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(SAMPLE CHAPTERS)
Chapter One
Friday December 12
(9:13 PM)
I am sprawled on the floor of a one-room cabin, constructed of logs, that rests near the summit of a low, wooded mountain. Snow is falling heavily on the mountain, and a fire is blazing within a stone fireplace that is located perhaps five feet to my left.
I have inspected this small structure -- which appears to be a hunting cabin -- and have estimated that there is enough cereal, oatmeal, and dried fruit present within its pantry to sustain a human life for two or three months. That is good news -- for two reasons. First, I have been told that the winters in this remote portion of upstate New York can produce 100 or 200 inches of snowfall annually; secondly, my right leg has been hurt, and is, at least for the moment, utterly useless.
Since arriving here about two hours ago, I have been on the floor, near the fireplace, trying to warm myself by the flames. After consuming a half-box of wheat flakes and emptying my canteen of its final drops of water, I did what I have always done when confronted with overwhelming circumstances -- begin to write. I brought no laptop computer with me for this adventure, but did manage to tuck three notebooks and a few pens and pencils into my backpack before leaving Maine this morning.
Ironically, I have, at many times over the last couple of decades, told myself: "When my teaching schedule at the university calms down, and I find a block of undisturbed time, I want to sit down and write in an unhurried way, as I was so often able to do during my younger years." That long-anticipated block of undisturbed time has now come, although in a rather rude fashion.
Considering my leg injury, the intense winter weather and the fact that this mountain is comprised of many sheer bluffs and cliffs, it is not hard to conclude that I will be here for a long stretch of time before being rescued or making my way to safety. I suppose, to be realistic, I must face the possibility that I will not survive this experience, and this thought spurs me to place onto paper every thought and memory that I have. As a result of my injured right leg, I am forced to write while lying on my left side, and as a result, my penmanship, always legendary among my students for its appallingly poor quality, is now almost illegible. But I will plod onward, and commit my thoughts to paper.
About 32 hours ago, I was standing before my Advanced American History class at the university, closing out my last class of the fall term, and explaining to my students why I would not be back in the spring. "I've made a rather spontaneous decision," I told them. "I am going to leave here and head west for a while."
I was a bit disappointed by the reaction that I received from my students. Perhaps I had expected a few passionate exclamations of, "Oh, no, Mr. Greene -- you can't leave us!" The only noticeable response that came forth was the voice of a young lady near the back of the room, asking with an attitude that barely rose above indifference: "You mean out west, like the Old West?" "No," I replied. "I mean west of New England -- or the wilderness of Quetico Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada, to be more precise. You see, as of this day, with the closing of the term, I have closed out my 35th year in the History Department here at the university, and my 21st year as chairman of that department."
At the mention of my years of chairmanship, I found myself pausing, awaiting something (an expression of dismay over my impending absence would have been nice), but caught only looks of restlessness flitting across the faces of my students. Now resolved to wrap up my little farewell speech as tidily as possible, I stumbled forward:
"Last night I made the decision to take a plunge and embark immediately upon a one-year Sabbatical. By tomorrow evening -- assuming that I am able to finish packing tonight -- I will be hundreds of miles from these hallowed halls, on my way to Quetico, one of nature's most pristine areas of wilderness, and a place that I have not seen since the summer of 1972. There will be no computer, no cell phone, and no television. And if all proceeds according to plan, about 13 months from now, at the outset of the spring semester, I will be back among you, picking up where I am leaving off today."
After writing the last paragraph, I found myself, even in this outrageously stressful situation, falling into my old habit of perfectionism, pausing to carefully proofread each letter of what I had written. Writing while lying on one's side is an absurdly slow process, and a crude one as well. But even under these circumstances, lost in the mountains and injured, I cannot resist the urge to produce the perfect manuscript, and am employing the eraser every few moments.
I want to keep writing, and commit to paper the events that have led me to this place in the woods, but cannot do so now, as I am exhausted.
(10:24 PM)
I spent the last hour or two dragging myself around this cabin, doing what I could to create a bed in one corner of it. I discovered, in a decaying wooden trunk, three faded (but pleasingly thick) blankets. The trunk collapsed as I was removing the blankets, and I plan to use the splintered boards for kindling wood. I am relieved that the cabin is warm, even in the midst of the blizzard that is still screaming outdoors. In fact, it is actually too hot in here at the moment.
I spent almost five minutes shaking out the blankets, hoping to rid them of any spiders or other creatures. I was halfway through the project when I realized that any insects thrown clear would simply land in another part of the cabin, and that they would eventually find their way back to the coziness of the blankets, and would probably do so during the night, when I was sleeping. Surprisingly, I haven't seen bugs of any kind here. Perhaps they are hiding in the thousands of cracks that are in the walls, ceiling, and floor of this place.
(11:04 PM)
The snow continues to fall. I cannot sleep. For the first time since finding this cabin, I have thoroughly taken stock of my situation, and for the first time have actually begun to shake with apprehension at what might rest ahead of me. My right leg has grown so stiff that when attempting to scoot around on the floor, I must drag it along as dead weight, and navigate with the other. As I was doing this very thing, my left knee -- the one that is uninjured -- pressed down through a loose floorboard -- or, rather, caused an unsecured board to see-saw its way up and off of the joist that rested beneath it. There, in the cold space that lies below the floorboards, I found an old, heavily-bound Bible. Its cover is thick and warped and speckled with spots of mold.
The old book bears some faded writing on its flyleaf, but the light is too dim for me to read it. Were it not an antique, and of potential historical value, it would join the broken boards of the trunk on the kindling pile. As every student I have instructed over the last three-and-a-half decades well knows, I have a particular disdain for belief systems that speak of an intelligence that controls the universe, and I have always regarded the Bible as nothing more than a fascinating literary and historical phenomenon.
As I finished the previous sentence, my memory swept back some 49 years, to a simmering summer day on my grandparents' farm. I was spending the weekend there, performing a number of outdoor chores, when I was stung by a bee. My body was immediately seized by some kind of allergic reaction, and my throat began to close. As I was sitting on the dusty ground, clutching at my throat, Grandpa ran into the house to find the keys to his truck, while Grandma, almost bowling him over, came rushing out into the yard. "I'm here, Peter!" she called to me.
She knelt beside me, placed a palm against my chest, and began to pray. First she cried out to God, but then she "talked to" my body, commanding it to be made normal and whole, in the name of Jesus Christ. At that very moment, I felt a rush of breath come back into my lungs, and my windpipe began to open again. At about that time Grandpa came bursting out of the house, yelling, "Mae, I can't find the truck keys!" Grandma, who knew that the main part of the crisis had passed, kind of smiled, and said, "Henry, have you checked the deep pocket in your overalls?" Grandpa stopped in his tracks, plunged a hand into one of his pockets, and pulled out the truck's ignition key. Grandma laughed, then Grandpa, and finally me. Then they drove me into town, where I saw the doctor, who pronounced me fit. (He refused to let Grandpa and Grandma pay anything for the visit.) An hour later, after a stop for ice cream at the corner drugstore, we were all back to work on the farm.
It's strange that I would remember that incident now, and absurd that I would take the time to write it out, with the stub of a pencil, onto the pages of this notebook. The memory of Grandma's prayer has always made me feel uneasy, as it flies in the face of all that I have stood for over the years -- and the decades. The books that I have written contain carefully-crafted -- and, with no one here to accuse me of egotism, might I even say brilliantly-crafted -- arguments against the existence of a personal creator or god.
Over the years, I have spent endless hours attempting to "set straight" students who have described themselves as committed Christian believers. Yet, throughout my life, during times of crisis, the memory of the bee sting and Grandma's prayer has bubbled to the surface of my mind and emotions. After all these years, I cannot explain what happened to me that day, and have told no one of it. I feel uncomfortable dredging up the memory and committing it to paper. (If I feel myself fading over the coming days, I can always rip out this page and burn it, lest someone finds this notebook and reads about what happened at Grandma's house that day.)
Since firmly emancipating myself from any belief in a god or personal creator during my student days in the '60s, I have made it my mission to liberate as many young minds as possible, particularly those that are keenly intelligent and packed with potential. I have always taken pride in the fact that many of my students, following their graduations, have gone on to fill highly influential positions within the culture. I know of at least 17 who are employed in the movie industry, either as writers, casting directors or performers. More than two dozen of my former charges have followed in my own footsteps, and entered the world of academia. Three have managed to win elective office, and at least six have been published as writers. Perhaps a hundred have taken jobs in journalism and worked within the general mass media.
It has always been satisfying to me that many of these students left our university as true intellectuals, unfettered by any irrational adherence to a so-called god or creator.
* * * *
It took me 90 minutes to grind out the last eight paragraphs. After doing so, I crawled over to the pantry and ate some more cereal. I am now back on the floor, near the fireplace. It is about 1:30 in the morning.
Chapter Two
Saturday, December 13
(3:21 AM)
I must have fallen asleep for a few hours by the fire. When I woke up, my head was only a foot or so from the flames. I'll have to be more careful.
Sunrise is perhaps four hours away. The snow is falling steadily, but the wind has died down -- almost completely. The depth of the snow looks to be about nine inches.
Writing is difficult, so I am going to try to create shorter sentences and paragraphs. My students -- and the readers of my books -- know that I have a long-standing tendency to use too many words. My hand, strained from the climb up the mountain, and aggravated by all of the writing that I have done while lying on my side, throbs with every stroke of the pen. I am being conditioned by pain to learn the lesson of brevity. (I wonder which will win -- the drive to remain pain-free or the passion to create adjective-stuffed sentences.)
Despite my discomfort, I feel compelled to write, as if doing so will furnish proof that I had a life, if this is to be the end of that life. By leaving a written record of my arrival in this cabin, those who find my body here, should that be the outcome of this little adventure, will know the events that brought me here. I have nothing but time on my hands, and am going nowhere at any point in the near future.
