Brian Eckert

I.

Legs pumping and lungs burning, the man powered over a rocky section of trail and stopped to rest in the shade of a large Ponderosa Pine.

He’d climbed 2,000 feet from the gas station off the highway, through a series of Aspen grove switchbacks, to above 10,000 feet. The biggest ascent was done, but distance-wise, the bulk of the ride remained.

Two hikers greeted the man as they passed.

“That’s ambitious, going up on the bike,” said one of the hikers, an older woman.

“Ambitious or stupid,” said the man.

The hikers laughed, wished him well, and moved on.

The next part of the ride wound through a valley used by ranchers as grazing land. From here, the path became uncertain. Cattle trails crisscrossed the main trail, which the man tracked on his phone’s GPS. He rode past groups of cows that acted frightened at his approach, bleating and retreating.

Keeping an eye on the herd, he accidentally ran over a cowpat. Dung sprayed onto his back and into the drivetrain. After the ride, he would treat himself to a steak dinner, washed down with a bottle of Chianti, the man decided.

He stopped at a creek to clean off the dung. This water had come from the mountain thaw. It carried on down the valley, became a river, flowed to the sea. The water would evaporate, become clouds, fall as precipitation, return to rivers. On and on went the water immortally.

The man spat into the stream, watched it float out of view, then got back on his bike and continued.

A few miles on he stopped to check GPS. Somehow he’d gotten off course. He backtracked a couple of miles to regain the trail. Already the sun was below the tree line. He had limited water and food and some twelve miles to go before sundown. He would have to be more careful moving forward.

Action, not thoughts, mattered. Action knew in a way that thought did not.

Heavy rains in the last month had softened the dirt into mud. Cattle tracks scarred the trail, making it nearly impassable in parts. The man had to get off and walk several sections. He sank past his ankles into the mud.

His reward for getting past the muddy, rutted-out section of trail was a steep, technical descent. “Now this is mountain biking!” he thought, although it was a half-thought. There was no time to properly think as his body reacted to the rocky slope, years of muscle memory telling him when to break and when to let the bike roll freely.

Speed was his friend as long as he could control it. Speed could kill, but so could lack of momentum.

The shocks pumped as the bicycle pounded on the rocks. He sailed over a drop-off and hit the ground barely in control, riding the razor’s edge between triumph and disaster.

Beyond thought, beyond action, the sublime flow took over. He was one with the bike and the mountain. They merged into a symphony of motion, like water running downstream.

Near the bottom of the slope he passed the remains of an old railroad that had once brought metal ore from the mountains to the valley below, where it was smelted and shipped out.

The man stopped to examine the debris. He walked along the dilapidated ties next to a fast-running creek, past an old rusted boxcar and broken sections of rail.

Nature had absorbed the railroad almost completely. Let that be a lesson: even the mightiest of engines, which moved mountains, were broken down. Lose your momentum, stop moving, and nature had you.

“Not today, you bitch,” the man said. “Not yet.”

II.

The man checked GPS to ensure he was on track. To his dismay, he had once again gone astray.

He ate one of his two remaining energy bars and gulped water from his near-empty bladder. The climb back up the downgrade was agonizing. Each step taxed his rapidly fatiguing legs. He stopped numerous times to rest.

On this north-facing slope twilight was setting in. About two hours of daylight remained. He would make it out just in time, he told himself. He might have to ride the last bit in darkness, but he would be enjoying that steak dinner in the not too distant future.

The man rode under a grove of mature Aspens. The tops of the trees were shot through with gold. While the calendar read September, in the high country, autumn was well underway. Temperatures were near-freezing at night. Winter would soon arrive.

The man, too, was in the late autumn of his life. The spring and summer of youth had passed him by. Gray hairs appeared on his head like golden Aspen tops.

Partly, he took these long rides to convince himself that his vitality remained. But he felt death off in the distance, approaching like the cool nights that mark the end of summer. There was no doubt that his days were growing shorter, colder, and darker.

At the top of a steep section the man stopped to rest. To his right the ground rose up to meet him. To his left was a precipitous drop down to the creek.

A flash of movement in the trees to his right caught the man’s attention. Something black stood in the underbrush.

“Bear!” was the man’s first thought. But it was a calf munching a sapling. The young cow looked as startled as the man did at their meeting.

“Hey there little fella,” said the man. “This is no place to be, is it?”

He took another step towards the calf.

“Wandered off from the herd, have you? I know the feeling.”

He heard a sound in the trees behind the calf. Its mother appeared from the brush. She stomped her feet at the ground in warning.

“Easy big momma,” said the man, slowly walking backwards.

She stomped again. And then she charged. She caught the man square in the chest, sending him tumbling down the embankment, rolling and crashing through brush and over rocks.

The man was helpless to stop himself. He fell, and fell, and kept falling, until he landed at the bottom, broken and twisted and unconscious.

