Considering you were writing to such a tight deadline this time I think you did a great job, Marc. I will admit I was hoping for a little more decision than just which way to go next, but I guess you haven't decided what you're writing towards yet? For me then, I think the choice is: do they get across the river or stay on this side and I'll try and provide some more clues as to how this has happened.
Mine Second-guessing is the thing, isn't it? We started off downstream, keeping a cautious distance from the edge of the river and a wary eye out in general. I didn't know what was making me feel uneasy, but something about this was so unexpected that it didn't feel quite right. And so we'd barely gone two hundred metres when I started worrying if I'd picked the wrong direction to go. After all, downstream effectively meant downhill, so if I was wrong we'd be having to walk uphill just to get back to where we started, and then uphill more to be going in the right direction.
I tried to ignore the new little voice that muttered 'if there is a right direction' when I thought that.
My unease grew stronger as we walked, our footsteps swishing through ankle-high grass and occasionally rapping on stones and rocks that were easier to walk over than around. The river didn't look to be getting narrower or slowing down any, and given we'd only been gone a couple of days expecting to find a bridge was a fantasy too far. Ten minutes passed and then fifteen and I could feel the sweat running down my spine like the unwelcome fingers of a cruel masseur. Finally, just when I decided I had to admit to being wrong and suggest we turn around, we saw something on the bank of the river. "A raft?" he said, sounding as puzzled as I felt. The sense of relief I felt that this hadn't been the wrong way -- well, the wrongest way -- after all swept away the heat, the sweatiness and the nagging desire to get a change of clothes. "Works for me," I said. "Even if it takes us further downstream we'll be on the same side as the car at last." His laughter rang out like some exotic bird escaped from the hills we'd been hiking and we checked the raft over for soundness before pulling it into the water and clambering on.
There were oars and a pole and we got across in maybe only five minutes; the water swept us downstream still but didn't oppose us getting across. It was a little more of a struggle on the other bank to pull the raft up again, but the least we could do was leave it where it could be taken back across, not let it sail off into the sunset, or wherever the river led.
"Man," he said, as we started back upstream, "this is not quite the way I thought the hike would end."
He said the same thing again when we reached the parking lot at last and found the bloodstains, huge red, sticky patches with clouds of flies rising up from them like bad spirits haunting evildoers as we approached, between us and the cars.
[OK, it's up to you what caused the bloodstains -- cows, people, the collision of a truck carrying blood-bags to the blood-bank, an over-enthusiastic film-crew who are attempting a Blair Witch remake...]
Leaving it to the last day this time around, here I go...
Mine:
"Bear leftovers?" I asked from a safe distance.
"Maybe," he replied, but I could hear the doubt in his voice even at that distance. He had knelt by one of the patches, somehow standing both the flies and the smell. "It's definitely not fish though."
"Could have got a deer," I suggested. I think the fact that I was hoping for a bloodthirsty bear to be roaming the parking lot said quite a bit about my state of mind at that point. "They do that sometimes."
"Right," he said without any sign of enthusiasm for the idea. "There's not much left of whatever th... what the hell?"
"What is it?" I moved closer, my curiosity taking over.
He pointed to one of the other patches of blood and at first I couldn't tell what had caught his attention. Then I did, and immediately wished I hadn't.
"Footprints?" I asked. How could anyone step in one of these... these... things and not notice? I don't care how exhausted you are from hiking, there was just no way you'd just walk through one. Then I stepped closer and got a better look. "Shit, maybe they're hurt?"
What I had initially taken for a set of two footprints was actually one set of footprints alongside a smeared trail. Like somebody was dragging their other leg.
"Yogi might have caught a hiker," he said grimly. "Come on, we better follow it. Whoever it is probably needs medical attention."
"Right," I said, shifting my pack around to my front. My fatigue had disappeared and my heart was pounding. "I'll get my first-aid kit out."
"Yeah," he said, starting to follow the trail. Then he paused and looked back at me, his expression unreadable. "Should probably have the bear spray handy, too."
