Vermont. Like all of this had been a nightmare, a twisted vision concocted in his subconscious, and that's all it was. He had this awful deflated feeling, sitting up in the desert, that this was reality, and he couldn't put it behind him like you can a bad dream.

  Maybe when he found Kara and got back to Canada, things would settle down a bit and he could put the pieces of their life back together again. He'd sent Lee a message back in Page, mentioning nothing of what had happened to Kara.