III.

When the man came to it was nearly dark. The first thing he noticed was his right arm bent beneath him in a hideous position, clearly broken. He tried to move and the pain—hot, terrible electrical torrents of pain—assailed him. He nearly vomited.

He tried moving his legs. The left leg throbbed in agony, but his toes moved. After a few minutes he tried sitting up. The pain hit him like 200,000 volts.

As the immediacy of the pain gave way to more sober reflection, the man understood that he was in danger. The night would be cold. Quite possibly he was in shock. His head ached. He ran a hand over his hair and discovered a large gash behind the left ear.

He faced the Medusan mother and her devouring cruelty.

If, at that moment, he could have chosen to die there on the ground, he would have. He yearned for death, the great nothingness. He had seen enough of life. Life he knew all too well.

Yet as much as he wanted to give up the ghost, he could not. Faced with death, he did what every living thing does: he clung desperately to life.

Slowly, the man undid the straps to his backpack, slipped off the pack, and unzipped it. His phone had survived the fall. Forty-six percent battery power. There was no cell reception this far out, but GPS worked. Fortunately, he’d also packed his headlamp.

Using his left hand the man opened the map and found his location. The map showed him south of the trail. If he could get to his bicycle he could maybe coast the downhills until he reached somewhere, or someone. But in his state a climb up the bank was not feasible.

The creek appeared on the map. Follow the creek, and he’d eventually hit civilization. Then he remembered the train debris. Located along the creek, the site could not be far. The boxcar was his best hope for shelter.

With the sun down total darkness was less than thirty minutes away. The headlamp illuminated a path, but the light did not travel far in the dense forest. Each step brought the electric pain and the desire to surrender to death. And each step his animal will to survive took over, inching him forward in dreamy quicksand.

Action, not thoughts, mattered. Action was much more ancient than thought. Action knew in a way that thought did not.

He heard a trickle of water. He’d found the creek. In the darkness the creek was not the one he knew by day. Here, bathed in blackness and pain, flowed the River Styx.

He followed the creek westward. The way forward was easier along the banks. His light shone on a railroad tie. Rusted metal glinted. He was close.

Deviating from the creek, he traced the path of broken parts. The forest opened up into a clearing. Suddenly the boxcar appeared. He crawled inside, closed the door, curled up, and spread his rain shell out as a blanket, wanting to die, but only sleeping.

IV.

The man awoke.

Sunlight trickled into the boxcar from holes in the metal paneling. He had not slept soundly due to the cold and pain. Grogginess added to his pitiful situation.

The man rolled open the boxcar door to find a dusting of snow. Under different circumstances, he would have been overjoyed at this delightful campsite and the views that greeted him. Nature was a Rorschach test, reflecting one’s inner state, becoming whatever one wanted to see: brutality; benevolence; beauty; terror; everything; nothing.

Often, he fantasized about living alone in nature, away from people and society. What a foolish notion that now seemed. Safe in his apartment, the Dionysian mother promised him catharsis. Out here, he faced the femme fatale—the Medusan mother—and her devouring cruelty.

Fear kept man alive, yet it also kept him from living.

The man shuffled to the entrance and sat on the threshold. He soaked up the sun’s warmth, ate half of his remaining energy bar, and drank the rest of his water.

In the light he assessed his injuries. Aside from a broken arm he suspected cracked ribs, a concussion, and knee damage. The good news was that his leg did not appear broken, although both legs were badly bruised and lacerated.

His injuries would not kill him, but the cold would. The sun’s warmth provided an illusion of safety. Come sundown, he would again be in danger of freezing to death.

The man used his backpack to make a sling for his arm by reversing the bag over his torso, putting the pack to the front and the straps to the back. He used his bandana to create a makeshift knee brace.

He opened the map on his phone, hoping to get an idea of the best means of egress. Foolishly, he had left the device on overnight. Twenty-five percent battery remained.

It was roughly fifteen miles north or south to town. To the east and west was crushing wilderness.

Should be begin trying to walk out? That might not be wise. No telling how far he would need to travel, and with his injuries, days could pass before he reached safety. Better to stay here, where he had shelter. Eventually a rancher, hiker, or cyclist would pass by.

He shut the phone off to conserve battery. As the screen went black it was like a light in himself going out. The dark screen was an abyss of his bad conscience.

This machine was his link to the world, but it was an ersatz world. Looking out at the cold wilderness, the trees and rocks and water, so ruthlessly pragmatic, he understood that the world was not enough. Man’s imagination had exceeded nature’s domain. But like an overbearing mother she would not let him go. If he tried to destroy her, she would destroy him first. She would eat him, so great was her love.

V.

First, he must summon the fire god. Knowledge of the old ways had not disappeared. His domestication was not as complete as it seemed. Savagery, long dormant, surged to the surface from the depths of the limbic system. Something wild and unbroken remained.

