Chapter 12: Rock slide

The trail into upper Wolf Creek canyon was open; the last snows had melted out of the north-slope shaded areas and the spring floods had subsided. Graydon was restless. He gathered together his packsack gear, some staple foodstuffs, his fishing pole, and told his mother that he'd be hiking up the canyon, perhaps as far as Gardner Meadows, at the base of the mountain. He planned to be gone three days for some early season trout fishing on the way up, and two nights of sleeping out.

Actually, Graydon wanted very much to get away from his step-father and to spend solitary time in the mountains where he would find himself absorbed in something much larger than himself. He had heard the old-timers like Patch and Purdy talk about their "pine tree religion," explaining that they felt much closer to a "greater power" than they ever had in any church.

Graydon couldn't disagree with this. His step-father had no use for church, probably because he felt all the members were disapproving of his ways; but Dee Johns seemed always to be searching for something. She had been dumped in a Catholic boarding school by her adoptive parents until she graduated from 12th grade. Later she was influenced by a California aunt to study Rosecrucianism, and literature and pamphlets were left laying about whenever she felt a need to soak up some religion. Otherwise, she insisted that her two boys attend the local Methodist church and its Sunday School classes whenever she could get the old Blue Goose started and drive the four-miles into town.

Graydon was confused by the theology. It seemed to be mostly guilt and fear being shoveled at him: guilt for being a sinner, actually worse, for being born a sinner and maybe unworthy of "saving redemption" for which he was supposed to pray; and fear that even if he bought the whole story and tried hard to be worthy, at the end it would most likely result in a one-way trip to hellfire and damnation.

He'd have called it all a half-baked crock of superstitious distortions, cooked up by a cult of men looking to make an easy living by insinuating themselves into positions of priestly power, but to utter anything like that would certainly result in hell for him right now and right here. He had no doubt such heresy would get him in even bigger trouble than he already was in the eyes of most folks. But there was no way he could accept that a mortal minister could impose himself as a gatekeeper between people and their Creator.

Despite his skepticism over the church religion, he found himself in total awe of "creation" as he saw it all around him, and most especially on his beloved ridges and in the deep Wolf Creek canyon. The majestic 9,000-foot peak of Mount Gardner was the only church spire he needed to reveal the existence of a Creator.The fact that man had satanic urges was only too evident in deeds and events, as he studied history and saw examples in his own life. But for his part, he was far more inspired with the world up the canyon than he ever was in church.

Thus, on a bright early summer morning, with his war surplus laced-canvas, wooden pack frame and the olive-drab canvas packsack fitted to it, he set out for a short visit with Jim and Vi Brightman; then he'd take off for couple days of fishing and hiking up the trail. He'd decide later if he wanted to make camp at the old cow camp at the trail split between Wolf Creek and North Wolf Creek, or if he'd just keep going up the main fork for the full 10-mile hike up to Gardner Meadows. There he could camp in the magnificent circle of peaks.

The day was warm. Deer and horse flies had hatched and were trying to feed but his wide-brimmed felt hat and long-sleeved work shirt discouraged most of them. He did turn up his shirt collar and buttoned the neck closed, to limit the skin exposure. Deer flies have a nasty, painful bite, but horse flies could land without one feeling their slight weight, and would take a whole chunk of hide and flesh with their bite. He hated them most fervently and was careful to keep himself covered even though hiking with his pack was hot, sweaty work.

The cool shade and cold snow-melt water of Wolf Creek was comforting. He spent some time fishing the lower pools before taking to the main trail that climbed above the creek and followed the canyon side in a long, upward track.

He'd decided to camp at the forks and would hike up to Gardner Meadows the next day. Evening meal had been a delight: four native trout fried to a crisp, golden brown in his small skillet; slices of fried potato cut from the two baked potatoes he carried wrapped in foil in his pack; and a small pot of tea sweetened with honey made a good meal. It was too early for huckleberries, so he made do with dried pineapple chunks and raisins for dessert. A small campfire gave a circle of light and warmth to chase the evening chill. He leaned back against a pine, his legs up to support the small journal he'd started keeping since arriving in the Methow. He sometimes sketched images to go with his notes and though he was no artist, his sketches sometimes helped a word picture become much clearer in description.

A cold night was settling in; he banked the little fire ring until it was mostly embers and ashes, then wrapped himself in a wool blanket and drifted into a deliciously tired slumber.

His sleep was shattered with a feeling of blinding, searing pain, of confusion and helplessness. He felt trapped, pinned, and in the darkness he could see nothing but the flashes of red pain stabbing through him.

He jerked upright. Shaking off his blanket, he felt nothing holding him, and reaching to grasp his legs, running his hands quickly up and down and reaching about himself he could feel nothing near him, yet he had been jolted awake with those certain feelings!

