Before the Plunge

With every bump increasing up the hill, the pace of my heart gradually became slower and slower. I rolled down my window and let the sound of rustling leaves and woodpeckers in the distance drown out the noise of my engine and the ringing in my ears.

I had jumped at the chance to be among the mountains, to sit by a roaring fire, to pull the thorn in my side out. The tedious schedule of the work week had dragged me just shy of the finish line, and my eyes were singed with blue light. Not even the glasses I purchased to cope with staring at a laptop from sunup to sundown had prevented my eyelids from becoming heavier and heavier as the whites of my eyes reddened. Nature had been long calling to me away from my desk and into the great beyond.

It had been just shy of a year since my last excursion, where I settled near a small pond half a mile from the parking lot. My hammock had been drawn up between two sturdy maple trees, nestled between the dark mountain peaks that extended up beyond the waters, into the cold blue sky. The leaves on the ground were fresh and colorful, and every step I took was a disturbance to the peace that permeated the forest. My eyes, not yet as red as they would become, had never seen such remote and wild beauty. Everything had gone smoothly until two in the morning, when I realized I did not have enough insulation to keep warm through the night. As temperatures dipped below freezing and my mind fashioned a bear grumbling in the distance, I made haste back to my car and out of the wilderness, vowing to one day return and conquer the night.

I turned my car off of the parkway and onto a narrow, gravel road, dust coating my bumper. As if the forest itself could sense its reverie being interrupted by my noisy sedan, the jury of the forest grew condescendingly quiet.

“I have to show you this video,” Mark called out from the back seat. He adjusted his baseball cap, whipped out his phone and, after a few moments, put it away hesitantly. “No bars.”

“Yes sir.” Jacob replied, pounding on the ceiling above the passenger seat. “Totally backcountry.” The jingling from his beaded bracelets was undistinguishable from my tires bouncing over rocks in our way.

“You serious?”

“No one lives back here, and this road stretches on for miles.” He turned to me. “Big props for recommending this campsite. I had no idea it even existed.”

I was unable to wipe the smile off my face as I drove. “It’s not your typical site. It’s more of a trail with clearings along the way that people have used to camp. The one I have in mind isn’t a far hike, and it’s close to the falls. It’ll have enough room for all of us.”

“You brought your swimming trunks, right?” Mark asked, rolling down his window and sticking his head out. “We should still jump.”

"You're kidding, right? It'll be freezing."

"That's the fun of it. Pain is weakness leaving the body."

"Is that what they told you in the Marines?"

"You know it," I replied in jest. "And I'm tougher than any of you."

"Right. Backflip off the rock into the falls. You won't."

"I'll do a double."

“Remember the one rule for the night.” Jacob held up his phone. “None of these.”

Everybody present threw their devices into my glove compartment, forgetting the cares of the world. It didn't take long, though, for everyone to wish they were plugged back in. Mark looked suddenly bored, and Jacob was doing his best to avert his gaze from the floor.

The mind can be a deathly thing. If a bear were to take up residence in your living room, your body would alert you immediately to the threat. In our normal, non-predatory lives, while we recognize no perceivable threat, our brains still sound the sirens of danger come near. The bear is nowhere to be seen, yet we can almost hear its curious grunts and smell its breath. For some, the bear becomes so ingrained in our lives that we welcome it with open arms, although it looks hungrily at you, preparing itself for its next meal.

Such is the human condition. While at times you can recognize the severity of what ails you, there are other times when you throw caution to the wind and cave to your whims anyway. Whatever voice the wind carries with it, we follow, and the stronger the winds become, the more directions we feel blown in, prompting us to either succumb to the storm, accepting every stimulus we are offered, or make a choice to pull the thorn out of our side. There is one in everyone’s side, and we all live with them, day in and day out.

My thoughts dissipated as we approached a thin, black line ahead, stretching across the gray, gravel road. I began to feel as if once we crossed that line, my fate was sealed, and I would plunge farther into the depths and feel more life than the dirt could tell of. I felt the gallop of my car underneath me as I ran over that line. It came to life, jumping as though startled, then slithering away off the bank of the road, into a valley of green.

I wanted to rid myself of my thorn if I could.

* * *

Now more gray than blue, my car came to rest at a curve in the road next to the trailhead. The road continued on past our line of sight, and the forest finally acknowledged our presence, with all creatures making theirs known. The last birds of the fall season flapped overhead, and a daring chipmunk rustled through the brush and scurried up a nearby tree, his beady eyes never leaving us, alert to our every motion. Our lungs welcomed the green air with the heartiest inhales and most gracious of exhales, each breath purifying our consciences.

The campsite itself was only a quarter-mile trek from where we parked. We gathered our gear and set foot on the welcoming wild ground, the mighty river sounding off in the distance, calling us as we walked. Overgrown shrubs and fallen branches lined the way, but the outline of the path was still prominent in the dirt. We followed the flow of the river to our left, the rushing of the waters so clear that our ears were refreshed from simple awe of its strength. Before long, we veered off the trail and found ourselves in a small patch of mud. A man-made fire pit, only big enough for cooking, was the only object in the area. We passed the fire pit and jumped over a hairline creek running through a ditch, which led to a bigger campsite, hidden from the hiking trail. Another fire pit lay at the center of the circular glade, this one big enough for rising flames and warmth through the night. The trees surrounding us reached for the afternoon sky, hoping to touch the last remaining rays of sunlight before they fell, free and unbridled, below the mountain peaks.

