Down Hill
After a relaxing sleep and a shrill alarm, the camp rose with quiet delight and went about packing up. The memory came to my minds eye of the first time we did this process, how crude it had looked; now the project was completed in 20 minutes with very few words spoken.
The plan was simple: follow the ridge down to its toe then catch the logging road which was reported there by the last group. Snaking left and right down gentle sloping terrain the couple of hours it took went by in a quick and sharp breath. Soon after leaving camp we spotted what had to be Canyon Lake to our left and the pace quickened with excitement.
Then, as if we were part of a story from a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, we stumbled across the first trail we had seen in a month; the logging road which will lead us home.
Pace quickening, we made good time, the road becoming harder to see until it disappeared completely and blindly. We followed the direction down into the hell of Devil's Club; this was not the easy road out we had been led to believe would be here. After an hour of fighting the shrubbery, Stig took off uphill leading a defeated group onward until a shout of triumph rang from the fount of the column; the road had been found again.
Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock
The day was almost half over and we had not reached the lake. Based on our experience over the last week we guessed that it would take only 4 hours to cover the remaining 6ish miles to the lake; 6 hours into the day we hadn't even reached the toe of the ridge yet. The excitement which was infectious that morning had, left replaced by a haunting depression moved in like the unwanted fog in a valley.
I was beat, in my head I had prepared for 5 hour day tops; I had not prepared for any longer then that. Every pain and ache which I had was now pulsing with imagined fire, pushing my reserve even farther.
Nothing to do but go on.
So we saddled up growing more and more defeated by the minute, we needed a break but it would be a long time coming. The trail came and went, and came and went, and came and went. Each time it was found excitement raced through the group, when it was lost the hollowness came back. Then it went and did not come back. After retracing out steps and being unable to find it, we asked the instructors for help; they looked and did not find it. It was all I could do to not accept defeat.
Then Jorn pointed out the good news. It was obvious that where we were on the map was close enough to the trail that it should have been evident, but it wasn't. There were cliffs everywhere but directly behind us making what we believed to be a dead end; Jorn pointed out that it was in our favor.
We knew the logging trail had been sketched in on the map and was just a general guideline, yet we knew it existed and thus the plan was simple; lose elevation. The trail was not above us, it had to be below us and thus we learned of the Green Belay; using anything we could get our hands on to "safely" descend perpendicular down the contour lines.
At least, I thought, it won't be uphill travel. Down, we went, over one cliff then another soon loosing sight of the little ridge where the road was last seen. The group spread out but not by much and soon a line of NOLS students formed at the bottom of a ravine and sat on their packs, some had heads in hand, others had looked forward trying to find the answer to some unknown question which had yet to pass through the human thought process. Alders reached up from both sides forming a shallow tunnel and a labyrinth below where the group had stopped; I collapsed more from phony mental fatigue then actual lack of energy.
The Shipyard and Noble Team
Cramming myself between my pack and knees, I closed my eyes, the battle in my mind coming to a dangerous stalemate; give-up, or acknowledge the pain exists and continue onward no matter the cost demanded knowing it was going to end. The group was again together and almost completely quiet.
"Well done group, you found the trail." Jorn said these words so passively I believed it was some cruel joke; that bastard. Looking up from behind my dark glasses I gazed toward the instructors whom stood to my right and could envision a green tunnel leading gently downward.
Maybe he was right, shouldering our packs we stumbled forward, each member settling into their trekking stance which had been refined over the course. To this day I still settle into this stance when I'm moving with a pack on; hands crossed over my chest, thumbs locked beneath the pack straps.
There is a point in one of the video games I played where all seemed lost, the rest of the team was dead and the objective had yet to be reached. My Spartan remained determined as multitudes of A.I. Marines died in the pursuit of the cause. Fighting through the sandy remains of a razed shipyard, often picking up enemy weapons to continue the fight, my Spartan marched onward only to earn a brief rest before a more desperate battle began.
Yes, it was just a video game, but my mind latched onto the fantasy and I followed the games story line the rest of the day, do what I had made my Spartan do; fight on. My mountaineering boots became my armor, and I envisioned seeing my HUD though my glasses.
I had never been this tired, legs throbbing, my mind close to being broken. An hour or so later we took a long break and a choice needed to be made; camp here or proceed to the lake, which we thought was about 2 miles away. The idea of setting up camp one more time then we had planned was not a pleasant one. Contour lines had us heading down hill for a little longer before leveling out to circle the lake to the evacuation point. The sun was beginning to set but we did not want to stop and made it a challenge to reach the lake before it set.
