Sometimes I know better than an "expert"
On Chocorua, Chapter 5
Imagine a time before cell phones, before waterproof Gore-tex, a time when college campuses were not the near-Michelin star establishments many of them are today. This is when my story takes place. It’s too long for one post, so I’ve broken it into six installments, or chapters. That’s the logistics.
But here’s the kicker: Other than Jake Hoffman’s name, it’s real.
It happened.
To me.
Read/listen to the other chapters.
Chapter 1: How I nearly killed my feet.
Chapter 2: We should have turned back. We didn’t.
Chapter 3: We reached the summit. Too soon.
Chapter 4: “Shivering” takes on a whole new meaning.
Chapter 6: If you have no choice, is it courage?
We trudged in the same direction we'd been going the night before. I was barely able to follow Jake's words as he explained that the cabin, which hadn't been on the summit, must therefore be just below the summit, and if we kept going around the tree line we'd run into it.
After another eternity in which I lifted first one leg and then the other, with the dismembered feet somehow doing what they needed to do, Jake was proven right. He nearly danced forward when he saw the small, wooden structure, sitting primly atop a foundation of cut granite slabs. It was definitely above the tree line. And it was definitely not on the summit.
The friggin’ thing was fastened to its granite slabs by chains that went over the roof, to all four corners.
Jake was busy inside examining the wood stove by the time I entered. The promise of heat suddenly began to affect me, and I nearly cried at the sight of the hulking black thing. I sloughed off the pack and fell to the floor, my back against a wall. My eyes closed. Time passed. When I opened my eyes, I expected to see flames inside the small black beast, flames giving off heat that would make it possible for me to go on.
What I saw was the look on Jake's face. It was not a good look.
"There's not enough wood here. And it would take too long for the place to get warm, anyway."
I blinked. I blinked again. "Any fire would be good. Anything warm would be good."
"It's almost noon already. We don't have time."
I nearly cried. Jake had let me down again. Even his precious cabin was a failure.
My hands hurt.
I hadn't realized I'd said that aloud until Jake said, "You have an extra pair of wool socks. They would be better than gloves, because they'll keep your fingers together."
I just looked at him.
"Here." He dug around in my pack and handed the socks to me. Obediently, submissively, I removed my gloves and pulled the socks over my painfully tingling fingers while he packed the gloves away.
Jake dug into his own pack and came up with a couple of sandwich rolls. We devoured them. He used the last of his white kerosene to heat water and make hot lemonade.
As he handed me a hot cup, he said, “If you can, leave the socks on your hands when you hold this. If your fingers are frostnipped, you shouldn’t touch anything hot with them. Let them warm up a little first.”
“Frostnipped?”
“The first stage of frostbite.”
“What’s the second stage?”
He paused before answering. “There are two stages of frostbite after frostnip. Let’s hope your feet have only reached the first.”
“Why aren’t you feeling the cold as much as I am?
“Like I said earlier, you got wetter.”
“Because you have better clothing. And boots. And equipment.”
“Yeah.” He looked almost ashamed. I decided he should be.
I managed to drink from the hot cup with my woolen-socked hands, and the warmth made my hands feel better. Jake finished his drink first, and then he unfastened his gaiters. I watched, not curious, not caring what he was doing. Then he handed them to me.
“What?” I asked.
“You should wear these now.”
I could have asked why. I could have said Fuck you, Jake. But he was right. So I took them.
Jake pulled two chocolate bars from his pack, and we devoured those. Then he dug out two oranges, handing me one and dropping one for himself into a jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”
The sky was still that brilliant blue it had been when we’d struggled to get up earlier, and the sun shone blindingly on the snow underfoot, which was maybe two inches deep outside the cabin. I paused long enough to look around. As promised, there were no other mountain peaks nearby, and the day was beautiful and clear. I could see for miles.
I followed Jake, of course, out of the cabin and down a short distance over exposed granite. He’d found some trail markings, and he was looking for more, walking in their direction as they appeared.
Maybe it was the hot lemonade, maybe it was Jake’s look of chagrin; whatever, I felt a surge of energy. It was small, but it was noticeable. I took the orange from my anorak pocket and stuffed the socks in. I peeled the fruit, dropping bits of peel as I walked. At one point I turned, and my eyes followed the brilliant spots of orange peel back toward the cabin. The bits that had landed on the pure white snow stood out like beacons.
Behind and to the left of the cabin was the summit. I stared at it. “How unfair,” I said quietly to the mountain, “that I have suffered so much here without ever getting all the way up.” I sighed and tore open the sections of my orange, eating them as I walked.
Putting my socks back on my hands, I followed Jake, who seemed to be still finding more trail markings, because he was moving with purpose down and to the right.
Something was wrong. I knew something was wrong. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. I don’t think I’ve ever wracked my brain so hard, or for such an important reason.
I stopped moving, and it came to me. We’d come up the Piper Trail, and while I’d waited in the trees, Jake had gone ahead of me, up and to my left, where he’d found the summit.
Then we had turned to the right to follow the tree line around the top of the mountain, and we had descended just a little into the trees to camp overnight. Then we had kept going in the same direction.
The Piper Trail had not led Jake to the cabin. It had led him to the summit, but not to the cabin. That meant that no trail markers leading down from the cabin would belong to the Piper Trail, and since we left the cabin we had not come across any footprints, not even Jake’s from yesterday. The Piper Trail had to be to our left. Jake was following trail markers that led to the right. The Jeep was at the base of the Piper Trail. We had to follow that trail, and no other, back down, or we’d end up nowhere near the car.
“Jake!” I waited for him to turn. I shook my head. “No.”
“What?”
“Not that way.”
“What are you doing? Come on, or we’ll never make it by nightfall.”
Maybe my energy was a little better, but I had to save every scrap of it; I couldn’t waste it arguing with him. Instead, I turned to my left and headed downhill at an angle, knowing that the only way down for us was to bushwhack until we ran into the Piper Trail. I didn’t turn to see if Jake was following me.
I heard footsteps behind me, and then he grabbed my arm. “What the hell are you doing?”
I pointed down and to the left. “The car is that way.”
“What?” He was shouting now. “What the fuck are you taking about?”
I tore a small branch off one of the dwarfed pine trees that peppered this part of the mountain. Dragging it through the snow, I did my best to create an image of the mountain peak. I drew a line showing the direction we’d come from the day before, made a dotted line where we had gone around the other side of the peak to make camp, and picked up with a solid line where we’d approached the cabin this morning. It was painfully obvious to me that I was right. I stared at Jake.
He stared back silently for maybe ten seconds and then raised both arms out to his sides and let them fall back against his body.
“Fine. I’ve fucked everything up royally for this whole trip. I’ll follow you for a while.”
I wasn’t sure he was convinced, but tough shit. I nodded, turned, and led us both down into the trees.
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I’m an inveterate observer of human nature, writing stories about understanding and connecting with each other. My primary goal is furthering acceptance of people who appear to be different from “us,” whoever that “us” might be. Check out my books on my website.
Well I'm feeling quite angry at this Jake, wondering if you are still friends, and how this whole thing turns out - good grief, what a nightmare.