* * * *
Until arriving in this area from New England on Thursday, I had not fully realized that New York State contains such areas of utter wilderness. I have lived on the Atlantic coast all of my life, and when visiting this state over the years, have spent most of my time in New York City. I had always heard about the hills, lakes, and waterfalls of upstate New York, but had never before explored them. Nor had I planned to explore them during my Sabbatical. Yet, I now find myself a guest of this state, stranded in a hunting cabin during a snowstorm.
About seven hours have passed since I walked away from a sleek passenger bus during a late night refueling stop along the Southern Tier Expressway, which meanders its way, in an east-west direction, across some of the most rugged hill country that can be found in New York State. I had been slumbering in the rear of the bus since the New York-Connecticut border, and was jolted into alertness when the driver abruptly pulled the vehicle to a standstill at a rest stop. As I was waiting for the passengers who were ahead of me to file out into the parking lot, I looked sleepily out of the window, and caught a glimpse of the night sky. The moon was nearly full, and stars were pulsating everywhere.
Within a few minutes I had gathered up my backpack and stepped outside. I walked into an open meadow, stopped, and dropped my backpack onto the ground. I spent the next few minutes gazing into sky, and was soon berating myself for not bringing my telescope along for the trip to Quetico.
Wow! Look at those constellations! And the evening air is perfect! If only I could stay out here for a little while
Seconds later, I heard myself calling back to the bus driver, "This is my stop." He nodded back at me, and I turned away, picked up my backpack, and began to walk deeper into the meadow.
The weather that evening was somewhat mild for December; the temperature couldn't have been much lower than 40. I felt invigorated from the nap on the bus, and ready to begin my Sabbatical. My original plan, upon leaving New England early yesterday morning, had been to travel west as far as Niagara Falls, spend the night there, then continue my journey to Quetico Provincial Park the following day. Yet, sparked by the same kind of spontaneity that had led me to leave the university and take the bus trip in the first place, I had abruptly decided to pass the first night of my Sabbatical right there, in the heart of the state -- in the woods, if necessary -- figuring that the hotel room in Niagara Falls could wait another day.
I have visited Quetico only one time in my life, in August of 1972, during a week-long canoe expedition that five friends and I experienced together. I was a postgraduate student at that time in my life (or, to be more precise, a post-postgraduate student), and, like many of my contemporaries in that era, was spilling over with idealism and zeal in regard to the various problems that were rocking the country.
As I reflect back upon the summer of 1972, I realize that it was my visit to Quetico, and its pristine tranquility, that somehow ignited, into full blaze, my already-simmering sense of rebellion against what we then so bitterly described as "The Establishment." (In those days, a sense of proper trendiness always dictated that the "The" in "The Establishment" be capitalized.) Two weeks in the Canadian wilderness convinced me that mankind itself -- and mankind's greed and selfishness -- were the culprits in regard to all that was wrong with the world during those tumultuous times. I became, during that trip, an active -- even rabid -- environmentalist, population-control advocate, and all-around rabble-rouser. (Somehow, the sense of proper trendiness to which I referred earlier tells me that the term "rabble-rouser" has become antiquated.)
It was during that wilderness trip that I turned my back on any childhood notions of God, and decided to live free, live for the moment, and live large. But, like most '60s idealists, a fondness for food and shelter eventually came into play, and I willed myself to a pair of PhD degrees (in American History and American Literature). Yet, despite these "compromises" with "The System," I never lost my edge of rebellion toward that which is phony, hypocritical, materialistic, or superficial.
In writing this diary, or journal, I am wandering all over the place, blending recollections of decades ago with accounts of what happened yesterday. Under ideal conditions, I would edit and organize all of this before it would be read by anyone. But my purpose now is to simply put onto paper whatever comes to mind.
(4:24 AM)
I tried, a few moments ago, to stop writing, but soon realized that I have nothing -- truly nothing -- else to do in this place other than to think. But thinking brings anxiety, and fear, and panic, so I am going to write again, and attempt to reason my way out of the pit into which my emotions are sinking.
It is unlikely that anyone will try to search for me in these woods. I did not talk to any passengers on the bus, and only briefly to the bus driver. I told no one on the bus who I am or anything about my plans.
The tough reality of the situation is this -- I will not be missed by my friends in New England until I fail to return home a year or so from now.
I announced to everyone there that I was preparing to shut off the utilities in my house, terminate my cell phone service, and leave the state for what I estimated would be "a year or two." That means, of course, that no search party will be formed before that time. In addition to that, any search effort that might be launched would probably be focused upon the vast expanses of Quetico Provincial Park, not the heart of rural New York State. No one in New England even knows that I boarded a passenger bus, and no one there knows that I jumped off of that passenger bus in the dark of the night and walked off into the woods.
To sum it up -- no one back in New England would suspect that I am in the hills of west-central New York on this evening, as I intentionally did not divulge my specific travel plans to anyone, wishing to truly lose myself in the Canadian wilderness during this long-awaited Sabbatical.
To complicate matters further, after saying farewell to the bus driver, I walked for about an hour through the fields and forests, finally arriving at a secluded railroad crossing, where I happened to notice a train pulling slowly out of a factory yard. Again, in rebellion against all of the societal and professional restraints that he has had to endure over the past few decades, the Chairman of the American History Department threw his backpack -- and then himself -- into an open boxcar, seconds before it and the rest of the train rumbled off into the darkness.
By that point in the evening the sky had grown overcast, and the temperature had begun to plunge. The railroad tracks twisted and curved their way through increasingly steep hills and valleys, and by midnight a light snow had begun to fall. By that time I had no clue of the direction in which the train was traveling.
After two hours of being tossed and jostled along, I found that the romance of boxcar travel had evaporated, and made preparations to disembark. About 20 minutes later, as the engines were straining their way up a sharp, curving incline, the train slowed to perhaps 10 miles per hour, and I was easily able to leap out of the boxcar and onto the soft prairie grass that bordered the track.
After the train had faded into the distance, and silence had returned, I took stock of my surroundings. The snow by this time was perhaps four inches in depth, and the wind had begun to whip its way across the landscape. I was woefully underdressed, as I had originally planned to take the train to Niagara Falls, check into a hotel, and then visit a camping supply store before striking out into the Canadian wilderness. My spontaneous departure from the Greyhound bus, and the corresponding arrival of a winter storm, had placed me, over the space of a few hours, into a perilous situation.
I had left New England with nothing more than the proverbial clothes on my back and a backpack containing a blanket, a flashlight, some matches, a pair of gloves, and a few books. I quickly pulled out the blanket, and promptly stuffed it into my jacket, mainly around my chest and neck areas. After pulling on the gloves and backpack, I decided to make a sprint toward the thickest wooded area that I could see. By this time the snowflakes were nearly half-dollar-sized, and were accumulating at a rapid rate.
Soon after entering the woods, I began to detect a dramatic change in the nature of the terrain. The floor of the forest was strewn with boulders, and the ground ahead of me was beginning to rise in a rather steady way. I was forced at this point to slacken my pace in order that I might pick my way over the rocky ground without stumbling.
I traveled for about an hour under these conditions, groping my way up the incline, feeling for the presence of any drop-offs or shafts. At one point during my climb the flashlight beam revealed the fresh imprint of a big cat (what kind, I didn't know), and I found myself, from that moment forward, eyeing the surrounding woods with great alertness.
As I was ascending the hill, one of my feet slipped on an ice-covered boulder, and I came crashing to the ground. I then began to tumble or topple my way down the incline in a slanted direction until I was flung, without ceremony, over the edge of a rocky precipice or little cliff. I felt myself flying headlong into space, and had time to wonder, in a flash of thought, how long of a fall awaited me. My curiosity was satisfied when the right side of my body impacted the earth at a point perhaps 12 feet below the top of the bluff.
To my relief, the surface upon which I landed was soft, cushioned as it was by a carpet of fallen leaves and a layer of drifted snow.
When I struck the earth, my right leg, in the region of my hip and pelvis, bore the main share of the force. Following this initial impact, the momentum of my fall threw me into a crude cartwheel-like motion, and I found myself being dashed, in a head-first fashion, against a large rock.
I cannot remember passing into unconsciousness, but am sure that I did, for at least some period of time. My next memory is that of shaking myself free from a cocoon of snow that had enveloped me to a depth of one or one-and-a-half inches. I have no idea exactly how long I was blacked out, but would guess the time to be about 30 minutes, considering the rate at which the snow had been accumulating during the storm.
Immediately upon awakening, I tried to leap to my feet, but found myself unable to place any weight upon the right leg. I soon came to realize that my only mode of travel would be that of advancing, in a crab-like fashion, on my hands and knees.
I began to crawl forward, and soon noticed that my right leg was leaving a blood-stained trail in its wake. It did not take me long to discover that the wound that was causing the blood was a rather deep one, and that the inner workings of the right hip and/or pelvis seemed to have sustained some serious damage.
It was during this time, as I was groping my way over the forest floor, that my mind swept back to my grandmother, and her prayers, and the bee sting. Before I could squelch it, a cry to the God in whom she believed bubbled its way forth from some place deep within me. The prayer was so raw, so guttural, that it could more accurately be described as an involuntary grunt or moan, consisting of a single word: "Jesus!" Even more jolting to me than my half-formed utterance was what occurred a microsecond later -- a sudden, irresistible urge to swing my course to the right, an impulse that I promptly obeyed.
About 10 seconds later, the trunk of a towering tree snapped in the wind, and came hurtling to the earth in the precise location that I had just vacated. The ground beneath my feet shook slightly, and I could feel a spray of ice or snow, displaced by the crashing tree, driving itself into the skin of my face.