Drunk on Chocolate
The Alder tunnel slowly morphed into tall pines and rocky rolling hills and as each stride brought us closer to the final camp, witching hour approached for the last vengeful time of haunting. It didn't matter, it wouldn't matter, at this point you could have put another mountain range in front of us and we would have marched right over it; we would not be denied this prize. The sun sank and the chill reminded us constantly that time was running out.
I sang. I hummed. I was not going to be the reason the group had to stop. Do not stop, do not quit. Annoyed at the sudden buzzing insects I swatted uselessly into their ranks. Insects meant water was close, water being close meant the lake was near by. The lapping of water filled our ears. A sudden energy filled me as the trees parted into an obvious road and the final camp sight was visible. The energy spread like the plague among animals smelling the barn.
The expedition packs we had tried on in the gear room, the ones which had burdened us, the ones we had lived in for a month, we forgot about them. I stamped followed, even as my body ran after the leaders I watched third person as we covered the last 1/2 mile.
It was finished. The sun had sunk behind the last ridge just before we had stopped. Setting up the tents we broke out the last of our food and devoured everything in sight. Nothing mattered anymore except that in a few days we would be home. Food porn was rampant and it did not matter anymore. Melting our remaining butter we added our hot coco and waited for a boil. The bodies which had been in pain hours before no longer hurt, or ached, or shook.
Apparently after having a relatively low sugar intake for a month this inhibits your body from accepting large amounts in a short amount of time; we didn't these things until after the hot coco and butter was forcefully ejected from our systems.
It didn't matter, we had beat the sun.
Evacuation
The sun rose, and tents were packed away and we sat on our packs and waited for the planes under partly cloudy skys. Water rippled, and the shadows crawled slowly across the ground. In time we set up a single tent and crawled inside away from the sun and dozed until the plane came.
The plane did not come.
Jorn called the group together and broke the news as gently as possible saying that the plane would not come that day because it was too late to shuttle the entire group. It was funny because I wanted to cry, but it was more an observation in third person and thus did not materialize. Setting up tents, we swore we would never set up again, we crawled into our sleeping bags and waited for sleep which wouldn't come, on stomachs a day without food.
Morning came, and I ran through my mind where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to have done, what I was supposed to have eaten. None of it happened, and so I found a rock on the edge of the lake and sat as still as possible. My mind wandered to Kung Fu Panda as this was the closest to meditation I'd been and it required all of my remaining strength to just stay calm.
Breathing, everything became all about breathing. Sitting still and breathing. Laying in the tent's orange glow, breathing. Breathing and not moving. Then the sound of a rumble came across the sky. Silence fell across the camp sight. Excitement sparked and ignited as we ran toward the sky, hopes up.
The white trail loomed far over head and the sound, and hope, was gone.
Back to my rock and my breathing. Then to my tent and to sleep.
We had been left. Or forgotten. Not really but that's what it felt like. Jorn had guessed that the weather might keep the planes grounded but the sky's above were blue. Back to my rock I went. Somewhere in my mind it made sense to sit as still as possible because complaining about it would do no one any good.
My sleeping bag had this weird smell to it, like something had been living in it for the last month. Rolling over I glanced at my contacts and decided against it; I'd be back in this bag again tonight so what was the point. Taking a mental inventory of my body; my stomach stopped hurting but was noticeably empty, my feet had stopped throbbing and my back was ache free as well. My mental state was holding, my logic said they, someone, would be coming for us. We reached our end point and the natural place for help to start looking was where we were. It didn't help morale but it provided some sort of sanity.
The scruff on my face stopped itching a weak ago. And I lay in my sleeping bag not moving, waiting. My mind started hearing dragons deep and rumbling, having drifted in and out of sleep the last few days what did the dragons matter. They got louder and sounded man made. Scrambling out of the tent just in time to see the face of a pilot in a low flying plane, I stood amazed that after all this time it had finally come. The plane slowly circled back around and landed on the far side of the lake.
A hurricane ran backward through the camp. Bags being packed, tent flaps flying; if it wasn't nailed down it went in someones pack at this point it didn't matter whos.
Back Through the Portal
Out of the plane piled clean smelling people, and I can only imagine what we looked like to them. Zombies, desperate to get out of this situation, trying to be polite but not socially acceptable. They brought food with them and despite how hard we tried to hold back we couldn't. I ate so much it hurt but it didn't matter I ate anyway.
The first planed loaded and took off, and before I knew it I was on a plane watching the world fly beneath me. Turns out the planes couldn't take off due to storms out at sea which continued to blow in despite the weather where we were. At that point it didn't matter; I was going home.