2 comments:
Considering you were writing to such a tight deadline this time I think you did a great job, Marc. I will admit I was hoping for a little more decision than just which way to go next, but I guess you haven't decided what you're writing towards yet? For me then, I think the choice is: do they get across the river or stay on this side and I'll try and provide some more clues as to how this has happened.
Mine
Second-guessing is the thing, isn't it? We started off downstream, keeping a cautious distance from the edge of the river and a wary eye out in general. I didn't know what was making me feel uneasy, but something about this was so unexpected that it didn't feel quite right. And so we'd barely gone two hundred metres when I started worrying if I'd picked the wrong direction to go. After all, downstream effectively meant downhill, so if I was wrong we'd be having to walk uphill just to get back to where we started, and then uphill more to be going in the right direction.
I tried to ignore the new little voice that muttered 'if there is a right direction' when I thought that.
My unease grew stronger as we walked, our footsteps swishing through ankle-high grass and occasionally rapping on stones and rocks that were easier to walk over than around. The river didn't look to be getting narrower or slowing down any, and given we'd only been gone a couple of days expecting to find a bridge was a fantasy too far. Ten minutes passed and then fifteen and I could feel the sweat running down my spine like the unwelcome fingers of a cruel masseur. Finally, just when I decided I had to admit to being wrong and suggest we turn around, we saw something on the bank of the river.
"A raft?" he said, sounding as puzzled as I felt.
The sense of relief I felt that this hadn't been the wrong way -- well, the wrongest way -- after all swept away the heat, the sweatiness and the nagging desire to get a change of clothes. "Works for me," I said. "Even if it takes us further downstream we'll be on the same side as the car at last."
His laughter rang out like some exotic bird escaped from the hills we'd been hiking and we checked the raft over for soundness before pulling it into the water and clambering on.
There were oars and a pole and we got across in maybe only five minutes; the water swept us downstream still but didn't oppose us getting across. It was a little more of a struggle on the other bank to pull the raft up again, but the least we could do was leave it where it could be taken back across, not let it sail off into the sunset, or wherever the river led.
"Man," he said, as we started back upstream, "this is not quite the way I thought the hike would end."
He said the same thing again when we reached the parking lot at last and found the bloodstains, huge red, sticky patches with clouds of flies rising up from them like bad spirits haunting evildoers as we approached, between us and the cars.
[OK, it's up to you what caused the bloodstains -- cows, people, the collision of a truck carrying blood-bags to the blood-bank, an over-enthusiastic film-crew who are attempting a Blair Witch remake...]
Leaving it to the last day this time around, here I go...
Mine:
"Bear leftovers?" I asked from a safe distance.
"Maybe," he replied, but I could hear the doubt in his voice even at that distance. He had knelt by one of the patches, somehow standing both the flies and the smell. "It's definitely not fish though."
"Could have got a deer," I suggested. I think the fact that I was hoping for a bloodthirsty bear to be roaming the parking lot said quite a bit about my state of mind at that point. "They do that sometimes."
"Right," he said without any sign of enthusiasm for the idea. "There's not much left of whatever th... what the hell?"
"What is it?" I moved closer, my curiosity taking over.
He pointed to one of the other patches of blood and at first I couldn't tell what had caught his attention. Then I did, and immediately wished I hadn't.
"Footprints?" I asked. How could anyone step in one of these... these... things and not notice? I don't care how exhausted you are from hiking, there was just no way you'd just walk through one. Then I stepped closer and got a better look. "Shit, maybe they're hurt?"
What I had initially taken for a set of two footprints was actually one set of footprints alongside a smeared trail. Like somebody was dragging their other leg.
"Yogi might have caught a hiker," he said grimly. "Come on, we better follow it. Whoever it is probably needs medical attention."
"Right," I said, shifting my pack around to my front. My fatigue had disappeared and my heart was pounding. "I'll get my first-aid kit out."
"Yeah," he said, starting to follow the trail. Then he paused and looked back at me, his expression unreadable. "Should probably have the bear spray handy, too."
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