My frame, already numb from the cold, was now shaking wildly. "He rescued me!" I heard myself exclaim. Yet, within seconds, the more rational part of my mind censored that thought, and a more defiant one took its place: "Jesus, even if you are real, I don't believe in You!"
Less than 10 minutes later, as I was stumbling my way forward, my shoulder collided with a hard (and very, very cold) surface. I realized, within seconds, that I had literally crashed into the stout logs of the cabin that I now occupy. Within a minute or so I had located the door, and, with much effort, had managed to jar it loose (by means of several bull-like blows from my shoulders and head) until it swung in an inward direction. I collapsed forward into the structure, and for two or three minutes lay sprawled on the floor, unable to summon enough strength to close the door. Finally, by rolling myself about on the floor, I was able, while on my back, to place the soles of my feet against the inside surface of the door and push it into a firmly-closed position.
(6:49 AM)
I spent about two hours writing the previous section, and can't go on any longer. I have never before felt so utterly exhausted.
The fire is growing low, and for the first time since coming into this cabin, I am violently cold. There are three logs remaining near the fireplace; there were nine when I arrived here. When daylight comes, I will have to venture outside and see if there is any more cut firewood stacked around the cabin. My hope is that the hunters -- or whoever occupied this cabin before my arrival -- sawed and stacked some wood in the autumn, so that it would become seasoned over the winter. If I do not find wood, my situation could become quite bleak, as I have no saw. (Of course, even if I did, my lame leg would make it almost impossible for me to use it.)
I am going to roll over to the fireplace, put the last logs on the flame, and wait for sunrise.
(7:17 PM)
The sunrise has come and gone, and so has the sunset! I have slept away every bit of the day. The fire has nearly vanished; all that remains of it are a few orange embers. The temperature of the room has dropped dramatically. (I would estimate it to be about 20 degrees.) The water in my drinking bottle has begun to freeze.
I am surprised that my body was not aroused from its slumbers by the deepening cold. I would describe the conditions here as severe, bordering upon extreme. I am badly in need of firewood, but have missed every moment of daylight. Should I try to bundle myself up for the night and hang on until sunrise, or should I venture outside right now in search of wood?
(7:56 PM)
I have some good news and some bad news to put down in these pages. The good news is that there is plenty of food to be found within the general vicinity of this cabin (in the form of fallen branches and limbs). The bad news is something that I should have anticipated -- that every bit of that wood has been thoroughly soaked with moisture. I have dragged several limbs into the cabin, and they are now stacked near the fireplace. The snow and ice in which they are encased will eventually melt, but it is doubtful whether the wood will dry out anytime soon in this damp and cold environment. Ironically enough, I need a roaring fire in order to dry out the waterlogged branches, and I need the branches to be dry in order to build a roaring fire.
For some reason or another (probably because my brain is not hitting upon all of its cylinders), I had the idea, before stepping outside, that the only potential challenge that could face me in this cabin would be a lack of wood. As obvious as it should have been to me, I never even pondered the question of wetness and saturation. Now what?
Another consequence of my outing has been a loss of feeling in my feet. (My tennis shoes were no protection against the 14 or 16 inches of wet snow that are out there.)
My hands are beginning to grow numb. My scrawls are so sloppy that I can barely read what I am writing.
What should my next move be?
(8:16 PM)
I spent the last 20 minutes or so at the open cabin door, yelling out into the night. My vocabulary during this little exercise consisted of four words, repeated perhaps two dozen times: "Help! Anybody out there?" My vocal cords have been strained to the point of hoarseness, and my throat is raw. I can't feel any part of my legs below the kneecaps. I had the door open for about 10 minutes, and would guess that the room temperature has fallen to 10 degrees.
I wonder how it feels to freeze to death. Does it hurt, or is it a lot like falling asleep?
Chapter Three
Saturday, December 13
(10:03 PM)
For the third time in my life (and the second time within the last 24 hours) an apparent miracle has occurred in my life. ("Miracle" -- can it be true that I actually used that word in the preceding sentence -- I, who, to this moment, still forcefully denies the existence of a divine creator? This pencil is equipped with an eraser, and with a sweep here and a stroke there, that troubling word could be replaced with one that would fit more neatly into my ordered view of reality. Yet, I am -- at least for now -- content to let the word remain, unchallenged, in its place.)
The latest headline in my lost-in-the-woods drama is this -- there is a huge blaze in the fireplace, and the air in this room is toastily warm, almost uncomfortably so. In fact, I have peeled off every thread of my clothing (all of it is completely soaked and snow-encrusted), and have spread it all out on the floor, a few yards away from the fire. (As much as I long to be rescued, I hope no one chances upon me at this particular moment.)
An hour or two ago, at a time when the temperature in the room was drawing close to the zero mark, and my strength waning, I found myself being irresistibly drawn toward slumber. The temptation to lie down upon the floor and sink into nothingness eventually became so overpowering that I yielded to it. I slumped to the floor, instinctively drew myself into a fetal position, and began immediately to grow sleepy. Within a minute or two I had lost consciousness.
What followed is hard for me to describe, but, as my schedule happens to be rather light this evening, I will take a stab at it.
Soon after falling asleep, I began to dream (at least I assume it was a dream). The scene that unfolded before me was a familiar one. I was in the frame farmhouse that my grandparents occupied during the years of my childhood. In some unexplainable way, I was able to identify the day upon which the events in the dream were occurring; it was the day when I recovered from the bee sting. In actual fact, I did not spend the night at my grandparents' home on the day when the sting occurred, but in the dream I did spend the night there -- on the second story, in the northwest bed chamber, a cozy room that overlooked the pond on their farm.
Grandpa and Grandma were not in the dream, but another character was -- a boy of about my own age. In the dream, he and I were friends; in fact, he was spending the night in the room with me. I was sleeping in the only bed that Grandpa and Grandma's spare bedroom had to offer, and he was curled up on the wooden floor in a sleeping bag. In an attempt to be a cordial host, I had asked -- even insisted -- that he sleep on the bed, and I upon the floor, but he, with a smile, had declined that suggestion, and had cheerfully settled down upon the floor's cold surface.
In the dream, my friend and I, as were we lying there in the darkness of the bedroom, were playing a game that the two of us called "Hidden Treasure." The contest was a wholly imaginary one, and could be enjoyed by means of words and -- well, imagination. The object of the game was simple -- for one player to successfully guess where a certain buried treasure had been deposited by the other player. The rules of the whole affair stated that the hidden prize was worth "way more than a million dollars" and that it was located someplace (either indoors or outdoors) on my grandparents' farm. The rules called for one participant to mentally select a secret location for the prize and for the other (on pain of being captured and made a slave by a band of dastardly ne'erdowells) to make three guesses as to where it had been hidden. (At this point in the proceedings, at the outset of the competition, the guesser was provided with three clues by the player who had "hidden" the treasure.)
At the moment in time when I entered the dream (the experience was similar to that of walking into a theater after a movie has begun), my friend had just given me the clues (I can't remember what they were), and was asking me if I was ready to announce my three guesses. I promptly responded (from my place on the floor) that I was, and went on to blurt out:
"Is it in the barn loft?"
"No," replied my friend from the shadows. "But you have two more tries!"
"How about in the bed of my Grandpa's truck -- the older truck?"
"No, it's not there either, Peter," came my pal's voice, with a note of sadness in it.
It's funny, but I can remember, while lying there in that farmhouse bedroom, feeling a sense of apprehension over the fact that I was down to a single turn, and that a future of perpetual slavery awaited me. All I could do was spit out another wild guess:
"In the -- uh -- freezer?"
A sympathetic sigh from my friend was sufficient evidence that my third stab at an answer had fallen flat. As I stared up at the ceiling, a wave of panic coursed over me. As silly as it might sound now, when analyzed rationally, the 10-year-old edition of me that was living within the confines of the dream began to tremble at the destiny that stretched out before him.
"I've run out of chances, and there is no more hope for me!" I said to my guest. Tears were stinging my eyes.
It was at about this time that my friend's voice came floating up from the floor:
"Joseph?"
"Y-yeah?" I quavered back.
"I feel sad about you missing the prize. I hate the thought of you becoming a slave forever. "
Fearing that my voice would crack, and that I would be revealed as a crybaby, I did not answer. He went on:
"I have an idea -- a way that you could escape from the bad guys."
"No, that wouldn't be fair. I lost the game fair and square. I have to go with them now."
"I know of a way that you can escape being made into a slave."
By this time, my curiosity was piqued. Could he possibly be right? He seems so calm, and so sure of himself. And he seems to really care about me.
"B-but how could I escape -- without cheating in the game?"
"Well, it's simple," he sang out cheerfully. "The rules of the game say that you cannot gain the treasure unless you earn it -- unless you get the answer right before you run out of chances."
"But that -- that's the problem!" I fairly wailed. "Who could ever earn the treasure that way? I would probably fail if I had a hundred guesses!"
My friend began to laugh gently. "You're right. This farm has thousands of hiding places. You would never be able to earn the treasure by guessing where it is. But there is another way to escape the punishment and win the prize!"
By this time I was utterly puzzled. What kind of game was this? I began to speak, but faltered, and my friend, in calm and comforting tones, repeated himself:
"There is another way -- one other way."
"How could there be?" I asked. I still could not see my friend, but could hear his voice very clearly.
"A trade."
"A trade?" I echoed. "What kind of trade?"
"By switching places with you in our game. Then you will be able to have the prize."
"But -- but if we trade places, then you would have to take the punishment!"
"That's okay," came his voice from the shadows. "It's worth it to see you have the prize! Besides, I already took the punishment for you!"
"You already took the punishment? How "
"By coming down from that soft bed and lying down on this hard wood. You see, Joseph, I already made the trade for you -- even before the game began!"
My thoughts were crashing and my mind spinning. My friend continued to talk to me:
"Will you say Yes' to the prize, Joseph?"