We set up camp, my tent facing the center, the hammocks of the others stacked behind me.

“What do we have for food?” Jacob half-shouted across the clearing to Mark, who had wandered off and was returning, a sizeable log in one hand and a hatchet in the other.

“The works.” Mark dropped his prize near the fire. “Bacon, sausage, eggs, and…” He reached into his bag and tossed me a can. “…backpacker’s chili.”

I caught it and picked up my axe with my other hand, watching Jacob struggle to sink a hatchet into a sturdy oak tree a few paces away. “Secret recipe?”

“My dad always made this when we went camping. Simple, portable…” Mark revealed two shakers of spice and a bag of taco seasoning. “…and delicious.” He caught it as I tossed it back. Jacob fished around in the brush for his hatchet, which had glanced the tree at an angle and sailed off in another direction.

“Can’t wait.” I began chopping the wood, already itching to shed my flannel in the October shade as I began to sweat.

“Have you ever tried pudgy pies?” Jacob stood up, newly dented hatchet in hand, and returned to his battle position.

“What on God's green earth are those?”

“You’re missing out.” The hatchet sliced through the air, this time missing the tree entirely. Jacob grunted and started after it again.

“Imagine a grilled cheese,” he continued, “over an open fire. Top it off with anything: mushrooms, pepperoni, tomatoes. Chuck it all into a double-sided skillet. Paradise on a plate.”

“You Michiganders are something else,” Mark dropped another pile of uncut wood into my pile. I stopped chopping for a moment and wiped the sweat from underneath my cap. Is this all we could talk about, what we would cook for our next meal? It would be gone like summer air when night bids its frigid entrance. What, then, would we talk about after we ate our fill? Ethics? Poetry? Politics, dare I wonder? I remained doubtful. Conversation tends to flow easiest when it follows the entertaining of an idea. Any idea will do, so long as it defies the status quo. I continued chopping, slamming the axe down on the unsuspecting log and splitting the dried wood in one fell, but not after removing my flannel and watching Jacob finally sink his hatchet into the trunk of the tree.

“Did any of you bring coffee grounds?” I asked between swings.

“I think I have a percolator,” Jacob removed his hatchet from the tree and inspected the blade.

Mark fumbling with his hammock, abandoned his tangled project and began rummaging through his bag, holding up a small bag a moment later. “I have my beans.”

I put the axe down and grabbed a pot from my bag. “Who needs a percolator? I have some instant coffee. That will get the job done.”

“Did the Marines teach you that, too? To boil instant coffee?” Jacob had begun sharpening his hatchet, gliding a stone across the rough steel. It did not serve much of a purpose.

“Nope. Too slow. Just take the instant coffee, put it under your lip, and chase it with some water. Saves you time.” Mark, who had finally untangled his hammock, stopped stringing it up between two trees to make a face in my direction. I continued. “But you wouldn’t do that.”

Jacob paused. “Bet.” He put his hatchet down and stepped toward me, water bottle in hand. I shrugged, revealed a packet of the vile brown talc, and handed it to him, anticipating either vomit or a hairball to follow. Jacob, ripping open the packet, took a whiff, much to his chagrin, and carefully poured the powder into his mouth. Instantly, his cheeks convulsed in a suppressed cough, and his eyes began to water. I laughed, reminding him to chug his water, and only after he did so, swishing and swallowing painfully, was he able to breathe again, sputtering and laughing with the rest of us.

“God, how do you drink that stuff?”

“You get used to it. Every Marine I know has done this at one time or another.”

Mark chimed in. “Is that why you lost brain cells?”

“No, I had none to begin with; that’s why I joined.”

“Is there any way to make that taste better?”

“Not unless you have some cocoa from an MRE. I may have some in my car.”

This was more like it, I thought to myself as I parted with the campsite, taking the trail in the opposite direction back to the trailhead. This was what I was hoping for, what I fervently needed. My eyes felt clearer than they had been in weeks, and the fallen leaves mixed with the last drops of moisture in the chilly air purified my lungs. The shadows seemed to creep ever forward as the sun began to sink below the horizon, like the comfort in camaraderie that was slowly building between the three of us as the day wore on. They had never seen combat, but they had supported me when I returned from my tour. I would count them among the best of friends, and yet they had never been shot at, never known what it was like to be in imminent peril or certain danger. There are snakes lying in wait in the grass, berries that upset the stomach but look pleasing to the eye, and bears scrounging for calories before entering its cave and hunkering down in restful sleep for the winter.

Only when you find yourself in the midst of a firefight, whether against bullets or sharp claws, can you know what kind of a person you are: cowardly, courageous, or a deer in the headlights. I knew myself well; neither of them knew themselves. It was evidenced by the bluntness of the hatchet and the wrinkles in the hammock. But they were comrades, nonetheless.

I heard Mark emerging from the brush and calling to me to get my attention. As I turned, I saw he was holding a small object: a meager box of crayons. I instructed him to save them for me for when I returned to the campsite.