Making my Way

Rainfall is pelting my face, dampening my clothes, the chill of it reaching my bones. Opening my eyes, I see nothing but the faint shadow of trees on the fallen gravel, the canopy too thick to let much moonlight through. Groaning, ignoring my screaming scapula, I sit up and try to get my bearings. 

I can see scraping marks in front of me heading up, the deeper of the two off to my left. Looking off to the side, I can make out the mass of my quad maybe, 50 meters away and stuck in some brushwood. Unfortunately, it is impossible to tell what state the machinery is in at present.

Looking around a bit more, I make sure there is no immediate danger of falling debris or animals. Slowly I pick my way, more like slide, down to the wreckage.

Luckily, the quad had crashed right side up. Additionally, there does not seem to be a strong smell of fuel either, which means it is not in danger of catching fire and has not already done so.

    Cautiously, I maneuver around to the storage box, careful not to alter anything; gently pulling at the straps, I open the lid. I reach in and find what I am looking for: a backpack, a tarp, and a sleeping bag. Delicately, I pull the items out. 

Suddenly, I hear the gravel shift beneath the quad, limbs snapping as it is wrenched from their grip. Immediately I pull the items out fast and hard; I pull them close to my chest and jump away from the vehicle. Heart racing, I watch as it slides further down the mountainside. There was no way I was getting it back; I will have to start saving up when I get my next paycheck.

Sluggishly, I move away from the trampled thicket and settle with my back against a tree, the bark rough and reassuring. I pull the tarp over me with clumsy fingers in an attempt to ward off the cold and wet night, making sure to leave some indented to collect water. Eventually, I nod off into a dreamless sleep, clutching my pack close, like a precious treasure.

The next morning is pitiful and colourless, the mist relentless. The rain has mercifully let up into a drizzle, though my clothes are still soggy, and my skin has gone numb. Fortunately, my feet are dry, and I do not have to cope with the tribulation of wet socks.

Earlier, to my immense pleasure, I spotted a small cave further away up the mountain, about half a day's hike with loose footing. Before I headed off in that direction, I dug out a protein bar and had a few sips of rainwater. It may not be much, but it would keep me going and lessen the shaking that would come with hiking up the incline. Unfortunately, I had no way of transporting the remaining rainwater, so I ditched what I could not drink. 

The climb is treacherous, the rocks slippery, the slope steep. As I near the cave, I pick up sticks I can use as fuel for a fire. My shoulder is crying out in anguish under the weight of my pack and the wood. I have to stop and take a breather every 50 meters or so; I do not mind, the sound of bird chatter is soothing. Each time I do this, I settle my water bottle in a secure place in hopes of replenishing what little water I have left with rain. I had had a full bottle at the start of the day, but it was quickly diminishing.

    The cave was more of a slight overhang of rock, but it was blissfully dry. I dropped my firewood into a pile and leisurely began assembling the makings of a fire, starting with twigs and grass, working my way up to larger branches. I dig out my lighter and cotton balls, my special highly flammable, alcohol-soaked ones.

    My flame eats up the cotton with fervour taking to the grass, ravenous. It's more tentative with the twigs though, wet as they are. I observe with a forlorn hope that it will take and flourish.

I should have grabbed the jerrycan when I had the chance.

After a few more tries and additional trips for material to nurture it, I eventually acquired a blaze strong enough to produce heat. 

I had to eat another granola bar after using all that energy. There is one remaining, which Is to be saved for the next day, hopefully by then, I will be on my way home. If not, I will have to eat bark or try and find some late berries or something; I could always try and set a snare, but there is a low chance it will work.

By now, the rain has let up, and the sky has darkened. I have set up the tarp as an extension of the overhang, careful to keep it from melting; it will prevent too much heat from escaping. I have also taken my socks, pants and t-shirt, and arranged them a healthy distance from the coals to dry overnight.

Tucked contently into my warm sleeping bag, I poke at the embers and throw another bough on. I watch as the sparks scatter like ants, flinching as one singes my cheek.

I can hear the soft rustle of the trees in the cool wind, a lulling song for those who listen. The fire flares a little when a breeze or two breach the tarps boundaries. 

After a while, I lay on my makeshift pillow and fall asleep to the sound of a crackling fire, a soft lullaby and far off animals making their way.

I wake up with a stiff back and to the soft kiss of the chilled morning air. After a good stretch and my stomach full of my remaining rations, I dress in my now dry clothes; my skin prickles at the touch of the cold fabric.

I pack up camp, folding the tarp and sleeping bag, kicking out the remaining coals. Then, I start the long trek back the way I came before the crash; hiking parallel to the trail's edge; I do not trust it not to give out again. 

I keep my balance by grabbing the shrubs that seem to be plentiful and keeping my center of gravity lower to the ground and on the balls of my feet. It is easier than it was yesterday since I am not climbing up the mountain anymore. Hours pass by, and I see signs of small mudslides from the rain previous; if only there were a stream, then I could fill my water bottle again. A pot would have been useful; I could boil the lake water and sterilize it. Alas, that was not possible, so I continue moving. Plus, I can live without water for a little while anyway.

Eventually, I made it back to the trail before the one that collapsed. It was easy walking from there, at least compared to what I was doing. 

I was almost home. By the end of the day, I would be in my truck, alive and safe. Perhaps I would have to spend the night in it as I will be too tired to safely operate it, but no matter, I would be able to go home. To my home with endless water and enough food to last a week, and I will have my shower and my bed with my gloriously cushy mattress.

(If I had more time to find the words, I would have had them struggle through more and maybe have had a run-in with an animal that would have caused them to stay in the wood longer. This would have had them thinking of ways to survive when they ran out of easy access to provisions like food and water, same with medical supplies)