What answer could I give to my friend? What could I say to a gift like that? My friend had left the comfort of his bed, and had chosen to stretch himself out on the wood -- for me. And he had made the decision to do all of this -- to create a plan of escape for me -- before I was even aware that I would need it!
"Yes, I will take the prize," I heard myself whisper. Then, in a stronger voice: "Yes, I will take the prize!"
I knew, of course, that if I refused his gift, three bad things would happen: One, I would lose the prize; Two, I would get the punishment; and Three, all of the pain and effort that my friend had endured would go to waste.
"Wonderful, Joseph!" came his voice from the floor. "I am so glad! This game has been fun!"
At this point, with tears filling my eyes, I could not refrain from calling out to him:
"But where -- where is the prize?"
"That's easy!" came my friend's ready answer. "The prize is in the wood!" I heard the sound of his knuckles rapping one of the floor's pine planks.
I instinctively rolled my way to the edge of the bed in order to take a look at my friend. He had come to his knees, and was smiling up at me. Then I saw him extend a hand toward one of the floorboards
and I was suddenly awake.
Within the space of a second or two, I became aware of two sensations -- an atmosphere of near-darkness and a feeling of piercing coldness. With the right side of my head still pressed against the cabin's floor, I managed to cast a gaze in the direction of the fireplace, which now held nothing more than a pile of glowing embers. Upon seeing this, I sprang into a sitting position.
Oh, no -- the fire has almost disappeared! The temperature must have fallen 10 more degrees since I fell asleep! If I don't find some wood soon -- immediately -- I won't be able to survive the night!
My mind raced simultaneously in two or three directions. Momentarily forgetting the numbness that had conquered my lower extremities, I tried to scramble to my feet, a maneuver that served only to propel my head, forehead-first, into the rough surface of the floor.
Knocked silly by the impact, I lay motionless for a period of time. My head was reeling with pain, but I found myself noting the sensation with a kind of weary indifference, allowing, for the first time, a wave of despair to have its way with me.
I'm tired of battling. I'll just stay here and go to sleep.
I had begun to tumble into unconsciousness when another thought staggered its way into my mind.
Ha! After managing to survive for all of these years, I am going to exit this world for the most trivial of reasons -- a lack of wood! (Or, to be more precise, a lack of dry wood.) How ironic! How pitiful! I will die for want of wood while in the heart of a woods! Before fluttering to a final close, my eyes, as they take a final tour of this room, will gaze upon nothing but wood -- wooden ceiling, wooden walls, a stack of wood next to the fireplace -- and, of course, this wooden floor, which, as a final insult, just gave me the fattest lip that I have ever had the privilege of receiving.
As I fell away from consciousness, my thoughts grew sluggish. It was at about this point that I found myself recalling the dream that I had had a short time earlier. The words of my friend began to echo forth in my imagination: The prize is in the wood. The prize is in the wood. The prize is in the -- in the
I was rocked by an explosion of insight.
Wood! Good old dry, burnable wood! I get it now! The prize can be found -- can be recognized -- in the form of wood! I am lying upon -- and almost dying upon -- a virtual treasure trove of easy-to-ignite, wonderfully-seasoned fireplace fuel!
The events of the next two minutes were anti-climactic -- and almost comical -- in their simplicity, as they involved nothing more than the act of dragging my frame to the place where the already-loosened plank (the one that had been covering the Bible) was resting, lifting it away from the underlying floor joists, and scooting it into the fireplace (a distance of only four or five feet). With the aid of some partially-burnt wood scraps (which I managed to salvage from the ashes of the fireplace) and about 20 seconds of light blowing, I was able to see a pile of dying embers transform themselves into a riot of leaping flames.
* * * *
The events chronicled in the last few paragraphs unfolded about an hour ago. Since that time I have been writing steadily, determined to place onto paper, with as much detail and nuance as possible, the events that have occurred in this cabin tonight.
I began this entry with a word that I have never used before -- "miracle." There -- I just wrote it again, and as if that wasn't enough, I found myself underlining it twice. Can this be me who is writing?
Should I erase that word? What if I don't make it through all of this, and someone finds this journal? How would my use of that word be interpreted?
My head is foggy. I can't write any longer.
The room is not cold now -- and is almost too warm. Lots of wood on the fire now, and a lot of other planks to burn. The planks are two-by-twelves, and are cut from hardwood. That's real good.
My writing is getting so sloppy. I feel so dopey.
When you think about it, that's a funny word -- "dopey." Grandma used to use it all the time.
Time to sleep . . .
(9:01 PM)
Am I hearing bells, or has this forced solitude loosened a few connections within my brain? I was sleeping solidly a short time ago, and was lost in a dream -- a dream that featured, in some form or another, the distant sound of tolling bells. Upon awakening, I raised my head and listened carefully, and had the distinct impression that I could still hear them ringing. I am too drained to analyze the situation any further, but wanted to make a note of it in my journal. After all, if the bells that I heard turn out to be real, they might offer me a clue as to my whereabouts.
(I have no pressing appointments today, so I think it will be safe for me to go back to sleep for an hour or two.)
Chapter Four
Sunday December 14
(11:18 AM)
Amazing! Can it be that I slept for another two hours? From my place on the floor (I am writing this while propped up on my left side), I can gaze through one of the cabin's two windows, and can see that the sun is already somewhat high in the southeastern sky. This is the first time that I have paid attention to the sun -- or, more specifically, this is the first time since my arrival at this "vacation house" that I have had the luxury of caring anything about where in the sky the sun happens to be hovering at any particular point in time.
Hmmm -- so that is the southeastern sky, huh? That means -- let's see -- that the cabin door faces directly toward the south. That would make sense, of course; the builder of this structure would have known that the winds in this part of the country sweep down from the north (and northwest), bringing abundant amounts of lake-effect snow and bitter temperatures. I, too, would choose to face my front door to the south.
Let's see -- if the front door of this place faces south (and that would make sense, since I was traveling in a northerly direction when I collided with it the other night), that would mean that the bells that I thought I was hearing were coming from the north-northwest (which happens, come to think of it, to be the direction from which the cold winds are blowing on this day). That would certainly make sense; a sound that originates at some great distance from a human ear can often be heard when it is being borne or carried by a wind. The bells that I heard (or dreamed that I heard) could be as near as a mile or two or as distant as seven or 10 miles, depending upon such factors as terrain, natural acoustics, thickness of wooded areas, etc.
Hmmm -- my brain seems to be growing fuzzy. While writing the previous sentence, I could not at first summon into my mind the word "acoustics." That might seem like a small thing, but it isn't, as I happen to know quite a bit about the subject, having read many historical accounts of "acoustic shadows" and the ways in which this natural phenomenon hampered the ability of some Civil War soldiers to accurately determine the distances from which shells were being hurled toward them -- or even the fact that shells were being hurled toward them.
The fact that I could forget a word like that indicates that my mind is presently a few sandwiches shy of a complete picnic, as the saying goes.
Picnic -- picnic. Hmmmm. Perhaps that is the problem -- simple hunger. I guess it's time for a late breakfast. I wonder what's on the menu today?
(11:43 AM)
I have to say -- bad cereal has never tasted so good to me. I have just polished off a half-box of wheat flakes. They were hard and stale (almost pertified), but they did manage to fill my stomach.
(12:18 AM)
I just don't feel good right now. I had hoped that a meal would help me shake the dazed, "out-of-it" sensation that has been creeping over me, but it hasn't done the trick. I think I know why. I have noticed that my upper right thigh has developed an infection -- and a rather angry one at that.
I also seem to be growing a bit feverish. I am certainly no doctor, but I can recognize what is beginning to happen.
My immune system is probably compromised, and I am in no shape to battle what seems to be happening in my leg. I am also in no shape to go prancing about this mountain in seven-degree weather, but I think the time has come for me to explore my surroundings. Perhaps if I could venture out into the woods for at least a short distance -- perhaps out into the direction from which the bells were coming -- I could learn a thing or two.
Of course, the air is bitterly cold today; according to an old rusted thermometer that I noticed a few minutes ago (it is mounted just outside one of the windowpanes) the mercury stands at seven degrees above zero.
Would it be sheer foolishness to drag myself out into the snow for a little scouting session? Or is the opposite true -- that it would be dangerous for me to remain alone inside this cabin for an extended period of time?
(2:19 PM)
A little over 90 minutes ago, at about the time I closed out the foregoing journal entry, I made a spontaneous decision to venture out of the security of this cabin and into the woods that lie to the immediate north of it. (This is the direction from which I heard the sound of tolling bells earlier in the day.) I returned to the cabin about 45 minutes later, after limping my way into the woods for a distance of about a quarter of a mile and then limping my way back over the same route. The air out there is frigid; the wind chill factor must be about 30 below zero. I saw nothing but trees and snow during my outing, and could not begin this journal entry until my numb and frozen hands had thawed out over the fire for about 30 minutes.
My leg is beginning to throb and burn, and the infection site looks more angry than it did two hours ago.
My list of options appears to be dwindling.
(2:52 PM)
Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrow.
With his stripes we are healed.
For some reason or another, these words have been parading their way through my mind for the last 30 minutes or so, during which time I have been stretched out on the floor, next to the fire. Where have I heard them before, and what do they mean? Or have I heard them before? Perhaps the infection in my leg is causing me to grow delirious, to hallucinate and imagine things. After all, what possible sense could the words make?
With his stripes ... his stripes ... his stripes ...
What in the world could that mean?
.. we are healed ... we are healed ... we are healed ...
Well, that part is clear enough. And considering the fact that I am stranded in a cabin on a snowy mountaintop with a serious leg infection, I could use a good dose of healing right about now, just like the time when I was stung by the bee at Grandpa and Grandma's farm that day ...
... at Grandpa and Grandma's farm ... Grandma's ... Grandma ...