The man had been a Boy Scout. He had learned how to make fire from a battery and a piece of tin foil.

But the stakes were higher now. The man did not have the comfort or resources of the group. Within the group, a weak man could survive. Alone, he could not.

The man considered himself strong, although he’d never been tested. His excursions into the woods were not a true test, bookended as they were by material comfort. He had endured nature, but never overcome her.

Where sun penetrated the forest canopy the snow quickly melted, wetting the ground and complicating his search for fire starter. After an hour’s work he managed to gather a ball of dry grass, as well as a small pile of kindling and several logs.

He used his knife to separate the liner of the energy bar wrapper from the outer layer. Once he had a thread going he worked the flat back of the knife into the opening and carefully slid it down the crack. He was left with a four inch by four inch foil liner.

Recalling his Boy Scout lessons, he cut a thin strip off the edge, folded the strip in half, and made a notch at the middle. He touched the ends of the foil to the battery poles and touched the notch to the fire starter. A wisp of smoke curled up to his nostrils. Following a few tense seconds, a flame licked out of the pile. He fed sticks into the flame and the fire grew. He continued the progression, adding larger and larger sticks until a campfire blazed in the boxcar.

VI.

He could not let the flame go out. If the fire died, he died.

The man busied himself gathering and stacking wood. He also gathered snow to melt inside his water bladder.

As he sat in the boxcar warming himself by the fire a pair of deer wandered into the camp. They munched at leaves peacefully, unaware of his presence. When he shifted his weight the animals’ large eyes immediately locked onto him.

The deer had the same wildly fearful eyes as the cows. Creatures born to be hunted and eaten, fattening themselves for consumption, victims of a terrifying cycle of biological life.

Man was not so different—ruled by fear, programmed for survival. Except that man was also predator, and had long ceased being prey. But the fear remained. Fear could not be undone by reason. Fear kept man alive, yet it also kept him from living.

Today was Sunday. Normally, the man went to the local diner for brunch, where he had two eggs over easy, corned beef hash, home fries, toast, and several cups of coffee.

He pictured the face of the aging waitress who served him every Sunday. Would she notice his absence? Doubtful. He could disappear from this earth without causing a ripple of disturbance. Such was the life he’d built. He had no woman, no children to go back to, no great work to complete, no legacy whatsoever. There was his cat, Mittens, but cats were masterless.

Hope—something to live for—is essential in a survival situation. What did he have? Hope, for the man, had never been as clearly symbolized as it was by the fire. The fire that must not go out, lest he die. Piss on the fire, extinguish its flames, and death would provide deliverance.

Out of habit, he picked up his phone, an object which provided knowledge but no wisdom. Material comfort had given him a false sense of knowing. The wild laid bare his ignorance.

He set the phone down and picked up a pine cone, turning it in his hands, examining its interlocking patterns. He had never really looked at a pinecone before. What a marvel, so perfect and simple.

What else had he failed to notice, he wondered, rushing off this way and that, going into nature but never seeing nature. He’d been waiting for a miracle, never realizing that miracles were all around him, if only he bothered to pay attention.

He stared into the flames and they stared back. The distance between ancient past and present disappeared and the man, in spite of his privations, felt content.

 

VII.

The progression of days did not much matter anymore. Nonetheless, the man decided to mark them using scratches on the boxcar’s metal wall.

His fire and water needs satisfied, the man turned his attention to food. He limped along the creek looking for fish to catch. Trout swam in the deep, shaded sections. He made a spear and tried skewering them.

He was clumsy with his offhand at first but slowly his aim became truer. Later in the afternoon, he got his first fish, then another, and another. He took the bounty back to the boxcar, cut the fish up, and cooked them on a grill made from metal grating over the fire.

His body knew the way. The man did not resist.

To ease his physical discomfort the man made an analgesic tea from pine needles and juniper berries. The strong tea provided relief. A great weariness overtook him.

He walked into a nearby Aspen grove in full autumn golds and lay on his back. He watched the leaves softly flitting in the breeze and wispy clouds floating melancholily by. Deer grazed in the grove, oblivious to him. He fell asleep.

The area had evidently been used as a makeshift campsite by generations of campers and equestrians. Their garbage and trinkets littered the lot: bottles and cans, empty gas canisters, pieces of timber and clothing.

The man salvaged what he could. He cleaned up the bits of clothing and fashioned himself warmer garments. He found an old miner’s pan that he used to boil water and made a bed out of forest floor debris with a horse blanket spread across the top.

That night was particularly clear and frigid. The cold awakened him and he got up to add wood to the fire. Against his better judgment he stepped out of the boxcar’s safety to observe the firmament. What stars! The night sky was a forgotten piece of himself, rediscovered. His blue sky self, his night sky self. He had seen so much, he had seen so little.

VIII. 

