Page 36 of One Step Too Far

Sound is disorienting in a canyon. I thought the last scream came from the direction of the pine trees, which is where most of our party headed. But then I hear something else from behind me. Not a scream. A distinct popping crack. Like a tree limb breaking. Or a human bone.

I correct course to the vast unknown on the other side of camp, the light from my headlamp swinging wildly as I glance frantically from side to side. Almost immediately, I wish I’d brought a flashlight instead. The beam from my headlamp slices the landscape into a disorienting mix of top of meadow grasses here, piece of tree trunk there, single curve of boulder over there. Meanwhile, I trip over every unseen object at my feet.

I power forward, ears straining.

Breathing. Heavy, deep. I turn toward it. Coming from my right side, near the lake. I stumble in that direction, barking my shin and nearly face planting as I catch the edge of a tree stump with my left leg.

Is that a darker shadow between the golden shimmer of dried meadow grasses? I slow, moving less certainly now. Man or beast? And in either case, what am I supposed to do?

I should’ve grabbed the emergency whistle or bear spray. Nemeth is right: My biting wit isn’t going to do me much good in the wild.

I try my best to advance silently. Perhaps a stupid precaution given that my glaring headlamp advertises my every move.

The shape remains hunkered down. A crouched human? A bear on all fours? A baby Sasquatch? Now I hear a low groan. Followed by more rapid, panicked breathing. Sounds of a creature in distress.

I close the remaining distance, my light finally catching the shape dead on, illuminating a blue flannel shirt and a mane of shaggy brown hair.

“Scott?” I call out.

He turns. Throws out a hand to block my light. That’s when I see all the blood.

I guide him back to the campsite by the arm. He can walk but is babbling incoherently. I let him be, needing to focus on our footing. His arm feels solid and warm. I use that to anchor myself in the moment as, bit by bit, I drag us through the dark.

Upon arrival, I seat him on one of the logs next to the fire. The woods around us are filled with noise, crashing, calling, cursing. My companions, still on the search.

I hand Scott a tin of boiled drinking water, then grab the whistle from Josh’s pack and blow three times fast.

Luciana appears immediately.

“It was Scott,” I inform her. “I got him back to the campfire, but he’s hurt.”

She ducks back into her tent, then returns with a first aid kit in hand, Daisy at her heels. Around us, the night grows louder as everyone answers the emergency signal by stampeding back to camp.

Nemeth arrives first. His headlamp is clicked on, making it hard to look directly at him, but I can just make out the rifle held in both hands, the battle stance of his feet.

“Scott,” I yell. “Next to the campfire. Luciana is tending. For the love of God, turn that thing off!”

Belatedly, Nemeth snaps off his headlamp, twisting toward the glowing red embers. The others come streaming out of the trees. Miggy, Neil, followed shortly by Martin. Still no sign of Bob, though given his size and speed, he probably journeyed the farthest away.

Everyone is breathing hard and in various stages of disarray. Once again, Nemeth takes charge.

“Fire,” he orders.

Miggy is on it, building up the flames.

“Water.”

I jump into action, refilling the cooking pot.

“Light.”

Neil obediently holds up a flashlight, then points it down Scott’s form, illuminating the other man’s bloody face, torn shirt.

“I saw him,” Scott babbles immediately. “I saw him.”

“Who?” Martin, striding forward.

“Tim. I swear it! At the edge of the woods. He was right there, wearing his green jacket. I could see him, clear as day.”

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