Grandma! That's where I've heard those words before -- or read them. She had a sampler -- or some kind of embroidered thing -- hanging on a frame on the wall of the bedroom that I used to occupy on the nights that I slept there -- the room that my buddy and I were occupying in my dream. The fabric in the frame was stitched in such a way as to create a kind of cursive style of writing, and I recall that the color of the yarn or thread that was used for the words was similar to that of a dark red wine. I can recall Grandma telling me that she embroidered -- or knit -- or whatever -- I guess embroidered would be the right word -- the picture early in her marriage to my grandpa, shortly after they had moved into the house on the farm, and shortly after her heart had been broken by the death of their first child, an infant girl.
I've got to stop writing. The infected part of my leg is beginning to throb, and my hands seem to be cramping up -- a result, I guess, of all the writing that I have been doing.
Wow -- it already seems to be growing dark. Considering the cloud cover and the thickness of the trees, darkness will probably fall at 4:30 or so. This is, after all, the seventh-shortest (or is it sixth-shortest?) day of the year.
It's about 3:20 now, which means that there about 90 minutes of daylight remaining. As wild as it sounds, I am seriously considering the idea of taking another hike down this mountain. If I don't, I will have to wait about 14 hours for the sun to rise again, and the temperature in the morning will probably be well below zero. And if I delay too long, this infection might progress to the point where I am unable to ambulate at all.
I didn't get far the last time I ventured out, but now I know my way down the mountain (at least for a stretch of a quarter-mile or so), and I will be able to follow the same path that I created earlier. The path might be covered with snow by morning, and invisible to the eye.
I have to take a crack at it. If nothing else, I will at least come to know the terrain on this mountain a little better with each journey that I make.
(6:09 PM)
My second expedition down the mountain was a complete failure. As I look back upon it, I am amazed that I even survived it. I tripped four times, and at one point almost pitched headlong over a precipice. It seemed as if the wind was blowing -- whipping -- against me during my entire trip down the mountain, and again during my trip back up it.
After night fell, I became disoriented, and lost my sense of where this cabin is located. After wandering around for 30 minutes or so, I was finally able to catch a glimpse of a distant yellow light -- which turned out to be the window that faces to the north/northwest.
I am too discouraged to write any more right now. The infection in my leg seems to be growing more angry by the hour.
I have just thrown another plank of wood on the fire, and am going to try to rest near the flames for a while -- rest and think.
(6:44 PM)
I can't seem to rest, and am having a hard time thinking. I am not able to lie still, and feel like pacing, as I often do when analyzing a problem; yet, this leg hurts so much that it is hard for me to walk, let alone pace. The only thing left for me to do is pace mentally -- that is, to place onto paper, in an organized way, all of the facts of my present situation. By focusing upon the facts, and temporarily ignoring my emotions (which seem to be gaining the upper hand at the moment), I might be able to arrive at some plan of action. (If nothing else, the mere act of writing everything out may prove to be therapeutic.)
Where do I begin? I suppose I will start by simply writing down any and all facts (whether they happen to be positive, negative, or neutral) that I come up with regarding the present state of affairs, and will then go back over them and try to assemble them into some kind of a workable plan.
Okay -- here we go.
* I know for a certainty that I am somewhere in west-central New York state, but have no idea of my specific location. I think it is safe to assume that I am somewhere to the west of Binghamton, to the east of Buffalo, to the south of Lake Ontario, and to the north of the New York-Pennsylvania border.
* Now that I have stumbled upon a large supply of firewood, I am of the opinion that I have enough fuel on hand to last for 10 to 12 days (if I ration it carefully). Beyond that, I have the option of ripping up the floor planks one by one and burning them. There are about 30 planks in the floor. Each plank should last for about 12 hours (again, if I ration the wood carefully). I have enough matches to last me for a while; the box on the mantel contains about 100 of them.
* The food items that are on hand, while certainly on the bland and stale side, are such that they will carry me through for a couple of weeks.
* Water will be no problem as long as there is snow on the ground or icicles hanging from the cabin roof. (Since arriving here, I have been stuffing icicles into my canteen and allowing them to melt there.) According to my knowledge of climatological data for this part of upstate New York, the ground will be covered with snow for most or all of the next 90 days.
* My leg is infected, but I am still able to walk -- at least for the present time. Any attempt to walk is accompanied by rather severe pain.
* I have no idea how the infection will progress, or if I will be able to recover from it without medical attention and/or antiobiotics.
* The infection seems to be advancing at a rather rapid rate, one that might cause me to be immobilized (by extreme pain or weakness) within a day or two.
* Although I have no idea how far away from this cabin they are situated, I am confident that there are people -- or at least a person -- located within 10 miles of this place. The fact that I was able to hear church bells, but was only able to hear them faintly, indicates that help (at least help from that particular source) is at least several miles away, but probably no more than 10 miles away. (Again, these calculations are based upon my limited knowledge of the properties of sound and the ways in which it travels.)
My writing hand is stiff, and it is beginning to lock itself into a cramp. I have to stop. I'll rest the hand and read over the list of facts that I just made.
(7:49 PM)
I have spent the last 10 minutes on my back near the fire, and have been reading, over and over again, the eight facts and two conclusions that are written above.
The more I read, the more I am inclined to think that I should prepare myself for one final attempt to hike my way down the mountain. It would make sense to wait for the first light of morning, but any delay beyond that, given the condition of my leg, could place me beyond the door of opportunity that is now open before me -- that is, the ability to ambulate (however unsteadily and painfully) and the ability to reason. (I have not yet succumbed to an infection-inspired fever or coma.)
There is some merit to the argument that I should avoid a delay at all costs -- that I should brace myself for an immediate journey down the mountainside. After all, the condition of my leg is not likely to improve during the next few hours, and it may worsen at an exponential rate. There is no moonlight this evening, as the sky is still overcast, and a light snow is still falling. Yet, the woods will not be completely dark, as the snow that is on the ground, coupled with the low ceiling of clouds, will produce a certain amount of light or what I would describe as "snow brightness."
To follow this line of reasoning -- assuming as a "given" that I will have to make a hike down the mountain at some point if I am going to survive, and assuming as another "given" that my leg will only grow worse with the passage of time, it would follow that I should embark upon my journey immediately, despite the risk of becoming completely lost in the darkness. It would seem that the greater risk would lie in delaying the inevitable -- that is, in putting off my expedition until some theoretically better time. The only disadvantage of an immediate departure would be the lack of light and the colder temperatures that would have to be endured. Of course, these are not small obstacles; after all, it will do no good to become lost on these hills. There is, after all, the ever-present possibility of a major snowstorm, and if one should strike during the night, when visibility is already at such a low level ...
Hmmm ..... I just had an interesting thought. One advantage of a nighttime excursion would be the ability to discern lights -- lights emanating from distant (or perhaps not-so-distant) villages, from aircraft (perhaps arriving at or departing from a small municipal airport), or from moving vehicles.
Would it be crazy for me to launch myself out into the darkness -- like right now? Or would it be crazy for me to remain here during the overnight hours?
(8:14 PM)
As a way of seeking additional information, I have just completed a quick inspection of my injured thigh. There is no doubt about it; the leg is far more swollen and angry-looking than it was only an hour ago. I can detect signs of pus around the wound, and the injury site is extremely tender to the touch -- even the most gentle touch.
Perhaps my window of opportunity has already closed. Maybe it's too late to even attempt something as wild as a nighttime hike into the frigid darkness of an unknown mountain. Yet, it was while roaming about in this very forest that I stumbled upon this cabin.
After checking on my leg, I evaluated another key factor in this whole situation -- the weather. In order to gain some sort of grasp upon the conditions that are prevailing in this part of the state tonight, I stepped out of the cabin a short time ago, and went on to spend a full 10 minutes gathering as much data as I could, including a visual inspection of the sky (overcast and low), a check on the thermometer (it is nine above zero right now), and a determination of the wind direction (from the east at perhaps five miles per hour). After boiling down all of this information, and after tossing aside all extremes (that is, all unlikely scenarios), I have determined, first of all, that snow is probably on the way (one can almost taste it in the air), and secondly, that it is not likely to begin until a bit later in the evening. (The sky above the cabin is slghtly broken, and a few stars are peeping through the ceiling of clouds; yet, the clouds that lie to the west and southwest of the cabin are solid, and have an off-white, somewhat luminous, laden-with-snow appearance to them.
That's it. I've made my decision. I will be leaving within the next 20 minutes, just as soon as I administer a topical anesthetic (a couple of gigantic icicles should do the trick nicely) to my infected leg.
(Time: No clock or watch with me. It is sometime around midnight, I guess.)
My carefully-developed plans have been blown to the four winds. I bitterly regret making the decision to leave the warmth of the cabin. I am lost, and I am cold -- and yes, I am scared -- just plain scared.
I am in a cave -- or some sort of opening -- that is cut into the slope of a mountain. I have been here for almost an hour. It has taken me about that long to build a fire. I had to strike 40 or 50 matches in order to ignite a pile of dried weeds and leaves that I found in here, and finally had some success. I have added some roots to the weeds and leaves, and have managed to build a tiny fire. There is just enough light for me to write.
What good will it do for me to write? No good at all. But I am scared, all out of hope, and very, very tired. I am tired of fighting the odds that are arranged against me on this mountain.
I cannot walk anymore. My leg is howling, screaming, pulsating with pain. I would rather go to sleep here than face the pain of walking any longer on this mountain. The infected area on my thigh has grown steadily worse since my departure from the cabin. My pants are ripped, and I am able to see most of the injured area. It is shiny, red, and somewhat hard. I have never seen anything like it in my life. And I have a fever. I am cold and hot at the same time. I am having wild, racing thoughts -- waking nightmares. My heart is beating wildly, and it seems to make me write wildly -- as if something is chasing, hounding, pushing me, threatening to catch up with me.