The man scratched the 30th mark into the boxcar wall.

In that time he’d forgotten what his face looked like. He was a faceless, nameless ur-man. Up with the sun, asleep shortly after sundown. His body knew the way. The man did not resist.

The Aspens had shed their yellow leaves beneath the weight of an early, heavy snow. The leaves and snow crunched underfoot when he walked to the creek to fish and gather water. He’d managed just a single fish each of the last few days. He needed game meat.

The deer had become used to his presence. They scarcely paid him any mind as he milled about the campsite. A single animal could feed him for weeks. But he had no weapons. Besides, he was not a hunter.

The man sat by the fire pondering his options. He threw more wood on. Rain began to fall, then snow. Winter was all but here.

His whole life he’d been safe, protected behind one wall or another.

He made a plan to fashion a pulley and use it to raise a railroad tie. When the animal was below the tie, he would drop it on the unsuspecting creature.

He assembled cordage from materials around the campsite—an old horse bridle; burlap sack; the laces from his boots. He tied a stone to the rope and tossed the weight over a sturdy tree branch, then removed the stone and replaced it with a railroad tie. Finally, he pulled the rope from the ground, raising the tie.

The man spent an afternoon perfecting his method. He manned the rope from atop the boxcar, where he was well hidden. He tied the rope off on his end so that he would only have to take control at the opportune time. The tie probably weighed 150 pounds. With one good arm, hoisting it was a tremendous effort.

He tried his weapon on some old cans. The tie fell with a heavy thud, flattening the cans several inches into the earth.

Getting a deer to this exact spot would be more difficult. The snow on the ground worked to his advantage, however, since he could pile up leaves and provide the animals with an easy meal.

He worked in shifts, waiting for the deer. They circled the camp every so often, not getting closer than 100 feet. He hadn’t eaten in two days. Hunger gave him a preternatural focus.

On the fifth day he got his chance. A young deer diverged from the group and neared the boxcar. The man controlled his breaths, trying not to make a sound. Cautiously, the deer began to chew at the leaves, looking up between bites, its oversized ears plying the landscape.

The man untied the rope anchor and bore the weight on his good arm. He couldn’t hold on for long. As the deer took another bite he let go. The tie slammed down on the deer’s neck and the animal crumpled to the ground.

The man descended to finish the job. Unable to move, its neck broken, the deer’s large eyes stared at the man. He took out his knife and slit the deer’s throat. Warm blood spilled onto the snow. The man put his hand on the animal’s back and watched the life fall from its eyes. And then he wept, for he had taken life.

Once the deer had bled out he cut from sternum to testsicles, careful not to puncture the guts, and pulled out the organs, which he set to boil on the fire. When this was done he tied the rope around the animal’s hind legs and raised it up to working level. He rinsed the cavity out and left the carcass to finish bleeding.

The unseasonable cold would keep the animal from spoiling overnight. In the morning he’d remove the skin and finish butchering. He ate the organ meat and settled into bed with a full stomach.

IX.

Crunching and snuffling sounds outside the boxcar woke the man up. He rolled back the door to find a black bear licking the bloody snow. The bear eyed the carcass and rose up on hind legs to paw the meat.

“Get!” said the man. “Go on, get!” he said, louder, rising to his feet. He flung hot coals at the bear. The animal was not deterred. Bears typically didn’t wander up this high unless they were starving. Ribs protruded from the animal’s sides.

“Hyah, bear! You get! Get! Hyah bear!”

The man could have closed the boxcar door and been safe. But his whole life he’d been safe, protected behind one wall or another.

Holding a torch, he stepped forth from the boxcar and faced the bear. He shouted and waived his arms, summoning the ghosts of ages.

The bear dropped to all fours and appraised the man. It put its ears back, slammed its front feet down, blew loudly, and rushed the man, who held his ground and thrust the flaming torch towards the animal’s face.

The bear veered off to the side and wheeled around to again face the man, who this time made a charge of his own. Holding the fire out before him he ran at the beast and drove it back to the forest.

Triumphant, the man put his head back and yawped a barbaric paean: “Yuuuuuhhhhhhbbbaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeeee!”

X.

The next spring a hiker came along the trail and found a high-end mountain bike leaning against a tree, its components rusted. Puzzled, the hiker carried on down the steeps, crossed the creek, and came to an abandoned boxcar with smoke coming from the open door.

“Hello,” said the hiker. “Yoo hoo! Is anybody there?”

The hiker approached the boxcar and saw a man sitting inside the doorway, whittling a stick. He had a thick, unkempt beard and a dirty face. An animal hide was draped over his shoulders.

“Hello,” said the man, dropping to the ground and approaching the hiker.

“I’m sorry,” said the hiker. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No problem,” said the man.

“Are you alright?” said the hiker. “Do you need help?”

“No, thank you,” said the man. “I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”