Chapter 4

I estimated I was nearly halfway up the next hill when the first white tendrils of fog started drifting across the pavement. I figured it was actually a good sign; the temperature was probably stabilizing just a bit below the dew point. If I was right, then I wouldn't have to worry about getting the shakes.

Part of what lead to my being diagnosed as diabetic was my inability to deal with cold weather. I always felt cold even in moderate temperatures, but the worst of the shakes happened when I was a sideline reporter for high school football on Friday nights. I'd be okay until the beginning of October, and then I'd have to start wearing layers of clothing and a coat, or I'd start shaking and coughing as the temperature kept dropping after sunset. By the time the final games of the season took place, I'd be wearing three layers of clothes, two pairs of thick wool socks, a wool watch cap and my heavy wool overcoat. I had to wrap my throat with a scarf in order to keep in warm enough to stop coughing. It was semi-embarrassing, to be around so many people while wearing so many clothes, and yet it beat having them stare at me while I shook uncontrollably or dissolved into another coughing fit. I never felt overly warm, just bulky — the cold always seemed to find some way to get through the clothes and into my bones.

The fog thickened as the minutes passed and the top of the hill grew closer. I was using what a friend used to call his "daddy pace." I would walk for a while at a comfortable gait, then stop as needed to breathe, rest, and keep the muscles from cramping. He called it the perfect pace for hiking, as it gave him a chance to tire out the kiddies while they ran back and forth along the trail ahead. By the time we all reached camp, he was still fresh, and everyone else was ready to turn in early for a good night's sleep.

All I could hear around me was the wet slip-slap of my boots as I worked my way up the hill. The plastic bag started to annoy me, as I preferred to have my hands free while walking. I stopped for a minute to examine my options, and finally wound up sticking it inside my coat and tying the drawstring around my waist very tight. It looked strange sticking out of the side of my coat like a huge lump, but it felt okay, and left me free to swing my arms without feeling unbalanced. The mist around me was thin, but its whiteness was blurring the surrounding countryside even more.

Taking stock as I stood there, I realized I felt damp. It wasn't just the rivulets of sweat the walking had generated under my clothes. There was a cold dampness that seemed to be working its way inward, despite my extra layers and thick coat. As I walked, I kept running my hand over my face to wipe away the water that seemed to gather there. I lifted the bill of my cap, letting the cool air hit the crown of my head. With a bare hand, I massaged my scalp, trying to rub some of the wetness away. I expect to feel heat trapped under the cap, for my head to feel warm to the touch. Instead, I come away with a wet, clammy hand and even more water dripping down my face.

This isn't right.

Breathe. Don't panic. Breathe.

I turn in a slow circle, trying to quell the uneasiness I'm feeling now. The road behind me disappears after a few hundred feet, the fog a curtain completely obscuring my back trail. It rises like a wall until it meets the low gray clouds above me. I have no idea how far I've come from the bridge somewhere below because I can no longer gauge any sort of distance.

It's an optical illusion. Breathe.

I'm not claustrophobic, but the whole feeling of being surrounded... contained... is unsettling. I feel like a bug in a snow globe... my entire world is defined by a small bubble of fairly clear space, punctuated by drifting tentacles of fog. Even the sounds of the forest around me seem muted, muffled. My own ragged breathing is the loudest thing to reach my ears.

Walk. Don't give in to the fear. Walk.

I slide one foot forward, relieved to hear the familiar sound of sole slipping across wet pavement. The second step is easier, just a matter of lifting and placing my foot on the solid yellow line. My entire focus is on my feet and that yellow paint... two steps... ten steps... twenty. I each step until I can no longer keep my neck titled to the ground. I look up.

Fog is a tricky thing. Sometimes it seems like so thick you can't see your hand in front of your face. Other times, you see it, but it always seems down the road aways, blocking what's ahead but not what you need to see at the moment. It never gets any closer or any further away. It's just there.