Why am I even bothering to write? Because I am locked in a decades-long habit of chronicling everything that occurs in my life. Despite the fact that I am in a bleak situation, I am goaded by a certain stubbornness to continue with my writing, reporting upon the latest developments with the detachment of a newspaper writer.
Ironically, I have an abundant supply of writing material -- that is, of pens and notebooks -- but a total lack of useful information. For all I know, I could be either a quarter-mile or 10 miles from the nearest source of aid. I am sick at heart. I don't know what to do. What a foolish decision it was to leave the cabin. Stupid. Ill-advised. Impetuous. Just plain dumb.
Part of me wants to continue to write; another part wants me to hurl this pencil and notebook into the fire, curl up in a corner of this cave -- or whatever it is -- and simply surrender myself to the inevitable.
Somehow or another, the part that wants me to keep writing is winning.
I am going to rest my hand for a few minutes, and then write out a brief will. (Despite frequent admonitions from many acquaintances over the years, I always found a way to procrastinate the making of one.)
(A little bit later)
I have put off the writing of my will again, and for good reason -- a drive for survival. (That's kind of ironic, isn't it?)
About 20 minutes ago, I pulled myself close to this sad answer for a fire and began to scrawl out a very basic, unvarnished will. I was rudely interrupted when a gust of wind (it has really begun to whistle through the pines during the last quarter-hour or so) swept its way into the cave and extinguished the fire. I was caught off guard, and had a hard time reacting to the situation. To be truthful, I panicked, realizing that a human body would not be able to survive in this environment without at least a minimal amount of warmth.
In my haste to build another fire, I thrashed and rolled my way around this cave (I cannot walk a step), groping for two things -- dry (or at least tolerably dry) scraps of wood and the box of matches that had been resting on the dirt floor at the time when the fire vanished.
For the first three or four minutes of my search, I was not able to locate the matchbox, and was beginning to come to the conclusion that I had accidentally pressed it into the moist earth upon which I am resting -- that is, accidentally buried it. To my profound relief, I was eventually able to find the box; somehow or another, it had been brushed to the side of the cave when I was flailing about in the darkness.
After locating the matches, I began to crawl around this chamber (which, by the way, has a height of about five feet and a width of about six) in search of some fuel for a new fire. Again, to my great relief, I was able to rake together, into a small pile, a number of dried leaves and a small quantity of roots and sticks (also dry). As meager as this supply of firewood is, it is more precious to me than any other treasure could be at this point, as it is now bringing forth some warmth, enabling me to resume my obsessive (and pointless) writing. With the aid of the light (as faint as it is) that the little blaze is throwing out, I was able to spy a group of thick roots growing from a wall of this cave. If I can find a way to cut a section of the roots free (I had the foresight to bring a knife with me), I will be able to prolong the fire for several hours.
I am going to roll my way over to the roots now. This knife is terribly dull, but perhaps it will do the trick.
(About a half-hour later)
The knife doesn't work! It is utterly dull -- and useless in regard to this particular application. The roots are wet -- and hopelessly thick! I should have suspected the wetness when I saw icicles clinging to the roof above them. That whole section of the cave is loaded -- almost packed -- with ice . I would assume that the roots are surrounded by some kind of moisture on a year-round basis.
Oh, why did I leave the cabin? It seems like a fortress -- a palace -- compared with this place!
This is how the story ends, I suppose. I am out of firewood. The flames are shrinking. Even when the fire was at its peak (about 20 minutes ago), this place was barely warm enough to sustain life. The tiny blaze that I have going now would barely roast a hot dog. I have been rubbing my hands over the fire, and am about to bring my feet closer to it as well, as they seem to be losing sensation.
Here I am, dutifully describing my own demise, and adhering to such a standard of perfection that I am compulsively erasing every mistake that I make with the eraser that is attached to this pencil.
Why do I always lapse into a stream of aimless writing when I find myself facing a crisis? Will I still be penning neat little lines at the moment when my pencil drops from my hand and I sink into unconsciousness?
The wind chill factor out on the mountain must be about 40 below zero right now. I would estimate the temperature in this cave to be about 10 at the moment.
If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that the fire will die out in about 15 minutes. If I wanted to stretch that time out a little longer, I could burn this journal.
Oh -- I do have one more burnable thing on my person -- the Bible that I found under the floor of the cabin. Realizing that I might need a paper item of some sort to help start a fire (as a form of kindling), I made a point of stuffing it into the liner of my jacket as I was heading out of the cabin. It's not a real thick book (maybe two inches), but if I am very careful, and burn it a few pages at a time, I might be able to keep a small fire going for an hour or so.
The flames are fading. It's time to start tearing this thing into pieces.
Chapter Five
Monday, December 15
(It must be about 3:00 AM)
I am alive -- and seated next to a blaze that is so strong that I have had to peel away most of my clothes. (They have dried to the point of being stiff; my pants can now stand up by themselves.)
My leg does not hurt at the moment, but my mind is reeling.
This is the second time within 36 hours that I have tottered at the edge (and apparent end) of my life, and the second time that I have suddenly been "rescued." I have so many things to write that I cannot write. I am drained, and in shock. Strangely enough, I am more stunned than happy. I have so many things to write that I cannot write.
I am tongue-tied right now (or perhaps I should say "pencil-tied"). I have to sleep.
(About 9:00 AM)
I have been writing since my boyhood years, and have translated many an experience or into words. Up until the present time, I have never had to endure a true case of "writer's block," or been intimidated by the prospect of condensing, into the pages of a journal, the events of a given day. Yet, I find myself, on this snowy morning (the winter storm that I was expecting last night has arrived) staring uneasily into a blank and pristine notebook page. The starkness of the page seems to be challenging me, but I will try to rise to the occasion.
Perhaps it would be best to simply "blurt out" the events of the last few hours. There is a problem with that approach, though, and it is this -- I am so overwhelmed with confusion right now that no words, no phrases, will be able to successfully convey -- and preserve -- all that has occurred. In fact, the fear that I might fail miserably in my attempts to communicate are tempting me to refrain from trying to communicate at all. Yet, it was a plunge of faith that saved my life a few hours ago; there is no question about that fact. (I hasten to add that my use of the word "faith" is meant to describe an attitude of stepping beyond one's personal comfort area, and is not meant to imply that I have compromised my rational view of reality.)
Well, here goes. I will force myself to spill everything out onto paper, and will do my best to resist the drive for perfectionism that is attempting to intimidate me -- intimidate me into holding back until some theoretically ideal time for writing has arrived.
Hmmm -- I just realized something about myself. Under normal conditions (that is, when I am seated at a desk in my den or office), I make it a habit to distract myself from or avoid all thoughts or feelings that I consider to be disturbing or threatening. Yet, the present state of affairs has forced me -- and continues to force me -- into a different mode of thinking. At home, or in my university office, I always had the luxury of "steering around" a certain line of thinking or a given subject; yet, under the current circumstances, I have nothing to occupy my mind except for thoughts of survival and the reality of the dangers that surround me. In some strange way, therefore, my journal has become an avenue of escape; that is, these blank pages, in addition to intimidating me, have also become a friend. (Judging by the number of words that I have written in the last two days, it would appear that the attractions of these pages outweigh the "threat" that they might pose to my ordered mind.)
(A few minutes later)
I have just taken the time to put down my pencil (my wrist is beginning to ache), and have carefully read over the last couple of paragraphs. Simply put -- they are awful. If one of my students were to engage in such aimless musings, he or she would receive (at least from this professor) a dismally low grade. All that the preceding paragraphs really amount to is a waste of paper -- and lead. There is no theme, no direction, no clarity. It would be clear to any objective reader that the writer of the lines was weaving, dancing, stalling -- and trying to do it all with the air of someone who is in complete control of his surroundings, who is looking down upon his out-of-control circumstances from some lofty perch of calm reason. The irony of the present situation (and by "present" I am referring to the events of the past hour) is that -- well, I'll say it directly, because I am feeling licked about now -- the irony of the present situation is that I am feeling more out of control now, after escaping my latest flirtation with extinction, than I was feeling before I was rescued.
There is that word "rescued" again. Is my spontaneous use of the word a subconscious concession that there exists, in this universe and in my life, a rescuer? I would have preferred to use another verb, but the intellectually honest side of me (or at least the part of me that strives for intellectual honesty) must admit that it was this verb that sprang freely to my lips -- or, rather, to the tip of my pen -- a few minutes ago. What do I make of it?
And that is the problem. I have been resc -- ah, there I go again. I will try again. I have escaped a situation that appeared to be (and -- let's face it -- actually was) devoid of any hope, and am now resting (and almost roasting) by the side of a cheering fire. Yet, I am at least as unhappy (and perhaps more so) than I was a short time ago, when I was preparing to extend the life of the fire by burning the pages of the Bible.
And I didn't burn the pages of the Bible. I couldn't burn the pages of the Bible. And as a result of that decision (and for whatever it's worth, I know that it was as a result of that decision, if only in a logical, cause-and-effect sense) I was rescu -- I escaped.
There are a few acts in this little drama that I cannot bring myself to place onto paper right now. I am going to take a break and rest my hand -- and my mind.
(About 20 minutes later)
I spent the last few minutes pulling on my clothes, and that little exercise has served as a kind of reset button for my mind and emotions, which had, up until that point in time, been racing wildly in many different directions. I think it is time for me to take a long breath, turn to a new page in this notebook, and assemble another compilation of objective facts.