Foreboding: awful, clinging, penetrating, fearful foreboding filled his mind. Something was terribly wrong. Pain! Pinned! Trapped! The feelings consumed his mind and he knew it was not himself, but someone...

The faint trace of pre-dawn was coming up the canyon and beginning to reflect off the high snow fields of the peaks at the head of the canyon. In a short while, the ghostly grey light would spill between the trees and he could see the trail well enough to follow.

He hugged his knees, willing his panicky emotions under control so he could decide what he must do. First, he needed to lace on his boots and pack up his blankets and gear. By then he would see well enough to move.

Loaded up, he glanced down the trail and there, standing silently, was the ghostly figure of the old man in buckskins, half visible then nearly invisible, fading in and out of his sight. Blood streamed from a wound on his head, down over his forehead and his cheeks. His arm hung limply to one side, and his leg seemed to be crumpled and hung at an odd angle, One hand stretched out, beckoning, gesturing in the "come here" motion. The old man's mouth moved, as if forming words, but nothing came that Graydon could hear. Then Graydon's mind was gripped with another wave of pain, of helplessness, and need.

The figure disappeared and the pain washed away. Graydon felt emptiness. Where the figure stood a deer now stood, a spike buck, staring directly, boldly, at Graydon, its shining eyes and white-tipped muzzle bright against the forest shadows. Its big mule-deer ears swiveled forward and pointed straight at him. It lifted its small forefoot and stamped impatiently, then wheeled half-around, impatiently twitching its black-fringed tail and looking over its shoulder in a "come now" motion at Graydon.

Again, it wheeled, and stamped its forefeet, whirled its spike-antlered head upward and back and made two bounds down the trail towards the north fork direction, then stopped, and again looked back to Graydon.

"Okay, okay ... I get it!" Graydon muttered, slipping into his pack frame as he moved down the trail to follow the deer. In a short moment they had moved onto the North Fork trail and began a steady climb upward, the little buck trotting ahead, then pausing, looking back, waiting for Graydon to catch up. It was a long slog. Graydon figured he'd been led about five miles up the trail when the deer vanished. One moment it was there; the next moment it bounded around an outcropping and was gone.

Stretching ahead along the steep canyon-side, the trail scrabbled across a rock field, a talus slope of rocks and boulders that spilled down from a granite rampart. The granite wall had yielded to ages of freezing water that infiltrated its cracks and fissures, expanding, splitting off rocks and slabs to feed a rock-piled slope stretching down through the broken forest cover to the creek bed below. Graydon could see in the brightening dawn that a fresh rock fall had just swept down slope and crashed into the timber below him. His sense of foreboding returned; if anyone had been down there, they were badly hurt or even dead.

Peering down-slope, he saw the fresh wreckage of trees that had been ripped out, uprooted by the torrent of rocks and debris that had surged down the steep slope. It lay in a mass of tangled limbs and shattered trunks. He could see no one, nor any sign of a camp. Something tugged at him; a feeling of pain and need was strong in his mind.

"Hoooooo ... whooosh!" past his ear, and down the slope in a flash, the nighthawk zoomed sharply upward, soared in a tight circle back around and fluttered just in front of Graydon, then it wheeled in a backflip and in a series of short glides and swoops, descended down-slope again. It disappeared behind a tangle of limbs and a broken tree trunk, flew back into view, hung there on fluttering wings and gave a rapid series of short "eeep eeep" cries.

"Right!" he thought to himself. "So there I go!" and he eased himself to the edge of the rock fall and began making his way down the slope, carefully, slowly, avoiding the worst tangles and digging his boot heels between the rocks, clinging to handholds wherever possible to keep his footing. The slope was steep and he had learned to avoid any chance of falling. Alone in the wilderness country, that could be a fatal mishap.

The buckskin figure lay crumpled, pinned, nearly obscured by uprooted trees and debris that had been sweep down upon him. His leg was under a tree trunk, pinned and crushed against a rock. The elderly man's face was half covered in dried blood which flowed down from a tear in his scalp above his forehead. He lay on his back, his left arm bent at an odd angle, itself tangled in debris. His right arm and leg were free. He had lain there, obviously for some time, unable to pull free of the tree that pinned and crushed his leg.

Graydon hurried to the man. Laying his pack aside, he pulled out his water bottle and a clean bandana. Looking into the man's face, he could see his grimace and the squint of intense pain in his eyes. His eyes were faded, dim, but a deep sapphire color.

"Do you hear me? I came to help ... I have some water here. Will you take a drink?"

The man nodded once, weakly. Graydon held the bottle to his lips and tilted gently, careful not to tip more water than than the man sip, slowly. After a moment the man closed his mouth and swallowed a last time. Graydon wet the bandana and gently cleaned the caked and matted blood from around his eyes and forehead, careful not to touch his torn scalp. He would tend that later.