1) Over the course of the last few days, I have experienced a series of unusual -- let's say extremely unlikely -- events, ranging from the moment on the mountain when I dodged the falling tree, and continuing with the "needle-in-a-haystack" encounter (a literal collision) with the cabin amidst a snowstorm. This was followed by the fortunate discovery of food in the cabin, and this by my discovery or recognition of fireplace fuel (in the form of the dry wooden planks) at a time when I was on the brink of sinking into unconsciousness -- and likely death -- as a result of the bitterly cold conditions. All of these events, as eye-popping as they all are/were to me, pale in comparison to what has occurred within the last hour. (As I still find myself unable to write about these extremely recent events, I will simply move ahead with my list.)
What I am about to write in this second section is also going to be difficult for me to express or admit, but it has to be included on this list, as it is, objectively speaking, as factually true as anything else that I will be placing onto paper during this little "trial" that I am conducting.
2) It is an undeniable fact that each of the aforementioned events was immediately preceded by some sort of -- how do I describe this? (I, a veteran author and university professor of 35 years' experience, cannot find a suitable phrase to insert here. I will begin anew, and simply "cough it up," knowing that I will have the luxury of amending what I say in Section Number Three.)
Each of the aforementioned events was preceded by an occurrence that might be characterized, by a Christian believer, as evidence of "heavenly intervention" or "the hand of God." My escape from the falling tree and discovery of the cabin came on the heels of an involuntary prayer that spontaneously escaped my lips, and the recognition of the dry planks was preceded by the dream in which a single phrase -- "The prize is in the wood" -- seared itself into my memory. And, of course, the events of the last hour followed this same pattern or theme, leading directly to the safety, warmth, and healing that I am presently experiencing. (Although I am still stiff and restricted in a musculoskeletal sense, the infection in my leg has lessened dramatically.)
According to my world view, what I am about to write in the third section will go a long way toward trumping all that was written in the preceding ones. The experience of penning the foregoing few sentences was a burdensome one, but the prospect of asserting what I am about to assert is "right up my alley," considering the fact that I have been employing these arguments (arguments that cannot be factually disproven) for the last third of a century, whenever I have found it necessary to "talk some sense into" a committed Christian believer.
When confronted with the irrational beliefs of such an individual, I have always employed an utterly objective approach (identical to the one that I am adhering to in the midst of the present exercise) that is completely fact-based and devoid of sentiment or emotion.
At times I have had to marvel over the statements that have come forth from the lips of ostensibly sane human beings who profess to have faith in some kind of invisible and silent creator. While I realize that not every human being is fortunate enough to possess the level of intelligence -- and education -- that an individual of my own genetic giftedness and university background is likely to have, I often find, when standing before such a person, that it is difficult to conceal my disdain for the simplistic and unsophisticated approach to life that he or she has adopted (and, in some cases, is attempting to impart to others).
I have, on many occasions, been approached by believing students -- committed Christians -- who have expressed puzzlement or sorrow over the fact that I am a confirmed and zealous rationalist. Although I have always struggled to present a polite and tolerant demeanor when dealing with such individuals, I have always been inwardly astonished over the idea that a "wet-behind-the-ears" student (often a fresh-faced 19-year-old hailing from some town in the hinterlands) would attempt to hold his or her own against the refined and heavily-armed intellect that a university professor and oft-published author is likely to possess.
I am drifting far afield in my jottings. I must return to the subject at hand. I will break down the troubling scenarios into separate compartments, so that I will be able to analyze each of them more effectively.
3) As extraordinary as the events disclosed in Section One might be, there is (again, objectively speaking) no reason that they could not have occurred in an accidental and purely coincidental manner. (After all, even the proverbial broken clock is correct two times a day.) I will address these events one at a time.
* It is factually true that a tree in the woods came crashing down into a spot that I had been occupying only seconds before its fall, and that my life was saved by a sudden leap to my right. It is also factually true that my decision to make the leap followed, by split-seconds, a strong inward conviction that I should do so. It is also true that my urge to abruptly swing to my right immediately followed the utterance (unplanned) of a single word -- "Jesus!" Yet, the fact that these three events -- the speaking of a word, the spontaneously-arising urge to hurl myself to my right, and the impact of the tree upon the forest floor -- occurred in a sequential fashion, within the space of 10 or 15 seconds, does not in and of itself prove anything. The world is a complex place, and events are always following upon other events.
Taken separately, each of these sequential events is quite explainable. First of all, of course, is the elementary and indisputable fact that trees do occasionally fall during snowstorms. In the second place, the unplanned emittance of the word "Jesus" can easily be attributed to the emotional turmoil and physical duress under which I was laboring, along with my subconscious memories of Grandma. Thirdly, the decision to jerk my body into another direction can readily be chalked up to a subconscious realization that a tree had just been loosened from its root system and was beginning to crash. Said another way -- my subconscious mind might well have picked up vibrations in the earth or the sounds of the tree as it was being uprooted. (Admittedly, I do not recall feeling or hearing any "clue" regarding the event that was about to transpire, but that does not mean that my subconscious mind did not, in some manner, react to natural stimuli by telling my body to make an abrupt course correction.)
I will now address the timely (and, in the eyes of a believer, apparently providential) discovery of the firewood.
When compared with the events that occurred in the woods, my realization that the wooden planks in the cabin could be burned as fuel is, at first blush, not very striking or dramatic. Yet, I must honestly declare here (and that is the purpose of this list -- to capture and record every available fact) that my mind would not have recognized this solution without the prodding of the dream and the unusual phrase "The prize is in the wood." Said another way -- I am fully convinced that without the clue in my dream, I would have perished in that cabin.
With that fact being said -- admitted to -- I can now go forward with my explanation for what might be construed, by a believer, as another providential or interventional event. A series of two facts will suffice in this instance. First and foremost, people dream, and their dreams are often an untidy collection or montage of many fragments of their lives. Due to the fact that I had been sleeping on a wooden floor, and had been thinking frequently of Grandma since my arrival in the cabin, it is not beyond belief that I should have a dream of the nature that I had. It is true that the boy in the dream delivered, in language that was rather playfully veiled, a nugget of information so vital, so key, that it protected me from death. Yet, all of these events (as remarkable in their timeliness and interconnectedness as they admittedly are) could have occurred in a random or coincidental manner, without the guidance of a superior being.
* * * *
After completing the previous sentence, I put down my pencil and carefully read through the paragraphs that I had written. The three sections that I created fairly and accurately sum up the extraordinary events that occurred in the woods and cabin. Though these events are certainly unusual, I believe that the points listed in Section Three would compel any jury to declare that no solid case had been made for the existence of an active (or interactive) creator. To condense my findings into a single sentence: Nothing that occurred in the woods or my cabin can be said to be at variance with the basic doctrine of rationalism and intellectualism to which I have adhered for the last four decades.
I have now addressed all of the extraordinary events that occurred in the woods and in the cabin, and have demonstrated, to my own satisfaction, that each of them can reasonably be attributed to naturally-occurring phenomena. I have not, on the other hand, addressed (or been able to address) the details of the drama that has unfolded in this cave during the last two hours. And, to be utterly candid, I don't know when -- or if -- I will be able to address them.
I suppose the only fair way to continue with this little trial is to stick with the rule that I established at the beginning of the whole exercise -- inclusion of any and all facts that might be gathered (or entered as admissible evidence, if you will) and a rejection of any bits of information that fail to meet this rigid standard (such as opinions, prejudices, or thoughts that have their roots in sentimentality or emotion).
The irony of the Cave Incident is this -- that the very facts of the situation are stirring, within the depths of my being, great currents of emotion. I will be forced to steel myself for the space of the next 15 minutes if I am to complete this exhaustive fact-finding project. But first, I will have to rest my hand (and attempt to sharpen this pencil with a very dull pocketknife blade.)
Chapter Six
Monday, December 15
(It must be about 3:00 AM)
I just emerged from a slumber -- a deep one. There are no windows in this cave (or is it a cavern?), and as a result, I have no way of gauging the amount of time that I spent in dreamland. After writing the previous paragraphs, I put my notebook and pencil to the side, and decided to stretch out on the floor and close my eyes for what I thought would be five or 10 minutes. What ensued instead was a fully-blown nap; for all I know, I was out for three hours.
Since awakening, I have become aware of two things -- the fact that I am very hungry, and the fact that my injured thigh (that is, the open-sore portion of it) has healed completely (save for a barely-discernible area of scar tissue).
It must be about sunrise, and I am ready for a breakfast meal. I will break out my hard crackers in a minute or two -- right after I finish this fact-listing project.
In order to complete it, I will have to place onto paper the events that unfolded during the hours that preceded my nap.
Here goes ...
I am having trouble here. I need to tell myself what I have often told my students: Ignore your feelings, preconceptions, and opinions. Stick to the facts.
If I am to follow my own advice, I will have to do what I did earlier -- simply cough up the facts, and resist the temptation to expound upon them or to editorialize. (I will have my chance to do all of that in the next phase of this little trial.)
Here are the facts, all of the facts, and nothing but the facts:
In order to set the stage for what has transpired, I will have to rewind this journal to the point in time when I was seated in the cave, next to a dying fire, and was preparing to burn the pages of the Bible. I was of the opinion, at that point, that I would be able to extend the life of the fire by about an hour, and, in so doing, extend my life by that same length of time.
As I was lifting the Bible from the floor of the cave, it fell open in my hands, and my eyes became locked upon a page from the Book of Isaiah. For some reason or another, my attention was seized by a particular portion of the page -- a portion of Isaiah's 53rd chapter -- that contained these words:
Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.
I was frozen by the words, and my right hand, already poised for the act of ripping a page from the book, could not complete the mission that my mind had directed it to perform. My thoughts began to race.
Those are some of the words that I saw hanging in Grandma's room when I was a little boy -- the same words that materialized in my mind yesterday afternoon, when I was in the cabin.
It was at about this time that my gaze, still riveted upon the page, fell upon another string of words that had been stitched into the picture by Grandma:
And with his stripes we are healed.
And from that moment forward, the huge infection (it had been both wide and deep) in my upper right thigh began to heal (and, as I recorded earlier, is now completely healed, except for scar tissue).
There -- I did it! I managed to cough up, without the influence of my own "spin," an objective account of the Cave Drama (or at least the first act in the Cave Drama), and can now plunge forward with this fact-gathering mission. (I am tempted to pause again, so that I might be able to choose or "weight" my words carefully, but will force myself to spill everything onto paper in a narrative fashion, precisely as the events unfolded.)
Within minutes of this incident, at a point when the fire had grown very weak, I found myself, in a rather dazed (and, I admit, somewhat frightened) state of mind, leafing my way through the pages of the book. As my benumbed fingers were carrying out this task, my mind was forming thoughts, such as the following one:
Well, I know one thing now -- that I won't be burning this thing, which simply means that I will freeze to death over the course of the next 30 minutes rather than having the event delayed by an hour or so.
And it was at about that time that my eyes fell upon a phrase from the Book of Matthew:
An angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Rise" ...
Without stopping to analyze the situation (and stunned to see my name featured so prominently in a Gospel story -- a story I had never read), I rose (I was now able to ambulate freely), and began to move toward the darkest end of the cave, an area that I had not yet had an opportunity to explore. I had traveled about eight feet when my eyes caught something that I had not previously noticed -- a stack of battered -- but very dry -- railroad beams!
Within the space of seconds, the dynamics of the whole situation had been turned upon their ear. Behind me, the fire was dying for want of fuel, and before me rested an abundance of firewood. But a new challenge now faced me -- a lack of kindling. Without it, the beams would be of little use.
It was at this point that I considered the possibility of leaving the cave and making a break for the cabin. My infected leg, after all, had made an amazing recovery; in fact, it was now in better condition than it had been during my trek down the mountain. Yet, there were other dangers. My extremities had begun to grow numb, and my frame had begun to shiver uncontrollably.
I can walk now, but I'm in no shape to hike up this slope. I will have to find a way to rejuvenate this fire.
Without the benefit of further analysis, I began to drag one of the beams toward the center of the cave, where the fire was located. It was then that a potential solution presented itself to my mind.
My knife! The blade is growing dull, but it might be sharp enough to give me a few shavings.
And it was. Within 10 minutes, the height of the flames had increased modestly, a development that afforded me a greater degree of light, but no apparent increase in warmth.
The fire is only superficially larger. It won't last. If I don't find something to bridge the gap between the shavings and the beam -- an in-between size -- I'll be in the dark -- and the cold -- within 20 minutes.
It was then that another difficult-to-explain event occurred. I will report it as objectively as is humanly possible. I ...
I can't convey the -- what word am I looking for? -- the fullness of the event (as that would force me to explain thoughts and feelings that I cannot completely understand), but I can report upon it. Here we go:
I knew what to do next. I simply knew it.
I'll get another beam, and it will be so dry that I will be able to break splintered sections away from it by hand.
And that is exactly what transpired. An hour ago I was tottering at the edge of life, and I am now basking (and nearly melting) before the light and heat of a great blaze.
These are the facts of the situation. They are, admittedly, quite extraordinary, and appear, at first glance, to defy explanation. Yet, my analysis of the earlier occurrences (regarding the falling tree and cabin planks) demonstrates that rational answers to such events can be found. After all ...
What is that? I just heard a voice -- a rather high-pitched voice. It seemed to come from somewhere beyond the entrance to this cave -- somewhere out in the forest.
What am I thinking? A voice in this lonely forest, in the midst of a snowstorm? It can't be! My nerves have probably hit the snapping point. I must have heard the wind as it was sighing through the pines.
There it goes again! Can that be the wind? It sounds like a call -- or a cry.
I need to investigate.
(About an hour later.)
I have just returned to the cave after completing a brief scouting expedition into the woods. My findings can be summed up in two sentences:
* Daylight has arrived, and a fresh blanket of snow (perhaps two inches deep) is covering the floor of the forest.
* There are footprints in the snow, and judging by their dimensions, they appear to have been made by a child -- or a small adult.
The latter bit of evidence dovetails neatly with the fact that I heard the voice of a woman earlier in the morning.
Assuming that it was a woman, who was she, and just where am I? I've been so preoccupied with survival during the last few days that there has been little time to contemplate that question. Now that my leg has been healed (that is, the infected portion of it), I am able to ambulate at about 75 percent of my normal level of function. I will warm myself by the fire for about 20 minutes, and then step out into the woods. Once I am there, I will have to decide whether I should return to the cabin or attempt to follow the footprints.
(5:33 PM)
Home, Sweet Home.
My (did I say "my"?) cabin is aglow with a blaze, and I find myself wondering what could have persuaded me to leave it last evening. Of course, the answer to that question is obvious -- I cannot stay here forever. And yet, now that the infection in my leg has disappeared, there is no sense of urgency or panic goading me into action, as was the case last night. My stockpile of food, though comprised of tasteless fare, remains abundant, and there are plenty of planks left to burn. There is no objective reason for me to leave these cozy quarters in order to explore the mountain again -- at least anytime soon.
And yet I know I will be venturing out of here -- at the first hint of tomorrow morning's light. The fact that someone else has been roaming about this wilderness (in a snowstorm) bothers me -- and almost unnerves me. To be honest, I had never contemplated any other idea than this one -- that I am all alone in these woods. The fact that I am not is unsettling. (For one thing, this cabin has no curtains, and as a result, I am on full display to anyone who might want to peer through the windowpanes -- especially after nightfall, when the woods are dark and the room is bright with firelight).
I have just reviewed the previous entry, and can report that after stepping out of the cave, I actually managed to fulfill both of the options that were listed in its final sentence -- that is, I attempted to follow the footprints, and then (after being thwarted in that effort) returned to the cabin.
After leaving the cave, I immediately spotted the prints that I had noticed during my previous scouting expedition. The snow was falling quite heavily at that time (big flakes), and each of the depressions had already begun to fill. Realizing that the tracks would soon be covered with snow and lost to view, I made the decision to follow them.
I was then faced with a decision -- should I walk in the direction from which the prints had come, or should I instead move in the direction toward which they were progressing? The answer soon became obvious.
The older prints are more filled than the newer prints, and will soon be impossible to see. I'll begin by working in a backwards direction.
The tracks led me in an uphill (somewhat northerly) direction, and directly into a thick stand of pine trees. (As far as I have been able to discover, some quantity of pines can be found in every part of this forest; yet, the area into which they led me was composed exclusively of them.)
I managed to progress about 200 yards before the prints disappeared from view, and lost no time in reversing my course of travel.
That wasn't very productive. I probably should have gone in the other direction in the first place. I hope the tracks won't be filled in before I find out where they are leading.
I decided at this point to pick up my pace (moving by means of a kind of lumbering, limping jog), and soon managed to "catch up" to the place where the tracks were once again visible. I went on to follow them for about 20 minutes, and would have continued to do so beyond that time, were it not for the fact that they were taking me in a downhill direction, farther and farther away from the cabin, which, at that point, rested nearly a mile up the incline.
I'll have to give up the chase. My right thigh -- or pelvis -- is really beginning to stiffen. The hike back to the cabin will be completely uphill, and I'm not sure I'll be able to make it as it is. It would be foolish for me to go any farther right now.
(The following section was updated on Sunday, April 18, 2010.)
And it is only now, after my return to the cabin (the hike back was not as difficult as I had feared it would be) that it has hit me -- I should have marked the footprint trail for future reference! It would have been easy for me to leave a pattern of tree gashes or something of that sort.
Now that I am back in my sanctuary, the reality of what occurred in the cave is beginning to dominate my mind. It is simply astounding that I survived that experience, and that after doing so, I was able to make my way back up the mountainside and into this place. I recorded the facts of this experience while seated in the cave, but did not at that time feel capable of interpreting them in a rational manner. Now that I have returned to the cabin, and have allowed my thoughts and emotions to settle down, I am ready to take a crack at it. But first things first. I am worn out, and extremely hungry. Night has fallen, and although the evening is young, I am ready to sleep. I will whip together some supper (moderately-petrified cereal flakes and melted icicles are on the menu), and then roll into my feather bed. I will set aside this journal until tomorrow morning.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday December 16
(7:54 AM)
I slept for 10-and-a-half consecutive hours, was jarred awake at about sunrise (by a flock of honking geese, of all things), and then managed to snooze for an additional two hours. This is the first time since my departure from Maine that I have felt fully rested.
I spent the last hour or so reviewing the pages of this journal, and am ready to resume the thread of "conversation" that I began last evening just prior to bedtime.
Throughout the course of my adult life, and during the years of my academic career, I have had lively discussions with many a committed Christian, and have emerged as the clear intellectual victor in each of these little affairs. I am not willing to see that streak come to an end on the strength of an odd/coincidental experience or two. (Expressed in a different manner -- after verbally "cleaning the clock" of each person who has ever dared to confront or withstand the force of my logic, it would be quite ironic (and a crying shame) for me to "lose" an argument out here, in the barrenness of these woods, when there is no other individual present.)
There were two major events that occurred in the cave -- the sudden disappearance of my leg infection and the surprising discovery of the burnable wood. I will tackle them in logical (and chronological) order.
The sudden disappearance of my leg infection followed the reading of a Scripture excerpt from the Book of Isaiah -- the same portion of the Bible that Grandma had chosen to include in the embroidered picture that graced the wall of her guest bedroom. To be specific (and fair) -- the restoration of my leg occurred immediately (that is, within seconds) after I read the final line of the Isaiah quotation: And with his stripes we are healed. (Truth be told, I began to experience a sensation of warmth and healing in my right leg at the very moment when I began to pronounce the word "stripes.")
I will now attempt an interpretation of this extraordinary series of events.
(To be continued in the Family Room.)